#and claiming it's a wagon you built

[dalniente]

"lol look at this trash there was only one good scene in the whole show" (tags saying flat out they have not watched it, they've only watched YouTubers making fun of it) (tags it so the post will appear in main tags)

it costs $0 to simply not open your yap about something you have not watched

[blindmagdalena]

All That Glitters

18+ 15.7k words. Dragon!Homelander x F!Reader fantasy au, messy world building, referenced cannibalism, handfeeding, super dubious consent, sexual coercion, monster anatomy, size difference, cunnilingus, breeding kink, dirty talk, marathon sex, mating bond/bite, knotting, tongue baths, virgins, scent kink, overstimulation, body betrayal, fairy tale schmoop. AO3 Link!

Summary: In a world where the only currencies that matter are gold and blood, the gods are lavished with both. Your regions god is a fearsome beast said to reign hellfire from the skies should his appetite not be satiated. When the demand for human sacrifices increases, you make the choice to volunteer yourself, determined to bring an end to the bloodshed, and ascend into the jaws that await you in the old stone tower deep in the woods.

illustration by the ever incredible @anon-nee, who was instrumental to the writing of this fic. see the full piece here! originally written for Monsterlander Mania, but obviously spiraled wildly out of control.

For as long as you can remember, there have always been sacrifices.

Such a thing is not unique to your village. Gods–and the creatures worshiped as such–throughout the world demand all manner of recompense for protecting the lands of those who idolize them. If the slaughter of a single lamb ensures green pastures in which the herd may thrive, few ever think twice before they lift the blade.

Not all townships worship for benevolence, however. Yours has always worshiped for mercy.

For generations, stories of hellfire raining from the sky have been passed by your people. A great, terrible beast with wings as wide as ten men were tall once patrolled the skies above you, wielding power so devastating that not even ballistae firing bolts the size of tree trunks could fell it.

It had a hundred names, each more terrible than the last. Scourge of the Skies, the Red Death, Flame’s Maw, and perhaps most unfortunately, the Devourer. Named as such for the countless lives it began to claim when treasures were deemed an insufficient tribute. Sacrifices were initially sparse, required only every dozen or so seasons. As time went on, the Devourer grew greedier and greedier, with the timespan between sacrifices shortening.

By the time you offer yourself to the council, there has been a sacrifice every month for over a year.

The wagon hardly jostles on this well-trodden road. You imagine it used to be a rougher ride, but with the increase in frequency of travel, it has smoothed. The thought worsens the feeling of icy weight in your stomach. One might think the exquisite fabrics you’re dressed in would bring some measure of comfort–softer than anything you’ve worn before–but the extravagance of them only serves to further alienate you from yourself.

You have become a thing. A finely adorned offering, and the fabric makes your skin crawl for it.

The tree cover breaks, revealing a monolithic stone tower that stands so tall, it splits the sky in two.

The Tower of the Seven. It’s been generations since anyone knew exactly what it was named for, but legend speaks of mythic creatures that were once held in such reverence, this tower was built in their honor. It served as both a temple and home to these venerated beings.

The years have not been kind to it. The stone pillars have become wild with overgrowth, and the air about this place reeks of stale, old death.

It stands now as a graveyard.

Even the horses refuse to venture much further than the threshold of the treeline, forcing you and your attendants out of the wagon to tread the remainder of the trek on foot. The men who walk with you carry short swords, but they serve no practical purpose, their edges having long since dulled. They are not here to protect you, they are as much a part of the ceremony as your fine clothes.

You shield your eyes as you look up at the staggering height of the tower, but swiftly drop your gaze. Best not to think of what awaits you.

On paper, sacrifice seems a simple thing. Slitting one’s throat upon an altar, floating a burning pyre across the river, or feeding the tribute a concoction of sleeping death and burying them into eternal slumber. Murder can be a righteous thing in the hands of a believer, or so they say.

For you, and those who have come before you, martyrdom is not as effortless as lying down and dying for the cause. The tower presents a trial to you. You must willingly climb the hundreds upon hundreds of large stone steps in order to prove yourself a worthy tribute.

Why you must prove your flesh worthy of consumption is beyond you. You’ve never heard of a farmer who sends his cattle to run laps before the slaughter. It seems a petty thing to demand. Perhaps the Devourer has grown indolent and slovenly in its feasting.

It’s easy to dream up nightmarish images of such an awful creature. A legless winged wyrm with a ribbed body, fat and slimy like an oversized earthworm. It would have an enormous maw with hundreds upon hundreds of jagged teeth, its breath reeking of charred flesh and sulfur. Such a wicked beast would stink like the layers of hell. 

Somehow, tormenting yourself like this is an oddly calming distraction. The more nightmarish it becomes in your mind, the less real all of this feels. It’s just a bad dream.

No one speaks as you reach the base of the tower. There’s nothing left to say. You’re one of a dozen in the last year alone these men have ferried to their death. It almost seems cruel to expect eye contact, let alone sympathy. For that reason, it catches you off guard when one of the older of the three, a man named Hector with a thick set of troubled brows furrowed above kind but bloodshot, watery eyes puts his hand on your shoulder, offering a light squeeze.

The last sacrifice had been his own daughter.

In his gaze you find grief and gratitude in equal measure. Neither brings comfort. You return a small nod and move your eyes back to the ordeal that awaits you. 

The tower is like an optical illusion: the proportions make it seem a reasonable size at a distance, but the closer you walk to it, the more mythical a thing it becomes. The archways curve high above your head, sized for creatures of legend, and the head of the building disappears completely into the sky.

In the center of it, a spiraling stone staircase beckons you. The masonry is exquisitely smooth despite the age of it, carved in an era when magic was a hundred times more prolific than it is now. It’s wide and open, the steps so large that you’ll be taking them one at a time. Worse than that, however, is the complete absence of any kind of protective railing.

If you sway, you very well may fall to your death.

At the center of the spiral stands a pile of debris. As you approach, a rustling catches your attention and you freeze, eying the pile warily. The head of a creature suddenly pops up, startling your heart into a thunder, but after a beat you recognize it for what it is: a small fox, its muzzle dirty. The two of you stare at one another for a long moment before one of the men behind you calls out, “Shoo, shoo now.”

Everyone keeps hushed, as if terrified of disturbing what is yet unseen.

Moving closer, you anticipate you might see a dead rabbit, or perhaps a chicken. Anything would have been a more welcome sight than the gnarled half-eaten body of a woman dressed just like you piled amongst the debris. You gasp, both hands flying over your mouth as you stumble a few steps backwards.

For a horrifying moment, you swear you see your own face in the rotten remnants staring back at you with black, empty eye sockets. It’s the hair that gives away the delusion, however, and with a chill down your spine you recognize the sacrifice who came before you; Hector’s daughter.

“Nadja,” the man groans morosely, the weight of grief in his voice palpable. You move away, towards the stairs, and watch with a morbid sort of fascination as the man weeps over the corpse of his daughter, touching her hair and her clothes, the only parts of her not twisted and rotted with death, the body left for maggots and scavengers. It’s sick, nothing like the beautiful and noble gesture sacrifice is always said to be. You look up at the dizzying height of the spiral staircase, following the line of it until the stone disappears into darkness. Did she fall, or was she cast away, having somehow proven herself unworthy?

In a strange sense, watching the men wrap her body in cloth to be carried home feels very much like playing the part of voyeur to your own demise. You stand at a distance, hand braced upon the stone, unable to shake the dread that you’re witnessing a vision of the future. Your future.

No. You will not be left for the insects and carrion-feeders. You turn your back to the sound of Hector’s weeping and, without another world, determinedly begin your ascent one large stone step at a time. Although you feel the men’s eyes heavily upon you, they remain silent, as if already grieving you.

Do not, you think brazenly, skin flushed with unexpected fires that bring your blood to a boil. Do not dare mourn what isn’t dead.

Those flames burn hot enough to carry you easily up the first several floors, indignantly stomping your way. You’ve heard stories of this tower all your life, but nothing could have prepared you for the true scale of it. Most of it is in a terrible state of decay, full of overgrowth and rot that, centuries ago, may have been wood and cloth.

You stop for a breath beneath the remains of what looks to have once been a vibrant mural. You can see trace evidence of beautiful paints, but whatever it depicts has been brutally clawed from the stonework. You lift a hand up high to trace one of the deep gouges in the stone; the marks are spread too far apart for your fingers to reach, but you can make out five distinct patterns nonetheless, like drag marks from a hand three or four times the size of your own.

Beyond the ruined mural, there are statues, too. You pass a grand monument of a woman who stands over seven heads tall wielding a sword of equal might, the statue adorned with steel bracers. You think she might have been beautiful in the same way a frightening storm is, but the head of the statue is long since gone.

On the next floor, you see upon the ground the ruins of a statue of a mermaid–at least, you thought it was. Upon further inspection, however, you see that the statue depicts a man. He has the lower body of a fish and strange indentations along his ribs, just beneath his bare carved chest. He, too, is headless, torso split horizontally, stone strewn across the floor.

This temple must have belonged to these lost figures, their monuments as desecrated as the rest of the tower. Whoever the Seven was, the world has since forgotten.

You wonder if the Devourer did this, defiled this temple to erase whatever history of heroes came before its tyranny.

Ultimately, you only find six statues. None of them have managed to keep their heads, and some are in worse shape than others. You imagine the seventh might have been destroyed entirely. It’s easier to imagine how or why these things might be than it is to focus on how badly your body aches, how you started this venture with the morning sun barely upon you, and yet you barely feel any closer to your destination as the darkness of night encroaches.

Every limb screams for rest. You stop occasionally, but you feel you must not sleep. Was poor Nadja pitched to her death for sleeping through her trial? You’d rather not find out. You’re not even sure if you would wake with the same angry conviction that drives you forward now, climbing step after unforgiving step. It’s gotten colder the higher you’ve gone, too. There’s a chance if you slept amidst the stone, you would turn to it yourself.

“Grant me strength,” you whisper to whomever may be listening. Be they fae or devil, benevolent or malevolent, it would be a boon to know there was some manner of being on your side.

You lean on the wall far from the edge as you ascend the spiral, too nervous of a fall to look over the edge and gauge your progress. A brisk wind chill has begun howling through the tower, whipping your clothing about and biting at your skin. You hug one arm tightly across your chest, bracing against the cold. At this rate, you’ll make for a crunchy meal not just for your bones, but for the frost you arrive covered in.

Your foot slides on something on the step that shifts and clatters. You nearly fall, heart hammering in your chest as you manage to catch yourself. Looking down, you’re shocked to see a pile of shining gold coins spilling down the steps amongst the debris. There is enough wealth discarded on these steps to see a dozen families fed for years and years to come.

You must be getting close. Carefully, despite the tremble running through your body, you shuffle your way through the mess, kicking it aside when you need to clear more of a path. The sound of rubble and gold and the like falling off the edge of the steps makes you flinch, the prolonged clattering of it serving as a reminder of just how agonizingly high you’ve managed to climb.

The familiar flicker of fire light draws a gasp of relief from you, tears gathered in your eyes from the sheer pain of moving your body forward. You can see shadows dancing across the walls, beckoning you from the cold with the barest hint of a warm draft. You’re practically crawling up the steps now, every part of you aching horribly. The tremble in your body is so severe, you worry you would fall to your death if you continued trying to walk through the hoard of treasures that have spilled down the steps.

You practically sob with relief when you reach the final step, limbs quaking beneath you as you haul yourself up onto the top floor and away from the awful railless edge of the spiraling stairs. You bury your face in the fold of your arms. The mixture of relief and exhaustion is so intense, the rest of the world falls away briefly, and the only thing that matters is catching your breath while you all but dry heave on the floor.

“I’ll be damned. I didn’t think you were going to make it,” purrs a resonant, honied voice, snapping you immediately back to reality. You shoot into an upright position so suddenly your head spins, blinking rapidly in an attempt to clear your blurry vision.

Before you rests an enormous circular hall lit with dozens upon dozens of torches. The walls are lined with beautiful arched windows, and the interior is piled nearly to the vaulted ceiling with obscene amounts of coin, weapons, artifacts and similar treasure. Your gaze drifts towards the center of it all, where the source of the voice awaits you.

As it turns out, The Devourer is no oversized earthworm.

Reclined upon a magnificently carved marble throne, you behold a creature made of equal parts man and beast. Even sitting, his stature easily brings him heads taller than you. He is adorned exquisitely in gold embellishments–jewelry and piercings alike–and rich navy slacks, serving as a fine centerpiece to the lavish, untidy wealth that surrounds him. He wears a crown fit for a king, the jewel of it a radiant blue that matches his sharp predatory gaze. His lips spread into a wolfish grin. You’re utterly bewitched by the flash of his fangs.

“Rise,” he orders you, gesturing with a clawed hand that’s easily the size of your head. His rings shine beautifully in the firelight. “And speak.”

Shakily, you fight to climb to your feet. Worm or not, this man–this creature has been preying upon your people for generations. You remind yourself of the countless lives lost, of the mourning families, of Nadja’s desecrated corpse and the sound of her father weeping over the rotten remains of her. You steel yourself. 

“You who the people know as Scourge of the Skies, Red Death,” you begin, blinking rapidly. Your head began swimming the second you stood. You’ve never been so worn out in your life, and though there are flames here that offer a slight degree of warmth, the cold has sunk deep into your bones. As you speak, your vision gradually begins to tunnel. “Flame’s… Maw… and the Devourer,” you address, fighting desperately to stay focused even as he fades in and out of clarity. “I’ve come to pay my village tribute, and to… to…”

The darkness at the edges of your vision thickens. Your words feel heavy and slurred on your tongue. You sway, feeling your own head slosh like a bucket of water, and before you know it, you’re pitching forward, and the world goes black.

That was anticlimactic.

There was a time he would have been met with awe. Reverence. He didn’t expect you to simply black out.

Scourge, Red Death, Flame’s Maw… Maw. He’s always despised that word in particular, and the ugly imagery it evokes. Just a handful out of hundreds of names he’s been called over the years–if you can call them that. Many border on insults, if not are so outright. The most tolerable name he can remember is Homelander.

They called him that in celebration, he recalls. Those were the last of the days he had any care left for them.

He blows a smoky little raspberry as he stands, hands clasping behind his back beneath his wings. His tail sways idly as he approaches, tentatively intrigued by your splayed form. It’s rare that a sacrifice makes it all the way to the top at all, let alone in a single day. The last one only made it halfway before she decided falling to her death was a kinder fate than him.

Truth be told, he should have reigned hell upon their little village for her insolence. Fortunately for them, her display filled him with far more apathy than it did fury. He crouches down near enough to touch, though he hesitates, hand ghosting just over your body. He tilts his head to the side. Your breaths are shallow in your sleep, a slight wheeze to each one. Your body is clearly overexerted.

Delicately, he slips his hand under your cheek to turn your face to him, examining your features. You’re prettier like this, the tension drained from your expression and replaced with peace. Certainly not the worst tribute he’s been offered. You were at least determined to reach him.

The corner of his mouth twitches.

He won’t kill you. Not yet.

Homelander lifts you up into his arms, supporting your comparatively slight form with ease. You feel as frail as any mortal might, but the weight of you in his arms strikes him with a peculiar sense of melancholy. He takes pause, more closely observing the shape of you cradled in his arms, head lolled against his chest. You fit there nicely, small as you are. He can almost pretend you’ve simply fallen asleep in the crook of his arm; somewhere you’ve always belonged.

It’s an intriguing little fantasy. He hasn’t felt the need to indulge in one of those in a long while. He keeps his eyes on you as he walks you to the collection of pelts gathered on the far side of the room, where he lays you down atop them.

What had you been intending to say before you passed out? Your departing words spin round and round in his mind while he looks you over, lowering himself until he’s on his hands and knees above you. Tributes used to come richly adorned in jewelry and glittering things, but such pageantry has long since vanished. He’s surrounded by enough of it that the absence doesn’t bother him anymore.

The glitter of gold hardly catches his eye these days. He doesn’t call for sacrifices to add to his wealth. He only seeks to quell his boredom. Perhaps you will prove useful for this, at least for a time.

Pressing his clawed thumb lightly to your chin, he tilts your head away and leans in, nosing up the line of your throat, lips barely ghosting your soft flesh. He inhales the salt-sweet smell of you, a mixture of sweat, the dusty stone steps you’ve scaled, and the sweet herbal oil bath your kind always receives before you’re sent to him. The blend is strangely intoxicating on you.

It makes him wonder if you taste as good as you smell. Parting his lips, his split tongue spills past them and drags a slow serpentine pattern from your neck to your jaw. Mmm, fuck. You taste better than you smell, the rich oil you were bathed in still clinging to your skin beneath the salty tang of your sweat.

It would be too easy to devour you. He groans quietly at the thought, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. He’s known few things more intimate than sinking his sharp teeth into warm, pliant flesh. The feel of a pulse slowing against his tongue. The metallic rush of blood down the back of his throat. He hasn’t craved human flesh the way he does right now in years, yet something in the scent of you has ignited that primal aspect of him. Salivating already, he swallows it away and draws back.

Not yet. He still wants to hear what you were going to say.

It makes him smile to see the goosebumps that have erupted on every inch of your exposed skin. He cocks his head to the side and trails his index claw down the center of your chest, dragging down the pretty white fabric of your sacrificial dress, stopping just shy of the swell of your breasts. More goosebumps there, too.

None of it compares to the sound that you make. In your sleep, your brows furrow, and you exhale a noise somewhere between pain and sheer exhaustion, your small hand brushing his as you adjust against the pile of plush fur pelts. His gaze drops sharply, hand lifting tentatively. After a beat, he sets it down lightly atop yours. Captivated, he watches your whole body respond to his touch, turning and curling in towards him like a flora bending to the light of the sun.

Fascinated by your innate reactivity to him, Homelander lowers himself onto his side next to you. After a beat of hesitation, he encircles your wrist with his thumb and index finger and brings your palm flat to the warmth of his bare chest. A tantalizing shiver rolls through your unconscious form. Just as he had anticipated–hoped?–you follow the feel of him, moving completely onto your side and into him, breathing out a shuddering little exhale while the fire that runs through his veins warms you.

It isn’t enough to stop you shivering, though. Shifting, he spreads out his wing and curls that over you, blocking the draft that spills in from the surrounding windows. Only then does the tension in your body begin to ease, warmth chasing out the chill from your bones.

Homelander smirks, feeling inexplicably accomplished over this mundane little feat. He’s never particularly cared for the comfort of his tributes before; they’ve never served as anything more than playthings and meals. You should be no different. He knows you would be a delectable thing on his tongue, warm and wet down his throat, yet the thought of you in pieces–cold and unmoving–instantly vanishes his appetite.

He wants you in a new way entirely. Against him, with him. He wants to taste more of you, drag his tongue along the plains of your body and see how else you’ll react to him. He wants to find the places that quicken your breath. Would you sing your pleasure for him? He’s barely heard your voice, but already he can imagine it vividly.

You would. You will.

He’s begun to pant at the thought alone, smoke wafting from his mouth, his eyes softly aglow with crimson light. The smell of you has filled his senses so thoroughly he feels intoxicated by it, and between his thighs, his cock has begun to throb. He leans closer and nestles into your hair, inhaling deeply, a rumble leaving him on a warm exhale.

His entire body has taken on the heavy pulse of his heart, alight with the most visceral feeling he’s had in centuries. This is more than hunger, more than carnality–you mean something. Never before has he felt compelled to find pleasure in the frail body of a human, yet his blood sings it voicelessly in the back of his mind, his every instinct screaming one word again and again and again.

Mate.

Homelander had given up on the concept of a mate a long time ago, given that he’s… abnormal. Sterile. As an unnatural creature, there could not be a natural match for him. Someone who would call to his very blood and set it aflame. Yet here you are, seeking him as desperately as he once sought you. Is that why you were able to accomplish what so few before you had, pushing your body so clearly beyond your limits?

A low, possessive rumble leaves him. Reckless.

He pets your hair, testing the texture with his fingers awhile before letting his hand roam down the back of your neck, between your shoulders, up over your hip, down your leg. You’re no longer cool to the touch or shivering. He flattens his palm to your back and closes his eyes briefly. He’s never heard of a dragon bonding to a human before. He wonders if you’ll feel it too, recognize it for what it is, or if your mortality will make you oblivious to the depths of it.

It takes every ounce of his restraint not to shake you awake to find out. 

Instead, he patiently learns the cadence of your heart. He commits your scent to memory, weeding out the natural musk of your skin beneath the herbs and oils you’ve been lathered in. Soon enough he’ll be able to pick you out of a crowd by the thump of your pulse alone, track you down from miles away with nothing but the barest whiff of you. 

Not that he’d ever let you get so far from him now that he has you.

All you’re missing now is his scent. Leaning down, he licks a line adjacent to the one he had prior, and then another, mindful of his horns. The sweet taste of you makes him moan. He spends hours with you tucked in against him, idling away the time by learning your body as well as teaching you his. He nuzzles his cheek lightly against yours just so that he can turn and taste that same spot, something deep and primal in him appeased by tasting himself on your skin. 

“My mate,” he half sighs, half growls. 

He can’t wait to meet you.

Consciousness comes back to you in a gradual slew of sensation. Your fingers twitch, flexing in what feels like a lush, thick pelt of fur beneath you. Your whole body is pleasantly warm, as if you’ve fallen asleep in front of a crackling hearth, the cold of those awful stone stairs a distant memory.

The stairs…

Your eyes snap wide open, your spine going stiff. You’re laying on your back. Something wet and hot is dragging along the exposed skin of your shoulder–your dress pulled askew–in repetitive swipes. Looking down, all you can see is a mess of flaxen colored hair and one long, angular horn, the tip of it adorned in gold. The press of what you can only imagine to be a tongue is unnaturally smooth, as hot as settled coal against your skin. The beast gives a growl, and sharp teeth graze your skin. Your throat feels tight, the scream that bubbles up locked behind the tension of your jaw.

Oh gods, you think, beginning to shake. He’s eating me! 

“Good morning,” purrs a familiar voice, the words vibrating against your skin. He lifts his head from your shoulder, though he doesn’t go far. You half expect to see his maw bloodied with your entrails from all the horror stories you’ve been told, but his grin is as clean as it was the first moment you beheld him. Up close, he’s even larger than you had initially realized. His face is well defined, with strong cheekbones decorated with smooth red scales that ascend into his hairline, where a golden crown sits neatly behind his horns. “Mmm, someone got their beauty sleep,” he says, the words a low, pleased rumble. You’re speechless, watching in bewilderment as he cups your face, hand so large it covers most of your neck, too. “You were out for hours.”

Your eyes dart to your shoulder, where your dress has been tugged down, but your skin appears unmarred. Around you, one of his enormous wings is curved over, shielding you both from the light and the cold beyond. You can’t move your legs, and with a glance, you understand why: his enormous tail is draped across both of them, pinning you in place. You look back at him, eyes wide in fear and confusion. You wonder if he’s been with you like this through the entire night. “You’re… You’re not eating me?”

The broad smile he flashes makes your heart skip a beat. His eyes, though sharp and a shade of blue you’ve only ever seen in the sky, are disarmingly human. Beautiful, even. They crinkle at the corners with what almost looks like fondness.

“No.”

“Why not?” You ask instantly, adrenaline making your voice sharp. “Not that I wish for you to eat me,” you say just as quickly. “But do you not–were you not–” He cuts you off with a noise that you belatedly realize is a laugh, the resonance in his chest so unearthly it gives every sound he makes an inhuman quality. “No, I was not eating you,” he says, sounding far too amused for your liking. “Tasting you, yes. And you do taste divine,” he says, leaning in again. You push your head back into the furs as much as you can, but he moves to the side, bringing his lips to your ear. “I knew my mate would.” Mate?!

Your hands fly up to his chest–gods, he’s as warm as hearth stones–as if to push him back, but you may as well attempt to push an oak tree aside. “What?”

He draws back, glancing down at your hands pressed to the bare skin of his chest before his gaze returns to yours, eyes narrowed in distinct pleasure. “Mate,” he says again, deliberately drawing the word out. “Dragons bond only once in a lifetime. Usually to another dragon. Clearly exceptions can be made, and you, precious little thing that you are… appear to be mine.”

His eyes fall shut, he leans in, and with a lurch of your stomach you realize he means to kiss you, his lips pursed and rapidly approaching. Your own lips part and a noise wholly outside of your control escapes you; a scream so shrill and sudden that it knocks even him back in surprise. 

Blinking several times, he gives you a quick once over, visibly expecting to see you wounded and bloody somewhere. He looks back to your face when he finds nothing amiss. “What?”

“I can’t–I don’t know you,” you blurt out, equal parts flustered and alarmed. You can feel yourself burning up, and it isn’t just from the heat of him against you.

“So?” He dismisses, smiling with an array of sharp pearly teeth. “I’m your mate.”

“Humans don’t have those,” you counter, squirming under the weight of his tail. It’s like he’s draped several sacks of grain across your legs. “My lord Devourer, I–”

He scoffs, tail lifting as he shifts, bringing himself up onto his hands and knees over you, his wing unfurling and allowing the sun to spill in, washing you both in its light. “Homelander. If you must use one of those silly names, use Homelander. I’d prefer beloved, though,” he says with a sly lilt to his mouth.

A shiver rolls down your spine. Along with light, brisk morning air has slipped in between your bodies. 

“Homelander,” you repeat, a name you’ve never heard before. It’s a great deal less menacing than the others, but that doesn’t change the fact that he has been eating your townsman for as long as anyone can remember. “I–”

He takes hold of your jaw with just his index finger and thumb, the rest of his fingers curling lightly over your throat. “You talk too much,” he tells you, eyes hooded and hungry. “Are you going to scream every time I try to kiss you?”

“Maybe,” you choke out, fists clenched tightly in the furs beneath you. He leans closer, tilting his head, his nose barely brushing the tip of yours. “I’ve never been kissed by a dragon before. Like I said, we don’t have m-mmm!”

It happens so swiftly you don’t have time to gather the air to scream. He presses his lips firmly to yours, making a noise so close to a moan that, despite the relative chasteness of the kiss itself, you flush with the indecency of it. It feels… hot. The heat of him is nearly too much to handle, like touching your lips to a hot mug of tea, but there is something intoxicating about it. He uses that heat to mold you to him, pulling you closer, his body sinking down against yours.

You’re too dumbstruck by the whole of the situation to struggle–not that it would accomplish much–which leaves you to simply experience it. His lips are tentative against yours, not harsh or demanding. He coaxes yours with his as if to dance, luring you into something that almost feels good.

Your heart hammers in your chest, his warmth pooling in your belly and spreading slowly through the rest of your body like boiled water poured into a lukewarm tub. He’s immovable, inescapable, and to your dismay, not entirely awful.

 “I want to claim you,” he all but growls against your lips, his other hand clawing slowly down your side, tugging at your dress. 

Your heart leaps painfully against your ribs. “Homelander,” you say, though he’s hardly paying you any mind, kissing your cheek now, your jaw, carving a wicked trail with his lips while his hand dips lower and lower, seeking the bottom hem of your dress. Heart racing, you breathlessly cry, “Beloved!”

That gives him pause. He rears back to look down at you, head slightly cocked, eyes bright and attentive. Your breaths are shallow, pulse pounding in your throat. You swallow dryly. “I’m thirsty,” you tell him, which is no lie. Your throat is so dry it almost hurts to speak. “Horribly. And hungry, I’ve not eaten since yesterday’s breakfast. You mean for me to survive, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” he says, expression twisting like he finds offense in your words. “You’ll want for nothing.”

“Then please. Water?” You push, praying that he is more man than beast.

He regards you quietly, eyes subtly darting back and forth. There’s a petulant kind of impatience to his gaze that catches you off-guard, like a boy who’s been told he has to wait before he gets to play with his new favorite toy. “Water,” he echoes eventually. You nod. He startles you when he exhales a little plume of smoke from his nose, reluctantly lifting himself off of you. The chill of his absence is immediate. “Don’t move,” he says, suddenly looking displaced. You’ve caught him by surprise. Perhaps you’ll survive this yet.

You watch him rise to his full height, standing easily eight feet tall. You sit up, pulling the furs over your legs to combat the cold seeping in. The muscles of his back give a mesmerizing flex as he stretches his wings out, the span of them just as jaw-dropping as his height. He wears furs over his shoulders held in place with thick leather straps that cross over his back and chest, emphasizing his musculature as well as the crimson plating that covers his body. Spines run down the length of his back, transitioning down into a tail that’s even longer than he is tall. It moves along the ground in zigzags, almost like a serpent. You don’t realize how intensely you’re staring until you look back up and realize he’s looking at you over his shoulder, those piercing blue eyes keenly set on yours.

The corner of his mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smirk. Something about his expression makes you feel like you’ve been caught doing something naughty. You drop your gaze. “Back in a jiffy,” he says. You look up just in time to see him step off the ledge, those brilliant red wings fanning out behind him. He disappears so suddenly that you can’t help but gasp, sitting up on your knees. You hear the beat of wings against the air, and then a second later see him lift back up into the skyline, twisting in the air before gliding back down out of sight. 

You sit in stunned silence, listening to the fading thrum of his wings. It doesn’t feel real. You don’t know if this is some kind of twisted game he pulls with every sacrifice, or if you’re truly somehow different. You weren’t entirely expecting him to listen to you, but he did. He’s gone, presumably to fetch you food and water. You don’t know how, but you just commanded the Devourer to not only let you go, but bring you a meal.

In hindsight, you’re a little concerned that it was never specified what kind of meal. As far as you’re aware, he primarily eats people.

Adjusting your gown, you haul yourself up to your feet, crossing your arms in a vain attempt to protect the heat of his body lingering on your skin. When that doesn’t work, you pick up one of the several fur pelts strewn on the floor and drape it over your shoulders, sighing in relief. The pelt still holds some residual warmth; a boon over the lovely but ineffective fabric of your ceremonial gown.

In the light of day, you can make out a great deal more detail throughout the lair. The floor to ceiling archways deter you from venturing too far beyond the center, but still there is plenty to investigate. For example, the throne catches your eye immediately. The size of it makes you feel like a child again, navigating a world not built for you. The masonry of it is exceptionally smooth beneath your fingers, save for a handful of deep, jagged gouges that marr the arm rest. Tilting your head, you realize that you recognize these marks: they match those that you’d seen on the ruined murals.

You trace them with your fingers, connecting them now to the draconic claws that, just moments ago, had so delicately followed the curve of your body. He could so easily tear you apart, and yet in that moment you had never known a gentler touch. You pull your hand back beneath the pelt, feeling a shiver roll through you that has little to do with the morning chill.

Mate. That word sticks in your brain like a wad of gummy tree sap.

Circling the throne, you carefully step around the glimmering mess of gold, silver and jewels that litter the stone floor. There’s so much of it that it doesn’t even look real, stacked over itself like forgotten hay bales left to rot. There is more wealth here than you’ve seen in your life. A single satchel of it would keep you comfortable for the rest of your life, and yet here it serves as little more than clutter. As far as you can tell, it means nothing here.

The Devourer stopped seeking material treasure generations ago.

As you explore, part of you expects to find the corpses of all those who have come before you. Dozens upon dozens of bodies stacked up in varying states of consumption or decay, or maybe a monument built of their bones. You find no such construct, though. In fact, nothing about this place seems put together. You can’t imagine the madness that living like this for a week would induce in you, let alone decades.

To the east, movement catches your attention, startling your heart into your throat. It looks like a silhouetted figure at first, but your brain catches up quickly, and you approach the gently billowing fabric. It’s draped over a statue, giving it the illusion of a person, and your curiosity gets the best of you as you tug the drape down off of it.

You suck in a sharp breath. Once again, you find yourself faced with a legend given form– a painstakingly and intricately carved statue in the Devourer’s perfect likeness. It comes as no surprise that this is the only in-tact statue you’ve seen, but what you don’t understand is why it’s even here. If the Devourer was a usurper, some vicious interloper, why would there be a monument to him in the same vein as all the others?

The plaque beneath it reads: Homelander. Son of the Skies, Protector of the Earth.

Devourer, Scourge, Flame’s Maw–these names are all you have ever known, and yet this is the name carved in stone. He was once worshiped not out of fear, but reverence that you can see in every gentle curve of stone.

What happened?

Shuffling closer to the statue, the discarded fabric gathers at your feet. It’s not quite to scale, but it’s a handsome likeness nonetheless. It’s certainly been cared for more than anything else in this place. You wonder if it’s just vanity or if it’s something less obvious. You trace the smooth stonework, letting yourself get a better look at this version of him that’s less likely to eat you.

Objectively speaking, it’s a handsome visage. The resemblance is uncanny, clearly the work of an intensely skilled mason. His jaw is strong, eyes set forward in unerring determination. Tentatively, you touch the lips of the statue. He’d been so certain that he wanted to kiss you. Just the thought of his closeness and heat makes your stomach erupt in a flutter of butterflies.

Mate.

“I thought I told you not to move.”

You barely hear the full sentence, your own scream ringing loudly in your ears. You move to spin around, but your foot catches on the pile of fabric you had dropped to the ground and suddenly your whole body is pitching backwards, the back of your skull destined for the smooth, unyielding stone behind you. Fortunately for your brain matter, your descent is halted just shy of contact, one familiar clawed hand cupping the back of your neck while the other lands at your back, steadying you.

Homelander stands over you, a curious quirk to his brow. With his hand at the small of your back, his claws press lightly through the fabric, effortlessly upholding your weight. He holds you as if you’ve been caught mid dip in a dance.

“Gods, you scared me,” you say, eyes wide. “I didn’t hear you.” You had been so certain you would hear his return based on the sound of his wings when he’d left, but his approach had been terrifyingly silent.

“Yes, I know. It makes me a very effective hunter,” he says, dipping down to nuzzle at your neck, taking advantage of how the pelt has slipped off of your shoulder. He inhales the smell of you, prickling goosebumps all over your body. “I missed you.”

“You’ve barely been gone,” you reply impulsively, awkwardly trying to adjust yourself out of this arch he has you in. No use. His size makes him impossible to maneuver around, and your foot is still tangled up in the fabric that he’s currently standing on.

He gives another one of those rumbling sighs, drawing back to look at you. “You’re supposed to say that you missed me, too,” he chastises you, and though his tone seems light, you’re sure you see a flicker of impatience or irritation in his gaze. Maybe both. Despite how fearsome the sum total of his features make him, you’re once again caught off guard by his eyes. Though the color of them is icy, there’s a distinctly human warmth to them that grounds you in his gaze.

Still, the last thing you want to do is make him angry.

“Oh,” you croak quietly, realizing he’s actually waiting for you to say it, staring down expectantly while he holds you. “I… missed you, too,” you return stiltedly, unsure your hesitant delivery will be satisfactory. Shockingly, his expression lightens, lips curving into a smile. He lifts you off of your feet, untangling you from the mess beneath you and turning around to set you back down on relatively clear flooring. 

“Good,” he purrs, stroking his hand down the back of your head like he’s petting an animal. He seems determined to touch you, but entirely unaware of how to. He cups the base of your skull and tightens the gap between your bodies, enticing you with his warmth as much as he terrifies you with the hunger in his eyes.

You put your hands to his chest, soaking up the heat of him as you vainly try to maintain an ounce of personal space. “Ah, the–the statue, it’s beautiful. Why do you cover it up?” You ask, the words leaving you in a flustered tumble.

He pauses, glancing over his shoulder, looking at the statue like he’s only just remembered it exists. “Oh, that. Mmm. Don’t always like what he has to say,” he replies, fitting his hand over top of yours, pressing it to his chest. You blink. What in the world does that mean? “You humans chill so quickly. I’ll have to light the hearth next time I leave you,” he says, earning a yelp from you as he abruptly lifts you up into his arms, tail slithering audibly along the floor as he carries you back to what you suppose for all intents and purposes is his nest. His touch instantly warms you to your core, making the fur you wrapped yourself in seem like a thin sheet in comparison. Despite your apprehension, you can’t help the way the tension in your body naturally eases with his warmth. Upon returning to the collection of pelts, you see the fruits of his labor.

Literal fruits, in fact.

Homelander has returned with a small bounty consisting of apples, two melons, and even a handful of peaches, all of it held in a beautiful–albeit aged–woven basket. You don’t get the chance to eat those often; the trees they fall from grow high on the surrounding mountains, and the farmers in your village are content enough with the established agriculture that no one bothers to grow them.

In addition, a tall golden pitcher stands filled to the brim with water. You’re once again hyper aware of just how incredibly thirsty you are, lips dry, throat parched. It’s the only thing you care about, clambering towards it the second Homelander sets you back on your feet.

The pitcher is heavy. It appears made of solid gold and it’s three times the size of any you’ve ever seen before. You don’t lift it so much as you just tip it back slightly, sighing loudly as you drink back the crisp, clear water.  You sputter as the flow abruptly increases, water spilling from the corners of your mouth. Homelander has lifted the pitcher to help you drink, holding it one handed as if it’s no more than a drinking cup, his other hand settled upon your waist. He looks thoroughly pleased with himself, eyes half-lidded, lips gently curved upwards. Once you’ve drunk your fill, you push against his hold and he relents quickly, unnerving you with just how attentive he really is. He sets the pitcher back down and watches you wipe your chin dry.

“Thank the gods,” you sigh habitually, finally not feeling as though there’s grit in your throat with every word.

“I’d prefer you thanked me,” he says coyly, his gaze drifting down to where the water has wet your gown. The fabric clings to your skin, sheer where liquid has touched it.

“Yes, of course. I’m sorry. Thank you, Homelander,” you correct. It’s taking every ounce of your fortitude to speak in full sentences with the way he’s staring at you, let alone the idle way his thumb is stroking your hip. No one has ever touched you with this mixture of ease and clear intent, the weight of his hand practically thrumming against you. The magnitude of him is a difficult thing to parse both in terms of his sheer size and the legend he represents. You don’t know how to reconcile him with the monster you grew up dreading.

No one warned you that monsters could be warm and handle you gently.

“Time to eat,” he says, setting the pitcher back down. He takes hold of both of your hips and pulls you down with him as he sits cross-legged on the pelts, the circle of his legs large enough that you fit perfectly inside it, your own legs hanging out over his crossed calves. His tail loops around as well, encircling him and draping over your legs. The underside of his tail is not unlike the belly of a snake, with large overlapping scales that layer down the length of it. It’s just as warm as the rest of him, and feels like an unnaturally soft stone that’s been baking in the sun.

Reaching over, Homelander plucks one of the peaches from the assortment. It looked perfectly average in the basket, but between his fingers it looks almost comically small. With a deftness that you wouldn’t expect from a creature of his size, he begins to slice through the peach with his blackened claws, delicately cutting out a wedge that he does not hand you, but he instead brings it directly to your lips. 

You stare for a moment, struck by the rich red center of the fruit, how the juice of it drips onto his hand in sweet smelling rivulets. You turn to look at him over your shoulder, and he quirks a brow, nodding towards the slice of fruit. You decide that of all the potential battles you have in front of you, this one in particular isn’t worth fighting, and you part your lips, watching him as you do.

His own lips mimic yours, falling apart in quiet entrancement. He slides the wedge between your teeth and watches with rapt fascination as you bite down on it, holding his gaze in an exchange that feels so unexpectedly raw and intimate, your pulse ticks up a notch. You swear he notices it by the way his head tilts ever so slightly, almost as if he’s listening.

“Good?” He asks, voice little more than a rumble.

Gods above and below, it is good. Despite the preternatural heat of his hand, the succulent flesh of the peach retains the morning chill, sweet and cool on your tongue. It’s perfectly ripe, yielding easily to the cut of your teeth and flooding richly across your tongue as you chew. He feeds it to you until it disappears, pressing the last of it in with his thumb, which then follows the line of your bottom lip, smearing the sweet juice on it. You nod and lick your lips, tongue narrowly missing his thumb, and what that does to his expression makes your stomach flip. 

He’s quick to cut another slice to offer you. You repeat this process in silence, the air thick with tension that feels so palpable you’re sure you could swim through it. The sounds of the world have narrowed entirely to the sound of his claw cutting through the delicate flesh of the fruit and the tip lightly scraping the pit inside it. His hands have a sticky shine to them by the time he’s tossing the pit back into the basket, stripped as clean as a bone. 

You chew your final bite, jaw slowing as you watch him take his fingers into his own mouth. He’s unabashed in the way he slurps the nectar off his digits, tongue slipping between them. That’s when you realize that his tongue splits down the middle, dexterously sliding over his fingers to lap up every drop of juice. Not only that, but you spot a flash of gold; the same kind of piercing he has on his ears. Watching him stirs something hot in you, a radiating heat that lights a flickering pulse between your thighs. You audibly gulp the last of your bite, tensing subtly when Homelander looks at you.

Slowly, his lips curl into a devious smile. “See something you like?”

You flush, fighting the urge to look away. Don’t play into it. Change the subject. “What happened to your last mate?”

His expression shifts to something slightly more incredulous. “There wasn’t one. You’re my first, my last, my only. Dragons only bond once,” he says, that split tongue rolling along his sharp teeth, that gold tongue piercing clicking against them. You wonder where else he’s decorated himself with gold.

Wait, what did he say? Your gaze snaps back up from his mouth to his eyes, which are once more set into that self-satisfied slant. He’s closer to you now, and nearing by the second.

My first, my last, my only.

“But I am no dragon,” you say, leaning away subtly, though there isn’t far to go. He’s got you trapped nicely in place, like a butterfly beneath pins. “How could such a bond form?”

“I’m as mystified as you are,” he says, his hand sliding up the small of your back. “I didn’t think a bond was even possible for me. Apparently there’s something different about you,” he says, and you notice a brief twitch of his lip, a flicker that looks just a touch like disdain. It disappears as quickly as it had appeared. “Something special,” he murmurs, close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath on your cheek. 

Your heart races, your capacity for thought slowly disappearing the closer to you he gets. New subject, new subject! You think, frazzled by the warm spiced smell of him. His hand flexes on your hip, claws prickling your skin through your dress. “Aren’t you hungry?” You ask, eyes darting to the basket full of fruit just to his side.

“Yeah,” he rasps, voice so low you feel it reverberate. His nose brushes your cheek, trailing down from your jaw to your neck. You shiver, and the pulse between your thighs grows into a steady throb. He inhales deeply. “I’m famished.”

The world around you spins and the next thing you know, you’re on your back staring up at the aged banners draped along the stone ceiling, the fur pelts warm and plush beneath you. Homelander pins your arms down at your sides, once more poised on his hands and knees over you. His tongue draws a wet molten line from the collar of your dress to your throat, and you let out a soft, nervous cry as his teeth graze your skin.

Perhaps he’s going to devour you after all. 

Oh gods! Gods, gods, gods, please no!

“Wait, wait! Don’t–please don’t eat me,” you plead in a panic, pushing up against his hands with all of your might. He doesn’t yield at all. You may as well be pushing against the stone walls of the tower itself.

He does laugh, however. It’s that same rumble of amusement that travels through your skin and into the core of you. “For the last time, I’m not eating you. I can smell your arousal, though. Practically taste it in the fucking air,” he says, trailing lower down your chest with every word, brazenly nuzzling the space between your breasts before continuing down. A wave of humiliation rolls through you at his words, and you look away. He releases your arms in favor of sliding his hands up your bare legs, pushing your dress up with them. “I’m just going to have a little lick.”

Frantically, you try to grab at him as soon as your hands are free. “Hold on, stop–”

“Enough!” He snarls suddenly, startling you quiet. You swear for just a moment that his eyes flash crimson. You clutch your hands to your chest. “You’ll not be harmed. Understand? Just… let me,” he says tersely, gaze hard before gradually softening as you silence yourself, watching him with wide, uncertain eyes. Satisfied, he lowers back down.

His sharp claws kiss harmless welts all the way up your legs, up to your hips, where he catches the band of your undergarments. He hooks his fingers over the waistband and drags them down, seeming to enjoy the way you pant and writhe under him, your heart racing.

“Have mercy,” you slip in quietly, squirming beneath the hot press of his hands, though you’re no longer struggling against him. “I’ve never–no one’s ever–I’m inexperienced,” you desperately explain, your mind running wild with what his size will mean for you if he decides he wants more than to taste you–to claim you, as he’d said before.

“Good,” he replies simply, pushing your knees up into a bend on either side of his head. “As you should be. As am I,” he says, turning his head to drag his split tongue in swirling patterns on your inner thigh, moaning at the taste of you.

You grip the pelts beneath you, brows furrowing. You stare down at the top of his head in confusion. “You are?”

“I told you. I’ve never had a mate. I’ve never felt the need to put my cock into what I intended to eat,” he says against your skin, erupting goosebumps all over your thighs. That should horrify you, but you’re instantly distracted by the sheer burning heat of his breath wafting over your wet cunt, a gasp slipping from your lips when he eagerly presses his tongue to it.

His tongue feels as smooth as glass, like liquid in the way it contours to your every curve. The split of it rubs on either side of your clit, massaging it between the two sides in a way that makes your knees shake. “Ffffuck,” he groans, immediately pushing his tongue into you, licking up the wetness of you twice as eagerly as he had that ripe peach.

You buck against him, a moan escaping you. The sound only encourages him to plunge his tongue deeper, that golden stud on his tongue brushing hotly against your inner walls. He drags it up and pushes it flush, half inside you and half grinding against your clit before pushing back in deep. It feels unlike anything you’ve ever known, so much better than your own curious, clumsy fingers. He laves attention on you like he’s starved for it, drinking just as thirstily as you had from the pitcher.

There’s no rhythm to the way he moves, no sense of consistency. He slips his hands under your ass and tugs you forward with ease, lifting you to push his thick split tongue even further inside you, plunging it in and out, growing greedier with every dive. He growls low in the back of his throat, tail thudding repeatedly against the floor. Instead of the little lick he claimed he was after, he’s working himself into an obvious frenzy feasting on you.

“H-Homelander, please,” you keen, his relentlessness rapidly building an unfamiliar pressure within you. He’s as sloppy as he is voracious, the wet sound of him obscene and loud in the enormous lair. His claws bite into your ass where he holds it firmly to his mouth, but he doesn’t seem to hear you. If he does, he’s taking it only as encouragement. 

His tongue touches something inside you that makes your whole body jolt. You grab hold of both of his horns, your back arching as you desperately cling to them. You’re certain you meant to shove him back, to struggle. Instead, your body is ablaze as you yank hard on his horns, hitching your leg over his shoulder and riding his tongue with a shaking gasp.

The pressure bursts, and the wave of euphoria that crashes down on you is unlike anything you’ve ever known. You convulse against his mouth, walls tightening around the intrusion. You don’t recognize your own voice in the sounds you make as he continues to ruthlessly fuck you soaked and open with his tongue, his breaths so hot they nearly burn. The waves of your climax feel like they’ll never end, spurred on by every deep, wet thrust.

“Homelander! It’s too much, Homelander, too much, please, please–beloved, please, I can’t, I can’t,” you beg, desperate to get his attention. You’re on the verge of sobs when he finally withdraws his long molten tongue from you. You suck in a shuddering breath, releasing his horns and collapsing back against the pelts, sweat prickling along your hairline.

However, your shallow breaths are nothing compared to the sound of Homelander’s ragged panting. He looks entirely wild, smoke billowing from his mouth and nose, his cheeks flushed a dark red, the lower half of his face shiny with a mixture of your slick and his own drool. He takes his hands from under you and yanks the sash around his waist loose, dropping it to the side. Reaching behind him, he unfastens his pants.

Your mind is still a haze, but even through the delirium, you’re shocked by what you see when that rich navy fabric falls from his waist: his cock is as large as the rest of him, thick and dripping. The underside of it is strangely ribbed, a feature you’re certain is to be attributed to his draconic nature. Not only that, but he’s adorned in gold here, too, with a ring pierced into the head of his cock and studs between each ridge. Your eyes widen.

It’ll never fit.

Nevertheless, he looks entirely undeterred. Homelander adjusts himself between your legs, eyes thoroughly glazed over with lust, and presses his nearly scalding palms to your inner thighs, pushing them into a wide spread and down to the ground. Arousal and fear lance through you like a twin bolt of lightning.

“H-hold on,” you stutter, lifting a trembling hand. “I–” Bending over you, he silences you with a firm kiss. You press your hands to his chest and feel it thrumming beneath your palms, the heat of him more intense than ever. You can’t help but moan softly into it, overtaken by the smell of sex and something akin to burning incense. His tongue slips as deftly into your mouth as it did your cunt. Even after having felt it inside you, it’s thicker in your mouth than you’re prepared for, sliding in deeper, like he means to fuck you with it here, too.

It wholly distracts you until you feel a heavy, blunt press to your wet cunt. You make a half-hearted noise of protest, but his only answer is a low rumbling growl, claws biting into the meat of your thighs as he holds you still, effectively gagging you on his tongue.

His cock is as hot as the rest of him, but a great deal more solid than his malleable tongue. The thickness of it slowly spreads you wide, an aching pressure. You’re not sure if the burn of it is from the stretch or the heat, but either way it’s driving you insane. It’s hot and painful and good, frictionless with how thoroughly he soaked you, and despite your nerves, your cunt is loose with orgasm. It’s as if your body, independent of your mind, is eager to welcome him in.

You make a keening noise, the sound of it muffled in this devouring kiss. You grab hold of the leather straps across his chest and yank on them, twisting at them, but nothing takes your mind from how intense it feels to be split apart on the fat head of his cock.

The sounds Homelander makes in response are downright bestial, low and rumbling from his chest. Your only relief is when the widest swell of his cockhead finally breaches you, just the tip of it settling perfectly inside you. You cry out when he gives an exploratory backwards pull, and then shivers as he begins to rock gently, breathing heavily from his nose as he fucks you with nothing more than the head of his cock.

You’re starting to feel lightheaded, pitchy little noises leaving you with every exhale. Homelander sharpens his pace, breaking the kiss with a loud, carnal moan as he tips his head back. He’s barely even inside you and yet the girth of him is overwhelming, the ridges of his cock stimulating you in ways you didn’t know possible, the fat curved head rubbing against that same spot inside you that his tongue had previously made you see stars with.

Thoroughly overwhelmed by the incomprehensible assault of sensations, tears gather in your eyes. That pressure is building back up in you once more, starting at the base of your spine and slowly crawling up it. Desperate to tether yourself, to feel connected, you move your hand from the strap at his chest and touch his face. To your surprise, that instantly snaps his attention down to you, his beautiful blue eyes lost in a crimson glow.

Homelander meets your gaze, some level of cognizance returning to him, and whimpers, something hidden and vulnerable escaping in that exchange. He bends down, his nose brushing yours, and rests his forehead against yours while his thrusts grow more and more erratic, but never deeper. He fucks you in shallow, jagged snaps until finally that mounting pressure overwhelms you and you come again, simultaneously squeezing him into his own sudden release. 

The flood of him inside you is burning hot, spilling into your core even from here, and he practically roars with it, burying that loud primal cry into the crook of your neck while his body stills, releasing pulse after pulse of thick, hot seed into you.

His breath billows hotly across your neck, the burning scent of him thick in the air. Your mind is so addled by your own euphoria that it takes you time to realize he’s speaking, fervent murmurings against your skin. “M’sorry, still, be still, I’m–don’t move,” he rasps, fractured little noises leaving him in between his words. You choke on your own breath when he sinks in, working you open slowly, shivers pitching up and down your spine. Gods above, he isn’t done.

Surely he doesn’t mean for you to take all of it… Does he?

You moan weakly, pushing your hand up into his hair and grabbing hold, which elicits a rumbling sigh from him in return. It’s silkier than you expected it to be. “Too big, it’s too much, it’s not–it’s not going to fit,” you pant out, screwing your eyes shut tight. While his release had initially softened him some, you can already feel his cock filling back out. Every bit he slips in further, you feel the mess of his release being forced out of you, come dripping down your thighs, slicking the way for the rest of him.

“It will,” he says at your ear, kissing the spot just below your earlobe, then your neck, his tongue slipping out to taste the sweat there before he kisses that same spot. He’s set upon you like an animal, lost to the drive of instinct, determined to fulfill his promise to claim what is his. “It will because it must. Because it’s yours. Because you’re mine.”

Homelander releases a breathy whine, sounding just as overstimulated as you are, nuzzling at your throat while he slowly works his way deeper, practically vibrating with restraint. He sounds as overwhelmed as you feel, but he refuses to stop, to lose. He holds you in place, growling whenever you squirm or struggle against him. The feel of it is dizzying, unbelievably hot and heavy, like fire given form, filling you in ways you didn’t know were possible. You’re feeling it again, the slow rise of that carnal pleasure building to an inevitable climax, and your whole body trembles with it.

You make a desperate keening noise, and Homelander hushes you, kissing your shoulder. “Sshhh, good, you’re doing so well for me. Don’t move yet, it’s almost over. You were made for this, for me. You feel it, don’t you? How easily your cunt opens to me. Nnngh, hah… Fuck, you fit me. You fit me. You do, and you always will,” he pants, voice hitching.

He slides his hands from your thighs to your waist, the press of his claws just shy of painful. With one final move, he lets out a quaking moan as he pulls you down onto the last of it, finally burying himself completely in your snug, come-soaked cunt. 

The fullness of it breaks you–snapping the last tether that was holding you in place–and you come again, your velvety walls seizing up around him impossibly tight before spasming your pleasure around every vein, ridge and piercing he has. You can feel the shape of him so viscerally that you’re sure your body will remember it, carved out in the shape of his cock forevermore.

He cries out with your release, a reverberating sound that you feel all the way down to the marrow of your bones. You don’t know if he’s more in pleasure or pain, but he makes no move to retreat. Instead, he brings you that tiny bit closer, pressing every inch of your body to his. He rides out your pleasure, panting a wet spot into the crook of your neck.

Tears roll from your eyes to your temple, disappearing into your hairline as you breathe roughly. You’re overwhelmingly hot, oversensitized and raw, but as the aftershocks of your orgasm fade, your body steadily loses that quiver. You feel as if you’re melting down into the furs, struggling to even keep your eyes open as a gentle ecstasy sweeps over you.

Once he recovers enough, he lifts himself up onto his hands, and then sits  back onto his legs, his hands on your hips to lift you partially into his lap to keep himself buried deep, hitching your legs around his waist. His eyes are completely glazed over, lips parted around heavy, hungry breaths. He doesn’t look at all sated. If anything, the look of his desire has only intensified, despite his obvious sensitivity. Sliding his hands up your body, he pushes your pretty white dress all the way up over your head, tossing it to the side so that he may finally see all of you.

“Look at you,” he breathes, voice utterly frayed. He stares at you as though you’re a vision sent from the gods, a nymph plucked from the heavens and nestled snugly upon his cock. His hand sweeps down your stomach, settling low on it, where he lightly presses down. You both moan with the pressure, with how keenly you both feel it. “Told you it would fit,” he says, but his voice is not smug. There’s a breathless wonder to it, like he’s awestruck by the look of your body against his.

His tongue rolls out to sweep along his lips. He opens his mouth, and you can see threads of saliva snapping between his sharp teeth, his mouth wet with hunger. He continues to reverently stroke your stomach, his large splayed hand easily covering the expanse of it. “You’ll make a beautiful mother,” he says, a concept you don’t even know how to begin to unravel, but the way he says it makes you feel worshiped. “Perfect. So fucking perfect for me,” he says, a shudder in his voice. His crimson wings spread and curve in on either side of you, the hooked tips of them bracing on the stone floor.

“Mother?” You slur belatedly. You feel dizzy, your body as warm as burning coals and tingling all over. He lifts your legs one at a time, bringing each one up parallel to his chest. They hook over his shoulders as he leans forward, wasting no before time kissing you. His wings support his weight while he grips your thighs, squeezing possessively.

“Mother,” he confirms between kisses, bending you practically in half as he begins to rut against you. He’s not thrusting so much as he’s grinding into you, wringing a low moan from you. “You want that, don’t you? I’ll keep you safe. Feed you. Fuck you. I’ll take care of you, be yours, and you’ll be mine, won’t you? Sweet little thing, fucked happy and heavy with my children. Tell me. Tell me you want that.”

“Yes,” you moan, kneading the furs on either side of you. He paints a beautiful picture in your mind of fresh fruit, crisp water, and this dreamlike pleasure for the rest of your days. Beneath him, any thoughts of the world outside this moment melt away. There’s only the two of you, resplendently warm and living amongst the clouds. “I want it. I want–I want you,” you say, touching either side of his face. He leans heavily into your touch, his eyes falling shut. A soft noise that sounds like relief escapes him as you kiss him, coaxing that long, clever tongue out to meet yours.

The eagerness with which he reciprocates nearly chokes you, his tongue slipping over yours and halfway down your throat before pulling back, practically devouring you in this kiss. In your fever, this consuming passion feels so much like love it makes your head spin, makes you forget where, when and who you are.  He breaks the kiss to moan unabashedly,  shifting to put his lips to your throat, mouthing at your skin like he’s trying desperately not to sink his teeth in. The thought thrills you. You almost want him to.

“Again,” he pants, grip tightening on your thighs. “Say it again, please.”

“I want you,” you say again, more certain now. The desperation in him is disarming, and despite the animalism of him, you can clearly see the man in him now, hear it in the way he pleads for you to indulge him. That and the euphoric spill of pleasure electrifying your every nerve imbues you with some kind of sense of power, and however misplaced it may be, you immediately feel drunk on it. You can feel your body beginning to build back towards that ultimate swell of euphoria again. “I want to be yours. I want you to be mine.”

He groans, dipping lower to suck a mark at the junction between your neck and shoulder. This time, when you feel the brush of his teeth, you don’t shy away. You cup the back of his head and drag your nails down his scalp. Homelander thrusts his hips jaggedly, wringing a throaty gasp out of you. “Keep talking,” he demands, but you hear the plea for what it is.

“You feel good. Y-you fit,” you say, echoing his own words, though it’s getting harder to speak with the way he’s starting to fuck you in earnest, just barely withdrawing before he drives back in, as if he can’t bare to be more than an inch outside of you.  You moan for him, chasing the bliss swelling rapidly between your legs.

Wait… Something really is swelling.

“What is that?” You ask, voice reedy. You whimper. Somehow, it feels as though he’s getting bigger. “What’s h-nnngh, what’s happening?” Your words are starting to slur together again, your mind split down the middle between your mounting orgasm, and the surreal feeling of the base of his cock growing inside you.

“Knot,” he explains between swipes of his tongue. “Keeps every drop of me inside you,” he says, giving a shuddering moan as that swell catches on the rim of your cunt when he tries to draw back. Just when you thought you had adjusted, that swell makes you ache, has you whimpering and squirming under him.

He could have told you it would get bigger!

“Oh gods, it–mmm, I’m–it feels–” You stop and start again and again, writhing, but he keeps you firmly in place, the sound of flesh slapping against flesh loud in your ears as he fucks you harder and faster, spurred on by the quiver of your cunt as your own climax nears.

“Come for me again. Show me that you want it. I want to feel your pretty little cunt squeeze my cock for my come,” he urges, voice reduced to a rough growl in your ear. He sounds like he’s barely holding himself together, every word more strained than the last. “Give it to me. Give yourself to me.”

The tug of his swollen knot bouncing off of your rim and the feel of his thick ridged cock massaging your walls completely overwhelms you. “Y-yes, okay, I’m–oh gods, gods, I’m–I’m coming, Homelander, Homelander!” You call, lips falling open on a silent scream as your throat locks up, a third orgasm crashing down on you with a force that knocks the air out of your lungs.

Homelander muffles his own cry into the crook of your neck, stilling halfway through your orgasm with one final slam. This time, the rush of his release is pressed tightly against your cervix, pooling inside you with nowhere to go, his knot doing precisely what he said it would. The heat of it fills you in hot, rushing spurts, his cock jerking against your spasming walls with every load he empties into you.

A sudden stinging pain makes you gasp, confusion seeping into the euphoria that has thoroughly addled your brain. Fuck, you realize he’s biting you. His teeth sink in as smoothly as a knife through fresh butter, the sting giving way to the sheer heat of his mouth, the stroke of his tongue, and the inexplicable way it intensifies your orgasm.

The room falls deafeningly quiet save for the pound of your own heart in your ears and the heavy way you’re each catching your respective breath. Your arms fall bonelessly to your sides as you pant, your vision slightly blurry. Homelander begins lapping at your shoulder, soothing the spot he’d bitten. Your whole body feels heavy, stuffed fuller than you ever could have conceived possible. All you can do is whine as he adjusts you, gingerly bringing your legs down to settle on either side of him.

You’re not sure how you’ll ever get off of his cock now that you’re on it. His knot feels like a permanent part of you, fitted so snugly that, just as promised, you don’t feel a single drop spill.

Homelander doesn’t stop at your neck. He drags his tongue down to the dip of your clavicle, where it splits apart slightly anywhere it moves over bone. It feels surreal, but somehow different from the first time you woke to him licking you. For starters, you’re not terrified he’s going to eat you. That has an entirely new connotation now.

He moves down further, slinking down into the valley between your breasts, sighing as he pushes them together to lave his tongue between. He’s languid, practically purring with each breath as he savors the feel and the taste of you. You don’t have it in you to feel much more than exhausted, your limbs as heavy as stone, but it does feel good. Your breath catches when he opens his lips around one of your nipples, sucking almost half of your breast into his preternaturally hot mouth. His pierced tongue swirls over your nipple while his teeth flex precariously against the tender flesh. You lurch, letting out a breathy noise.

“Careful, please,,” you exhale, earning a glance up from him. His eyes are completely glazed over, soft and dark in a way that takes your breath away. He hums quietly in some weak acknowledgement before his eyes flutter closed, his throat bobbing with every swallow as he sucks your breast with unexpected gentility.

Watching him stirs a wash of strange feelings in you. With what little strength you have, you bring your hand up to touch his horn, contemplating the texture of it beneath your fingers. You follow the line of it down to his skull, tracing his hairline just beneath the crown that adorns his head, slipping behind his sharply pointed ear. He’s truly incredible to behold up close like this, beautiful without the lens of terror you had been viewing him through.

On some level, you know you should still be afraid, but it’s a difficult feeling to muster when he’s warm and lax on your chest with his cock buried inside you, suckling on your breast as you’re still riding the high of three consecutive climaxes.

You push your fingers into his flaxen hair. You’ve never seen hair this color before except in very young children. In your experience, age always darkens it away to a sandy color, but his is as bright and warm as sunshine. There doesn’t seem to be any part of him that isn’t golden. He exhales a deep sigh as you run your nails along his scalp, nuzzling sweetly against you. You smile despite yourself.

Who would have thought that a dragon might be so very much like an overgrown house cat?

When Homelander lifts his head, his tongue is the last to leave, returning to his mouth with a wet slide across his lips. He’s left your skin shiny with saliva, but he isn’t finished. He immediately lowers himself to your other breast, taking it into his mouth in precisely the same way. You bring your other hand up into his hair and continue to massage his scalp, earning yourself an appreciative little moan from low in his throat, his tail sliding audibly back and forth on the stone floor.

The two of you lay like that for an indeterminate amount of time. You drift in and out of consciousness, worn thin and soothed by the heat of his body seeping into your muscles, fairly certain you’ll never be able to sit up on your own again. Homelander eventually releases your breast with a soft pop and settles his head on your sternum, narrowly avoiding taking one of your eyes out with his horn. You continue to stroke through his hair as your strength gradually returns.

The swell of his knot, too, lessens, but even soft his cock fits snugly inside you. It isn’t until Homelander gingerly lifts himself off of you that it slides out, coming free with a significant gush that soaks your thighs and puddles beneath you. You flush, making a strained little noise. You feel carved out and left hollow by the sheer size of him. His wings withdraw and tuck in behind him while he sits back on his legs to admire the splay of you beneath him. 

“You’re beautiful,” he says, smoothing his hands up and down your thighs. You’ve never felt as exposed as you do in this moment, laid bare under his gaze. Even now, visibly drunk on pleasure and thoroughly satiated, there is an undeniable lingering famine in his stare. He sinks down and slowly spreads your legs apart, leaning in to run his tongue up the crease of your inner thigh. He laps languidly at your skin, earning hitched little breaths and sounds from you as his tongue deftly cleans the mess he’s made of you. He’s much more tame now than he had been, focusing not on overstimulating you, but simply washing you. It’s a strange and animalistic thing to do, but it’s intimate, too. Sweet, even.

Gods, he’s really done a number on your psyche.

Once he’s satisfied with the state of you, he climbs back up and settles on his side, looking at you with his hand poised over you, hovering like he isn’t sure what to do with it. His expression starts to shift, concern seeping into it. “You’re quiet. Did I hurt you?”

You huff a little breath. You’re quiet because you’ve just been fucked within an inch of your life by a dragon’s cock, but aside from that, of course he had. “You bit me, for starters.”

He turns somewhat sheepish at that. “Instinct. I wanted to mark you.”

“You succeeded,” you say, touching your shoulder tentatively.The skin is still raw, but it isn’t bleeding. It doesn’t even feel like it’s going to scab. 

You must wear your confusion plainly, because Homelander is quick to explain: “I sealed the wound. It should be fully healed by sundown.”

“How did you seal it?” You ask, bolder now with how you touch it. It feels like simple indentations, a perfect mold of his teeth.

“My saliva has particular properties. There was a method to my debauchery,” he says, pointedly licking his lips.

You suppose that’s far from the most miraculous thing about him. “That’s convenient,” you say, to which he smiles. It’s bizarre how easily this comes now. You’ve heard of breaking the tension before, but this is certainly the most intense way you’ve ever broken through that initial barrier to more casual conversation. 

Seeing that his hand is still hovering over you, you make a choice and take it, pulling it down to settle on your hip. Relief and excitement flash in his eyes in equal measure, and he takes that as permission to tuck you the rest of the way against him, settling on his side. He rests his head in his palm, propped up on his elbow. You curiously explore the plains of his chest with your fingertips, testing where flesh meets scales. They feel almost like bone, crimson colored protrusions that catch the light as prettily as rubies. They’re smattered along his body in the same way a human might have moles or birthmarks, incidental and seemingly without rhyme or reason.

His ribs are guarded by stiff plates that aren’t as solid as the scales, but look to serve as hardy protection. You let your fingers swoop down the ridges of them, comparing the textures along different parts of his body. It’s fascinating.

“I’ve never seen anything like–” you begin to pull your hand away as you speak, but Homelander takes hold of your wrist, bringing it back to his chest.

“Don’t stop.” You look up at him. His expression catches you off guard. He looks wounded, those fiercely blue and ever human eyes of his intensely focused on you. Swallowing, you nod. He lets go, and you begin to traipse your fingers along his chest again, following the line of the leather straps that cross over it. He lets out a heavy breath. “No one’s ever touched me like this,” he tells you after a long few beats of silence. “Not that I can remember.”

You glance up at him, but he’s staring down at your small hand tracing patterns on his chest. “What happened to this place?” You ask, because that seems politer than asking what happened to him.

“Guess it’s been too long for anyone else to remember. They’re all dead,” he says, the mood of his words difficult to discern. He inhales a contemplative breath, clicking his tongue at the end of it. “Time happened. I used to be something else to my people. I was… war. I brought fire down on their enemies, and they loved me for it. I won them their home. Homelander. There were others like me, but I was the best of them,” he says with conviction, though you sense bitterness in his voice, too. “When all the wars were won, they built this tower. They built monuments to their gods, and they placed us here with them as though we ourselves were relics.”

The end of his tail has begun to slap lightly against the ground. You can feel a slight uptick in the heat of him beneath your palm. 

“They placated me with gold. Adorned me in it. At times they would summon me to festivals. Use my strength to build their stone cities, but they didn’t celebrate me. They had forgotten their love. They treated me as you would any other tool. Something to be taken off the shelf for work and put away when the task is done.”

The seething resentment is more clear in his voice than ever. While you didn’t ask it, it seems he understood what you really wanted to know. You’ve never heard this story before; The Devourer had only ever been a tyrant upon the people. No one ever spoke of a Homelander. No one ever spoke of a hero.

“When treasure failed to keep me impotent and obedient, they tried meat instead. They sent me livestock, as if the simple act of killing a cow would satiate me,” he snarls through his teeth, smoke wafting between them. He sucks it back, tipping his head up slightly in a bit to regain his composure.  “They thought they could control me indefinitely. Out of sight, out of mind. It worked for too long, but only because I allowed it. Because I thought things would change. They never did. So I took their gold and their cattle and their crops and demanded more still. I demanded until they couldn’t ignore me any longer. When they failed to provide, I reigned fire down on them as I did their enemies two hundred years ago, and I gave them no choice but to look at the monster they made.”

His tail cracks like a whip against the stone floor. His anger is so visceral it makes your heart race, but there is more in his gaze than just fury. You feel as though you’re watching him rip apart the stitching over a wound that has been festering for far too long. “After that, they sent people. Simpering peasants who had no fucking idea who or what I really am. They bathed them in oils like slaughtered lambs basted for roast,” he growls, the blue of his eyes fading into an eerie crimson glow. “So I did. I devoured them, and I spat their own blood in their faces. If they wouldn’t have me as a man, they would have a beast instead.”

The Devourer.

You sit in stunned silence, watching as the glow of his eyes gradually fades, though his temperature remains the same. He looks at you, his expression braced, as if he anticipates a specific reaction. Rejection, you suppose. It seems to be the only thing he’s known for centuries. Within his gaze, you recognize a profound need to connect, to feel you, to hear that there might be a single soul in this gods damned world that wants him.

What does one say to such a story? The anger in his voice strikes such a wounded chord, you can practically smell the blood. The rawness of it alone makes your eyes prickle with tears, a lump gathering in your throat. How warped he has become not for the absence of love, but the deprivation of it. It’s clear in the way he speaks of them how desperately he wanted them to still love him.

“I’m sorry,” you say so quietly it’s a wonder he hears you. His expression flips completely, morphing into bewildered surprise.

“What?” His voice sounds small.

“I’m sorry that they abandoned you.”

If his own words are a knife in the wound, yours twist it deeper. He flinches like he’s been struck, staring at you with such bruised incomprehension. He opens his mouth to speak, but it’s as though he doesn’t even believe what you’re saying enough to formulate a response. He kisses you instead, holding your jaw in his claws. “I was good once,” he says against your lips, voice hushed as if he’s confessing a far graver sin. “I’ll be good for you. Let me be good for you.”

The desperation in his voice sets loose your tears. You nod, kissing him just as fervently. Centuries of bloodshed on the back of willful neglect is difficult to stomach, but you believe him. You believe the love that went into this tower–this beautiful prison–that they made for him, and you believe the love that you saw in his face carved in stone. You have no doubt that the wonder of him once inspired all those who beheld them, and that they were fickle enough to grow weary of him. Desensitized and disinterested.

When he rejected their apathy, they rejected his humanity.

Homelander lifts you up into his arms, sitting up, kissing you properly with a hand cupping the back of your head, his arm around your middle. His wings curve in around you, and he kisses you until your lips turn sore and you have to protest, your words melting into muffled laughter. He draws back with a brilliant grin. It’s different from the others you’ve seen; it’s the kind of smile that brings deep warmth to his eyes, crinkling them at the corners. He lingers close to you, stroking your cheek with his thumb.

“I stopped believing a long time ago that you could be real,” he murmurs, unable to stop himself from stealing another quick kiss, his nose purposefully brushing yours. He’s thoroughly starved for every little touch.

“I am. So are you. Not the Devourer, the Scourge, nor the Red Death,” you say, tucking back the stray locks of hair that have fallen over his crown. This, too, had been carved for him. He had been loved once, and as he said, he had been good. There is love in you enough to help him find that goodness again. There’s no reason you cannot live for the being you intended to die for. “Just you. Just Homelander.”

He kisses you, and suddenly you feel as if you’re free falling. From this point on, your life is something new. Something inexplicable and unpredictable. It’s yours, but it’s also his.

All that glitters is not gold, and sometimes the monster in the dark is just your reflection.

phew. thank you SO much for reading. this fic took me almost a full month to write, and it often felt like it was never going to end. that said, i'm already kind of chomping at the bit to write more in this universe. i feel like these two have a ton of potential, and there's just so much more that i want to do with them now that we have the groundwork done. once again, a huge shoutout to the amazing artist @anon-nee, who not only illustrated our dragon boy himself, but these awesome environment sketches as well. please be sure to go give them some love! The Tower of the Seven

The Dragon's Lair

[applepiesupreme]

American Apple Pie

Pairing: Low/Mid Honor Arthur Morgan and female OC.

Rating: Explicit

Summary: Savigne Ricci is a temporary guest at the Van der Linde camp. Her path crosses with the enforcer of the gang, Arthur Morgan, and despite their differences, a relationship develops between them. Whole lot of smut and fluff, slow burn-ish.

Chapter 36

AOC link:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/54945853/chapters/152079097

Arthur watched Savigne ride out. His head and his gut went wrestling again.

His head said today is the day. When she rides in this afternoon, she will find half the tent packed up, the horses tied to the wagon. This will make her anxious, her face will do that flustered thing that it does as she runs over. Then, when she arrives and expects a fight you will kiss her. In full view of the gang because fuck it. And when she’s reeling from that, you will ask her to be your wife and where she wants to go.

Too much, he grimaced to himself. Might as well stick a brass band in there! You tryin' to win her over or keel her over?

It’s only too much if finding a dozen boxes under the Christmas tree when you expected just the one is too much, his head insisted. Everything she wanted in one fell swoop, it's perfect.

He chewed on his lip and hesitated still because while his head painted his pretty picture, his gut wasn’t convinced:

What the fuck are you doing, leaving it all to chance before a fucking bank heist in a big city? All it takes is a stray bullet. Then you’ll be dead and this is how you will have parted. Fucking fool.

It’s fine, his head insisted. There is some risk but you have to show, not tell. Actions, not words.

Dumbest idea you’ve had in a while and that’s saying something. Why couldn’t you at least make up like a man instead of letting this hang over your head?

Because, his head explained, then it would just be words. “‘M sorry, didn’ mean it, lost m’head.” She don't care nothing for that. She stayed cause you built a tent, remember that. The time for promises is passed, now is the time to keep them.

He took a deep breath and rolled his shoulders, rose to his feet and stepped into the tent. He checked his fancy clothes in the mirror, then checked his guns and his ammunition. Then he crated the bedroll because if he did things right, he wouldn’t need the damn thing anymore.

He threw a last look around the tent, then strode out and headed for the camp. Halfway there he spotted Sadie and course corrected.

“What d’ya need?!” she snapped with some exasperation. 

“What bit you this mornin’?” was his gruff response.

“Tell you what bit me - this nonsense where ‘m left behind as the nanny, that’s what.”

“We do this right, ya won’ need to lift a finger.”

“That right there is the problem,” she growled. Then she gave him a side eye. “What you want, anyway? I ain’t in a generous mood.”

“Calm down woman.” He took off his satchel and held it out to her. “Somethin’ happens to me, want Savigne to have this.”

She cocked an eyebrow and took it from him. “Why didn’ you give it to her yourself?”

He took a deep breath and ran a palm over his beard, squinting to the distance. “Cause…she don’ know ‘bout the robbery.” He glanced over his shoulder to the horses being prepared.

“Why?”

He shrugged. “She’d worry and she has other worries goin’ on right now.”

Sadie pursed her lips and opened the satchel to look inside, eyes shifting up to him with mischief to see if he’d stop her, but he didn’t.

“Let’s see…there’s some money…” she drawled, looking through it.

“All the money I have. And ya don’ need to know what’s in it, Missus Adler,” he said pointedly, “just hand it over whole if I don’ come back,” he grunted.

“‘M just lookin’ through in front of you so you don’ come back and claim I took somethin’,” she teased.

He scoffed but let her proceed anyway.

“Oh the journal!” she grinned. “Should make some good bedtime readin’”

“‘M warnin’ ya on that account,” he said, crossing his arms.

She dug around some more but paused when, he assumed, she closed her fingers on the ring box. Her eyes flicked up to him again then away and she cleared her throat and closed the satchel. “Fine,” she huffed gruffly. “Since I’m assigned to sit women and babies!”

“If somethin’ happens…”

“Nothin’ will happen,” she interjected as she slung the satchel across a shoulder.

Arthur ignored her “Ya make sure Savigne is okay. She could get…scrambled. Like before.”

“Yeah I remember,” she exhaled. “But nothing’s gonna happen, so…”

“She ain’t hard like the rest of us,” Arthur insisted. “She delicate. Ya watch out for that.”

“She gonna be fine,” Sadie huffed and crossed her arms, too. “‘Cept she gonna be mad you did this and not tell her, so there’s that.”

“She already mad,” Arthur sighed and scratched his beard. “Lil’ more won’ change much.”

There was a short silence between them. “Yer dumb, you know that?” Sadie said finally, eyeing him.

“So I been told,” he chuckled.

“I ain’t stupid, I know why you givin’ this to me. You had a tussle and instead of makin’ up, you goin’ on a risky heist you might not come back from. And you standin’ there like you doin’ some noble shit by handin’ me this.” She chuckled drily. “Men are dumb.”

“Well ya married one of us so I guess we ain’t all rotten.”

“My Jake would never do this,” she growled. “‘M takin’ this cause I like Savigne. You,” she poked a finger into his chest, “are dumb. And when you come back you will owe me. A huge bunch.”

“Fine. What ya want?”

“An invitation for one thing.”

“To?” he grinned.

“Go away dumb man,” she waved him off.

The grin on his face refused to dissipate as he shifted on his feet. He looked away, self conscious. “Think she’ll accept?”

“Course she’ll accept,” was Sadie’s brusque reply as she focused on a spot over his shoulder.

He nodded and tried to swallow whatever was stuck in his throat back down. It was good to hear it, especially from a woman. Sometimes he marveled he got as far as he did, given his propensity to break fragile things. Navigating these matters seemed so much easier when he had been younger. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had flirted with a woman. But if she accepted, he was going to try his damnest to be a better man. Not a good man - that was forever out of his reach now. But a better man, that he could do.

Sadie sniffed and gave him an inscrutable look. “You should have done this sooner.”

“Yeah, probably,” he massaged the back of his neck. “First time, with Mary, didn’t go so well, wanna make sure this time the answer ain’t no again,” was the nervous chuckle.

Her eyes narrowed and she looked at him as if he was an idiot. “You was smart, would switch places with me. I ain't got nobody, but you gonna have a family soon,” she said carefully, watching his face.

He grinned at her. "But I won'. Cause 'm dumb." Sadie threw up her arms. "Gonna be my last job," he offered when she didn't share his amusement. "Ain't nothin' stoppin' you from hangin' with this bunch. But after this, 'm done."

"'M gonna hold you to that," she glared, then softened her tone. "Fine. Go do this thing with your head clear. I got your woman.”

Still, he hesitated. Discounting the recent few days of foolishness that Hosea had knocked him out of, this was the first time he was willingly entrusting Savigne's safety to someone else and he was facing strong inner headwinds. Sadie was smart and more than capable and he knew she had a soft spot for him and would do as she said. But still, she was a stranger and could only be expected to do so much. She had the whole gang to worry about, how much attention would she pay to just one person?

Moreover, he had wrestled with a new scenario all night: what would happen if he was shot but Micah survived? Sure, Savigne would most likely move out of camp, but was that even the better outcome? What if she went on to live in a stupid cabin somewhere? How could he make sure that the fucking animal wouldn't track her down out of pure spite? He knew Micah was vicious - that was fine, plenty of people were, including himself. But Micah was also vindictive. The odds of him not tracking her down were zero. Should have shot the bastard that day in Strawberry and told Dutch he got shot in the crossfire, he thought. Dumb fool that I was, I went there and did as told, even though I knew he was wired wrong. Over and over I done what told, trusting Dutch, and now that viper is here and he eyeing the one person that matters the most. 

The fallout of all his mulishness, his mindless trust in Dutch, his obeisance, his unquestioning resolve was following his heels and breathing down his neck. If he tripped, it would all catch up to him.

"What you hovering for?" she interrupted his dark thoughts.

"I trust you," he said, eyes locking with her. "But gang come back without me, I don' trust the whole gang. Ya hear what 'm sayin'?"

She nodded. "I ain't forgotten that night ya found me. Or what he tried after with her."

He clenched his jaw and looked away. "Ain't just him. I know I said ya free to hang with this bunch. But ya shouldn'. Ain't a good life. Lookin' back, never was. Is just all a fever dream."

She nodded again, matching his seriousness.

He shifted on his feet, unsure of the crossroads in front of him. He glanced over his shoulder again and watched Hosea and Abigail brush and adjust each other’s clothing. He watched John talk to Jack as he patted Old Boy. He watched Lenny joke around with Mary Beth. He cared for these people and he knew without him there, this would be an absolute disaster. Just like Blackwater had been a disaster because he hadn’t been there. Maybe this was his last chance to do something for them. All debts rolled into one, a last push off. It also was his last chance to make a significant amount of money, because the few months he had asked from Savigne had run out by now and he was threading water on that front.

And yet…

If it went sideways not only was it going to ruin the gang, but it was also going to ruin all his own future plans. He thought of the bed he hoped to wake up in every morning. The view from that same window. The porch they would sit on to watch the sun set, drinking tea. He thought of the places he wanted to take her and the winter nights he hoped to spend in her embrace. It seemed madness and the depths of depravity to put something so precious on the poker table. What man would wager his absolution?

The time of making promises is passed, he told himself again. Now is the time to keep them. He took a deep breath and shook off his worries as he turned to face her.

"Take care of my woman.”

"Said I will.”

“Somethin’ happens, ya stay with her, don’ leave her alone in that tent.”

“Okay, boss man.”

“She spins in her head when she alone.”

“How ‘bout you spin around and git?”

“Don’ let her run off. Ain’t safe.”

“I got it, git!” Sadie waved him off.

He pointed his trigger finger at her as he turned to walk to the horses. “And don’ read my journal.”

Savigne went to work fuming. That awful, awful man! Being all petty and bitter because she told one innocent lie! Okay, so it was several lies but that’s just because the one lie led to the rest of them which wasn’t really her fault. Was she calculating how many days Arthur had lied to her with Abigail or Mary? No, she wasn’t. And combined, that had to be far longer. I should buy a new tent. That's what I should do. Buy a new tent and move out. If I had any self respect, I would. The old Savigne would. This one is weak and stupid. Still baking lasagnas when she should kick him in the balls. Fucking pathetic. 

She walked in and before she could head to change clothes, the sous chef approached her.

“You’re expected upstairs,” he said. “In Ecco’s room.”

“W-what?” she froze.

“The detectives want to talk to you.”

“Why?” she managed to choke out.

“How should I know?” he said impatiently. “Go upstairs and find out.” He stalked away after that.

She was rooted to her spot for several minutes. Oh my god, I’m screwed, she thought and a heat went up her face while a cold shiver ran down her frame. Oh my god, they know. Of course they know. They will arrest me and then…then Arthur will find out…and then…he will come to break me out…but then…it will a trap just to get him and he will fall right into it….and then…they will arrest him too and then…and they will hang us both…

“Savigne!” snapped the sous chef and she jumped on her spot. “Upstairs!”

She swallowed and managed to move her wobbling legs to walk out of the kitchen. It took her a long monent of deep hysterical breathing to get her heart rate under control and she carefully took the stairs one by one. The door to Ecco’s room stood open and she found herself gliding towards it like in a dream. She put one foot in front of the other, dark spots dancing in her vision as she walked in.

Detectives Turner and Greenbough were standing in the room and Savigne paused in surprise when, across from them, she found Sarah and Edward.

“Miss Ricci, I assume?” Turner rose on the balls of his feet.

“Yes,” she managed, her mouth dry.

“We were waiting for you, please come in.”

She walked in on shaky legs and stood next to Edward.

“Now we’re complete,” Turner said. He walked around the desk to sit in Ecco’s chair as the other man gently closed the door. Don’t look around, don’t fiddle, don’t you fucking wobble. Ignore the room, ignore what happened in here, ignore-

“Now…” the man sighed, shifting his mighty gut and looking up at them. “You three were at the Ball with Mister Ecco a few weeks ago, correct?”

This fanned a splash of cool water on her overheating heart. Right. It’s about the Ball. See, nothing to worry about. Perfectly normal.

“We’re the only ones from the early shift, correct,” Sarah said. “The rest were staff from Antoine’s evening shift.”

“Yes, we spoke to them already. We're here to ask if you have seen anything suspicious.”

“Suspicious?” repeated Edward.

“Anyone around Mister Ecco.”

“You mean like the entire high society of Saint Denis?”

Turner’s blue eyes grew icy. “Anyone he argued with? Anyone who looked like they didn’t like Ecco? Anyone who said something?”

“All I saw was butter and flour,” snorted Edward.

“A ‘no’ would suffice,” Mr Greenbough said, eyes hard.

“Okay then, no,” Edward crossed his arms. She could tell Edward’s pride was prickling, and was distantly fascinated by his lack of trepidation. He stood there like he was here out of his own volition and could walk out whenever he pleased. What does that feel like, she wondered, being untouchable? Edward, Sarah, Ecco, the diners at Antoine’s…she felt like an observer of a rare exotic species, watching them through her binoculars from her spot in the tall grass. People who glided through the world like ships over smooth water - no hindrances, no obstacles, no borders; nothing out of their reach and they themselves out of the reach of any harm.

Well…minus Ecco on that front.

Greenbough’s dark mutter interrupted her ruminations. “What’s with the attitude, young man?” 

“What attitude?”

There was a cold pause.

“I sense hostility,” Greenbough ground his teeth. “And that makes me suspicious. We are the authority here.”

That was unfortunately the wrong thing to threaten Edward with. Savigne could tell the cook wasn’t amused by the man’s attitude and wasn’t going to take it lying down. “So you’re telling me I need to call my family attorney, I see,” he sighed and retrieved a small notebook from his pocket. “Spell me your names please, gentlemen.”

Greenbough’s face pinched at that.

“No need for that, Mister Burton. We’re simply doing our job.” Turner jumped in.

“Well that’s a first,” Edward sighed and Mr. Turner’s face went an impressive shade of pink, but he pretended he didn't hear it and moved on.

The pair of hard eyes came around to her and Savigne felt like they could see inside her head. She opened her mouth but no words would come out. 

“Actually, now that I think on it,” Sarah said suddenly and she was grateful when the gazes shifted back to the other woman instead. “We saw Mister Ecco and Mister Bronte argue.” Her cool blue eyes locked to Savigne’s. “Didn’t we, Savigne?”

This surprised the detectives - to be fair, no more than it surprised Savigne - but they at least did a good job of recovering and she just stood there gawking like a fish.

“Miss Landon, are we sure about that?” Turner said after a long moment.

“We are,” she countered, cool and composed.

“See, that don’t make sense…” started Greenbough and was cut off by Edward who was still miffed:

“You asked a question, she answered. Now you don’t like the answer.”

Savigne just stared at her colleagues, all straight backs and upturned noses, talking back to the Law like they owned them. Her eyes bobbed between them and the lawmen, feeling literally like the useless crooked fifth wheel in the room.

“It don’t make sense because…” Greenbough seethed, “…this investigation is fully supported by Mister Bronte. He is very distraught that Mister Ecco is still missing.”

“I can see that,” Sarah quipped, her tone turning demure. “But…and forgive me for speaking on matters that are above my head as a woman…” those gorgeous green eyes flicked up to the two men, then away with pretend indecision, a move so well practiced that it was flawless, “If Mr Bronte was in any way involved in this…and by no means do I want to imply that he is…” she hesitated and bit her lip as Savigne marveled at her playacting, mesmerized by her as much as the other occupants of the room, “…isn’t that exactly what he would do?”

There was a long, stunned pause.

“That’s ridiculous,” Turner managed at last.

“I understand,” sighed Sarah humbly as if she knew she had overstepped. “You’re right of course, we saw nothing.”

Another pause as Turner and Greenbough exchanged glances and one shifted on his feet while the other resettled in the chair.

“What exactly did you see?” twirly mustache said at last.

Sarah gave Turner a long gaze. “Like I said, we saw them arguing. In the garden. Before the Ball.”

“About?”

“Money.” The lie so smooth and easy, even Savigne wondered if she had missed something and had to stop and think back on that moment in front of the window.

“Money?” 

“That’s all I could make out. Some of it was in Italian. Mister Bronte seemed upset, waving his arms and raising his voice.”

“Both of you ladies saw this?” 

“You know what, I saw it too!” Edward said, straightening his shoulders as if he was entering a boxing ring. Savigne found herself increasingly pitying his father.

“Really?” was Greenbough’s sarcastic question, drenched in disbelief.

“Are you calling me a liar?” Edward gave him a narrow eyed glare.

Turner sighed with disgust and shifted his eyes to Savigne instead. “You saw this, Miss?”

“Y-yes?” fell out of her mouth. When she looked over, Sarah gave her an imperceptible nod.

“Are you willing to testify that?”

“Of course not,” Sarah took over, brushing her skirts. “We are women, yes, but we’re not that stupid.”

“Excuse me?”

“We’re not saying anything about Bronte and you know it,” Edward snorted, still trying to muscle his way into a conversation that had absolutely nothing to do with him. “If anyone asks, we’ll deny the whole thing and insist you made it up and used us to cast suspicion on him. I think Mr Bronte is more likely to believe us than you - no offense.”

Greenbough and Turner’s faces soured immediately. “Who the hell do you think you are?!” hissed Greenbough and was merely given a dismissive head to toe by Edward from over his nose.

“We told you what we saw,” Sarah sailed in smoothly. “I only spoke of it because I value the job you gentlemen are doing for this city. Also…one hears whispers.”

“What kind of whispers?” Turner tented his fingers on the desk.

“Well…people say very little happens in Saint Denis without Mr Bronte’s knowing, that’s one,” she offered. Nobody could reasonably object to this, so they didn’t. “And people say, given Chef Ecco’s importance and how he disappeared, it’s hard to imagine some low life nobody doing this.”

“People say a lot of nonsense,” grumbled the seated lawman. “The low lives of this city are far more dangerous than you assume, I pray you never have to find out, Miss Landon,” added Turner, increasingly upset.

“It’s Ms. Landon,” corrected Sarah. “I’m engaged and my fiance works for the mayor.”

This gave the men another pause and their demeanor visibly softened.

“Ms. Landon,” Turner tried the affable route. “Let’s say…let’s assume you didn’t…misunderstand their interaction. That still doesn’t mean anything. Maybe they argued, sure. Maybe money changed hands, that’s understandable between such men. But, the logic is clear: if Mister Bronte was behind all this, he would have no reason to support this investigation. And he strongly supports this investigation, I can assure you of that.”

“I understand that,” Sarah relented, “It might have been just friendly banter.”

“Or,” Edward picked up, “or…maybe Mr. Bronte just wants you to pin it on someone he doesn’t like and close the file.”

“Excuse me?!” Turner straightened at the open suggestion that they were working for Bronte and would do his bidding, his eyes blazing up. “What do you take us for?”

“I take you as-”

“Fine detectives,” Sarah interjected smoothly and shot Edward a look. “You’re obviously smarter than us. This is all we know, we can’t possibly see the bigger picture here like your trained eyes can.”

Turner and Greenbough weren’t quite mollified by this but wouldn’t object to it, either.

“Okay then,” Turner said at long last. It was obvious that he didn’t quite believe the story, but also obvious that he was intrigued more than he cared to admit. “We take our job seriously and would be amiss not to hear you out. Tell us from the beginning. And leave out no detail.”

Just then there was a huge explosion somewhere in the distance. Savigne jumped and Sarah and Edward flinched.

“What was that?” Sarah murmured as the vibration tinkled through the items in the office.

The detectives stilled like guard dogs and nobody spoke for a long moment. 

“We will be back,” Turner mumbled and made eye contact with his colleague before he scrambled out of the chair and both lawmen quickly marched out of the room.

There was some commotion in the street they could hear, muted in here and the three cooks stood frozen, unsure what to do.

“I’ll go check,” Edward said and ran out.

“Savigne,” Sarah said suddenly and Savigne looked up at her. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” was Savigne’s raspy whisper. Then she finally managed to get some blood pumping into her head again. “Why did you say that?” she hissed with haste. “They weren’t arguing.”

“I said it because I saw an opening and I took it. Whoever killed Ecco has my gratitude and I hope he suffered a lot,” Sarah countered smoothly.

“But…but it wasn’t Bronte!”

“Oh? How do you know that?”

“I mean I don’t,” Savigne stammered.

“Exactly. For all we know, it could be. Maybe two pigs turned against each other, maybe they didn’t.”

Savigne rolled this over in her head. “But they weren’t arguing!” she insisted.

“How do we know?” was Sarah’s demure question.

“Because we were there?” was Savigne’s incredulous riposte.

There was the pattering of feet as customers grew curious and ran out the restaurant.

“Irrelevant. We were there for only a minute, maybe they argued when they walked further into the garden,” Sarah shrugged. “Maybe they argued before.”

“But…”

“Listen, let these fools chase their own tails. Ecco was slime and Bronte is the same.” She ran a hand through her mane. “All I did was plant a seed.”

“A seed?”

Sarah gave her a look like she was an idiot “If they even remotely suspect that Bronte is playing them - and a lot of people do whisper that he's behind it - then they won’t look too hard for the real suspect. Nothing will happen to Bronte, I know that, but I had my chance to throw them off the trail of whoever did this, so I took it and I’m not sorry.”

Savigne just blinked at her. She felt like giants were fighting above her and she was just scurrying around so as not to get stomped. Lying to the Law? Casually insinuating that Bronte was involved? “Edward wasn’t even there!” she hissed, wiping hair off her face. “He barely left the kitchen and still jumped out like a jack-in-the-box with his own story.”

“He’s another proud fool of a man, but you know what - that works for me,” Sarah shrugged again. Then she gave Savigne an intense look. “Works for you as well, doesn’t it?”

“Well…” Savigne blinked. “Yes…but...”

“All three of us are happy he’s gone and none of us want to help this investigation. Good riddance,” Sarah said, brushing Savigne’s trepidation away. “I was a man, I would have done it myself.”

“If you were a man, you would be President,” Savigne mumbled, a little bewildered.

The distant noise of gunshots rang in the air and both women reflexively turned in that direction. Sarah walked to the window behind Ecco’s desk and carefully peered out. “Something is going on downtown. Something big,” she mumbled.

They walked down the stairs to an almost empty kitchen, then back up to find the staff peering out the windows of the restaurant alongside the clientele. 

"What's going on?" she said when she found Edward.

"Apparently someone is robbing the Saint Denis bank," he mumbled, trying to see into the smoky distance. 

"W-what?!"

"I know. Crazy. There's lawmen and Pinkertons everywhere."

The bank wasn't very close but the gunfight that ensued was audible from here and lasted for a good while, even accelerated at some point when a gatling gun arrived. 

"Unbelievable that this still happens in America," someone sniffed and Savigne agreed. The absurd juxtaposition of banks being robbed in a city that housed Antoine's was hard to overlook. The clashing of two worlds - the old and the new. 

Then things calmed down and half the clientele left to find out what happened to their money and the other half bizarrely decided to finish their meals. So the staff went back to the kitchen and hung around and cooked a little until it was afternoon and then it was time to leave. 

Savigne picked up Cricket and rode out closer to the bank, but at that point the streets were blocked off and she didn't see much. There was an ominous quietness in the air as if Saint Denis reeled from such base things from happening within its refined and civilized confines. She rode out of the city and into Shady Belle and only then, when she was met with a camp half empty, most of the horses and wagons gone, Abigail wailing surrounded by women that she put two and two together and her heart flipped right up into her throat and settled there, refusing to come down again. 

She almost fell off her horse trying to climb down and ran up the porch, hoping that someone would tell her that what she had put together in her head was madness. 

"Ya okay, Sugar?" Sadie stepped away from Abigail. 

"What...happ...happened?" she wheezed, unable to get air into her lungs.

"It's fine," Sadie approached her carefully, slinging an arm around her shoulder and turning her towards her tent. 

Savigne shrugged out of her hold and ran to the women. "What happened?!"

"They arrested John," Abigail cried. 

"Where’re…therest...of'em?" she slurred, the same dark spots from earlier dancing in her vision again.

"They still out there, they gonna be alright," Sadie cooed. 

Then she was suddenly sitting on a rocking chair and she flinched a little, confused how she got here. "Drink this," Grimshaw said and gave her a glass of water with something bitter in it and wouldn't leave until she drank it dry. 

"What happened?"

"You're fine. Just a little tired. Sit here,” she ordered and glided off. 

"You're okay, Savigne," Mary Beth said next to her. 

She sat, blinking owlishly around and realized that somehow it was twilight. 

"I know I'm okay,” she mumbled, massaging her temples, “where are the rest of them? Where’s Arthur?”

"We don't know." When Savigne's face fell she quickly added "They're not dead. They're hiding, most likely."

Lies, they lie. That's what they do. They lie to make you feel better, the old monsters stirred in the deep.

"I don't understand," she whimpered, voice breaking. "He would have told me. He always tells me when there's risk. How can he rob a bank and not tell me?"

"He probably didn't wanna worry ya," Mary Beth soothed. 

"But...now I'm worried anyway," she cried like a child. 

"I know. Wasn't supposed to go this way. Just...hang in there."

As if she had a choice. 

The world was underwater. Everything was undulating and soft and hazy. That sharp tang in her head was muffled and pushed into the background. She sat in the same rocking chair that Hosea had sat in merely days ago and would never sit in again and watched the light turn and the stars blink on and didn't think much. There was a strange vastness in her head, miles and miles of nothing. A while later her eyes grew heavy and she stumbled to her feet, insisting that she wanted to go to her tent because she wanted to be alone and Mary Beth came with. Savigne lied down over the covers with her clothes on and Mary Beth spread a blanket on her, lighted the lantern, told her she would come check again and left. 

To her amazement she fell into a sleep so deep, she thankfully didn't dream because she was afraid that she would dream about the Kraken again. When she woke, she could tell that it was very late and Arthur still wasn't there. A deep sadness came over her, a feeling like she would never see him again and she cried at the chasm that opened up in her chest and sobbed with regret because she had treated him so badly and now could never make up for it. All the memories of the summer rushed into her head, jostling each other around and the sweeter they were, the more they hurt. Six months of summer, and then eternal winter - somehow she had agreed to that deal, a deal no sane person would agree to. Outlaw life was Russian roulette and the day had finally come when there was a bullet in the chamber.

Ms. Grimshaw walked in with another glass of water and ordered Savigne to stop sniveling and she did, just like she used to when the Sisters lost patience with her mawkishness as a child.

"You have to think about more than just yourself now," she said grimly and Savigne nodded, unsure what she meant but too spent to ask or argue.

"Any news?"

"They'll pop up somewhere," she said with conviction. "They always do."

She's lying, they're all dead, whispered her inner voice. She swallowed and looked away.

"Sorry," she sniffed, wiping a sleeve across her nose. "I'm not built for this sort of thing."

Ms. Grimshaw gave her a long gaze over her nose. "You're a woman, we’re tougher than we look. No more sniveling, young lady!”

She nodded mulishly to get Ms. Grimshaw off her back. Right about now, Savigne didn’t feel tough at all. That was a girl from another lifetime. All she felt was tired and frail and worn out. She missed Arthur like missing her right arm and couldn’t decide if she would kiss him or slap him first if he walked through the tent flap. 

"I'm going to lie down a bit more," she said and then slept again until someone called her name. 

"Are they back?" she slurred and scrambled to sit up. 

"Charles just rode in with the horses, they okay," Sadie said and Savigne felt a rock lift off her chest. The blond woman sat on the bed and looked at her. "That was the good news."

"You're really awful at this, you know that? What's the god damn bad news?"

"Bad news is, they had to get on a ship."

"A ship?" she said, stupefied. She heard the words but stringing a meaning to them was like walking in knee deep muck or getting a thread through a needle hole in dim light. 

"Yeah. They gonna be gone for a few weeks."

"A few weeks?!"

"Better than death, no?" Sadie said, wiping Savigne’s sweaty brow. 

"Yeah," she turned the notion in her head like a coin - face up, face down, face up, face down. "Sure, better than that." Her eyes glided to the satchel hanging by the other woman's hip. "Isn't that Arthur's?" she mumbled.

"It is. He tol' me to give it to you in case he don' come back." Savigne's eyes flicked up at her. "I ain't givin' it," Sadie huffed. "Obviously. Since he comin' back."

She morosely nodded to this and took a deep breath of relief. "Obviously."

"Meanwhile we gonna move camp."

She started at that and sat up. The world swam for a moment. "We can't leave! You said they will come back!"

"We gonna leave a note, don' worry. We talk about this before they left."

She looked around at the crates and the table throwing flickering shadows around. Maybe it was the day she had or maybe it was whatever Ms. Grimshaw gave her or maybe it was Arthur's absence, but the tent felt alien and empty. Like a museum - put together to be looked at, but not lived in. Something crucial had evaporated and all that was left was furniture and even the furniture looked soulless. Like orphanage furniture - stuff that wasn't hers, wasn't anyone's, was just there to be used and left behind.

"Okay then," she mumbled, trying to wipe the sleep off her eyes. "Good idea."

Sadie bit her lip and looked at her for a moment. "Can I sleep here tonight? Kinda got tired of Abigail wailin'."

Despite their predicament, she had to chuckle at that. "I hear that."

"It's either her boy or her man with that one. And this bed looks nice an' comfy."

"Yeah okay," Savigne grinned, feeling relieved that she wouldn't sleep alone. "But no dirty clothes on the sheets."

"What, you think 'm some kinda savage?" Sadie huffed and rose to her feet. "Cause I wear pants?"

"Trust me, I live with a savage and you're not it.” They both undressed and got under the covers in their chemises and Savigne was glad for the company. The lantern flickered in the tent, turned to low. 

"I used to sleep with my mom like this when I was a little girl," Sadie whispered. 

"What was that like? Having a mom?" she mumbled back. All she remembered was broken moments. Like a palm on her forehead or a scent or the way her name was said. Even these she wasn’t sure she remembered right, maybe they were just made up things. At the orphanage they used to play a game where they made up stories about their families. In them, Savigne’s mom was warm and playful and laughed a lot and cooked amazing food. For all she knew, she had been the opposite, there was no way of knowing. In hindsight, those games had taken reality from her - rebuilt it brick by brick to the point where she couldn't be sure which ones were real and which ones she had come up with herself. 

"They say no one will ever love you like your mom," Sadie sighed. "But I think my Jake came close."

There was a long silence. “Arthur said he will be my family,” she whispered, eyes welling. “He said that and then he went and robbed a bank in Saint Denis and left me here.”

Sadie sighed, shifted closer still and folded Savigne’s hand in hers. “He gonna come back.”

“How do you know that?”

“Honest to god, doubt you ever gonna get rid of that man even if ya tried. If you shove him out the door, he gonna climb down the chimney.”

"I hope he does so I can claw his eye out," she sniffled. “After I embrace him of course, I’m not entirely heartless.”

Sadie chuckled at that.

There was another silence before the other woman whispered "Sugar...I need a favor.”

“What is it?”

“I wanna go see a doctor.”

"Why, what’s wrong?” Savigne turned to face her.

"Just need a checkin'. But...I don' wanna do it alone. ‘M shy.”

“You’re shy?” Savigne blinked at her.

“Don’ judge,” was the rough response. “You never been shy ‘bout somethin’ silly?”

“I think I could make a list,” Savigne mumbled sleepily.

“So, ‘m thinkin’, would be nice if you come with and get checked, too.”

“Me?"

"Ain't no harm in it," Sadie shrugged, watching her. “Gonna make me feel better if it ain’t just me, is all.”

Savigne thought on this for a moment. Her head was all fuzzy and full and her body felt like it was lying somewhere else. "Okay. If it's going to make you feel better, sure,” she yawned at last.

"Good. Tomorrow early we packin'. You go to work, I come pick you up afternoon. We go to the doctor and then I take you to the new camp. Deal?”

“Deal," she mumbled. 

Soon enough Sadie started snoring and very soon after that the night closed around her and she sank into another dreamless sleep.

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

FORD TORINO GT

Walking around a 1970/71 SportsRoof Torino at a classic car show in the States could be a confusing experience for Ozzie Ford enthusiasts. They might well be wondering, ‘Have I come all this way to look at a customised XA-XC Falcon hardtop?’ And for good reason.

When Ford Australia’s designers and engineers first sat down with blank sheets of paper in 1968 to come up with an all-new Falcon for 1972, the brief required them to make a comprehensive break from past styling. The boxy Falcon XY shape was to make way for the organic flowing look we became familiar with in the XA model and the subsequent XB and XC updates. At that time the Torino team at Dearborn was a couple of years ahead of Ford Australia in making a similar transition to a sleeker body style. No surprise then that the Ford Australia team made a conscious decision to draw on the second-generation Torino concept for some XA design elements. The decision was a no brainer. Why put in the effort and take on the costs of the pioneering stage of developing a new model when your corporate cousins have already done those hard yards?

Perhaps I’m not alone in admitting that the Torino made only a smallish blip on my Ford-model radar over the years. My excuse is that from an Australian perspective at least the Torino existed largely in the shadow of its high-profile stablemate, the Mustang.

This relative anonymity is surprising when you consider the Torino’s exposure on screens large and small over the decades. While the Gran Torino model got excellent exposure in the Starsky and Hutch TV series in the 70s and 80s and the later movie, its starring role in Clint Eastwood’s perfectly named 2008 movie, Gran Torino. capped off its profile raising. After seeing that movie you had a pretty good handle on what at least one classic Torino – the 1972 Gran Torino Sport – was all about. But there’s way more to the Torino story than was revealed by its '15 minutes of (TV/movie) fame'.

The Torino was launched in 1968 as an upmarket, upsized addition to the US Fairlane range. Naming it after Italy’s Motown was an interesting, but not ground-breaking move for Fomoco, with models like Capri, Montego and Granada also honouring various geographical locations. I'm not too sure, though, that a generously sized Torino would be my first choice for navigating the often narrow and crowded confines of its namesake city’s streets.

The Torino’s arrival relegated Fairlane-badged cars to entry-level status in Ford’s intermediate-category (US) line-up – a point underlined by Fairlane's sharing a number of panels with the utilitarian Ranchero pickup. Ultimately the Fairlane name was dropped from what had become the Torino model-range, bizarrely at the time when the Australian Fairlane was just hitting its straps as a desirable aspirational model with a long profitable future ahead of it for Ford Australia.

The Torino covered most model-variant bases with two four-door sedans, a two-door hardtop, even a Squire wagon, as well as Torino GT versions that also included a convertible. While base-line Torinos initially offered a 200ci in-line six as standard, V8 options included the 302ci, two versions of the 390ci and some months into the 1968 model year the 428ci Cobra-Jet was added to the motor menu to give credibility to the GT version's claim to 'Muscle Car' status.

The fresh styling of the second-generation Torino of 1970/71 we opened with was widely praised by the American motoring media. New engines included the 351ci Cleveland and buyers really wanting to burn some bitumen could opt for the Torino Cobra, powered by the legendary Cobra-Jet 429, a purpose-built hi-po engine that claimed an impressive 370 horsepower. Healthy Torino sales continued to produce smiles in Ford’s executive suite.

By 1972 with the 'Muscle Car' era fading to grey in the US, the GT label was dropped in favour of the blander ‘Gran Torino Sport’ label. These larger third-generation Torinos moved from the previous car’s taut ’n' terrific unitary construction, in favour of heavier body-on-frame construction. The Torino’s high-performance glory days were now fading fast.

Further evolution through to 1976, the Torino’s finale model, produced successively more laid-back Torinos – a process that for performance fans provided a grim contrast with the early Torino Cobras that had proudly flown the Ford flag in NASCAR racing.

Ford's Torino made a great start in 1968 by selling more than 100,000 units into a market begging for affordable ‘muscle’ cars. 1969 saw numbers dip by half but then recover. Entering the 1970s, sales were averaging above 60,000 annually. Lots of GT Torinos have been preserved or restored so there remains a deep pool into which buyers can dip to find decent cars.

Scarce variations including the 429 Cobra-Jet and Talladega occasionally top six figures in US sales but aren’t as yet totally out of reach.

The minimum specification a Torino buyer should consider while remaining credible is an M-Code with 5.8 litres and automatic transmission. These were built from 1970-72 and a few did come to Australia. Importing a decent car today will cost $45-55,000.

Seeking out a 6.4 or even 7.0-litre (390 or 428 cubic inch) GT will more seriously dent the balance. However they generally cost less than similar-looking XA-XB Falcon GT Hardtops.

Deep pockets and due diligence come to the fore when your target is an R-Code Cobra. Genuine, number-matching cars in close to showroom order (plus the cost of freighting and registering upon arrival) will top A$100,000.

VALUE RANGE:

1968-72 Ford Torino

Fair: $24,500 Good: $48,000 Excellent: $65,000 (GT390) 

[masterj]

So, @lomotunes2008 , I haven't got around to designing Margot yet, but dammit, I couldn't wait any longer to post these facts about her story I came up with:

On the other end of Chug Town Trackside Towers is Chuggington Airport, a new location I will introduce in my headcanon (loosely based on what I saw in my dreams once or twice lol.)

Speed Fleet are the most common chugger here. It has a big station where passengers and parcels are transfered, and is the terminus of a newly built monorail line that goes all the way to Buffertonia.

Margot is one of the monorails on trial. Only up to four would be chosen to by Vee to stay.

Poor Emery was very hurt by Margot's mean words - but it wasn't Margot saying he was bad at his job that broke him - she also said his face looked like a pig, his swaying horns and buffers make him look like a ugly caterpillar, (Ooh, deja vu...) and that his eyes make him look like an ugly alien, because he has heterochromia. (Emery's left eye is green, and his right eye is blue)

And of course, he wasn't the only chugger she tormented; she called Chatsworth a wimp when she honked as loudly as she could at him, causing him to jump and overturn his hopper car.

She called Olwin a fat old fusspot because of her large streamlined body, and how upset she was when she got covered in sand from Chatsworth's car tipping over.

She called Old Puffer Pete a rusty, weak piece of junk and that he was the most useless, pathetic, and ditzy chugger she had ever seen, because he is the oldest in Chuggington and always gets the youngster's names wrong.

She finished off with I quote: "What's a smelly steamer like you still doing around?😒 Go find a scrapyard!😈"

Pete: 😨

What a bi🤬🤬🤬.

She then passes Hodge and Eddie and calls Hodge similar insults, due to the fact he is a 'hodge-podge' of scrap metal. Eddie, with his wrench clutched in his fist, shouted just what he thought of Margot insulting his faithful work companion, but alas, she was already leaving them far behind.

Margot is also very impatient and honked at everyone yelling at them to work faster, whether they were in her way or slowing her down in any way, shape, or form or not, kinda like Emily when she was bossy little b🤬tch in the S8 episode "Emily's Adventure."

Margot literally yelled exactly this at the start of her journey at The Airport, when the station porters were loading up her passenger's luggage, and honks at them, which only caused them to bump the trolley and drop everything, and the passengers, disturbed by her horn, were very angry; monorails are supposed to be quiet!

She then honked rudely at Wilson and Brewster hauling a heavy stone train from the quarry, telling at them to hurry up, even though they were not in her way or anything whatsoever because she is a monorail so they don't run on each other's tracks at all. Brewster thought Margot was the rudest monorail he'd ever met and Wilson was very cross.

But Margot thought 'it made them work harder'.

What a f🤬🤬🤬ing stupid 🤬🤬🤬🤬.

She even insulted Koko's speed claiming she could go three times faster than Hanzo, let alone her. Koko was fuming.

So yeah, she was indeed just being an absolute menace to society and causing confusion and delay overall lol, and Emery was especially miserable. He meets up with the main trio (and my yet-to-be-revealed main oc) in The Depot later and told them what she said to him. Already angry with Margot, they convinced Emery they need to tell Vee about her appalling behavior and overcoming the pain, he agrees.

But of course, they weren't the only ones to complain to Vee about Margot, and long story short, Vee was not happy, and indeed, there was nothing for it but for Margot to be sent away in disgrace. All the other chuggers and monorails went off back to work as normal, and Margot was put back on the wagon, and taken straight back to the Buffertonian production plant she came from by Dunbar. Did she ever change her ways? We may never know...

[redwryvernwrites]

TRAINTOBER | Day 25 - Distress Signal

Tornado has firebox issues one morning on Sodor and is ashamed of her design. Luckily, Henry understands.

~~~

It was well after dawn as Henry came back into the sheds after pulling the Flying Kipper. He always enjoyed the trip back with the empty wagons. The sun was rising and the air was crisp, smelt of tree sap and morning dew. 

It was without a doubt, heavenly. All these years pulling trains, and roaming the island of Sodor, no matter his task, it never once lost its beauty nor its charm.

The sweet scent of morning dew was however broken by the smell of aerosol and smoke as Henry entered his berth for a well-earned rest. To his surprise, he found Tornado still in the sheds looking half asleep and out of it.

“Tornado? Aren’t you supposed to be pulling the express today?” Henry inquired and Tornado gave a weak moan and glanced at the other green engine.

“I don’t feel well,” she grumbled wearily. “I can’t keep my steam pressure up.”

“Oh,” Henry knew that feeling all too well. “I know, a damn shame when that happens.”

Tornado just moaned in reply and gave an unhappy sigh in response.

“I want to run,” she tried to assure Henry. “But I feel so weak, the engineers built my firebox too small at first. They said they fixed it but… I still have days like this, it’s awful!”

Henry’s eyes widened in surprise. 

“That’s the same issue I had with my original shape!” Henry pointed out and Tornado glanced over at him.

“Really?” She asked.

“Yes, my design was flawed because I was built from one of Gresley’s rejected blueprints of his Pacifics, of Gordon’s class,” Henry explained. “According to Olivia, she examined the original blueprints and said that her great-grandfather threw out the design because the firebox was miscalculated and drawn too small!”

Tornado gave a soft hum and then looked at the floor.

“Well, my design flaws are more, they had to interpret the designs without notes,” Tornado murmured. “No one back then made notes on the shorthand on the designs, so my trust had to do a lot of guesswork when building me.”

“Ah I see, well now that is a pain,” Henry murmured and Tornado chuckled. 

“I feel a bit better talking to you though, thank you Henry,” she smiled at him and Henry returned it. 

“It’s my pleasure Tornado!” Henry chortled. 

Both engines looked over as they saw the Fat Controller enter the roundhouse.

“Hello you two! Hope you had a good run this morning Henry!” The Controller greeted the engines.

“Yes sir, an excellent run thank you sir!” The Black 5 informed him and the man nodded to him before turning to Tornado. His eyes softened when he saw the distress in her eyes.

“I’m sorry for not being able to pull the express sir! I really don’t want to let you down! Please sir! I’m trying my best to keep my pressure up but I can’t-” Tornado began rambling at him but he quickly intervened by gently hushing her.

“It’s not your fault Tornado, please, please calm down, I know that you’d never let your passengers down if you can help it, it’s okay!” He reassured the fretting engine. He turned to her lead engineer, Chloe who looked equally regretfully. “Do you think she’ll be able to up and running in time?”

“No sir, her problems are a design fault that needs to be rectified with a redesigned firebox,” Chloe regretfully claimed and Sir Topham Hatt looked concerned. “She can steam perfectly well some days but on others she struggles to even breath.”

“A familiar problem I see,” Sir Topham murmured with a glance at Henry who blushed in response. “Well then, for today you a relived of your duty in looking after Gordon’s express.”

“But who will take it instead?” Tornado whined in response. “I can’t let down the passengers!”

“I’ll take it sir!” Henry interjected before the man could respond. Sir Topham Hatt raised an eyebrow at him, a sceptical look on his face.

“Henry, you have just come back from the Flying Kipper, you wouldn’t have had a rest before pulling the express,” the Controller pointed out but Henry just smirked.

“It just means I’m already warmed and ready to go, sir!” Henry exclaimed. “I can take Tornado’s crew and one of my morning shift crew to help them out!”

Sir Topham paused for a moment then gave him a brilliant smile. 

“Well now, who am I to deny such enthusiasm!” He laughed jovially. “Very well Henry, you may take the express this morning!”

“Thank you, sir! It’s been a while, sir!”

“I’m sure you’ll do great!” The man cheerily waved Henry off before turning to address Tornado. “You have access to the Sodor Steamworks if you should need them, young lady.”

Tornado smiled gratefully in return, “Thank you, sir. I appreciate that sir!”

“Righty-o then! Good morning all!” With that, the man was off with a bounce in his step.

Tornado glanced back at Henry. “You didn’t have to do that Henry.”

“It’s nothing,” Henry smiled. “Besides, I know what you’re going through and I always appreciated the help when I was having a morning.”

Tornado grinned before glancing around to check no other engines were around.

“I heard Gordon doesn’t think you’re fast enough for the express,” she smirked.

“Oh, we shall see about that!” Henry puffed up as he went to steam out of the sheds. “We shall see indeed!”

~~~

Tornado begins to play big engine games with the big engines for she is a big engine.

[anthonis-van-dyck]

Ahem!

Pleased to meet you, @angelo-chuck-wagon.

I received word that you are to be my new apprentice.

I want you to know that I was a painting prodigy and that I expect the same from you. I will not waste my precious time on mediocre dilettantes and dabblers.

Not only was I a child prodigy, my beauty as a twink was clearly outstanding. Both ladies and gentlemen of the court vied for my art and favour.

Portraits of the artist as young twink

Now as a mature artist, I am still extremely handsome.

I pack a punch with both the ladies and the gentlemen. The LadyLord Her Highness Edward Earl of Cornbury @lady-lord-cornbury is very taken with my talent. I was also able to show your patron and benefactor William what a stallion I am.

From my apprentice I expect: devotion, reverence, veneration.

He may pay me his respects tomorrow and bring his washed and fine-tipped paintbrush with him.

You may now kiss my hand.

If you want to prepare yourself somewhat better, please study:

"Flattery will get you far, and Anthony Van Dyck learned to schmooze from the best. Van Dyck began painting in Peter Paul Rubens’ studio in 1613. Van Dyck was 14, but quickly became the master’s right hand. .... Giovanni Bellori, a historian and contemporary of Van Dyke’s, described him cutting an impressive figure with fine clothes and entourage: “…his behavior was that of a nobleman rather than an ordinary person, and he shone in rich garments; since he was accustomed in the circle of Rubens to noblemen, and being naturally of elevated mind, and anxious to make himself distinguished, he therefore wore—as well as silks—a hat with feathers and brooches, gold chains across his chest, and was accompanied by servants.”

The English court loved Anthony Van Dyck, because he made them look awesome. With a careful eye to fashionable dress and impeccable detail, and a causal ease in posture, Van Dyck’s portraits gave their subjects a look of “instinctive sovereignty.”

His success with the court soon required the development of a large studio, where a visitor claimed that Van Dyck outlined the figures and painted only the heads and hands, leaving the clothing and background to a growing team of apprentices and specialists. Working efficiently, Van Dyck built an enormous library of works, and influenced portrait painting to this day. Formal dress, casual attitude, and the confidence of looking like the best version of yourself."

Source: Dandies, divas, and cavalier style

[foxedthecards]

Butch and Jonas? (I got urs as well >:3c but I would love to see what you come up with!)

((OMFG yes Mr. Fox is SCREAMING somewhere lol))

Name: Remy Sawyer

Gender: Male

General Appearance: Dark tan skin, shoulder length bright red hair, horns that look like they're made of goldstone, freckles for DAYS. Pale blue-grey eyes and cute gapped front teeth, also two pointy little canines you can only see when he smiles broadly. Chipmunk cheeks that could kill a man (already kills his two daddies) and dimples. Also he's what old folks would call a husky boy <3

Personality: Remy's just a happy go lucky boy and very easy going he's almost always smiling. He's quick to startle but usually reacts by laughing nervously about it. He's so gentle and caring especially towards plants and little critters. Admittedly though bigger animals like cows and horses, he's a bit intimidated by them. He almost never gets angry or fights but interacting with people can sometimes perplex and frustrate him a little. He loves the few friends he has, and in turn is a very good little friend back.

Special Talents: Supernatural strength! He can pick up extremely heavy things with relative ease. He's good at singing too.

Who they like better: Remy doesn't have a preference and loves them both but most of the time he likes being in the kitchen learning how to cook from Daddy Jonas.

Who they take after more: Probably about an even split he's really more his own little guy.

Personal Head canon: Remy starts off kind of short and then around eight years old gets a growth spurt out of nowhere and doesn't stop! His horns get massive too. By the time he's a teenager he's towering over both of his fathers. Still husky but now built like a heavyweight lifter. Really becomes a gentle giant. Neither of his dads know how that happened! He has to endure teasing a bit for his weight when he's younger but is so unbothered by it, having grown up with nothing but positivity about his weight. As a little boy he tries his best to do cowboy things with Daddy Butch because he likes being a cowboy he's just not very good at it. He really tries hard though! He and Daddy Butch still enjoy building fires and camping out and of course Butch teaches him all the good cowboy songs. He loves cooking, he gets to be in charge of the chuck wagon on his and Butch's campouts and when he finds out gardening is a thing, he applies himself to it wholeheartedly and finds he's got a knack for it. He also does hand wiggles when he's very happy or excited

Face Claim:

[horsegirlcahir]

okay well. @nothingbutvainfantasy this is probably not at all what you wanted but i had feelings about cahir and also about horses and also about cahir and horses.

Dheran catches him.

It's a stupid thing, foolish and childish, a shameful reason to be brought before his grandfather. Dheran doesn't tell their father then, and Cahir never knows if he ever tells him; Ceallach goes along with the old ways as expected in public, but inside his own home, his wife's Northern influence holds more sway.

It isn't that Dheran is trying to get him into trouble. Cahir knows that. He's only trying to help. In Nilfgaard, only children and girls name their animals, not soldiers.

("Llwyna," he had said, trying the name out, foreign and strange in his mouth, for Nilfgaardian comes from the Elder Speech but he is seven years old and only just beginning to grasp their differences. The filly had snorted and nudged her head into the hand stroking her velvety nose, nuzzling into his palm. Dheran had been in the stables. Cahir hadn't seen him, hadn't been paying attention.)

Gruffyd aep Dair, huge in his intensity, summons him to his sitting-room, asks him what it means - she-fox, Cahir says very quietly, hands behind his back, she's red, like a she-fox - and praises him on his knowledge of the Elder Speech. The little chestnut is gone by morning, and her stall remains empty until spring.

Cahir pretends not to notice, and when the reins of a mouse-grey yearling are handed to him as the weather begins to grow warm, he never once says her name - Dryw, he thinks, like the ones that nest outside the kitchens - aloud.

-----

He takes the black stallion out of stubbornness and spite at twenty-one, because Ifan and Gwilym laugh when he stakes his claim. He's a beautiful creature, well-built and gleaming like jet, without a fleck of white to be seen, with amber-golden eyes the size of apples.

When they take control of the castle and its stables, the beast is ill-tempered and half-mad. The stablemen in this far-flung, forsaken end of the Empire seem to only have known their trade so far as whips are concerned, and the first time Cahir sets a hand on his neck, the stallion very nearly takes a chunk out of his forearm.

If he had sense, he would leave it be; after enough beatings, even a royal mount will accept its new place as a plow-horse, and someone will be able to make use of it. But Ifan and Gwilym and the others are watching -

And the stallion shies away from his hands when he sets a bridle on its brow, quivers faintly when he brushes it down with a handful of straw. He could, he thinks, find another mount that requires less of him, and leave this one to its fate.

He loses the stallion four years later, on Thanedd, with everything else.

-----

The colt dances with terror when he approaches, paying no mind to his soft words or his open, extended hands. Its reins are wrapped around a low-slung tree limb, tied well - no accident - and tell Cahir precisely what happened, as though the colt itself is speaking: they tied me here and never returned, though they said they would. They left me, they left me, they left me.

He isn't a colt, really, Cahir thinks later, watching the horse bury its face in a feedbag that he had backtracked half a mile to take off of a dead man's half-burned wagon, his horses long fled. There's barely anything at the bottom, but the colt gets every crumb and gnaws on the burlap beside. A yearling, or a little under; he still has the gawky, gangly look of a colt, but he's well on his way to his adult size, which Cahir suspects will be quite respectable.

"Where did you come from," he asks quietly, and the colt glances at him sidelong from its patch of mostly-dry grass. "Were you some child's? You're certainly no warhorse."

Despite that, the colt is old enough and large enough to ride; if he had been in his officer's armor, it would be different - but he isn't, and likely won't be again. He'd taken clothes from an overturned carriage barely a mile from where he had been freed from his coffin, ill-fitting but good enough to fit his purposes; they're largely wool and linen, barely noticeable to a horse, and he has very little else that could be a burden.

He'll find tack in the morning, he thinks, stretching out on his newly-pilfered bedroll, luxuriating in his newfound ability to do so, and with luck the colt won't shy from the smell of his dead brethren. A saddle and a bridle - even just a bridle will do in the short term - and something to eat for the both of them. Then they'll catch up with the Witcher, the two of them, together.

Cahir falls into a restless sleep, and when he dreams, he dreams of ashen hair and golden eyes and fire.

[man-and-atom]

The company plans to use solar farms in places that have little to recommend them other than a railway line nearby as filling stations at which to charge heavy but cheap batteries built into goods wagons. A 100-car train… could deliver three gigawatt-hours to users.

We wouldn’t normally suspect The Economist of innumeracy. On the other hand, solar boosters are hardly above suspicion of deliberate deception, and sometimes seem to revel in self-deception.

American railroad hopper-cars, much larger than those used most other places in the world, carry typically 100 tonnes of coal each. A modern, efficient gigawatt coal-fired power station typically burns something like 300 tonnes of coal an hour. (Those numbers will vary with the thermal efficiency of the station and the quality of the coal.) Three gigawatt-hours would then require about 10 carloads. The typical unit coal train is 100 cars long, or about 30 gigawatt-hours. At that, most of the coal-burners built in the past half-century or so have been mine-mouth stations, because for distances of about 500 km or less, it’s cheaper to burn the coal at the pit-head and send the power onward by high-tension lines.

Good lead-acid batteries (presumably the “heavy but cheap” option mentioned) store about 50 watt-hours (0·05 kWh) per kilogram. At this rate, one train car could carry a freight of 5000 kWh. The whole trainload would then be 100 times that, 500 000 kWh or half a gigawatt-hour. Only if you assume an externally-imposed economics-be-damned mandate for solar-plus-storage, as in California, does this begin to make some kind of sense.

If the numbers as given simply don’t seem to accord with reality, neither does the claim that solar “only gets cheaper and cheaper”. Solar power requires land, and vast tracts of it — land which only tends to increase in price. Besides that, each additional increment of generation tends to use more land, because the land most favorable for the purpose is usually developed first. Similarly, the vast raw materials requirements call for exploiting poorer and poorer sources, at ever-escalating costs.

Compare all that with a single half-meter-long CANDU fuel bundle, containing about 30 kg of uranium, which in the course of its time in the reactor will produce more than 1 500 000 kWh. Nuclear requires only modest quantities of land and raw materials, and depends primarily upon technological skill and know-how — which, unlike land or raw materials, constantly gets cheaper.

[midnight---express]

Probably one of my oddest contributions to the Thomas Fandom is USAR Light Mikado Mike.

Seriously this sprite is surprisingly popular, mainly as Churchill and Dr. Syn have still yet to get sprites, I've seen this become Jock a few times which I think is fun.

The whole reason why Mike is even an American is S734 is due to his portrayal by EE93, the voice and mannerisms were just so distinct, like his voices that was officially given were fun, the weirdly Gordon Ramsey sound from Tim Whitnall was fun but I figured that the brash American voice was rather fun.

So lore surrounding him, Mike doesn't show up with Rex and Bert (Otherwise known as Wallace in S734) he's the eighth engine purchased for the Arlesdale, he was contract built for Hanson Moore, one of the more railway interested investors, and he was the first brand new steam engine built for the railway, everyone else up until that point had been pre-owned. Mr. Moore really went all out on the livery, Red, White and Blue, and a nameplate reading Scarlet Fire, the other engines thought Mike's overall appearance was gaudy, and trying to get peoples attention, and Rex nearly exploded from laughing so hard after Mike's first passenger train, when afterwards he claimed he hated them, and would prefer goods work, Ragnar said that you could practically hear Mr. Moore shrink when Mike said that.

Mike loves the heavy Ballast work due to the fact that Ragnar and Rex are Atlantics (Will explain them in their own post) and Wallace was rather old, it was down to Franka and Braid (Basset Lowke Pacific) to work those heavy trains, but when Mike came along he took to them like old Roosevelt to a horse, he loves the job, mainly as it shows everyone how strong he is, and well he's right he is the strongest one.

In terms of his relationships with the others, they find him rather funny, if a bit brash and argumentative and glad that he showed up to haul Ballast.

Wretch and Sprocket (Blisters) like Mike, even if he finds the two slightly unsettling but nice to talk to.

Wallace doesn't quite know how to feel about Mike, or Michael as he calls him, a privilege reserved only for those who Mike deeply respects, like the Small Control or Mr. Moore, so the fact he doesn't throw old Wallace a look of death shows he respects the old codger, but old Wally as Mike calls him, doesn't like how Mike treats the passengers.

Ragnar finds the 'Big Yank' as he calls him rather cumbersome but respects his self assuredness and strength. 'Well placed confidence he has' is what he says about him.

Rex loves ripping into Mike, as he knows he has the ego to recover, but even then his remarks are only paint deep, he has a lot of respect for Mike, but finds it very funny that he just can't with passengers.

Franka's relationship with Mike is really odd, the two argue like they need to live, the others would always yell 'GET A SHED!' even Rex who loves to argue with him, practically broke over an argument about lubrication oil, and he practically screamed at them to just get together needless to say the two have been dating for awhile.

Braid, she tries to actively avoid interacting with Mike, mainly as she knows that if she engages in conversation, she'll realise that she hasn't move for an hour.

Jock, they treat Mike like a big brother, did something stupid with a ballast wagon, accidently stole Ragnar's beard wax, old Mike has you covered.

Old Big Scarlet is for lack of a better term the big brash glue that holds the crew together, mainly as he does the heavy lifting most of them can't.

[astarionancuninswife]

mother (a tav backstory)

I came across this post on twitter a few days ago of a writing challenge for the month of March, and I think not only will it help me be more comfortable writing, but also help me understand my tav(s) a bit more. I've decided to primarily focus on Luci since she's my first tav.

Today's prompt is "What are Tav's parents like?" There is a little bit of Luci x Astarion at the end because I couldn't help myself, but this is more so a bit about Luci and her backstory! I hope you enjoy!

Also, I've thought a lot about this and I imagine Lily Gladstone as the face claim for Luci's mom, Daphne. I'm just shit at descriptions lol

word count: 1663

warnings: I think maybe suggested child abandonment is really the only thing that's worth a warning? lmk otherwise!

ao3 || baldur's march || guidelines for requests || masterlist

Luci couldn’t remember much before her mother found her wandering the woods alone; not her name, or her biological parents, or why she was in the woods in the first place. All she knew was that in the last few years, she had survived side by side with the animals of the forest and built bonds with quite a few of them to the point of being able to become one. But then her mother came across her on her way back to Baldur’s Gate after a well-needed vacation away from the city. 

Daphne was horrified to see a frail tiefling child without any supervision to be seen. She had clearly been able to take care of herself, but she was still visibly unweight, and the elven woman knew it would be a miracle for a child to survive any longer in the wilds alone. 

“Hello,” she was careful approaching the girl, speaking in a hushed tone and keeping a neutral expression on her face. She wasn’t sure when the last interaction the child had with anyone beyond the animals of the forest, so she didn’t want to scare her, “My name is Daphne Hana, may I know your name?”

The girl with pale pink skin watched the woman cautiously for a few minutes before bursting into tears, trying to communicate back but not being able to speak through her sobs. She had seen others often on the trails and such, but it was rare anyone stopped and talked to her. They saw a lost child, a tiefling at that, and turned their heads as if they saw nothing. To be seen and spoken to in such a soft way was overwhelming for the young one. 

Daphne stopped a gasp from escaping her lips and potentially scaring the child more; instead, she kneeled down to her height and held her arms out to give the girl a choice. It doesn’t take but a second before tiny horns are clumsily nudged against the tan cheek of the older woman and little arms are clinging to her shoulders. The elf wrapped her arms around the girl protectively, gently petting her wild burgundy hair. 

“Would you like to come with me? I have plenty of room for a little one such as yourself,” she promised, leaning back a bit to see the child’s face. She watched as many emotions crossed the small girl’s face before being given a nod against her shoulder, “Do you have a name?” The girl sniffled again and shook her head, either not trusting her voice or not knowing how to use it properly. Daphne smiled softly, “Then we’ll have to find you one, won’t we? Now, come,” she stood up and held her hand to the girl, which is quickly grabbed by a tiny hand, “We’re still quite a way from Baldur’s Gate, but we’ll be there soon enough,” she assured the scared girl as they walked to the wagon Daphne had been driving beforehand. She allowed the child to pick if she wished to sit in the back, telling her she’d make a soft pallet if she wanted to sleep or simply lay down, or if she wanted to sit in the front with her. The tiefling took a second to decide, ultimately yawning and letting her savior pull blankets into a nest and securing the wagon canvas to mostly block the sun from her eyes. She also was handed a few rations, which she picked at between naps on their way.

It took the rest of the day for the pair to arrive at Baldur's Gate, the child admiring every structure and person they passed. Daphne happily explained what each building was for when a pink index finger intensely pointed at them, glad that the difference in woods and the city didn’t seem too overwhelming for the kid. It didn’t take long before she parked the wagon and horse in front of a home, which she informed the girl was her house. It’s a quaint little place in the middle of Lower City, two stories, but the second story was solely two bedrooms, while the bottom floor was the living spaces. In the entry room, the shelves filled with books quickly intrigue the young one. 

“We’ll explore tomorrow, darling,” Daphne smiled at her, “It’s late and we need to get you settled for the night.” She guided the tiefling up the stairs, which was a feat in itself since the child clearly had no clue what stairs were. Eventually, Daphne relented to picking her up and carrying her to the top of the steps before leading her to the spare bedroom. It had already been set up as a guest room so it didn’t take much to set it up for the child to be comfortable, “I’m right across the hall should you need me, don’t be afraid to wake me if you do,” she leaned over and kissed the pink forehead between the nubby horns after tucking her in, “Good night, sweet one.”

The night went surprisingly well, with only one incident of the child climbing into bed next to the elf. She didn’t complain at all, instead she made room and smiled at the trust she’s receiving. 

As the sun rises, so does Daphne. She carefully pulled herself from the cuddles of the child and went downstairs to make a quick breakfast. She pondered over what to cook, before deciding on a simple eggs and bacon meal. The girl she found needed protein and she figured that combination would both be easy on her stomach as well as hopefully help bring her some energy for this morning. She’d have to do some research later on tiefling diets, but she was sure meat would be welcomed. She brought the tray of food up to her room, almost dropping it when she heard sobs. She quickly placed the food on her nightstand and wrapped her arms around the child.

“Gone,” the first word spoken from the pink tiefling, and it broke the motherly woman’s heart. 

“No, no, I was still here,” she tried to calm her quickly, “I was downstairs, I was making you food.” She assured her, reaching over to grab a plate without letting go of the girl, “See, food.”

The tiefling child turned her head just enough to look at the plate before looking up at the woman who had taken her in, “F—Food,” She repeated as her tears slowed, “For me?”

“Yes, dearest,” Daphne laughed softly, glad her new little friend was warming up and able to use her voice, “Go ahead and dig in, I’m sure you’re starved.” The elf watched the girl hesitantly take the plate into her lap and pick at the food with her fingers, completely disregarding the fork handed to her. Daphne figured such would happen, so it wasn’t an issue. It wasn’t long until the plate was cleared, and they were set for the day to start.

“Luci? Luci, my dear, have I finally lost you?”

The pink woman looks up from the book she had found while snooping around a random empty house they came across, “Hmm? Oh, yeah, no, I’m… I’m still here,” She laughs with embarrassment as she sees her vampiric friend in front of her with his eyebrow raised. Her smile falls a bit as she looks down at the book again, opening to one of the first pages, “This is the book my mother always read to me as a child; the first one she read to me the day after she sorta adopted me actually. It’s… it’s how she gave me my name…” She runs her fingers over the weathered page as she remembers that night clear as day, “Lucille, a spirited adventurer with a passion for unraveling ancient mysteries, set out to explore the Whispering Woods.” She reads with a sad smile, she misses her mother so much right now, “Lucille Woods.” This is the first time she’s spoken her full name out loud to any of her recent companions, as well as the first time she’s given a bigger glimpse at her past and her life in Baldur’s Gate. And to the companion she was still fairly hesitant about, she’s definitely going to beat herself up later over giving him even a sliver of something to hold over her if he so desired… 

Astarion watches her reminisce and, for once, doesn’t have a smartass comment to make. Instead, he lets her have her moment before smirking, “You’re named after a ‘spirited adventurer’ and you became one yourself? That really does just describe you with a neat little bow, now doesn’t it, darling?”

Luci crinkles her eyes with a smile at his jest as she closes the book, stuffing it in her bag, “I feel like that’s your flowery way of calling me annoyingly perfect, to which I say a-thank you,” She giggles before slipping her arm around his and starting to lead him out of the house, “Come on, we should regroup with Shadowheart and Wyll and head back to camp; it’ll be getting dark soon, and Gale promised me breakfast for dinner tonight! I’ve been excited for eggs and bacon all day; I don’t think I can wait another moment!”

The pale elf resists the urge to yank his arm away from the touchy girl; he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to how physically affectionate she is even after their short while of knowing one another, but he needs her protection so he must pretend not to be affected by it for now. He thinks, as they continue to find the other two and start walking to their campsite, that maybe if he acts interested enough in her family life, she’ll start trusting him even more. She’s incredibly and stupidly sweet, so it won’t take much… and he must admit, he actually is curious about her upbringing and what exactly ‘sorta adopted’ means for her and her mother. 

[myhauntedsalem]

Mount Misery

Huntington, New York

Mount Misery is a vast 854 acre wooded area in Huntington, NY. In 1653, local Indians sold the land to the settlers. The Indians sold them what they believed to be cursed land. They claimed evil spirits roamed the land. There were rumors of strange lights and sightings of a man beast or hell hound like creature with glowing red eyes. The settlers soon realized the land was no good for growing crops. It was used mainly as a trade route. The rough terrain and steep hill made it difficult for wagons to pass and it became known as Mount Misery.

In 1840, a hospital was built for the insane, but not long after, a fire burned it down to the foundation, killing many of the patients. The hospital was rebuilt about 15 years later. New patients and staff began reporting the smell of something burning and unexplained screams heard during the night. The new hospital burned down 5 months after being built.

Mount Misery is believed to be rather paranormal active. There have been sightings of a lady in white. No one knows for sure who this spirit may be but there’s speculation she might have been a patient in the mental hospital. Actually, some believe she caused one of the fires and was among the patients who died in the fire. She is seen walking alongside of the road and even likes jumping in front of cars.

There also tales of an elderly male spirit who carries around a wicker basket full of decapitated heads. Some witnesses traveling down Sweet Hollow Road have encountered the spirit of a fallen police officer. He was shot in the head and killed during a routine traffic stop. Even after death, he still pulls cars over. You don’t notice anything wrong until you get a peek at what is missing, the back of his head.

There are stories of a girl who was hit and killed by a passing car while trying to fix a flat in the 1970s. This supposedly took place directly under the Northern State overpass. They say if you park your car there at night, shut off the lights, and put it in neutral, she’ll push your car until you clear the overpass. Witnesses have reported seeing children hanging from the Northern State overpass on occasion. Children believed to have committed suicide there and may not have been the only one.

There is a story of a young girl who was supposedly attending a nearby horse riding camp. She was allegedly molested by the counselors. When she told her father, he didn’t believe her. In a rage, she killed them all and then hung herself from the bridge.

Spirits are not the only things wandering Mount Misery. There have also been sightings of UFOs in the area and strange visits from men in black to the locals after each sighting.

[bohemian-nights]

My favorite romantic relationship for Daemon was his relationship with Laena. They seemed to have built a healthy and loving relationship and family. Another thing I like was the fact that she was an adult. Both by their standards and by our standards. And how she died was really heartbreaking. That being said the show f*cked them up in every which way. And then they f*cked his relationship with his daughters that while not much is given for in the book you can still make a claim that he loved and cared for them. In conclusion this show is sh*t and if Netty (who unfortunately is Daemons only saving grace) isn’t included this season I will be finding a new fandom to either join/re-join. Maybe my childhood favorite(s) ATLA or Percy Jackson since they both are getting new shows. The Hunger Game franchise just came out with a new movie that is slowly but surely getting me back on the wagon. H*ll I might even trade out one toxic fandom for another, I just can’t decide if it’ll be Bridgerton (though they’re only toxic when it comes to certain characters), Star Wars (I haven’t been apart of this one in a while but if my memory serves me it was just shipping wars) and if I’m really feeling it I’ll go back to Harry Potter (which is low-key worse than HOTD cause the writer is problematic as well as some of the actors/actresses and the stans are crazy and the shipping wars alone can make you leave the fandom ). But yeah I have low hopes for this next season.

Dettles has a special place in my heart, and I believe Nettles was Daemon's person, I will admit that Daemon and Laena is his least problematic ship. Instead of the showrunners giving us a relatively normal healthy loving marriage they gave us dog sh*t and I will forever be pissed off about that🫠

I’m gone too if Nettles is cut.

However, honestly, after this whole situation, I refuse to get involved with another fandom again.

Granted HOTD is probably one of the worst fandoms out there(I feel like it’s worse than GOT fandom), but there are a lot more sh*tty fandoms than there are good ones and I wouldn't want to trade one sh*tty fandom for another.

Star Wars is the same fandom that bullied Jar Jar Binks actor to the point where the poor man was suicidal and they bullied the kid who played Anakin to the point where he quit acting. Not to mention how fans treated John Boyega, Kelly Marien Tran, and Moses Ingram. Those people are just as mentally deranged as HOTD stans. In fact, a lot of Dumbnyra stans ship Reylo💀That’s really the last fandom I’d join. They are one of the OG crazy fandoms.

Never got into the Hunger Games, but I know they had their issues(Rue). Percy Jackson same issue. People’s grievances with JK Rowling aside, the Harry Potter fandom has calmed down, but I imagine the crazy antics will pick up again with the new series. At their height though they were probably running neck and neck with HOTD(I wouldn’t say it’s worse).

I love Avatar. Never got into the fandom(and even if I do decide to write something for Zutara because of this new show that will be my extent of fandom interaction).

Speaking as someone who is in the Bridgerton fandom, while it has its kooky fans they are relatively harmless by fandom standards. (Though I did have some Kathony fans getting mad at me over a non-issue and saying I should stick to watching the incest show🤣 even though I've been watching Bridgerton since the beginning ).

I feel like the type of show it is makes it difficult for really crazy fandom drama to form(which seems to revolve around shipping).

Everyone has their favorite couple of course(Benophie aka the best ship, Kathony, Polin, Saphne, Francheal, Grucy, or hey ship them all), but there is no infighting like Zutara vs Katang or Dramione vs Romione.

There is one ship per guy and girl and you ship them. That’s it. It’s simple. It’s easy. Everyone loves it. Of course, you can fight with another couple, but everyone’s couple is a couple. You can’t deny it’s not canon, that it won’t happen, or that they don’t love each other(well Eloise and her man are iffy, but they are a couple).

I may be biased though considering it’s my favorite show, but even with some kooky stans it’s great.

[echoestv]

Let’s Step Inside Monroe Crest…

Before the lights dim at The Love Below, before Estelle signs another hush-hush contract, before Chantel pops another bottle in Southcrest ⸻ you need to know where it all began. Monroe Crest isn’t just a setting. It’s a living, breathing character. A city shaped by rebellion, resilience, and reinvention, Monroe Crest rose from Southern soil soaked in struggle to become The New Black Mecca ⸻ where ambition meets artistry, secrets slip through side streets, and the air itself feels like foreplay. In this post, we’re pulling back the curtain. We’re giving you the real story—its founding, its fallouts, its forbidden corners. From the hush of The Ridge to the glow of Crest Heights, this is your official guide to the city that gave rise to The Love Below.

𝐱𝐨𝐱𝐨, 𝐇𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐲 𝐌𝐚𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐫𝐞. ꨄ

OVERVIEW. Monroe Crest is a thriving, culturally magnetic urban enclave located somewhere in the American South—nestled between the artistic pulse of Atlanta, the coastal cool of Savannah, and the historic depth of New Orleans. With its roots in Black excellence, political rebellion, and sensual reinvention, Monroe Crest has evolved into a glittering mosaic of ambition, art, and unapologetic Black identity. It’s where Southern charm meets cosmopolitan heat—equal parts soul food, sex clubs, and startup brunches.

❛ We weren’t born from freedom. We carved it out of the land, the silence, and the fire. ❜

ও. ORIGIN STORY : Rebirth from Resistance.

Monroe Crest was founded in the late 1800s by a coalition of free Black families, tradespeople, and academics fleeing racial violence in neighboring towns. It began as a safe haven and slowly developed into a hub of political activism, artistry, and self-sufficient Black wealth. During Reconstruction, it was nicknamed “The Hidden Rose”—a city built on secrecy, sovereignty, and survival. By the mid-20th century, Monroe Crest had become home to several prominent HBCUs, jazz clubs, and independent Black businesses. It was a quiet powerhouse—until the 1980s and ’90s brought both gentrification threats and a creative explosion. That era gave rise to the city’s nightlife underworld, neo-soul music scene, and its iconic strip of independently owned clubs, lounges, and bookstores.

✮ HISTORY IN THE MAKING.

Before Monroe Crest was a city, it was a whisper. A place passed between hands in letters, prayers, and breath. A name never written on maps—just etched into memory and spoken in code by Black families fleeing the chains of Reconstruction and the smoke of burned-down towns. The land that would become Monroe Crest was once a sliver of disputed territory, hidden between crumbling plantations and wild pine groves, largely ignored by Confederate remnants and white land barons because it was considered cursed—too remote, too difficult to tame. But for the bold and the hunted, that made it perfect.

In 1872, a group of formerly enslaved people—freedmen, herbalists, scholars, and stonemasons—arrived by foot, wagon, and moonlight. Led by a visionary widow named Alma Monroe, they built not just homes, but a plan. They laid bricks by hand, raised crops in silence, and hosted lessons under trees where no one could see. By the time the outside world caught wind of the settlement, it was already pulsing with its own heartbeat. They called it Crest, because it was perched at the edge of everything: history, war, power, and possibility. It was Alma who added Monroe to the name—claiming her lineage, yes, but also signaling that this land belonged to Black women who built it with blood and brilliance.

By the turn of the century, Monroe Crest had become a hidden haven for Black excellence. It housed clandestine schools, literary salons, and some of the South’s most subversive thinkers. During Jim Crow, it was a fortress. During the Harlem Renaissance, a whispering sister-city. And during the Civil Rights Movement, it was both safe house and strategy room. But as time marched on, the city began to stretch. Artists, lovers, fugitives, and fortune-seekers came looking for the life Monroe Crest promised: beautiful, Black, and untouched by outside expectations. The city didn’t just survive—it evolved. What began as a sanctuary became a stage.And then came the shift.

In the 1980s, Monroe Crest exploded with a wave of new money, neon nightlife, and radical self-expression. Strip clubs rose beside Baptist churches. Neo-soul poets battled emcees in alleyway lounges. Entrepreneurs rebuilt abandoned warehouses into sex-positive social clubs and sound studios. This is when The Love Below first appeared—whispers of a basement club where pleasure and power met under velvet lights. It was no longer just a hidden city. It was the city—a sanctuary of contradictions.

❛ A city built by women who dared. Kept alive by love, lust, legacy, and liberation. Here, nothing is simple. Every street has a secret. Every skyline has a memory. And Every woman has her own version of the truth. ❜

ও. THE NOW : Culture, Class, + Contradictions.

Today, Monroe Crest is a city of duality. It's both a luxury destination and a battle ground—where Black creatives, socialites, and moguls rise alongside activists, gentrifiers, and hustlers. Its residents call it “The New Black Mecca”—not just for its wealth and beauty, but because it offers a space where Black people can live, love, thrive, and unravel without apology.

✮ WHERE BLACK BRILLIANCE THRIVES.

Today, Monroe Crest is both destination and battleground. A jewel of Southern ambition where Black art, Black wealth, Black pleasure, and Black protest collide like heat lightning over the skyline. On the surface, it glows: chic rooftop lounges, million-dollar murals, low-slung Lambos in velvet-rope parking lots. But scratch beneath the glamour, and you'll find a city caught in the sweet, sweaty crossfade between revolution and reinvention. This is a city that breathes contradiction.

Here, old money Black families throw gala dinners in The Ridge while their scandalous cousins throw hands in Market Row. Social justice influencers sip turmeric cocktails in Silverpark by day and tip dancers at underground cabarets by night. Pastors bless microphones on Sunday morning and make anonymous confessions to dommes by Monday night. Everyone is building something. Everyone is hiding something. And everyone is watching everyone else.

The Culture : Monroe Crest is fashion week without the calendar, Afropunk without the wristbands, church and club in the same dress. It’s where the DJ might be a tech CEO. The poet might be an arms dealer. The preacher’s daughter? She owns the strip club. The city doesn’t just accept duality—it rewards it.

The Power Plays : City Hall is a chessboard. Non-profits and nightclubs fund each other under the table. There’s gossip in the grant money. Everyone has a campaign, even if they’re not running for office. Especially if they’re not.

The Sex & Spirit : Monroe Crest is a place where desire isn’t hidden—it’s curated. Whole districts are shaped by who you love, what you wear, and how you like your name moaned in the dark. Sensuality here is art, politics, escape, and sometimes—revenge.

The Streets Talk : Crest Confessions, anonymous gossip blogs, and burner social media accounts run the city like a second government. Word travels faster than Wi-Fi, and reputations are made—or broken—before sunrise.

✮ MAJOR DISTRICTS.

The Ridge : Old money, historic brownstones, and political power. Estelle James grew up here.

Southcrest : Home to the city’s iconic nightlife—including The Love Below lounge. Chantel reigns here.

Silverpark : A boho-luxury neighborhood filled with influencers, artists, and wealthy eccentrics. Naomi’s world.

Market Row : Gritty, vibrant, ever-changing. Pop-ups, murals, music, and side-eye. Kimbella’s stomping ground.

Crest Heights : The city’s newest high-rise district. New money, tech startups, rooftop sex, and ambition.

ও. CULTURAL SIGNIFICANCE.

MUSIC : From trap-soul to jazz revival, Monroe Crest is known for birthing genre-bending artists.

FASHION : Style is currency here—expect everything from vintage fur and bodycon mesh to streetwear with statements.

FAITH & FLESH : Churches and sex clubs share zip codes. The city pulses with spiritual tension and sexual liberation.

POLITICS : Monroe Crest has a long legacy of radical Black political thought, community organizing, and low-key elite manipulation.

ও. The Map of Monroe Crest.

✮ THE RIDGE.

Description : Historic, stately, and rooted in generational wealth, The Ridge is lined with majestic brownstones and tree-lined avenues. It’s a reminder of the city’s early days when Black excellence blossomed as a form of resistance and reinvention.

Vibe : Quiet opulence with an undercurrent of political maneuvering and legacy. Traditional but influential.

Character Connection : Estelle James. Raised in The Ridge, Estelle’s sophisticated yet determined persona reflects the reserved power of this neighborhood. Her background here fuels her inner conflict between preserving a storied legacy and pursuing a fiercely independent future.

✮ SOUTHCREST.

Description : This district pulses with nocturnal energy. Neon signs, bustling street parties, and exclusive venues define Southcrest. It’s known for its underground clubs, where every night brings new allure, scandal, and unexpected encounters.

Vibe : Sensual, audacious, and electric—a playground for desire and daring ambition.

Character Connection : Chantel Brooks. As the queen of Southcrest’s nightlife scene and the owner of the acclaimed The Love Belowlounge, Chantel embodies the district’s vibrant, unapologetic energy. Her empire is built on high stakes, epic parties, and the art of seduction.

✮ SILVERPARK.

Description : A sleek, modern district characterized by art galleries, upscale boutiques, and chic lofts. Silverpark is where creative innovation meets contemporary luxury—a place of curated tastes and curated lives.

Vibe : Urban sophistication mixed with bohemian elements, drawing a trendy crowd of influencers, entrepreneurs, and forward-thinkers.

Character Connection : Naomi Fields. Torn between her public persona and the weight of family expectations, Naomi’s duality shines in Silverpark. Here, amidst the glitz and polished surfaces, she struggles with reconciling her faith and fame, making the district a perfect backdrop for her personal evolution.

✮ MARKET ROW.

Description : A raw, ever-changing district known for its street art, pop-up markets, and cultural diversity. Market Row is the heartbeat of the city’s creative underbelly where new trends are born and where tradition clashes with modernity.

Vibe : Gritty, dynamic, and vibrant—a creative crucible where art, protest, and everyday hustle converge.

Character Connection : Kimbella Caldwell. As a newly divorced music executive rediscovering herself, Kimbella's journey of reinvention finds resonance in the eclectic energy of Market Row. The district’s spontaneous creativity mirrors her struggle and eventual embrace of both sensuality and independence.

✮ CREST HEIGHTS.

Description : The newest district, Crest Heights is defined by towering high-rises and futuristic tech startups. It’s where new money meets innovation and where the pulse of progress challenges the old guard.

Vibe : Modern, bold, and slightly dissonant—a juxtaposition of ambition and aesthetic luxury.

Character Connection : While none of the main characters reside here full time, Crest Heights serves as a battleground for emerging influences and periodic plot twists. It’s where secondary characters, ambitious newcomers, and elements of corporate intrigue may intersect with the lives of our protagonists.

ও. Character Specific Guide.

✮ Estelle James. ( The Legacy Lawyer )

Key Locale : The Ridge.

Highlights : Frequent sightings at old family estates and historic legal libraries. Favorite quiet cafes that double as informal meeting spots for high-stakes negotiations. Secret spots in the city where she contemplates her next bold move, balancing legacy with personal ambition.

✮ Chantel Brooks. ( The Nightlife Mogul )

Key Locale : Southcrest.

Highlights : The Love Below lounge, the pulse of Southcrest where seduction meets strategy. Exclusive rooftop parties and dimly lit backrooms packed with whispered secrets. After-dark rendezvous that set the stage for scandal and heartfelt confessions.

✮ Naomi Fields. ( The Social Justice Socialite )

Key Locale : Silverpark.

Highlights : Trendsetting galleries and activist meet-ups that blur the lines between celebrity and community leadership. Intimate coffee shops and upscale social clubs where she grapples with her dual identity—public icon vs. private soul-searcher. Digital natives’ hangouts and hybrid spaces where her outspoken social justice work resonates in every tweet and post.

✮ Kimbella Caldwell ( The Music Exec Reborn )

Key Locale : Market Row.

Highlights : Urban street festivals and underground concerts that provide a soundtrack to her journey of personal rediscovery. Intimate recording studios tucked away in old warehouses, where the beat of renewal matches her reinvigorated spirit. Culturally rich food markets, where the scent of spices and spontaneity mirrors her transformative, bittersweet narrative.

ও. Map Navigation Tips.

Interactive Tags : Use site tags like #EstelleInTheRidge, #ChantelAtSouthcrest, #NaomiInSilverpark, and #KimbellaInMarketRow to instantly jump to posts, events, or gossip relevant to each district and character.

Story Arcs : Follow weekly recaps that blend citywide gossip with character-specific milestones. These posts often include narrated "walking tours" of Monroe Crest, bringing the city’s spirit to life as characters traverse its varied landscapes.

Reader Contributions : A “fan-sourced map” section encourages readers to mark their favorite spots (or shady corners) and share theories about hidden links between the districts and our characters’ personal growth.

In Monroe Crest, no one is just one thing. You can be righteous and ruthless. Saved and scandalous. Powerful and paralyzed by your past. It’s a city of curated chaos—and every woman here is walking her own tightrope between who she is, who she pretends to be, and who she’s afraid to become.This is the now. Messy. Magnificent. Magnetic. And absolutely unforgettable.

[candy-floss-crazy]

Few of the funfair rides you see today are as iconic as Ferris Wheels, or Big Wheels as they are also known. Taking its name from the wheel built for the World's Columbian Exposition in Chicago, 1893 by George Washington Gale Ferris. Though William Somers installed three fifty foot wooden wheels in 1892 so perhaps they should be called Somers Wheels. Then again Pietro Della Valle, a Roman traveller wrote of riding a Great Wheel in Constantinople in 1615, so should they be Constantinople wheels or Della Valle Wheels? Whoever deserves the naming rights, it was George that actually ended up adding his name to one the enduring legacies of the funfair industry. Lets take a look at some of the weird and wonderful wheels around the world. The Original Ferris Wheel The original 'Ferris' wheel pictured here was 80.4 metres high, 264ft if you are sticking to olde measures, not sure how many cubits that is if you are even older than Imperial measurements. It was intended to rival the Eiffel Tower which had formed the centre piece of the Paris Exposition. The axle weighing 71 tonne was the world's largest forging at that time, and the ride had a carrying capacity of 2160 people, unrivalled today Indeed the world's biggest wheel the Vegas High Roller managing a little over half that. The Vegas High Roller Currently the world's highest wheel is the Vegas High Roller. At 550ft (158.5 metres, 366.67 cubits) high, this beats the Singapore Flyer by a scant 9ft. Rotating on two custom designed spherical bearings each weighing just under 9 tonnes. The passenger cabins are electrically rotated to maintain a smooth level ride and each weighs 20 tonnes. A wheel currently being built in Dubai should claim the crown as world's tallest wheel if it ever opens, currently construction is 5 years behind schedule. The Vienna Riesenrad Located inside the Vienna Prater (the world's oldest amusement park), the Riesenrad was constructed in 1897. This has unique old fashioned cabins, one of which can be hired complete with dining and a champagne meal. It was designed by Harry Hitchins and Hubert Cecil Booth, a pair of British engineers, and constructed by Lieutenant Walter Bassett Bassett an English engineer. to celebrate the Golden Jubilee of Emperor Franz Josef I. At 212ft high it is nowhere near the 'big' wheels out there, but it adds a touch of class all its own. The Tianjin Eye Observation Wheel Also called the Tientsin Eye, this is a mid height wheel at 394ft, what makes it unusual, is that it is the only major wheel actually built on a bridge, in this case the Yongle Bridge, over the Hai River in Tianjin China. The Osaka Wheel This is an oddball in the wheel world. Rather than being round it is an oval shape. The main structure doesn't move rather the cars move around a track. The Big O Situated in the Tokyo Dome City, Japan. This is not only the world's largest centreless wheel at 200ft high (it has an actual roller coaster built through the middle), it also has a number of cars with karaoke machines fitted. We are not actually convinced that being stuck on a ride for 30 minutes with someone singing badly is a great move. Baseball Ferris Wheels Not particularly large, but certainly novel. Built in Comerica park, downtown Detroit. The location of the Detroit Tigers Major League Baseball Team. The Waggon Wheel No, not a biscuit, though legend has it that the biscuit was a similar size before inflation kicked in. This is located in Flamingo Land Amusement park here in the UK. Themed around the iconic plains wagons of old America. YeeeHaaa The Golden Reel Figure 8 Located in Macau, this is one of the highest wheels in the world. Not due solely to its size, but to the fact that it is actually built to join two hotels together. You board on the 23rd floor, and what makes it even more unique is that fact that it is a figure 8 wheel, having 2 loops does that make it Ferris Wheels? Royal Tyres Wheel The Uniroyal giant tyre wheel created for the 1964 New York World's Fair. Now located in Michigan this 80ft high wheel was designed by the same firm responsible for the Empire State Building, Shreve, Lamb & Harmon. Driven by a 100hp engine the wheel carries 96 passengers. John Kormeling Wheel Created by the artist John Kormeling, this is one wacky wheel. Instead of gondolas for the passengers, it has flat structures that you actually park you car on, yes, you don't even have to leave your car to ride this wheel. The Priyat Big Wheel This wheel isn't particularly tall, or have any unusual features. Oh, except for being quite close to a major nuclear disaster. The wheel is virtually brand new having hardly been used before Chernobyl went tits up. It isn't one we would recommend visiting, although there are actually companies now running tours to the area around Chernobyl. Eccentric Wheel These are an uncommon version of the wheel. Instead of the cars being suspended on axles at the ends of the arms, they travel on a track that zig zags inside the main structure, so they slide towards the centre of the wheel then away from it. There was one built in 1920 at Coney Island, and another at one of the Disney parks. Underground Ferris Wheels A mere 65ft high and only 6 cars would make this a pretty poor example for Ferris Wheels. Until you consider it is actually underground inside a giant salt mine. Located in Turda, Romania, the mine dates back to the 13th century and is 368ft beneath below ground. I guess that technically makes this the world's lowest wheel! Read the full article