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halcyone-of-the-sea · 11 months

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Black Metal and Bourbon (I)

AU MASTERLIST || PART II

PAIRING: Biker/Mechanic!Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Bartender!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 8.1k

WARNINGS: Alcohol consumption, drug usage, mentions of sex & intimacy, dark jokes/dirty jokes, rumors, gossip, past toxic relationship, a shitty Ex, protective!Simon, etc. (18+ mini-series)

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You slapped the damp rag back into the bar top, the fabric heavy with spilled alcohol and other fluids that you didn’t even want to try and think about.

“Jesus.” Your muscles ache, neck stiff from having to try and slap a dart from the ceiling where some jackass had been too drunk to attempt and hit the target. The thing was still up there, as you weren’t about to spend your entire night fruitlessly attempting to fix someone else's blurry mistakes.

You glare over your shoulder, seeing the unconscious form of the man in question being dragged out by his friends presently, his slurring chuckles making him sound like a drowning elephant. Intoxicated yells of goodbye attached to your name make you roll your eyes slowly as they begin being said; you push through the waist-height door to allow you behind the front counter. Your middle finger flips the patrons off before boisterous flirting hits the air.

“C’mon baby, don’t be like that—!” Is cut off by the slam of the front doors and you couldn’t be more happy that your boss hadn’t gotten the bolts tightened.

“Don’t get paid enough…” You grumble, eyes slithering over to the tip jar and seeing the overflow of bills and coins as your fingers wrap the neck of a bottle of Vodka.

The profit would be split with your coworker even if she’d been gone for more than half a night getting railed by her new boy toy. You can still remember the look she’d given you as she’d walked out during rush hour, her sharp smirk and smug sheen of ‘you won’t say anything, will you?’

Grumbling under your breath, you slip the Vodka back into its slot on the wall racks, while telling yourself you can’t drink on the job; trying to forget the face of the man that had been attached to hers before they’d stumbled to the back alley.

“Graham Whitaker, you’re such a five-cent sell-out,” you shake your head, sighing heavily into the air that smells like booze and sweat.

Graham Whitaker—your Ex in every sense.

You decided to tell your coworker, if she ever showed back up, that the only reason she was getting dicked-down was because it was that man’s plan to try and make you jealous. As if you’d be caught with your pants down over a prick that had cheated on you more times than you could count before you threw his ass out.

“Not my problem anymore,” your hands move to display themselves in a motion of a settled disagreement before wiping them on your black pants.

It was late now, of course, with the dart-drunk and his friends being the last patrons that you had to serve. But you’d been in this town a long, long time.

Sorrel the construction worker came in an hour, Miss Anna-Lee accompanying for her nightly Gin and Tonic before she talked about her late love from the seventies. From there it was three more regulars before closing activities and fighting to get up tomorrow by noon only to do it all over again.

Over and over and over.

You lean back on the counter and look across the brown wood and warm overhead lights, behind you, the illumination from the drink rack gives off a dead glow.

This was your workplace since you'd been of age, and over the years that seemed to drag, here is where you’d stayed. Nothing ever changed in this town—the biggest shock was when you’d broken up with Graham; people hadn’t stopped talking about it for months.

This place was like a prison of slow death and abandoned dreams. Safe to say this was not what you had envisioned for yourself.

You scoff, pushing off the back counter and snatching your rag back up before you can spiral once more.

The stains weren’t going to buff themselves out.

Maybe it was chance that the mechanics shop across the street had shut down, too few employees and too many drug busts. Chance, or fate, whichever it was you chose to believe in that still-air Sunday, it was still a shock to you when you looked out the front window as Sorrel called goodnight through his heavy accent.

‘SOLD’

“Sold?” Sorrel pauses with one foot out of the door, and he chuckles when he sees where you’re looking in shock, your hand holding a dirty glass.

“Haven’t heard, then? Few newcomers snuck in under our noses—they’ll be running the place; mechanics!”

“New?” You laugh. “Who in their right mind would come here of all places?”

Sorrel shakes his head, grumbling as he pulls a cigarette from his pocket. “You’ll just have to meet ‘em, Doll. Sure you’ll leave a glowing impression.”

“Take that shit outside, you ass. You know I hate the smell.” A smirk graces your dead eyes.

“Like I said. Glowing.” You glare, but the man slips out of the door quickly and his form passes by the window outside to climb into his truck parked in the street. Two honks from the horn and the older man is off, grizzly-like beard gone just like your boredness.

New arrivals?

You blink at the blackened shadows of the street, illuminated by the lights and their tall tree-like bases—the sway of the planted bushes in the boxes outside. Your head tilts at the abyssal building that was once in working order.

It was a shitshow now, years of abandonment not giving it any helping hand regarding upkeep. The concrete was cracked, the garage door was hanging off of one side, and the front windows had been broken by your Ex’s buddies when they had gotten into a fight like the three-year-olds they were.

You hum lowly. A hard-chucked set of keys, you recalled. You’d seen it from here easily enough. Hadn't lied to Sheriff Russel when he’d come knocking, and, you suppose, that was why even now the immature posse still tried to scare you by following you home at night to this day.

As if everyone didn’t know where everyone else lived already.

But back to the current interest for the night.

“Let’s have a little look-see, then,” you breathe, knowing Miss Anna-Lee would be a good while away like always. You could chance five minutes—it was just across the street after all.

Shuffling outside, making sure to hold the door until it closes slowly, you step down the single step and stick your hands into your pockets. The night wasn’t hot or cold, simply there like a metaphorical cut on your palm; it wasn’t surprising the more you lived with it, but it still made your skin itch.

Feet padding, you cross the dead street and take in the long stretch of unkempt grass, stepping onto the broken curb as your shoes crunch broken glass. Long-gone cigarette butts are scattered here and there, the occasional stray bit of metal or trash. Your eyes shift slowly from one brick that makes up the frame to another, the peeling blue color that could use touching up.

The mural you had painted in middle school had faded a long time ago, just like the great expectations of going into an art career. The eyes of a great gray wolf are only a dark outline that you can’t help but stare at as if a cancer was growing in your brain, hidden behind the reach of green ivy.

Ripping your eyes away, you ignore the cry of tires from across the town and the pop of an exhaust pipe—the roar of either a car chase by the repeat offender Irene Chaney, or by some stupid kid related to Irene Chaney.

“She’s gonna wreck one of these days,” you breathe, looking down at your object of intention—the sold sign in all of its red and white glory.

Your hand snakes out and grabs the cheap plastic, stopping its swaying with a creak and a tilt of your head.

You just couldn’t understand it—who in their right mind would buy this place? The only thing it would be good as is rubble, at least then some rabbit could make its very dusty home here.

Sorrel had mentioned multiple people too.

“Must be up at the B&B then,” your voice carries over the space, the stars twinkling above you as a shadow stands at the end of the cracked driveway. Its hands are in its pockets, tall form bulky with the dark brown leather jacket around its intimidating form. You’re none the wiser, letting the sign drop as you put your hands to your hips. “They better not be fuckin’ dickheads—”

“Mind explainin’ to me why I came to get a drink and now I’m talkin’ to some Bird on my property?”

You startle, gasp peeling out of your lips as your head swivels as if attached to a string which, in turn, tracks back to the source of a heavy Manchester accent. Grass breaks under your feet, as the gravel of the tone makes you cringe. Your eyes lock on the man who looks like he just came back from a warzone.

The first thing you noticed was the balaclava and the skeleton detailing, of course, how could you not—the lower half was an inch below those October eyes of the deepest shade of brown you’d ever witnessed.

Your spine straightens in cautious surprise, hiding the way your hands had clenched as if ready to swing on your Ex if he so happened to be there instead of…this person.

“Excuse me?” You say, quickly, as if it was forced out instead of a scream. Your face pushes that stern expression back to your face as your throat clears out the hoarseness.

A covered head tilts with its small sliver of pale flesh visible to you—the strong bones of his nose bridge and hidden jawline. The bulk of large muscles and thighs spoke to hard labor, and his booted feet shifted below loose black cargo pants.

The mask alone caused you a hint of worry in those few seconds of fast study of this phantom’s anatomy.

He blinks at you slowly, raising the small corner of a dark brow from a respectable distance away.

“Said you’re trespassing, yeah?” Your face gains a sheen of heat, and you glance at your bar behind the stranger, at the bright burn of the lights.

Taking a stiff breath, your lips pull into a frown as you try to hide your embarrassment.

“Well…a holler would have been just fine.” A fake glare is put on. “What’s with sneaking up on a woman in the middle of the night? Are you some creep or something?”

Those dark eyes stay locked on yours, and for a moment you don’t know if you’ve encountered a statue or not because he doesn’t speak for a moment.

A puff of breath from his nose.

“You the bartender, then?” You motion to your nametag above your left breast and grunt. His gaze homes in before he simply says, “Good.”

Without another word, the man turns stiffly before he steadily begins making his way back to the bar; crossing the street with a swift check of the road. You watch him saunter off, jaw slackened and your cheeks hot. The span of his shoulder blades levels out as he rolls his shoulders.

Where did this guy even come from? The answer was simple, the bed and breakfast was only four buildings down and to the left. Guy must have come in for a late-night serenade with a bottle.

A quick glance is thrown back to the rundown property behind you before you growl and hurry after this individual who currently pushes open the faulty doors of your work. Jogging across the asphalt, you catch the thing right before it closes and slip inside with a puff of air and a shoved-down snap of a sarcastic ‘thanks��.

Yet, the man is already pulling back one of the bar stools and easing into it when you make it behind the counter. You study him yet again.

“You’re one of the new mechanics?” Brown-Eyes blinks at you.

Without missing a beat, he goes, “Bourbon—Kentucky.”

“I asked a question,” you cross your arms, not even for a moment looking away as the silence of the bar sneaks in around you and this strange creature. “Least you can do for a lady is answer it when you act like a damn cat and sneak up on her.”

“You were on my property.” This is leveled out through a grunt, and after a moment of staring, you scoff.

“I was curious about who had bought such a piece of junk. Guess I have my answer.” Your hand grabs the bottle of Kentucky Bourbon, the amber liquid inside sloshing as you turn back and put it into the wood. There’s a fraction of a dead tease that makes the man seem more human than he looks.

“Well, aren't you a ray of sunshine?”

“I prefer a solar flair.” You comment dryly and set an engraved glass next to the bottle. Something flickers past the mechanic’s eyes, a quirk to the fabric of his balaclava.

“On The Rocks or Neat?” Your brow raises and you tilt your head.

“That even a bloody question? Neat.” You snort, splaying your hands before you grab the bottle as he watches you blankly.

“Sorry, it's kind of my job to ask.” Your hand shifts and you pour a reasonable amount into the glass, knowing exactly when to stop. As you shift the bottle away, you leave it on the bar top and gently push the beverage to him as his gloved fingers take it up. You repress a small smile at the matching bone gloves to go with the detailing on his balaclava.

“Bartenders always have this much attitude?” The glass is kept in front of his person, carefully held in his large grip.

Moving back, you go to lean on the back counter. This night was quickly taking an interesting turn. “Only if they’re me.” You sigh. “You have a name, then, Brown-Eyes?”

The individual snorts at the title, but his eyes narrow on you at the same time as if he was held hesitant at the ability for you to make him. He had an air of casual tension around him, like a dog on a thin leash that can only just manage to meet others and stay his fangs.

Danger, you pinpoint. The man felt like danger. A riptide; surface tension.

Then why was it that you felt more and more intrigued by the second?

“Simon Riley,” he eases, staring with those numb eyes of his before he tips the glass slightly your way. With the thumb on the same hand that holds the bourbon, he hooks it under his face covering and pulls it up until he can connect the glass to his lips and take down a sip as his Adam’s apple bobs in a swallow.

On the way back, his thumb drags the fabric back to its previous position as if nothing had happened. The image of pale skin and stubble sticks with you, and your eyes shift away quickly without you realizing it as the glass is returned to the counter.

“Well, Simon Riley,” you mutter, “welcome to nowhere.”

The man hums, eyes looking you over in a single glance before the gaze shifts to the wall behind your head. He says nothing, and the door opens to the next three familiar customers as you move to take their order. As you slip out from behind the barrier, you grumble under your breath before you slip past Simon to the corner booth.

“For the record, Riley, I do enjoy seein’ that old place getting taken on. Don’t run it into the ground, would you? And if you need a fresh coat of paint, for the love of all things holy, don’t go down to the Schafersons’ place, you come right to me.”

Walking casually, you greet the three ladies from the downtown library with a smirk and an easy comment about if their husbands knew they were out so late, to which you promptly got cursed out on good faith. Sharing a few chuckles, you get them started on what they need, all the while feeling those brown orbs now following subtly from the side of their sockets, intrigued.

Simon wasn’t sure what to make of you, and the same could be said about this town as a whole. A woman with such a future trapped behind her eyes, adventure in her blood, why were you here in a place with nothing promised for it except dying businesses and old faces? This was a place where people came to hang up the coat, not try and rip it off of its peg.

The children born here with ambitions leave, that was the common denominator. Even Simon could see that. But you? Here you were.

The man peels his eyes away, taking up his glass again and re-hooking his thumb to his mask. Amber liquid seeps into his mouth, pulling the scars on his lips and cheeks as he swallows it down as easily as water. The bourbon pools in his stomach, sending its honied effects to the back of his mind; it would take much more to get drunk, but that wasn’t what Simon was looking for.

Perhaps he was just out tonight wondering why he’d left the military for a mechanic’s job and come out here—asking anything for a sign that this was the right decision even as his head echoed with the screams and the gunfire.

And then he’d seen you standing in front of the fuckin’ worst mechanics shop he’d ever seen that he’d signed the property deed for not three hours ago. Hell, he hadn’t even looked at the place before buying it—Price was responsible for the official financial actions, and the man had made him swear that it was worth it.

But fuck, he’d just needed a way out of the city. Too loud, too unpredictable in that previous shop of theirs right by the busy street. MacTavish and Garrick had been easy to convince; they’d all served together before and had no family over here either.

A new start thousands upon thousands of miles away.

Your head pulls up from where you chat with the librarians, hearing the slam of the door as the draft wafts in from outside—a small breeze has picked up.

Inside walks in your very ruffled, and very well-pleased, coworker, Celina Bell.

She brushes down her top and black skirt, blinking around with blown pupils until her eyes lock on you. A poisonous smile meets your eyes as you raise a brow slowly—Lord, if this girl didn’t realize that fucking your Ex over some workplace squabble wasn’t something to be proud of, she was really a lost cause.

Simon only glances over his shoulder before turning back around and tapping his fingers against his glass absentmindedly.

“You alright?” You ask out of due diligence, sparing the ladies an apology look for them being interrupted.

“Better than alright,” Celina chuckles, walking over with a limp in her step. “Just scored Graham Whitaker.” She fake pauses, blinking as if in realization that a child would know was taking the piss. Your face is stuck in the expression of boredom. “Wait…you two were involved for a few years, right? Oh, I’m really sorry—I had no clue.”

“Yeah,” you look her up and down and blink at the disheveledness. “Sure. Quite the score.” A pause, her lips pulling back into that smug smirk that reminds you of a weasel. Yet your next words leave her face devoid of blood. “You know he got Chlamydia from Stacy Green a week ago, right?”

A pin could be heard dropping. Brown eyes are firmly stuck to the scene, unsure what to make of it. The ladies stifle their laughter.

“...W-what?”

“Y’know,” you motion a hand to her lower body, walking past her back to the bar. “STD. Chlamydia. Results in—”

“I know what the fuck an STD is, you bitch.”

“Woah,” you whistle, “language.” Your body returns to the counter as loud stuttering is left behind you, the frantic patting of a pocket to look for a phone before enraged feet rush to the exit. “Need a refill, Riley?”

“It can wait,” Simon utters slowly. The door slams shut.

You chuckle, shrugging. “Alright, suit yourself.”

The man takes the names you drop and files them away, slotting them into his mental database for when he needs to work with these people. Yet, there’s already a sour impression just off of comments alone. Who better to get your news from than a bartender?

You know everyone's dirty little secrets.

You diligently serve the drinks to the librarians, placing them down carefully before Simon once more has a re-filled glass of his drink. He moves it slightly up in a cheer and gives you a stare as you wipe your hands with a clean rag.

“Seems you know everything ‘round ‘ere.” His accent is what draws you in, and you find yourself eager to hear more from him.

“I’m easy to talk to,” you respond, shrugging and leaning on the counter a foot or two away as you both watch the other. A smirk overtakes your features. “And I am the one that gives people the drinks.”

“So, what I’m hearing,” Simon raises a brow. “Is that you get ‘em dunker than a man on his execution date.”

You click your tongue, tilting your head in a teasing manner while maintaining a serious face.

“Afraid you’ll spill your secrets, Riley?”

His eyes flash at you, and his lips flicker into a smirk you can hear in his voice.

“It’ll take more than two glasses of Bourbon to get me talking, Sunshine.”

Your face shifts away, but the sudden fight with a smile leaves you nearly breathless.

Who is this man?

“Why are you here,” your question meets his ears as he takes back the last of his drink, stomach filled for the night and his searching, for the moment, abated.

The glass meets the bar top.

He grunts. “Needed a drink.”

Your lips pull in annoyance. “You know what I mean. You’re terrible at answering questions.”

“Hm, maybe.”

“Fuck off,” you grumble, shaking your head as a low chuckle makes your insides swirl.

A stack of bills is placed on the counter, and the man stands, grabbing the hood of his black sweatshirt and pulling it up. His gloved hands go to the pockets of his leather jacket with a roll of his wide shoulders. From under the hood, the white of the painted mask glares out from under the shadows that now shroud him.

You both sneak a glance at the mechanic's shop—a clear view from the front window.

“See you around, then?” Your head is tilted at him, blinking. You hum under your breath. “I’m going to keep asking you why you showed up in this town, Riley, and I won’t stop until I get an answer.”

Simon quirks a brow, eyes glinting with interest. When was the last time someone had spoken to him like this outside of his boys?

“Look forward to it,” he utters slowly. With a blink and one more dead look, he’s already out the front door and walking back down the street—disappearing like a ghost the same way he had appeared.

Picking up his cash and counting through it, the librarians across the way snicker, and one calls out, “So, the new mechanic, huh?”

“One more peep and I’m doubling your tab.”

But…you did have to admit, he had been charming…hadn’t he? At least someone here could juggle your attitude.

—

Three days pass with no sighting of Simon Riley, but just because you didn’t see him doesn’t mean you weren’t witness to his aftermath.

The shop across the street was practically fixed up while you were asleep.

Where there had been overgrown grass, there was now a cut lawn getting watered by the reach of an angry sprinkler. The fast movement of the spray reaches the sidewalk that was, somehow, still there under all that trash hiding away like a criminal. Stray bricks are gone and stacked into a pile as you pause outside the bar, staring wide-eyed with your breath caught in your throat in the late morning air.

The ivy over your mural was peeled back—that faded wolf’s gaze locking with yours, unyielding to the calls of time as its canid body stool as a silent sentinel.

But, on the third day, as you’re going on break before the night sets in, you manage to not only see Simon again but meet two of the other men who’d moved here.

You pick up your feet and jog across the street, hopping the curb as you blink, impressed at the open garage with its fixed and oiled bay door. Inside it was still dusty—remnants of what was left behind in the corners and scattered. But it was getting there. Quickly.

“Didn’t know Simon was goin’ to sign on such a piece of rusted shite—where’s the fuckin’ outlets?” Gritted Scottish. You stick your hands into your pockets and enter the large opening.

“If I remember,” you speak, finding the two men standing slightly off to the side as the bulkier one with a mohawk carries a series of extension cords. Cobalt and brown eyes dart to you in shock—the second man of darker complexion sharing a glance with the other in swift confusion. “When you manage to find them, they’ll all be burst.”

Blank stares are sent your way.

“Kids would come by and watch ‘em spark when they were bored. No one really cared enough to stop them.” A clearing of a throat meets your ears as you study the room more.

It was small, with only one main garage for all the repairs, but that wasn’t new to you. The motorcycles were, though.

Five in total all parked and resting next to one another near the back wall, all in varying shades of black and gray. Your lips twitch at the sight, imagining your late-night acquaintance riding one of them—you dare say that it fit him quite well, and you weren’t that surprised at all by this.

Biker mechanics. It fits the script.

“Who’s this then?” The Scot asks you, raising a brow as a friendly smirk pulls his mouth up. “Can’t remember bookin’ any repairs today, Ma’am, might have to wait a few more days before we get it all up and runnin’.”

“I can see. No, I work just across the street,” you spare a friendly smile.

“So you’re the bartender? The bartender.” The second man speaks, grinning kindly as he searches through a toolbox on a small table. He hums, looking playful. “So that’s why Ghost was gone so long.”

Ghost…? Did they mean Simon?

The skeletal accents suddenly make far more sense.

“Johnny MacTavish,” A hand is leveled out ahead of you, and you take it casually with a muttering of your own name. “Soap’s just fine as well.”

Your brow quirks, but you only share an amused nod.

The other individual stands and makes his way over, tall and leaner as to where Soap’s more blatant strength is.

“Kyle Garrick—Gaz. Pleasure.”

“Just came over to introduce myself,” your hand shifts back into your pockets as you motion with your head back to the bar. “I’m on my break.”

“Ah,” Soap’s hands move the cables he holds as he loops them into a more storable shape vertically around his elbow and palm. “Last one to meet then is Price—man’s in town gettin’ lunch for us,” he grunts under his breath. “Hopefully a damn set of zip-ties, too.”

“Zip-ties, Mate?” Gaz breathes a chuckle with a fix of the backward ball cap on his head. “C-4 would bloody help more. At least then we can have a clean starting point.”

“I think we’re fresh out of C-4, unfortunately,” you huff a laugh, motioning around as the men smirk at you, Johnny snorting a chuckle. “You guys have done a pretty good job so far. I can’t remember when it looked this nice in here.”

“Well, we’re honored, Bonnie,” Soap tilts his head as he ties off the cord with one of the ends. “Makin’ me blush.”

“If Simon had just looked at the place before buying it, we might have been able to open sooner.” Gaz huffs, thinning his lips as he glances over the broken window and the peeling paint—the door to the main lobby that has a punched dent in it. “Couldn’t be worse.”

“Well then it can only get better,” you breathe, shrugging.

Gaz huffs affectionately. “Not wrong there, then.”

You lean forward, tilting your head. “You’ll find I rarely am.”

“Second time you’ve snuck on,” a Manchester accent scares you once more, head snapping to the side as the light spills in from the garage opening. “This a pattern, Sunshine?”

Simon’s brows are raised as those October eyes lock with yours. Gaz and Soap share a look, smirking before the Scot peels off to find a place to store his belongings.

“Where have you been?” Gaz asks as you glare at the masked man for once again coming up behind you.

A bag is presented, leaning off three fingers as a glance gets thrown past you.

“Down the street. Needed these made.” The bag is tossed and Kyle catches it easily.

You watch as the crinkly plastic is opened and the dark fabric of four black pairs of overalls is produced, each embroidered with their respective names.

“What’s wrong with the old ones?” Johnny pipes up, brows furrowed.

“Looks like you got fuckin’ mugged in ‘em.” Simon slides his attention back to you as Johnny curses with a glint of amusement in his blues.

“Aren’t open yet.” Your face peels back to a stiff annoyance.

“I can see that, Riley.” You motion to the other men. “I was being polite.”

He grunts while walking past, muttering through a brief smirk, “Doubt that.”

Your jaw slackens, but you only growl and hold your tongue as you glance the mechanic over. He still had his leather jacket, but a loose shirt took the place of a hoodie.

“You ready to answer my question?” Simon locks those eyes with yours from over his shoulder before sliding up to the black form of one of the motorcycles.

Visible to the naked eye, you take in the lack of fairings around the frame—eyeing the pure black metal of the entire engine from any angle that you might move to you’d still be able to see. It was nice. Perfect, even; damn expensive too. While the thought was enticing, you can’t imagine Simon riding it—he seemed more rugged, more…classy.

“Negative.” You roll your eyes, but Soap speaks before you can retort.

“Finally takin’ out the CB1000R, Ghost? ‘Bout time.” The brute throws a blank look at the Scot as Gaz utters to you a few feet away before a casual ‘no’ is leveled out through the space.

“He got it months ago,” Kyle’s eyes crinkle. “Can’t seem to take it out for a ride yet. No one knows what he’s waiting on.”

“Can’t say I blame him,” your words confide. “It’s beautiful.”

“It was a fucking fortune—no use collecting dust is what I say.” You hum, shifting back to Simon who taps the seat of the CB1000R before moving past it to an older cruiser with dents and dirt along the sides. This was more him you thought. Rugged and more dated than the first; something you use on long rides to nowhere.

“Maybe he’s just waiting for a special occasion,” you guess.

“Better get on with it.” Gaz moves away with a shrug and a huff.

Your lips pull in a small smile, and you watch Simon pull keys from his jacket and insert them as he moves to straddle the larger body of the cruiser, easing into it slowly. Staring, you think about how far that bike could take you—what you could see with it on the open road of possibilities and whipping air. Where would you go? Anywhere. Anywhere and everywhere.

Eyes shifting away from the motorcycle, they widen as they softly meet Simon’s own—locked for a moment in a staring contest. His lids barely pull down, studying something. You clear your throat and exhale.

Sensing your company was most likely a hindrance at this point, you turn to leave as the engine flares—you wave easily behind your back with a call of well-wishes.

“Come have a drink one time, boys, yeah? I need stories that come from strangers for once.” A ruckus of ‘affirmatives’ and ‘will do, Ma’ams’ sparks up from Johnny and Kyle as you exit to the roar of the motorcycle behind you, your feet kicking a stray rock into the grass before you make it to the curb.

Before you can cross, a steel body blocks your path.

“I’ll be needing a drink later tonight, then.” Simon watches from atop his seat, one booted foot to the ground to steady himself as he comes to a slow halt. His fingers curl the handles, twitching.

“Let me guess,” you tilt your head, smirking, “Bourbon?”

“A woman after my own heart,” he draws numbly, October browns as dead as mulch. As dead as dirt.

“And do you have a heart, Simon Riley?” You question, blinking at him as your mind tells you to walk away. Your brain doesn’t need a repeat of Graham—you already had enough problems on your plate right now besides some attraction to this stranger. This push and pull made your heart jerk, even when you know it shouldn’t.

You’d only just met him.

The man hums, thighs shifting on the black metal frame. He says the easiest answer he can.

“A cold one.”

Pushing on the ground, he takes off down the road back into the main town for whatever errand he was on this time. Your eyes follow until the figure is no more than a memory of the smell of oil and the metallic tinge of caution.

—

You hated the smell of cigarette smoke.

Like a pregnant woman’s aversion to the scent of meat, you grew nauseous at the very hint of cheap tobacco and paper on the air—loathed the burn of it. It had to do with your Ex, of course. The man had been a habitual chain smoker, lighting up one after the other until you had to leave his house entirely to puke on the front lawn. If you thought about it hard enough, you could still taste the ash on your tongue from when he kissed you after lighting up.

But that was only one of the reasons you’d never moved in with him despite being together for years—the cheating was the other problem.

Girl after girl, broken promise after broken promise, you’d still held onto him as if he deserved it. Hell, all that Graham Whitaker deserved were the copious amounts of STDs he probably had after sleeping with as many women as he could to try and get back at you. You didn’t have ample reason to ban him from the bar—him or his loud-mouth friends, you should say—so the problem, like a bad rash, persisted. Cars following you after work and all.

But, the here, the now.

Simon had, in fact, come in for that drink that night—just as he had for the last week up until the grand opening of the boys’ shop. You’d both spoken throughout these encounters and formed some sarcastic and sly-looked bond that the other locals couldn’t understand. You had even learned about his military service.

The both of you were just…different, people said. No one else really argued with it.

You finally met John Price before the party that you’d heard from Simon that Soap and Gaz had been eager to host for the town—‘come meet the bastards that bought that old shitty building and see how they fixed it up all by themselves. You should come and give us your money.’

It was there that a proposal was offered.

“Simon says you told him to come to you about paint.” John was late thirties, keeping a well-trimmed beard with a mustache that was the same shade of brunette as his head of hair. Tall, as well as built, he had found you as you were closing up the bar early for the town-wide party, Celina having already slipped out.

You were dressed in a long skirt and a nice shirt for the occasion.

“John Price, I’d imagine,” you comment, stuffing your keys into your pocket as your purse hangs from your shoulder. A throaty grunt tells you all you need to know as you move down the step. “Yeah, I did say that. Do you need some?” You look over his shoulder to the still peeling color on the outside of the bricks as the men are dragging out folding chairs and long tables. There was the clatter of laughter and loud calls.

John’s blue eyes shift behind him, and he raises a brow slowly.

“Thinkin’ we’d just hire you,” a side-eye. “If you’d be interested.”

That was a surprise.

You begin walking across the street, the man beside you and awaiting your answer.

“Hire me?” Your voice asks, but you aren’t against the idea. “How do you know I’ll be any good at it,” you chuckle in question.

“Simon says he found your initials next to the mural—the wolf.” Your feet pause, stuttering for a second before you catch yourself. The blood on your face stops its circulation in shock. “Not a bad piece, then.” John grunts. “...Think you can do a skull and wings?”

So, you sat with your sketchbook in front of the wall, a portable camping chair below your bare feet as your legs folded under you. Your slip-on sneakers rest in the green grass, kicked off with a sigh. Blinking, the chatter and mumble from the party surround you in a sheen of community and calmness. You can pinpoint every voice, every story being re-told as if new news when it goes in one ear and out the other like a breeze on the wind.

Humming under your breath as the sun is low in the sky, you hear the silent feet still from over your shoulder. A smirk flickers your lips.

“Snooping, Riley?”

“My building.” He grumbles, “Seein’ what you plan to do to it.”

You snort, looking over your shoulder and smiling. “If I recall, you’re the one who took up my offer and told Price about it.”

Simon was dressed in cargos and a compression shirt pushed up to his elbows, the swell of his forearms on full display along with the scars and…tattoos. You blink at them, the swirl of black skulls and guns; barbed wire and dog tags—the dark images that fit him as his motorcycles did on his left limb. Brown eyes flicker from yours to the painted wolf.

“Good at that,” the man says, balaclava shifting.

Your expression slowly shifts to something far softer than you can remember it ever being; inside of your chest, your heart tightens.

“Thank you.”

He levels you, the corners of his eyes easing out of the numb nothingness to show something akin to shielded affection. Molten sunlight on the side of his face, making the color of his irises glow amber. Simon nods to your sketchbook, clearing his throat.

“I able to see it, then, or is it some secret?” You huff.

“Come here,” your hand motions, palm brushing away eraser shavings as your fingers get stained with graphite. The shadow comes closer, leaning over you as the scent of oil pools in your gut. You blink at the side visage, swiftly looking back down to your sketchbook as a slight wind ruffles your skirt.

“Price was talking about a skull with wings beside it—later on he made mention of a sword through the top.” While you explain the concept, you inadvertently study the tattoos on the flesh beside you, one scarred hand coming out to lightly grab the armrest of your chair as Simon leans even closer.

As your face begins burning, breath caught in your throat, he blinks down at the image as he looms, head tilting.

Simon breathes, chest rising and falling as his eyes go far off. You know the symbol means something, though you also have a good guess that it’s related to this group’s time in the service.

He hums, and you see his lips open, the rough grate of his vocal cords as he begins to form words for you.

“It’s—”

Your name is loudly called from across the way, both Simon’s and your heads snapping back as you both realize exactly how close you two have become. The stealing of the other’s warmth like wraiths of hidden longing ceases when you wrench your attention to the man you wished would leave you alone.

Graham raises the dark bottle of a cheap beer from the dollar store in your direction, walking over. Now, your Ex wasn’t anything spectacular, but even you had to admit it was the best you could do around here if you didn’t want to date men only five years from the grave. Graham was tall, strong, and heavy-willed like a bear. In the day hours, he worked as a farmhand down the way.

Your body tenses, eyes going tight. Simon sees.

“Who’s this,” he asks slowly, fingers twitching.

“Ex,” you mutter, grimacing. “He’s going to make a scene.”

Already gazes had started drifting over, conversations lapsing into mute silence as orbs shifted to three different individuals all stuck in the same storm.

Simon grunts, standing up to his full height and crossing his arms over his chest, legs shifting below him and thighs trading weight. His moving leaves half of you kept firmly behind him and your eyes study his stance as you notice that fact. You blink, and feel something stir in your ribcage, blooming like a flower.

“Hey, Bartender!” Graham takes a cigarette out of his pocket and lights it as his fingers fumble over the neck of the bottle. “Though I’d seen you over here missing all the action. Nothing’s changed I see.”

Your face pulls in with disgust.

“Graham, you’re drunk. Go home.” It was true—his words were slurring, his limbs loose with drink. He smirks at you, taking a drag of his cancer stick and puffing it directly at you. Your hand snaps to your nose to try and cover the horrendous smell.

“Nah,” he breathes. “I’m here with Celina, see’s a pretty nice lookin’ broad don’t you think? Not as good of a fuck as you, but, hey, I take what I get.” His expression shifts to hidden anger and Simon takes a heavy step forward before he can finish the rest of his sentence, hands shifting to grasp his biceps harder. Those browns simmer with low ferality—a warning.

The air gets heavy.

“Pretty good little lie you spread about me gettin’ that shit from Stacy.”

“That was a lie?” You drawl lazily and watch your Ex’s eyes flash with rage. But he should know you don’t take shit from him anymore. “Oh,” your fingers tighten over your flesh and make you sound stuffy. “Maybe I heard wrong, you’re right. You don’t have Chlamydia.” You glare. “It was Gonorrhea, wasn’t it?”

“Bitch!” Graham barks, moving forward, but before anyone can realize it, Simon already has him shoved back with a stone-like push to your Ex’s chest.

“Not smart, Mate.” The former soldier utters, arms falling back to his sides. The party by this point had entirely halted in sharp gasps and bated breath.

Graham’s beer bottle shatters as it hits the ground, the grass not able to absorb the way it slams down to dirt. Your wide eyes stay stuck on Simon’s figure, who’s now entirely hiding your view of your Ex—the wide expansive back that shows the writhe of his shoulder blades and how his spine shifts under the tight shirt.

Your hand lowers from your face.

“What the fuck?!” Graham spits. “You made me drop my fucking drunk, man!”

“Be thankful that was all, yeah?” Simon’s dead voice is a cold chill on a winter evening. Any sane person would turn and leave immediately. “Cut your losses.”

No one breaths for a long minute, and you can see the other new mechanics inching closer from the sides. All of the locals are deep into the scene, fingers to their lips in surprise. There’s going to be talk tomorrow—the bar will be busy.

“Graham,” you try to sway the pig-headed man once more from behind Simon. “Go home.”

“So this is what I get,” your Ex spits, head trying to peek over the larger man’s frame to look at you. Simon’s hands clench into tight fists. “I’m with you for years and this is how you treat me? I gave you everything!”

“Those are years that I never want to think about again,” you say with a stiff finality. “And it’ll be a cold day in hell before you ever see me worrying about where you are or who you fuck.”

Knowing that the situation is over and done with, Simon takes a single step forward and leans into the man.

“You heard ‘er,” he levels, unblinking. “Scatter.” Simon’s accent made it sound more like a threat, but maybe it was.

Graham growls and takes a long drag from his cigarette, staring Simon down.

“Fuck you, you piece of shit.” But all he does is turn sharply on his heel and stomp away, crossing the street to his truck before he opens and closes the door with a violent slam. From across the way, Celina gasps and calls his name, but the engine has already started and Graham is down the road with a roar from the exhaust.

Everyone is watching you and Simon, and the staring peels back your skin until Simon grumbles and grabs your arm.

Blinking in shock, he only gives you a moment to steady yourself and slip on your shoes before he drags you inside the garage. You huff and look up at him as you close your sketchbook–trying to not look at those tattoos again. Your finger wanted to trace them—to study the ink down to the layer of skin where it ended and became red flesh and weeping veins. How far up his left arm did they go? Did they only stay at his forearm, or up to his shoulder?

Inside he lets you go, head slightly tilted to the outside as the sounds of hushed whispering pick back up; hurried and filled with electricity. Simon grunts, blinking.

A heated silence encompasses the two of you, and as your eyes lock, neither can speak for a moment.

“Sorry about that,” you glance at your feet. “Should have guessed he’d show up and do something.”

“Don’t apologize,” Simon crosses his arms again, boots righting themselves. “That’s not your fault that some bastard can’t act right, yeah? Forget about it, it’s all nothing.”

“You shouldn’t have to be involved—”

“Bloody cut it out, would you?” Simon glares, brows pulling in. “I said it’s nothing.”

He was very passionate about this, it seemed.

You sigh, shaking your head before a tiny chuckle makes the mechanic blink in confusion. “Suppose I can call you my guard dog now, huh?”

“Piss off,” you laugh, covering your mouth with your hand while your eyes narrow down. Simon's own crinkle along the edges, lowering his hands to push them into his pockets.

A second leads into another, but neither of you has any particular interest in re-joining the others, even if Soap is smugly passing looks and Price smirks into his drink. Gaz fixes his hat while he tips back a beer bottle, hiding a glint of amusement.

Simon’s voice lowers, seeming to hover closer.

“You alright, then?” You nod, face heating up as you stare at his shadow-tainted visage and how the face-covering obscured him from your eager eyes.

“I’m used to his drama. I have no problem giving it back.” Simon hums, October browns glinting like Halloween lights.

“Seems so.” He pauses, and pushes out a joking, “Not surprised, Sunshine.”

“Good, Brown-Eyes,” you lean back on your heels and smirk. “I’d be offended if you were, with all we’ve been talking to one another.”

“Getting familiar, Bartender?”

“Of course, Mechanic. Haven’t you heard?” He tilts his head, prodding you on as his eyes soften that candle-like smidge. “I keep everyone’s secrets—and you still have to tell me yours.”

Simon chuffs a low chuckle, and the fabric of his mask pulls as he shakes his skull. “Maybe one day, yeah? Need to stick ‘round to know ‘em.”

Then perhaps this town was worth wasting away in.

—

“Bastard won’t cause any problems, will he?”

“No, no, he’s too much of a coward to try and get back at anyone. He won’t do anything.”

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mxnsterbabe · 7 months

Text

Male Troll/Female Reader SFW Wordcount: 3,343 Tags & Warnings: plus size monster Part One (here) | Part Two (coming soon!) Commissions | Ko-fi | Masterlist

You’re an escort, but the last thing you expected was to fall for your favourite client.

You pause outside the sleek facade of the restaurant, the cool evening air caressing your skin. Glancing at your phone one last time, you scroll through Sorrel's profile, absorbing every detail. Sorrel, an unusual name for an even more unusual client.

Trolls rarely make their way into the heart of the city, preferring the solitude of their natural dwellings. Yet here you are, about to meet one for dinner in one of the most upscale places in town.

Your job often demands a chameleon-like ability to adapt, to mould yourself into whatever your clients desire. A laugh here, a sympathetic nod there, all performed with the ease of a well-rehearsed play.

Sorrel's request is refreshingly simple: just company, and above all, authenticity. It's both refreshing and daunting. How long has it been since you were asked to simply be yourself?

Taking a deep breath, you tuck your phone away. Your reflection in the restaurant's glass doors gives you a moment's pause—a young woman, elegantly dressed, poised on the edge of an unfamiliar encounter.

With a final steadying breath, you push the door open and step into the warm, amber-lit interior.

A pretty waitress, with a smile as polished as the cutlery, guides you through the restaurant when you enter. The beauty of the place unfolds around you; all soft lighting and hushed tones. Chandeliers cast a golden glow over tables draped in pristine white linen, each adorned with delicate glassware and silver.

The murmur of conversation blends with the gentle clinking of dishes, and soft, classical music plays. It doesn’t strike you as the kind of place a troll would like; they’re known for their love of natural living, not fine-dining.

As you take in the opulence, a flutter of self-consciousness washes over you. The elegance of your surroundings makes you feel suddenly underdressed, and you can't help but wonder about Sorrel. The cost of dining here must be astronomical; does he intend to make a statement, perhaps to showcase you as a trophy of his affluence?

As you approach the booth, you see him. Sorrel is a striking figure, a hulking presence that commands the space around him. His mossy green hair, a wild, natural crown, complements the dense fur that covers his body. His eyes, sharp and discerning, fix on you, and there's an intelligence in his gaze that belies the brutish stereotype of his kind. Despite the tailored suit that strains slightly against his muscular frame, there's no disguising the power in his broad shoulders, the soft curve of his belly. The suit, while elegant, seems almost a concession to human norms, doing little to mask his inherent, rugged appeal.

A wave of unexpected attraction washes over you, stirring a flush of excitement in your stomach. It's an odd sensation, this pull towards someone so different.

Gathering your composure, you slide into the booth, the soft leather cool against your skin. The space between you and Sorrel crackles with an energy as you offer a gentle smile.

"Hello," you begin, your voice well-rehearsed. You're acutely aware of your posture, the calculated tilt of your head, the practiced smile. Sorrel asked for authenticity, but it’s difficult when faced with such an imposing man.

Sorrel's response, however, is not what you anticipate. His voice, deep and resonant, carries a gentleness that seems at odds with his formidable appearance. "Good evening," he rumbles, his sharp eyes softening. "I hope the night finds you well."

As he speaks, the tension in your shoulders begins to ebb. There's a sincerity in his words, a vulnerability that peeks through the confident exterior.

With a smile, you turn to the menu. You hesitate, the array of exquisite dishes foreign and intimidating. There are a lot of words, and a lot of words that you don’t understand.

Maybe sensing your uncertainty, Sorrel leans in. His hands brush against yours, and the warmth of him makes you shiver..

"The risotto is my favourite. The salmon, too - it’s this one here, at the bottom."

You glance up at him, face flushed. You’ve been on countless escort jobs, and it’s always just been that. A job. Yet, as you soak in Sorrel’s warmth, his fur tickling your palm, something stirs inside you.

The words stick in the back of your throat as a waitress arrives. All you can do is nod in agreement as Sorrel makes a suggestion, and the waitress departs with your order.

There's a lull in the conversation, a moment of silence as you take in the man before you. "I must admit," you find yourself saying, breaking the quiet with a nervous laugh, "I didn't expect someone like you to be in a place like this." The words are out before you can stop them, and a flush of embarrassment warms your cheeks. "I mean, I made assumptions based on... well, what I thought I knew about trolls. I'm sorry."

Sorrel's laughter, rich and warm, fills the space between you. "No offense taken," he assures, his smile genuine. "I often find myself frequenting these types of restaurants. The same way the forest holds its charm, so does a well-crafted dish or a beautifully composed piece of music."

"I've not had the chance to dine in places as grand as this very often," you admit with a laugh, the restaurant's opulence still wrapping around you like a soft blanket. "It's a rare treat. You must do quite well for yourself, Sorrel. What is it that you do?"

Sorrel sets his glass down, the light catching the deep green of his eyes. "I left my clan some years ago," he begins, his voice solemn now. "We had... differing views on how to engage with the expanding human world. I believed in integration, in finding a way to coexist beneficially."

You lean in, captivated by his story, the depth of his conviction. "So, what did you do?"

"I started my own company," he says, a hint of pride in his voice. "We specialize in eco-friendly construction materials. It sounds dull, I know, but it’s something I care about."

Your chest flutters. "That's incredible," you respond, genuinely impressed. "Although, I’m sorry about your family.

He shrugs. “Don’t be, it’s been a long time since I’ve been back home.”

The arrival of the meal serves as a delicious interruption, and the garlicky, savoury smell makes your mouth water. The risotto you chose under Sorrel's recommendation is creamy and rich, with the earthy aroma of truffles enveloping you. Sorrel's salmon is presented with an artistry that matches the taste, the fish's delicate flesh flaking at the touch of his fork.

"This is incredible," you murmur, savouring each bite, your previous apprehensions about the evening melting away with the flavors on your tongue.

Sorrel smiles, watching you with a contented gaze that makes your heart flutter. "I'm glad you're enjoying it."

You smile, delving in, beginning to forget that this isn’t a real date. As you eat, the conversation meanders from the culinary arts to travel, to the hidden corners of the world each of you dreams of exploring. He’s a traveller, like you, although he’s visited places you could never dream of.

As the main course plates are cleared away, Sorrel suggests a dessert to share, a classic tiramisu that promises to be as light as air. When it arrives, you both lean in, the spoon Sorrel hands you brushing against his, sending a spark of electricity through you. You scoop a small portion, the dessert's creamy layers dissolving instantly on your tongue, and you can't help but close your eyes in appreciation.

"Good?" Sorrel asks, his voice low and tinged with amusement.

"More than," you reply, opening your eyes to find his gaze lingering on you with an intensity that quickens your pulse.

It's easy, in the soft lighting and over the shared sweetness of dessert, to forget the nature of how this evening came to be.

It's only when the waiter discreetly presents the bill that reality nudges you back into your role. Sorrel doesn't hesitate, reaching for his wallet with a grace that belies his size.

"How would you prefer the payment?" he asks, his tone casual but with a hint of something more, perhaps a reluctance for the evening to end in such a transactional manner.

The question jolts you back to the present, a reminder of the professional boundary that, for a fleeting moment, had seemed all but erased. "A bank transfer would be fine, thank you," you manage to say, your voice steady despite the way your stomach twists.

As you stand to leave, the warmth of the restaurant's ambiance contrasts sharply with the cool detachment now settling over you. Sorrel escorts you to the exit, his presence as reassuring as it is imposing.

At the doorway, you turn to him, the night air cool on your skin. "Thank you, Sorrel, for a truly wonderful evening," you say, sincerity lacing your words.

"Thank you," he replies, and something like regret flickers in his eyes.

On impulse, you rise on your toes and place a gentle kiss on his cheek. It's a small gesture, but it carries the weight of all the evening's revelations, his fur soft against your neck.

“Goodbye, Sorrel.”

“Goodbye. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

As you part ways, the night swallowing his towering figure, you're left with a warmth that no chill can dispel. The memory of the evening, of Sorrel, lingers like a sweet aftertaste, leaving you wondering just how you’re supposed to forget about him.

***

A week slips by, quieter than usual, leading you to pick up part-time shifts at a local hotel to fill the gaps. The monotony of the days contrasts sharply with the vivid memory of your evening with Sorrel, which lingers no matter how much you try to forget.

When a new request pops up on the escort site from Sorrel, your heart leaps. The anticipation, the unexpected thrill of seeing him again, infuses your routine with a newfound energy. Preparations for your meeting are made with a care and attention you hadn't realized you'd been missing.

The park chosen for your rendezvous is entirely different to the opulent restaurant of your first encounter. As the evening draws in, the tranquility of the park, with its towering trees and the soft murmur of the evening breeze, soothes your nerves.

You spot Sorrel at the agreed-upon spot, his imposing figure somehow at peace among the natural surroundings. Today, he’s wearing a more casual fitted black shirt that hugs his generous curves.

His face lights up as he sees you approach, a genuine smile spreading across his features.

"It's wonderful to see you again," he greets, his voice carrying a warmth that wraps around you like a comforting embrace.

"The feeling's mutual, Sorrel," you reply, your own smile reflecting your genuine happiness. "I wasn't sure if you'd... well, want to meet again."

"Why wouldn't I?" he asks, his tone laced with genuine confusion and a hint of amusement. "Our last evening together was more enjoyable than I've had in a long time. I've been looking forward to this all week."

Your heart flutters at his words. It’s your job, you know, to be liked - but hearing it from him sends a thrill through you.

"I'm glad,” you say. “I've thought a lot about our last, er, date."

Sorrel's gaze softens, the park's gentle evening light casting a serene glow over his features. "I've found myself doing the same. There's a simplicity in your company, a peace I've come to... crave."

The admission hangs between you. It's clear that the bond formed over that dinner has only deepened with time, but you have to wonder if this feels all a little too real.

"Would you like to take a walk?" Sorrel suggests, gesturing to the winding path that leads deeper into the park.

"I'd like that," you agree, and together, you begin to walk. You link an arm through his, enjoying how big and sturdy he is. It’s difficult to resist the urge to lean in close, soaking up the scent of his cologne.

The park around you is quiet, the occasional rustle of leaves and distant sounds of the city the only interruptions to the silence.

As you walk alongside Sorrel, the proximity and the gentle brush of his hand against yours send ripples of excitement through you. Each step seems to synchronize with the beating of your heart, a rhythm that echoes the growing closeness between you. The thrill of all surprises you, and you find yourself leaning deeper against his plush side.

The small talk that fills the air between you is comfortable, and you find yourself eagerly listening to Sorrel’s deep, rumbling voice. You chat about the park, and the mundane details of your respective weeks. Yet, beneath the surface, there's a tension, as if there’s something more floating beneath the surface.

It's Sorrel who breaks the veil of casual conversation, his voice taking on a more somber tone. "You know, I've always found myself caught between two worlds," he begins, his gaze fixed on the path ahead. "In the city, I'm too troll for most people to understand. Among my own kind, my views, my... aspirations make me an outsider. Too modern for my own kind, but too different for everybody else."

You listen, your heart aching at the vulnerability he's willing to share. The loneliness of his position between two worlds, becomes achingly clear.

"That's part of why I sought your company initially," he continues, his voice barely above a whisper. "I needed to feel understood, even if it was just for a moment, even if it had to be... bought."

The honesty of his admission strikes a chord within you, the professional facade crumbling further with each word.

"Now," Sorrel pauses, taking a deep breath, "my mother is ill. She's asked me to come home."

The weight of his words hangs in the air, heavy with the gravity of his decision. The silence that follows is filled with a thousand unasked questions, each one a reflection of the complexity of his situation and the depth of your concern for him.

"What will you do?" you find yourself asking, the question laden with more than professional curiosity. It's a question born of a connection that's deepened beyond expectation, a genuine concern for his well-being.

Sorrel stops walking, turning to face you. In the fading light, his expression is a mix of resolve and uncertainty, green eyes thoughtful.

"I don't know," he admits, and in that moment, the vulnerability he displays, the raw honesty of his predicament, draws you even closer.

You stay quiet, allowing him a moment to think.

Sorrel's gaze drifts away for a moment, lost in thought, as if he's trying to piece together the puzzle of his future right there in front of you. "I think I need to go back," he says finally, his voice steady but tinged with a hint of resignation. "I want to be there for her, help her heal. She's always been the anchor of our clan, and without her strength..."

He trails off, the weight of his responsibilities, of his love for his family, evident in the pause. "Once she's well, perhaps I'll return to the city. Or perhaps not. The truth is, I don't know where I truly belong."

The vulnerability in his admission, the open-ended nature of his future, pulls at something deep within you. You reach out, almost instinctively, your hand finding his. The touch is electric, and you let out a muffled sigh.

"It sounds like you've got a tough road ahead," you say, your voice soft but full of empathy. "Being there for your family, making sure your mother has everything she needs to recover... it's a beautiful thing to do, Sorrel. It speaks a lot about the kind of person you are."

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and in his eyes, you see a mixture of gratitude and something else, something deeper.

"Thank you," he whispers, and there's a warmth in his voice that wraps around you like a comforting embrace. "For understanding, for... for being here with me now."

The moment stretches between you. So does the quiet. The world around you fades into the background, leaving only the heavy thrum of your pulse in your ears.

"You should do what's best for you," you find yourself saying, your words laced with an unspoken sadness at the thought of his departure. "Your family needs you, and it's clear your heart is with them, too."

Sorrel squeezes your hand gently, a silent acknowledgment of the truth in your words. "I guess I always knew my path would lead me back home, eventually."

A twinge of disappointment tugs at your heart as the reality of Sorrel's impending departure settles in. Despite the professional boundaries you should adhere to, you can't deny the longing that has blossomed between you. Yet, beneath the layers of what-ifs, you find resignation setting in.

As you both resume walking, the conversation gently shifts, weaving through lighter topics. You admit, you’re grateful for the change of topic.

You share stories of your travels, the places Sorrel has been, places you’d love to go.

"I've always wanted to visit Thailand," you mention wistfully, the image of crystal-clear waters and verdant landscapes painting your words. "The culture, the food, the beaches... it seems like a world away from here."

Sorrel listens intently, his interest genuine. "Thailand is beautiful," he agrees, "you should go sometime."

The conversation takes an unexpected turn when Sorrel, with a look of determination, insists on paying you extra for your time. "Consider it a contribution towards your Thailand adventure," he says, his tone brooking no argument.

You hesitate, aghast at the number when you check your bank account. Three-thousand dollars. The offer touching yet tinged with the finality of a parting gift.

"Sorrel, that's too generous, I can't—"

"Please," he interrupts, his voice soft but firm. "Let this be my way of ensuring you get to experience the beauty of the world. You deserve it."

The sincerity in his eyes, coupled with the depth of gratitude you feel, crumbles your resistance. "Thank you," you say, the words barely a whisper, laden with a mix of emotions. "I'll never forget this."

You don’t know what else to say; but as it is, you don’t need to.

As you stand there, on the brink of farewell, Sorrel leans in. His kiss is unexpected but fervently returned as you stand on your toes, arms looping around his wide, plush waist. His lips are firm against yours, nipping at you with a passion that ignites a fire within you, the heat of his touch searing through the cool night air.

The kiss deepens, and for a moment, the world falls away, leaving only the two of you locked together, pulse racing.

As the kiss ends, a lingering warmth remains. You stand there, caught in the afterglow, the night air now charged with longing.

Sorrel's gaze holds yours, a myriad of unspoken words swirling in the depths of his eyes. "This... This was unexpected," he murmurs, the raw honesty in his voice mirroring the vulnerability in his gaze.

You nod, a gentle smile curving your lips despite the ache in your chest. "The best things usually are," you reply, your voice soft, laced with the bittersweet tang of parting.

There's a pause, a moment suspended in time, before you lean in for one final kiss. This one is softer,, a whisper of a goodbye in the brief touch of lips.

With a light-heartedness that feels forced, you step back and offer a playful smile. "Keep in touch, okay?" The words slip out, half in jest, half in hope, even as you understand the impossibility of the request.

Sorrel's smile is tinged with a gentle sadness, an acknowledgment of the unlikelihood of such a promise. "I'll remember this," he says, his voice a low rumble, rich with emotion. "I'll remember you."

You know, from the snippets of his life he's shared, that returning to his clan means stepping away from the world as you know it. The isolation of his people, their disconnection from the modern trappings of communication, almost brings tears to your eyes.

As you part ways, the echo of his final words lingers in your heart. The night wraps around you, and you shudder.

You hope to see him again someday. Somehow, you have the feeling that you will.

#exophilia fiction #exophilia #monster fucker #monster boyfriend #monster romance #monster x reader #tag: mxf #tag: male monster #tag: female reader #tag: sfw #tag: troll #tag: plus size #trying something new bc some people like present tense??#think i'll stick to past tense tbh

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ahedderick · 27 days

Text

Oral History

@quite-quirksome got me thinking about oral history. Some years ago a man who lives nearby and was, at the time, in his late seventies, called me and asked if I would help him with an oral history project. This was more than a little bizarre to me, because, while I've known him all my life (he was a friend of my parents) we weren't exactly close. And he has two or three children? Why did I get elected to the position of transcriptionist? However. I gathered up my son's laptop and went over to his house. We sat for several hour-long sessions while he told the story of how he built his house, Stonestack. I can type rather fast, although not well. I had a lot of editing to do after our sessions.

He had an amazingly sharp recall of every detail of the construction of this house, and was able to tell the story very coherently. At times, however, he'd think of a side story, and go off on a tangent. Those stories were, to my mind, even more interesting. So, for your edification:

Roger at the swimming hole

Growing up on this farm I didn’t have many playmates. Early on in life I always had the interest in building huts. The first was on the back side of Slippery Ridge, a lean-to type structure. My cousin Larry and I dug out some dirt to create a level spot, which was a challenge because the ridge has a 25% grade! But, when you’re ten years old, so what? One day Larry and I had our great friend of a horse Old Roger, a 1600 pound Belgian sorrel, at the hut. Roger stepped on a 4 inch pole we had cut for the lean-to. He went down, rolling downhill and mashing saplings as he went, until he rolled against a larger tree that stopped him. We were in a panic like you never saw, “He must have a broken leg, he acts like he is in pain!” I ran as fast as I could back to the farmhouse to get my older brother Bill and old George M. They grabbed ropes and raced to the lean-to. By then, Roger had gotten up. He was favoring his back leg, but it was okay. We got some none-too-favorable comments from Bill, “Why did you boys have Roger in such a place?!” We walked Roger back to the barn unharmed, with great relief.

Swimming hole

Just below the lean-to is a mountain stream with pools. We created a swimming hole with the addition of some old corrugated tin. The mountain water never seemed to warm up even on the hottest days of summer. It was a great place to hang out under the giant native pines with the blanket of pine needles on the ground next to the swimming hole. There is a birch tree nearby with my initials carved in it in 1953. One day I looked down from my lean-to and some girls were swimming in my swimming hole. “Look, a little boy is up there!” I left the hut and would come back from time to time after that to find the water all cloudy from those older girls using it. The birch tree still stands to this day, the only mark left on this farm of my ten-yr-old self. [note: photo of tree above, the initials are faint, but readable: F G]

Other huts were built, but they were near the farm buildings. Roger, my pal, died at Fort Hill stadium. He and Pattise were pulling a covered wagon in the celebration of Cumberland’s early history called “the Pageant.” The culprit was moldy hay. This was my first experience of real grief, losing something I really loved.

[Note: Old newspaper photo of Roger and Patisse hitched to a parade float.]

After we did the oral history, he took me and my son on a hike to see the site of the old swimming hole and the tree he carved his initials on. As you can imagine, the creek in the photo was beautifully clear and cool.

His house, his son's house, and the barn are all "in" this picture, but hidden by trees or the curve of the hill. It's a three-generation farm, but likely won't have a fourth.

#farmblr #farm #appalachian mountains #appalachia #oral history #the neighbourhood #horses #draft horse #memory #experience

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shadowdaddies · 10 months

Note

hii, can i request something for asterin x reader with the prompt (if its okay, it doesn't have to be exactly like that) :

“whatever you guys say..we were really good at hiding our relationship” “literally all of us knew” “no you didn’t” “we just wanted to see how long you two would manage to keep it up..i must say, that was an extremely entertaining decision”

i found it here: https://www.tumblr.com/jasminesfury/706803574193209344/dating-in-secret-secret-relationship-prompts?source=share

hi!! yay an Asterin prompt🥰 thank you for sending this in, love writing for her💜

Keeping Secrets

Asterin x Reader

You stood in your wyvern’s stall at the warrens - a light smack on your ass turning your attention away from him, towards a head of golden blonde hair that flowed by as Asterin gave you a wink. The two of you had been seeing each other for months, keeping the relationship secret because she was your commanding officer.

The excitement of sneaking around was starting to wane as the relationship became more serious. You were no longer satisfied by pulling Asterin into the nearest closet for time alone - you wanted everyone to know that she was yours.

Later that afternoon before dinner, Asterin pulled you into her room, and you took it as the perfect opportunity to tell her how you felt. This was more than a fling, and it was time to tell your coven members. You opened your mouth to speak, but Asterin spoke first, and that was when you realized how nervous she was - her eyes were searching your expression, hands flexing at her sides as she spoke. “I’ve been thinking...” Asterin paused, taking a deep breath. Your own heart started racing, not sure what she was about to say.

“Ster, what is it?” you whispered, grabbing her hands in yours, dragging her gaze back to yours. She smiled softly at your gesture, squeezing your hands in hers. “I don’t want to be a secret anymore,” she blurted out. “I want to tell the others that we’re together, I want everyone to know that I’m yours and you are mine. I want to be with you. Really be with you.”

A soft laugh bubbled out of you, happy tears pricking your eyes as you pulled Asterin close, leaning your forehead against hers. “I love you, Ster.” Her eyes widened at your admission - it was the first time you had said that to her. Her hands threaded through your hair as she smiled, whispering back, “I love you, too.” You weren’t sure who moved first, but your lips brushed hers, softly at first before the kiss grew heated - both of you suddenly hungry and desperate to be as close to each other as possible.

The door swung open - you and Asterin jumping apart as Sorrel stood in the doorframe, a bored look on her face. Rolling her eyes, she gestured for you to follow. “Come on you two, you’re late for dinner.” You trailed Sorrel down the hall, exchanging nervous glances with Asterin as you entered the dining room.

Sorrel took her seat at the table, but Asterin took your hand, keeping you by her side. You whispered to her, “you sure you’re ready to do this?” She nodded enthusiastically. “I’m sure.” With that, the two of you turned to face the table of witches.

Asterin cleared her throat, gathering everyone’s attention. “Good evening, everyone. We have an announcement to make.” Holding up your joined hands, Asterin continued, “we are in a relationship. We have been for awhile now, and decided that it was time to share that with all of you.”

You anxiously turned towards where Manon lounged in her chair - an amused grin on her face, eyebrow cocked in interest. “Why are you just now announcing this?” she asked with a slight laugh. You stepped in this time. “Because, I love Asterin and wanted you to know that we’re together. I’m sorry we kept it from all of you for so long.”

Sorrel snorted for where she sat, Manon’s eyes flicking to her as she bit back a laugh of her own. Sorrel turned to you. “You thought we didn’t already know?” she asked incredulously. Your face dropped and you turned to Asterin to see her flushed with embarrassment, an equal look of shock on her face. “You knew? Since when?”

Sorrel rolled her eyes. “Since you first hooked up on Solstice. Did you two actually think you were being subtle?” You both stood there, speechless as you nodded awkwardly.

Manon ran a hand through her hair, sighing and shaking her head. “Sit down, both of you. Thank the gods we haven’t assigned you any undercover spy work. You’re about as subtle as a herd of ruks.”

Sliding into your seat, both you and Asterin blushed sheepishly at the comment, keeping her hand in yours for comfort. Sorrel leaned over to look at you. “We’re happy for you both, by the way.” Manon and the others nodded, and your heart swelled as Asterin leaned in to kiss your cheek.

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paraliveimaginesblog · 1 year

Note

Hiii, I really really love your writing, so could I please ask for Yohei: pansy, yellow tulips and sorrel?? I really look forward to anything you write.

Yohei Kanbayashi:

🌻pansy: who likes to tease their s/o the most? how do they react to being teased?

Yohei isn’t big on teasing but if he does see an opportunity to tease you, he won’t deny it. He doesn’t go out of his way to do so but there are some things he can’t help but comment on, that sexy smirk on his face making you feel some type of way even if what he said embarrassed you. Yohei is a little easier to tease and if you’re the type to like a reaction, you’d get a shocked look from him or a cute (in your opinion) eyeroll at you purposely trying to rile him up.

🌻sorrel: do they use any nicknames/pet names for their s/o?

Yohei is pretty standard with nicknames, going with babe or baby depending on the situation (you can tell he’s more in the mood when he used baby). He didn’t use them in front of others, though, preferring to use your name.

🌻yellow tulips: if their s/o is sad, what would they do to make them smile again?

Yohei is good at reality checks but not necessarily good at pep talks. If you’re the kind of person who’s more sensitive he might struggle with picking you up, but he will give it the old college try. It was always nice talking with him, able to get a different viewpoint on life and all the things it threw at you; the world around you was always change but there were some constants you could rely on, and that was him. He promised to do what he could to cheer you up, to be there for you no matter what you needed from him, and to be someone who could anchor you when you felt like your world was tearing apart at the seams.

#Paradox Live #Paralive #Paradox Live Imagines #Paralive Imagines #Paradox Live x Reader #Paralive x Reader #Yohei Kanbayashi #Kanbayashi Yohei #yohei kanbayashi x reader #plant meme

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ro-valerius · 3 months

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Stubborn Streak

Tofu is stubborn and still won't let anyone else help him with his little rat problem. Callum is equally stubborn, and perceptive, and won't let him go alone to face this adversary that had called on him.

Callum and Tofu [featured], and Peach and Tio [mentioned] are mine, Berry and Kore [mentioned] belong to @sorrel-haven

“You’re not calling Peach and Berry, are you?” Callum asked after the two of them had made some distance from the cafe. The way Tofu was walking had given him away. Tofu kept his jaw stubbornly set. “...This got to do with those guys from Ul’dah?” Once more, a subtle shift in Tofu’s expression told Callum all he needed to know. “I thought you said you’d let them help you.” It was a pointed statement rather than a question.

“These are my enemies to deal with, not theirs,” Tofu responded flatly. Callum gave him a look.

“They care about you, Tofu, they want to help you because they care,” he said. Tofu returned the look Callum had given him.

“I don’t want them getting hurt because of my past. I-I can’t let them help me with this,” he said, lowering his eyes at the end.

“Why are you so stubborn about this?”

“Because Tio almost died trying to help me.”

They were quiet for a long moment as they walked.

"You're still stuck on that? At the end of the day, you were the one that almost died. If you keep doing things alone, what if something happens to you? They'd be devastated," Callum finally said solemnly. Tofu was quiet for a moment longer, not looking at Callum.

"They're…closer to each other. It wouldn't matter. They'd be fine-" His words were cut short as Callum spun on him, punching him with his non-dominant hand so as not to actually hurt him. It didn't knock Tofu back too much, but it was enough to shut him up and to bruise his lip.

"Don't be stupid." Tofu hadn't seen this sort of expression from Callum in years. "Of course it would matter. Why can't you see how much you mean to the people you love?"

The conversation died out after that. Tofu took them out of the Goblet, until they came to a secluded section of Hammerlea, out past the East Hammer. There were a few dead Coblyns scattered across the dirt, the light of the lighthouse passing by in flashes. In the crook of the high rock walls stood a figure in dark clothing, cat ears apparent even in the dim of night. The figure held out a hand and snapped, sending several small balls of flame swirling around and into the air; not to attack, but to illuminate the field.

The figure belonged to a miqo’te woman with dusty brown hair that was pushed out of her face, the markings on her face and her pupils denoting her as a Keeper of the Moon. The woman tilted her head back and smirked, but her expression soured as she caught sight of Callum behind Tofu. She held a hand to her ear and spoke, clear as day even across the expanse between them.

“Oi, you said he’d be alone. Yea, no, there’s another rabbit with him. Yea, blue hair, feather.”

As she spoke into her linkpearl, Tofu discreetly pulled one of the throwing knives from the pouch at his hip, quickly sending it her way with well practiced aim. Her eyes flickered towards him as she raised her free hand up quickly, a chunk of ice blocking the knife briefly before she broke it down and held out her hand again. He felt himself being pulled to the ground as the sigil in his chest flared from the spell.

“Now now, don’t interrupt. Mommy and Daddy are talking,” she cooed, before turning her attention back to the linkpearl. “So I can kill him too? Copy.”

“Tofu!” Callum exclaimed, starting towards him before stopping and aiming his bow at the woman instead; the idea was to interrupt her cast, but before he could fire, she sent a small, condensed ball of fire towards him, hitting the bow in the center and breaking it in half. Callum cursed and dropped both halves to the ground beside him. He started towards her, as if to fight her with just his fists, but a knife buried itself in the ground in front of his feet. He glanced at Tofu, where it had come from.

“You remember how to use one of those, right?” Tofu managed through gritted teeth. Callum scooped it up and dashed at the woman with a hastily called back “Of course!” as he bore down on her.

She stepped back with each of Callum’s swings until her back hit the rocks behind her; perhaps cornering herself wasn’t the smartest idea, but it was just supposed to be one rabbit, not two! She cut her concentration on the spell pinning Tofu down and blasted Callum back with a powerful lightning spell. Her eyes snapped over to Tofu as he staggered to his feet, his second knife in his hand as he readied to attack. She sent a fireball his way, but before it could connect, Callum intercepted, putting himself between Tofu and the attack.

“Callum!”

“It’s fine, I picked up healing after Ro told me about you almost dying, I can take care of this injury later. Better if I take the spell than you!” But even as Callum spoke, he dropped to his knees, clutching the burned skin where the spell had landed with a curse.

“Get started healing that, then!” Tofu said as he rushed past Callum towards the woman.

The miqo'te woman seethed as Tofu approached, sending panicked spell after panicked spell as he dodged each one, until he was on her. It was the first time she had ever felt fear, as she stared into his cold, expressionless gaze. She held out her hand between them, but he was already on her, knife embedded into her stomach to the hilt. As the light faded from her eyes, she shot off one last spell. A burst of lightning launched Tofu backwards, who could barely keep his hand around his knife as he landed harshly on the ground.

“Tofu are you-”

“Make sure she’s dead!” Tofu ordered, clutching his chest as he pushed himself to his feet.

Callum gave a brief nod before running over to the miqo'te woman, kneeling and confirming that she was, in fact, dead. With a relieved exhale, he stood up, making his way back to where Tofu was standing shakily.

“She’s dead, yeah. Let’s get you home.” After a brief pause, Callum’s face fell. “Ah heck, I forgot to pearl Kore and tell her where we- Actually, better if she doesn’t know, yeah…? She might very well wring your neck if she found out this was Tuturoko business, wouldn’t she?”

“R-right. Thanks. Let’s go.”

#ffxiv #tofu curry #callum mystic #arc: demons of the past #arc: calm before the storm #ffxiv rp

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burberrycanary · 2 years

Text

Still Left with the River (The Paradox of Motion) ∘ a Stucky Post-TFATWS Fix-it

I’ve finished Still Left with the River (The Paradox of Motion), which is a post-Endgame, post-TFATWS Stucky fix-it that involves a lot of food.

Food serves many roles in the story, picking up from how eating together can be social and communal as we see at the end of The Falcon and the Winter Soldier. Food also holds memories—finding what you ate as a kid again or pulling back up shared memories that haven’t come to mind in a while. And food is part of how this story is a complicated love letter to New York City.

But, especially for Bucky, food is a doorway back into the world. It’s a way to be kind to himself and experience pleasure with his body that was tortured and controlled for so long: turned against him. Food—restaurants, bars—are also a way for Bucky to get out of that brutally bare apartment and be around people again; to have a chance to form new connections in a world where pretty much everyone Bucky has ever loved is gone. What he has left is New York, which like him is still here, however changed—rebuilt over and over, transformed beyond recognition maybe but persisting in its bones, in the essential parts.

But then Steve’s body has experienced a lot of pain in his life, too, and he knows a hell of a lot about loneliness.

In this story when Steve comes back, Bucky is generous enough to want to share with Steve some of what he’s found—parts from their shared past that have endured into the present and some of the tender-pale and fragile-green shoots pushing up out of Bucky’s destroyed and rebuilt life—while Steve is struggling to find his footing in a world that’s once again changed while he was gone.

To borrow a line: I love you. I want us both to eat well.

Of course, Bucky would be generous with Steve. But also, after loss piled on loss, Bucky has somehow gotten back the only other person on earth who could understand so much, who can remember with him. Though regaining something isn’t the same as getting to keep it, which Steve and Bucky know all too well.

“Steve.” Bucky’s thumb runs back and forth through the fine short hairs at the nape of his neck. “C’mon. Come upstairs. You’re gonna love this. Gołąbki and kopytka. They do it right with fried onions and a little sugar on top. Everybody forgets the sugar.”

Leaning closer, Steve thunks his forehead right into Bucky’s, which is a small jarring hurt he didn’t mean.

“But not us.”

“That’s right,” Bucky says quietly. His warm living breath fans out against Steve’s face, from the corner of his mouth across the lower half of his cheek. “But not us. So c’mon, you mook. Up.”

Still Left with the River is a story about survival. It’s a story about food, art and grief.

For those curious, a list of foods in the image from the story are below in the cut.

1) Classic halal cart chicken shawarma

2) Fries, served with aioli not ketchup, that came with their lamb burgers and...

3) Orval trappist ale

4) Grocery store cookies, the kind that come on a plastic tray

5) Pastrami sandwiches

6) Peak summer peaches

7) Sorrel (aka Jamaica)

8) Gołąbki with rice and meat

9) A huge diner breakfast with both pancakes and hash browns

10) Old fashioned sugar cookies

11) Whiskey (I figure Steve has been around enough to pick a good bottle by now)

12) Harissa cake (aka Basbousa)

13) The NYC cheese slice speaks for itself

14) Horchata, and...

15) Oreja tacos

#stucky #stucky fic #steve x bucky #steve x bucky fic #stucky fix-it #stucky meta #post-endgame #post-tfatws #steve rogers #bucky barnes #otp: till the end of the line #otp: even when I had nothing I had you #the existential loneliness of steven g. rogers #bucky barnes needs a hug #bucky barnes treats himself #river!verse #river!verse update #my fic

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hollers-and-holmes · 2 years

Text

Guys this isn’t my usual sort of thing but it’s been a gradual sort of understanding that it is not unlawful to write about one’s sorrow and that maybe sometimes it’s even okay to let someone else see it.

Wildfire in Her Last Five Weeks

She has thrashed out a hollow in the wheatgrass.

A hollow like the hollow around a cow’s carcass pounded down

by coyote tracks and wireclaws of ravens and

the parhelion dust halo

that shawls an unsown corpse.

She is not a carcass yet. But nearing it.

Her germinating bones strain up for the light.

She flails her hairskinned head against the ground.

My daughter (nine) has never seen a dying horse

but needs no one to tell her to fling her sapling weight across a sorrel-painted neck

and try to pin it there.

Watch your feet. I am going to get water. Get out of her way if she tries to stand up. Babe, will you be home soon? I am out at the end of the alfalfa field with four babies and our good mare who has lost so much weight in a week I cannot stand to look straight at her. She cannot get up. It is starting to rain. I cannot get her up.

You’re like a pioneer! they tell me.

What this means is that I lie beside the dying thing alone.

I tell the babies to look the other way.

A week.

Flunixin gouged up past her teeth and jetted onto her tongue does not stop her febrile trembling quickly enough.

I have to go, he says

We’re weaning heifers at the feedyards

Maybe try to vein her, I don’t know.

If you put it in an artery you’ll kill her.

I love you. I’m sorry. You’ll have to figure it out.

I get the babies started on their phonics and

pull up a YouTube video on my phone.

Occlude the vein

See how it bulges?

The middle third of the neck is where the artery is deepest.

Roll the bevel away from yourself.

Getting through the skin is where it hurts so

do it fast.

There are entire channels video after video of satisfying haircuts cake decorating slime smooth textures Japanese chefs cleaving perfect watermelon bowls that man who makes dragons and dishwashers out of chocolate here is someone freehanding a perfect straight line with a stylus ingrown hair removal ASMR and none of them as breathtaking as a flash of blood wrung dark of oxygen that blossoms into the barrel of a ten-cc syringe drawn up to the seven with clear delaying banamine.

She starts to have a few good days. Is she getting better? Hard to tell. She drags the stifled leg still. Her strip-face filly tries to suck. Must be getting something, or her money-colored hair would roughen and her belly swell with air.

Sometimes the paint mare lies down and can’t rise and so she wears a cracked and adipose-deep

ulcer over every nailsharp point of jaw and hock and pelvis

boring down against the ground.

We have to throw a halter rope around her feet and heave her over the ridge

of her thin-coated spinous processes

so she can get her sound leg underneath her

and ratchet herself standing

one more time.

He says, I probably ought to shoot her. She’s not getting better. It’s fixing to get cold and then what? We have to be realistic about this. It’s hard to watch her suffer.

I get belligerent and rally to the standard. More NSAID, more sixty-dollar supplemented showhorse grain we can’t afford, more vitamin B injections (it leaks in rusty runnels down her fatless neck because intramuscular only works when the muscle is not atrophied to ribbons).

I flew to see my dad in March when he woke smothered soundless by

whatever Adam-remnant we knew already had assailed

into his lungs and kidneys.

Lesions on the frontal lobe. They had not yet occluded shut his verbal pathways.

And in all these things Job did not sin with his mouth.

I sat beside him on the white-columned Everglade porch. The skin of his throat had stretched out baggy and unshaven since Christmas when sixty pounds of his big lanky body lain down for us joyful and ungrumbling and unwithheld for thirty-some sweet gentle-humored years had not yet dripped away into the coyote-waste.

He says he wants to grow it out, my mother said.

The shape inside was still the same.

It formed that same old rumbling laugh when I read to him a paragraph of

Ruth Stout being snarky about newfangled gardening practices.

Two nights later it was his turn to read to me, before he crept to bed in a Tampa Bay hotel room.

In the morning I would wing back to the wind-gaunted wheat prairies and he

would ride a rented wheelchair

up a cement ramp once more into the

breach of beveled needles and wafer skin spanned

too thin across acromion bones.

Tried believer, thy Lord hath a tear-bottle in which the costly drops of scared grief are put away, and a book in which thy holy groanings are numbered. By and by, thy holy suit shall prevail. Canst thou not be content to wait a little? Will not the Lord’s time be better than thy time?

Every magpie doesn’t have a coyote but every coyote has a magpie.

I know the morning the zinnias freeze to rustles what the tailbirds tattering out over the corral-fence have come to tell me.

I cannot find a vein this time. The anatomy is different when a horse is lying down. I keep having to leap aside when she rears high hindquarter-beached and thunder-hearted and fracks her sixty-pound head against the frozen ground.

The dormant alarms on my phone are still labeled for morphine and Haldol on rotation every two hours and have been for a year.

There is no hair left on the right side of her face.

Merciful Father, deliver us quickly from this.

Death is like childbirth, labor upon narrowing necessary labor. Good job, I said to him, my cheek on the same pillow, you are doing good work. Not long now. It’s been a lot of work. It’s okay to be done. You are doing good work.

I printed it and pinned it on the wall above the hospice bed:

Defeated, outmaneuvered fool! Did you mark how naturally—as if he had been born for it—the earthborn vermin entered the new life? All his doubts became, in the twinkling of an eye, ridiculous…

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firedragon1321 · 2 years

Text

OC General Thread

So I’m gonna post a bunch of OCs for your consideration. I will sort them by the universe they’re from.

This may get very “do you love the color of the sky” in length so click the Read More if you’re interested. Also most of these are tagged by character name on my blog.

As of 2024, I'm experimenting with pronouns on profiles. I use "male/female" as shorthand for "cisgender" (mostly so I don't have to change 5+ years worth of documents). Nonbinary and trans characters with pronouns in their profiles will not use these terms.

Notes for triggers- "mention" means I don't go into detail and it's text only. If you don't see that word, it means the art or description will go in-depth on the trigger. Stay safe!

TOON-IVERSE SAGA

This is my main universe. Below is the professional description for those unsatisfied with “Kingdom Hearts meets Pibby meets suspiciously wealthy fujoshis and deviantArt users”.

“Welcome to a world where the boundary between reality and fantasy is malleable, and cartoon characters walk alongside real people. From anime to edutainment to stop motion, any character- or “toon” - one can think of lives in this world. Summoned from their cartoons to reality by the mysterious dragon Shenlong, these toons struggle with the ups and downs of daily life. They are considered to be less than animals by real people, with few options in life but rumors of a hidden utopia.

In their quest to reach this utopia- or simply to survive- toons must be careful,. Enemies lurk in the shadows, willing to bring all of toon-kind under their rule. They must watch out for the demons, which can transform toons into loyal thralls in the blink of an eye! The demons share a shaky alliance with the factories- institutions run by real people with the aim of turning toons into slaves. Though these two factions do not represent the general public, they have enough power to threaten the freedom of toons.

But things cannot stay this way forever. In the year 2002, a toon named Soren appears in this world. A friendship is forged, a quest is begun, and the wheels of change are set into motion.”

Soren (tummy alt): Chubby tummy.

Soren: My favorite OC ever.

Soren character sheet and lore (TW: mentions of child abuse, other triggers mentioned in post): Here it is.

Soren (weapon, TW: blood, knife, child with a weapon): He has a KNIFE!

Old Version + Reference (TW, blood) https://firedragon1321.tumblr.com/post/701139716258578432/let-me-see-what-you-have-a-knife-no-just

Soren (alternate hairstyles): Because playing with his hair is fun

Soren (squinting): Bright light!

Soren (dress): This is legit key to the plot.

Soren (flashbacks, TW: parental abuse): Babies!

Beck: The story’s deuteragonist

Locky: Autistic computer nerd

Zeus (TW: gaslighting mention): The angy boy

TOON-IVERSE SAGA (GENDERBEND AU)

The same as the above universe, only all the dudes are girls and vise versa.

Sorrel: Soren hates that this exists

TOON-IVERSE SAGA (NON-CANON)

Random AUs and BS with Toon-iverse Saga characters.

Beck (Bunbun, Pibby reference): Bunbun Beck!

ZUNRU

An original monster project similar to Pokemon or Digimon. The protagonist is an autistic character written by an autistic author. Here's a longer description if you want-

“Humans share the world with Zunru. People can thank these magical creatures for the dawn of civilization. Zunru are responsible for building homes, providing food, and offering companionship. People who own Zunru are called 'Tamers'. With a Zu You Co.-approved Zunru Band, they can store a large number of Zunru to travel and fight with.

Jackie is a fourteen year old boy who loves Zunru. Though he has a heart of gold, people find him odd- even those he considers friends. While visiting the town of Seaside Heights, Jackie uncovers a dark secret- Zunru, presumed to be of animal intelligence, are as smart and passionate as humans. They are not companions, but silent slaves.

Jackie aims to create a world where human and Zunru can walk together as equals. But this comes with challenges and costs. He loses the trust of his friends. He discovers that he has autism, a newly discovered condition that sets him apart from other humans. He must confront everything from Zu You Co. itself to his own parents. But with Zunru by his side- rather than under his thumb- Jackie might be able to set things right."

Jackie (hairstyle evolution, TW: scars, burns, readmore discusses or mentions child abuse, albiesm, depression, post traumatic stress disorder, autistic meltdown, psych ward): Over here!

Jackie (original sketch vs 2023 art)- Here!

Jackie (busts, 2020 vs 2023): Thisaway!

Jackie (scar ref, TW: scars, burns): Ouch.

SINGULARITY (formerly Capsule Zaurus)

Originally a reimagining of a prototype version of Digimon, but it got big, so I made it an original work. There is a video by Karn EX that goes into more detail. Some of the older stuff may use the word "Zaurus" instead of "Datazar" for the monsters, and that's okay.

Human Characters- Tomoya (plus Merazaru full line): Borger

Human Characters: Tomoya and Toshi: Please for the love of God research for your stories!

2024 Main Datazar (Merazaru, Fukazaru, Kerozaru, Raizaru, Tosazaru, Orchizaru, Nyazaru): Right this way!

Anglozaru- He’s a fish

Capsule Zaurus Part 1 (Merazaru, Raizaru, Kerozaru, Tosazaru, Fukazaru): Redraws of concept art right here!

Capsule Zaurus Part 2 (Baby Army): Baby booboo

Capsule Zaurus Part 3 (Megalozaru, Narizaru, Odosuzaru, Tonozaru, Tsukuzaru): Digivolve to Cham- oh wait that’s wrong.

FAN OCs

Characters I made up for existing properties. These are further subdivided.

DIGIMON: FRAGMENTS (DIGIMON)

A fan DigiDestined project I dabble with sometimes. This one has a fanfic, which you can read here. Please read all its tags and the author’s note in Chapter 1 before committing!

Whole Cast of Digimon Fragments + Oliver bust and character sheet + Luca character sheet: DigiDestined on parade!

Oliver bust (TW: panic attack): Poor baby

POKEJIN (POKEMON)

An AU where all the Pokemon are gijinkas, and a deconstruction of Pokephilia weirdo fics. Follows the parallel stories of a wild Pikachu named Tekka and his band of rebels, along with two newbie Trainers who get sucked into the evil Team Embrace. Based mostly on the game universe.

Tekka (art): Pika pika!

Tekka (lore, TW: Pokephilia mention, technically rape mention): I am cringe but I am free.

PROJECT STRIKEBACK (POKEMON)

A “what if Ash was replaced regionally starting in Jotho” character design thing. These are OCs based on the games and Ash’s previous designs.

Rico (Paldea): Mini-rant attached

UNTITLED SHINKALION PROJECT

Something I whipped up a few years ago. An original season of Shinkalion. Unfinished except for notes for now, but I have some art.

Takara (old): Mechanic nerd.

RANDOM OCS

OCs that I drew who don't belong to any project, or just random stuff.

Joran (2023 NaNo Protag): Anxiety yay!

Leo (with profile, TW school trauma, child abuse, asylum mention, albiesm/masking allegory): Just a little guy.

Jovie (progression): A bunch of guys, but they're the same guy.

Ryder: He's smol.

#oc #directory #writing

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perereiii · 1 year

Note

hertz:

rosemary (5), sage (5), lemon balm (3)

the duo:

sweet majoram (4), sweet woodruff (3), sorrel (5)

Hertz:

Rosemary: What impression does your OC leave upon others? How are they generally remembered by those who have met them? Is this how they would actually want to be remembered?

“He said this was the way genius happened… With a little help from a friend.” Take Hitler, for a short example. While the NSDAP was active in the 20s, it gained significant power and traction in the early 30s up until 1945, as that was when just about 1/3 of Germany was out of a job and desperate for stability (Even other countries looked on Nazi Germany with little scorn, allowing it to take the Sudetenland, brushing off the idealization of blood, as just one example, during the 1936 Summer Olympics in Berlin, altogether ignoring the complete violations of the Versailles treaty… The British and co. saw the unveiling of the Bismarck, which was one giant slap in the face to the treaty, you know—the list goes on!). He provided that stability and jobs the Germans were looking for (granted that you ignore Jews, women, the mentally disabled, the physically disabled, queer people, etc) and the people loved him for it. Well, the ones who benefited (and sometimes the ones that didn’t, like the other countries!), but still. With Hertz, it’s similar—someone who has just died is probably looking for some kind of stability. Even the chicken scratch that is my original notes leans into this!

“Listen here, old sport. There’s this sort of stereotype that in Hell, it’s you against the world. But that isn’t necessarily the case. Here, your best chance of survival is to find someone, someone you can trust to have your back. It’s a harsh world, yes, but with a friend or two, it can really become a paradise of its own,” Hertz monologued cheerfully, “Now I know we just met, and you ought to be a bit shaken up, after all, you’ve just been killed! But I can offer you a bit of sanctuary and grace as you get adjusted to this new world. How does that sound, friend?”

He’s constantly emphasizing that a. you need friends to stay afloat (It’s a harsh world, yes, but with a friend or two, it can really become a paradise of its own)!!, and b. he can offer the help you’re looking for, which is the long winded way of saying “stay with me or you’re fucked LMAO”. Now, I don’t know it this is still how I’d have him talk—It was the first blurb of him talking I actually wrote, and I’m still developing how I’d like him to tick—But it’s a good reference as to what he’s doing as of late.

TL;DR: Slightly mysterious, helpful**** man, not dissimilar to a political machine/dictator. Generally remembered as such. So far, I would say so, yes.

Sage: How does your OC obtain money? Do they have regular income? Or do they live off inherited wealth? Do they earn money from different jobs or quests? Or are they reliant on the kindness and charity of others?

Hmmmmm I have yet to think about this. Right now I’d say his goons pay? Something like 10% of their salary a month; think really any religious center. In that case, it would be the “kindness” and “charity” of others.

Lemon Balm: What does your OC do to unwind or to calm themselves? Do they use alcohol or drugs? Or do they meditate or pray? IF they are in a relationship then are there things their lover or spouse knows will reduce their tension - perhaps through providing a listening ear, a relaxing massage or sexual release?

No rest for the wicked, as it were.

Duo:

Sweet Marjoram: Through what gift or gesture might your OC signify their love or devotion to another? Does this reflect the culture in which they were raised? Their personality? Or simply the preferences of the partner in question?

Rabenmark: Not gift, but gifts. This man loves to give gifts, specifically personalized ones (see: the study, the doorknob, the inkwell, etc)

Morton: 3x hand squeeze for I love youu also cuddles. Lots of cuddles. If these two are not kissing and/or cuddling they are either in public or asleep/hj

Sweet Woodruff: How does your OC respond when someone parises them or pays them a compliment? Do they become embarrassed? Do they minimize their own achivements or even change the subject? Or do they revel in the praise and admiration of others? Are there some things they are more comfortable with being praised for than others? Might they be quite content to be launder for their martial skill or academic ability, but mortified to be complimented for their beauty or sexual allure?

Rabenmark: Revel in the praise. This man has no qualms about being right in the center of things.

Morton: Embarrassed to minimizing to finally accepting in a flustered manner.

Sorrel: Does your OC always need to be right in every discussion? Or are they sometimes willing to concede a point for the sake of social harmony (or simply a quiet life)? Are there some topics upon which they will never compromise their position? Or can they usually simply shrug and let others be wrong? Does this vary depending on whether the subject is relatively trivial or of great importance to them personally?

Rabenmark: 99% of the time, yes. Unless it’s Morton, but even then that requires a hefty amount of convincing for (ahem kissing) He argues just to argue. Trivial, he’ll argue, personal, he’ll argue.

Morton: He prefers to be right, but he will gladly take the truth over defending an incorrect stance. He might discuss trivial things but he’ll get more into the discussion if it’s personal, because that could lead to him defending his honor (see: how Rabenmark reacts to anything)

#‘’he said…from a friend’’ is from gravity falls lol #it fits though!#howl at the sun™#asks #hertz tag #the first one is so long LMAO its the only one I have a solid stance on #(and ofc the context #the quote and explaining the quote take up a lot of space)#I hope it’s not too confusing

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mariamariquinha · 2 years

Text

exile (retired!Javier Peña x f!reader) - one shot

Summary: Things didn't work out in the past, but Javier got a second chance.

Word count: 1.3k

Warnings: None, I guess. There’s a bunch of angst, though, and not a lot of dialogues. Fluffy ending!

Author’s Note: I was in a sad moment when I decided to wrote this. It’s small, just a random idea I’ve had so... Yeah. And the gif is just to represent how I think he was at the canon of this story, I know it’s Joel Miller.

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

Join my taglist! Don’t forget to reblog, comment and like! As always, I would love to know what you’re all thinking! ❤

-------------------------------------

Javier could remember exactly how you were, not just physically. As time passed, between his return to Colombia and how your life got a lot more difficult when the nightmares started to appear, he felt older, homesick, nostalgic. And you were there, in his mind, like the buzz of a mosquito on a hot night.

With the appearance of gray hairs and specific pain in the joints, Chucho even went so far as to say that it was just like that, that every memory of that distant past in which girls were more attracted and life was simpler, would become just that: a memory.

You were gone. Austin, as far as he knew, and there was no goodbye. If there was any appearance of you in Laredo, it would be short enough that he couldn't see it, but deep down he preferred it that way. Hurts could go on for a long time and even if you weren't the most spiteful of people, it would be fair if you still wanted to punch him in the face - you were a tomboy, that could really happen.

But then you showed up again; it was a hot day and there were festivities at the ranch next door, something about someone's birthday party. Javier was never very sociable unless absolutely necessary, but Chucho was gone, and people made an effort to include him in his late father's social life. It would be the first time he'd left the ranch that wasn't to drink alone in a tavern with little credibility.

First, between his attempts to find a spot in the shade of an apple tree right there in the backyard, he saw a commotion in the distance. Someone said it was a bet or something; no, a scavenger hunt. That's when he discovered that, unlike him, certain things didn't change, because you came running like a girl in the middle of the pasture, holding a box under your arm with your body soaking wet.

You didn't see him when you started celebrating the victory, mocking your competitor who seemed far more skilled and eager to win whatever it was. Heavens, you were still beautiful. At the age he was when things went wrong, and it was as if fate was giving him a second chance to see you like this, more mature, even if with the same nature. Here he was no longer confident in casting his charms (the ego had long since been forgotten), so all he could do was enjoy the view from afar.

That day you did not speak to him. In the days that followed, neither did. He could go to town or stay at the ranch, but everything about this new version of you felt like a dream, a mirage that was eventually created by his tired mind. Javier almost believed it could be someone else who looked a lot like you, and that made him consider consulting a specialist on the issue, but maybe there was no science that could explain what had happened: he still loved you enough to hold you longingly in his heart.

That feeling made him wait. Like the day it all ended, he'd sit on the ranch's front porch, have a beer or two, face the night and then the road. He hoped the cool breeze would catch a glimpse of you again, riding a horse, babbling about your parents' fence or how Chucho could go back on his decision to cross a brown mare with your black sorrel. This never happened. Huh, that never had time to happen. During the first few years of your move to Austin, he even considered offering the opportunity for that to happen, only to see your father frown and the news that that sorrel was sold, as well as the ranch soon after.

Until one day you showed up, as if you read his mind or shared the same feeling. He'd chosen the porch steps as a seat and was on his third beer, ready to head back inside. In the distance, he could see the dust of a horse on the horizon, trotting with some speed towards him, and Javier knew it was you because few people there rode so late at night.

“Is there any chance I can leave her there for the night? ”

It was the first thing you asked, dusting off your pants after getting off your mare masterfully. For the night, he thought, already getting up from his spot with a grunt. Of course you didn't want to say anything more than that, the mare would probably only stay until the end of the conversation you two would have, and considering you didn't say anything else, Javier decided not to test his luck.

He quietly gestured to the stable, turned on the lights for you to put the animal in an empty room, and stood away, watching you so familiar with the place - because he never dared to change a straw.

But then you closed the gate and held it with steady hands, your gaze fixed on your fingers and your head down, as if it was your first chance to breathe properly. It lasted for a few seconds, only silence covering the two of you in a singular way, and it took a while for Javier to move a little closer, at least enough to see your profile in the light of the place.

You seemed to have improvised that visit; your clothes were too clean to have been worn during the day, as if you'd just put them on, and you were barefoot. The blouse had a delicate, satin-like material, and he assumed it was a part of a pajama. He didn't want to notice, but you were shivering from the cold, your shirt doing a poor job of hiding your nipples. Javier called your name with a whisper. You closed your eyes, then abruptly turned to him for a hug.

Heavens, how long he hasn't felt you this close, flesh and blood, occupying all his senses. Your hands tightened on the fabric of his blouse, and he didn't hesitate to hold you firmly against his body, allowing himself the luxury of closing his eyes and understanding that this was real, that you were there and you were hugging him as if your life depended on it. Maybe, just maybe, his too, but that wasn't something to talk about at that moment.

“I thought you weren't here anymore.” Your muffled voice woke him from his trance and he pulled back to see your gaze intently, your hands gripping his waist. “After… After what happened with Chucho.”

Javier was no longer frowning at the mention of his father and probably a shadow of sadness probed him, because you used one hand to cup his face.

“My poor love… I wanted to be here for you.”

“... Love?” He asked. “I no longer deserve to be called that by you, mi vida. I don't even know if apologies will be enough to make up for what I did to you.”

“You didn't do anything that wasn't necessary, Javi. We needed to distance ourselves so that we would have the chance to meet, the chance to… make everything right.”

This felt like more than he could ever wish for in his life. It was a second, maybe third chance that life was giving him. He still wanted to say that he was already old, with more flaws than virtues, but you wouldn't listen. You never listened. And staring at the way your eyes still glowed at him, he knew that was something you already knew but didn’t care.

“Then stay with me here. I’ll make you mine for as long as you’ll let me.”

“You know I'll wait for the proposal, don't you?” The teasing made him smile before leaning in to touch your lips in a long kiss. As it should. As it was.

“You've waited too long, don't you think?”

There was a subtlety to the fact that you didn't require him to kneel right there on the floor, but that was never necessary either. He pressed his forehead to yours, intertwined your fingers and asked like a secret.

“Will you marry me?”

#javier peña #javier pena x reader #javier pena fic #narcos #narcos fanfiction #narcos fic #pedro pascal

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alovesongshewrote · 3 years

Text

To the Storm | Hisirdoux Casperan

Plot: Douxie comes home late and y'all make out before going to bed. that's it, that's the plot. [Hisirdoux Casperan x Gender Neutral!Rreader]

Word count: 1,867

Warnings: this is pretty spicy, maybe don't read it if you're a child. also, i didn't edit this, lmao

A/N: holy shit, it's been a while since i've written a one-shot. don't judge it for being spicy, it's a miracle that this thing got written at all

Tags: @furblrwurblr @sorrels-scribbling @anxious-stitcher @alive-and-afraid @theemptycoffeecupp @douxiesdamsel @saroski05 @blixeon @mxcheese @prismarts

The world outside your window was consumed in a torrential downpour. Rain clouds blocked the moon and stars from view. Thunder shook your windows, lightning flashed across the sky, and harsh winds dragged debris through the night air.

Overall, it was a pretty sexy storm.

I mean, it wasn’t a storm that you would want to be out in, but it was a sexy storm nonetheless. Fortunately, you were not out in the storm. You were in your kitchen, a cup of freshly brewed tea in your hands. Another cup sat on the counter, ready and waiting for your partner to come home.

It was pretty normal for Douxie to come home late. He worked closing shifts often, and he had this annoying habit of hunting monsters at night with the aid of his familiar. You didn’t actually mind the monster hunting thing, you just worried about them. You knew better than anyone that Douxie and Archie were capable of protecting themselves, but that did nothing to quell your anxiety. Accidents happened, things went wrong, and you knew that they were never truly safe.

Just as you started to spiral, you heard the front door creak open. Your boys were home. Everything would be okay. You didn’t rush to greet them. You just waited in the kitchen knowing that they’d be in eventually.

You were right. Moments later, Archie flew into the kitchen, looking rather tired. That was pretty valid, you got the feeling that he’d had a long day.

“Evening, Arch.”

“Good evening, (Y/N).”

The familiar landed on the counter next to you before switching forms from dragon to cat. You reached out and ran your fingers through his fur. Archie shut his eyes, leaning into your touch and purring contentedly. You smiled when you heard tiny little snores coming from the familiar. He was out like a light in no time at all, and that was a fucking mood.

You didn’t focus on that for long, though. How could you when Douxie was standing in the doorway, watching you with nothing but adoration in his eyes. He was dripping wet from the storm outside, but the sight of him was enough to make you smile, “Hey.”

“Hi.”

He stood there for another second, just looking at you, and thinking about how lucky he was to have you in his life. You had no way of knowing that, though. You just saw your partner staring at you with an unspeakable softness in his expression. You loved it, but alas, he could not spend the entire night just staring at you with heart eyes. I mean, he could, but his tea would get cold, and no one wanted that.

“C’mere, dork,” you said, beckoning him over. Douxie, of course, did what he was told, and joined you at the counter.

You pressed a kiss to his lips before passing him his cup of tea, which he thanked you for. The two of you stood next to each other in silence for a few moments, just listening to the rain outside your window. Despite the storm, you were entirely at peace. You let your head rest on Douxie’s side, and he put his arm around you, pulling you closer. He was slightly damp, but you could not have cared less.

You weren’t sure how long you stood there, but eventually, you shut your eyes. You could feel Douxie’s laughter through his chest, “Tired, lovely?”

“Mmm.”

You felt him laugh again before he pulled away. Your eyes opened just in time for you to see Douxie take your hand.

“Come on, then.”

You smirked a little bit as he led you to your room, his fingers intertwined with yours. You wrapped your arms around his and buried your face in his shoulder as you walked. You kissed him quickly again before you separated to get ready for bed.

Douxie finished first, and when you entered your bedroom, you found him lying face down on the bed. The sight of it made you laugh, just a little bit. He turned at the sound of your voice. He smiled at you, and it just about stopped your heart. How did you get so lucky? You might never know, but you didn’t care. You were content to just enjoy your good fortune.

Douxie sat up, and you all but jumped on him. His arms wrapped around you, and yours around him. You took a moment, just to look at him, and you brushed a strand of his hair out of his eyes. His hair was dryer now, which was nice.

He sat up straighter, and you felt his hands come to rest on your hips. You, in turn, straddled his hips and looped an arm around his shoulders. Your other hand was free to trace the tattoos and scars that lined his chest. Douxie watched your hand for a moment, simply enjoying the feeling of your hands on his skin. When he was done with that, he reached up and took your hand in his before placing a kiss to your knuckles.

His eyes left your hand then, to stare longingly at your lips. It was cute, really, the way he tried to be subtle. Eventually, you got tired of that. You leaned into him until your lips ghosted over his, and you whispered, “Can I kiss you?”

He didn’t answer.

He just closed his eyes, leaned forward and pressed his lips to yours. Douxie tasted like mint. He let go of your hand and wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you closer to him. His hands traveled up and down your sides. Your eyes slid shut, and you tilted your head, deepening the kiss.

The storm continued just outside, but it didn’t distract you. The rain and wind meant nothing when you were in Douxie’s arms. You ran your hands into his hair and felt him relax against your touch. You could feel him grinning against your lips when you kissed him. It was lovely. You wanted to ruin it.

You pulled Douxie’s hair gently, and you could feel him take a sharp breath. His grip on your waist tightened. His lips parted from yours for a second, just long enough for him to whisper, “Oh, you’re wicked-” before you pulled him back to you.

And he was right, you were very wicked. You tugged on his hair again, this time with a little more force. Douxie gripped you tightly once again and moaned quietly into your mouth. Thunder boomed outside as you pushed Douxie back onto the bed. It was your turn to grin, now. You kissed him harder, placing one hand beside his head to keep yourself up. Your other hand came to rest on his chest. Beneath your palm, you could feel his heart beating at an accelerated rate. Good.

You weren’t the only one upping the ante, though. Douxie’s hands moved from your sides, running down the length of your body. Did he grab your ass a little bit? Yes. Yes he did. He also bit down on your bottom lip. It was gentle, and a very Douxie-like bite, and yet, it still drew a moan from you. Douxie seemed pleased with that outcome, and he carefully bit you again.

As he continued to nip at you, Douxie mindlessly played with the waistband of your shorts. He wasn’t trying to advance things. He just wanted to feel your skin against his. He found a better way to do that shortly after, by sliding his hands past the hem of your shirt.

You gasped at the feeling of his ice cold hands on your sides, and he took the opportunity to slip his tongue past your lips. It was a damn good move on his part, but really, it was only a distraction.

As you enjoyed the feeling of Douxie’s mouth on yours, he took one of his hands from inside your shirt and wrapped it around your wrist- the one nearest to his head. Then he looped one of his legs around yours and flipped you onto your back. One of his hands was still around your wrist, the other still rested upon your skin, inside of your shirt. One of his legs was between yours, and his lips were only inches away.

Understandably, you needed a moment to catch your breath. Douxie smirked as he looked down at you. He traced your jawline with his hand first and then with his lips. He kissed the edges of your face before descending to your neck where he left a myriad of tiny bruises with his tongue and teeth. He took care though, to make sure the rest of you didn’t feel neglected. He left light kisses across your shoulders and the top of your chest. Through his lips, he could feel your racing heart.

Despite the song of the rain and thunder, it was your moans and gasps that played the part of the soundtrack. They were sounds that Douxie could never get enough of. And then, you said his name, your voice shaking slightly, and it killed him. He could’ve died then and there, and he would’ve died a happy man.

Your hands carded through his hair as he kissed your lips again. When he parted from you, the smirk was gone from his face. His eyes were once again filled with nothing but pure adoration. He looked at you as though you’d hung the moon and stars in the sky, even though all you did was say his name.

“Douxie?” you said it again, this time as a question. Again, he didn’t answer.

“I love you.”

“What-?”

He kissed you again, gently, “I love you.”

You had no choice but to smile, and bring your wizard in for yet another kiss before saying, “I love you, too.”

You both took a second then, to stare at each other with pure adoration, and to enjoy each other’s presence. You both lived rough lives. Tough existences where death was possible at any moment and pain and suffering were inevitable. But you had each other. And you had that moment, where you were safe, and together, and warm while a storm raged outside.

You also had that fluffy little familiar sleeping on the kitchen counter, but that’s a little less relevant right now.

Eventually, the moment ended. One of you mentioned sleep, and the other agreed that it was late. Douxie let you use him as a pillow, as he always did, and he fell asleep with your head on his chest and your hand over his heart. You stayed awake for a few moments longer, just listening to your wizard breathing.

You might not have shown your relief when Douxie came home, but it was absolutely what you felt. Whenever your wizard left home to hunt monsters or to save the world, the fear that he would not return settled deep in your chest. Now, he was here. He was home, and he was safe, and in your arms. You fell asleep that night grateful, listening to the thunder outside and the beat of Douxie’s heart. A heart, which you should know, belongs to you.

#hisirdoux x reader #hisirdoux casperan x reader #douxie x reader #douxie imagine #douxie

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onesunofagun · 3 years

Text

I shall now yell about Ingo, please stand by:

Ingo’s transformation from the underappreciated backbone of the ranch to an absolute ruff-wearing cantaloupe of a man is also pretty interesting (if you’re the kind of person who absorbs the Zelda series through your skin like a frog to live).

I’ve bolded the key points for skimmers.

Granted, the manga has it that Ingo just gets brainwashed by Twinrova into being a staunch follower of Ganondorf. That’s not canon, but it’s not informing any of this thinking, either way.

In the beginning of OoT we meet Talon by waking him up from a nap, and we learn pretty quickly that he’s lazy and often yelled at by his daughter for slacking off like this. Ingo at the ranch confirms again that Talon doesn’t pull his weight around there, and since Malon’s still a child, it’s pretty obvious that Ingo’s settled with the bulk of the work.

Ingo is grumpy, he’s resentful, and he complains a lot. But he does do the work, and you can find him (presumably) in the process of mucking out the stables.

Let’s examine what he does at the ranch:

Epona really liked that song... Only I could tame that horse... Even Mr. Ingo had a hard time...

Now, Epona is established in game to be a real winner of a horse. She’s fast, she’s smart, she’s got a lovely sorrel coat and white mane that seems to be quite rare or highly prized coloring. The catch is, she is notoriously wild. The only people she tolerates are Malon and Link, due in large part to being soothed by the song Malon’s mother taught her.

Ingo had to really try to crack this horse, which Malon’s observation suggests is unusual.

Epona is very young when we first see her, so it’s never really revealed if she was caught wild, or bred at the ranch with a very headstrong temperament.

Ingo’s clearly the guy that’s breaking them in, though. The most Talon is doing is... sleeping in with the cuccos. We never see any organisation of the cuccos, in terms of egg collection or poultry farming, but nevertheless, Talon has the much less physical jobs even if he was doing them. His focus seems to be cuccos, deliveries to the castle and book keeping between naps (and to be fair it’s probably a little depression related, given the dead wife).

Malon gives us a cow later on, and she’s got the egg for the crowing cucco that wakes up Talon, so I’d like to assume for simplicity’s sake that even as a kid, Malon was up at dawn most days helping Ingo with the cows and milking them. It’s never really implied that she has amazing skill in dealing with horses, just that Epona has a special connection with her specifically. Other than that, Malon is simply kind and respectful of her animals (though I’ve got no idea how she got that cow to Link’s treehouse and that’s worth investigating).

Later on, Ingo is also shown to be a competent rider. Enough that he has absolutely no qualms in challenging Link to races for wagers, and was quite confident of his ability to win.

The takeaway is, Ingo is usually VERY GOOD with both caring for and training horses, if not breeding them for the ranch.

That kind of lends to his grumbling, when he is referring to himself as ‘the Great Ingo’ and comparing himself to Talon, who is a ‘bum’. His claim to greatness may not be undeserved, at least in horse circles, and especially if he’s not getting particular credit for it, his bitterness and frustration (alongside envy, exhaustion, and dreams of recognition) would be quite deeply run.

So it seems that his friend and employer is clearly taking some advantage of him, especially after the death of Malon’s mother.

So now, let’s examine his feelings, and how he changes.

The feelings Ingo has about that are pretty textbook for the sort of thing ‘evil takes hold of and twists’, in the Zeldaverse.

Focussing on the game itself, Malon says this as an adult:

Since Ganondorf came, people in the Castle Town have gone, places have been ruined, and monsters are wandering everywhere. Mr. Ingo is just using the ranch to gain Ganondorf's favor... Everyone seems to be turning evil...

We do see other characters in Hyrule become influenced by the ‘darkness in their hearts’ as byproduct of Ganondorf’s reign.

A prominent example of a character who was visibly dissatisfied with their lot, and then notably changes (while praising Ganondorf for what he’d done), is the Castle Guard who is heavily implied to have become the Poe Dealer. Even if by some slim means it’s not the same person, the Poe Dealer does still express that they could not do the work they do without Ganon as King, and that they now benefit from him being in that position and are grateful to him.

The Kakariko Carpenters seem to have given into their fantasies about living among the Gerudo women, and gone out to the Valley and gotten themselves taken prisoner. Following work near the fortress, the team chooses to act on their selfish desires and go for broke, chasing their dreams. They weren’t previously prepared to act upon these fantasies when Link was young, admittedly much milder in their still very prominent obsession, but seven years later, they’re quite happy to risk it all and piss away the stability of their careers (and nearly their lives) at the first opportunity.

Anyway, the trend is, those across Hyrule who are unhappy with their lot before Ganondorf’s coup tend to be ‘corrupted’ by seven years later, and appear to have given in to a twisted version of whatever they most wanted.

This is noteworthy especially because the language in the game revolves around the Sacred Realm being opened and corrupted, too, by Ganondorf’s unbalanced heart and selfish goals. It is unable to be ‘sealed’ again while Link has the Master Sword. In aLttP, we know there is a mirror like effect to do with the sacred turned dark realm, in which it reflects the hearts of men.

So it is very reasonable to say, that for OoT in particular, much of this evil influence plaguing the land and preying on the darkness an people’s hearts is a result of the corruption of the Sacred Realm. It is an indirect byproduct of Ganondorf’s acquiring of the Triforce, but not necessarily something he himself does to people on purpose, unlike the brainwashing of Nabooru.

Mr. Ingo is just using the ranch to gain Ganondorf's favor... But Dad... He was kicked out of the ranch by Mr. Ingo... If I disobey Mr. Ingo, he will treat the horses so badly...

This explains a lot of the more callous and greedy behaviour that Ingo shows later on, and why it seems to disappear when he is truly humbled by Link.

Link’s win serves as a reminder of Ingo’s stagnating skill with horses, the very thing that made him feel so deserving of praise and recognition in the first place, in that for everything he now has control of at the ranch, he still cannot control that horse. He has become as much of a bum as Talon ever was, relegating Malon to do all the hard work while Ingo struts around uselessly. He’s even lost his touch with the Horses so much, in his arrogance, that now he has taken up mistreating them and using harsh and abusive methods (according to Malon’s concerns).

The humiliation and shame takes hold, his pride shattering with the loss of Epona-- not only as a valuable asset, but also as the horse he could never truly tame.

The dark feelings he was holding onto are let go of, as he regains a sense of humility, and the corruptive influence upon him dissipates. He even seeks out Talon to bury the hatchet and invite him back to the ranch.

Oh, I have to tell you about Mr. Ingo... He was afraid that the Evil King might find out that Epona had been taken away... It really upset him! But one day, all of a sudden, he went back to being a normal, nice person! Now my dad is coming back...I can't believe it, but peace is returning to this ranch!

But what about his obsession with Ganondorf in particular?

When the coup happened, Ingo watched the King of the Gerudo unwittingly play out a sort of grand parallel to what Ingo felt should happen on the ranch. To Ingo’s perception, I think Ganondorf was representing an ideal version of Ingo himself.

A man of the desert, where hard work and grit are as second nature to survive the harsh conditions. A man frustrated with the King of Hyrule’s shit, and forced to swear fealty to him despite being a King himself. A man resplendent with wealth, with fine and flashy clothes and plentiful jewelry.

And perhaps the most important note of all, the Gerudo in OoT?

They’re horse people.

They love horses. Ganondorf’s horse is reputed to be a purebred Black Gerudo Stallion, which is obviously a specialty breed, that is fully armoured and as flashy as he is. When the Gerudo cut the bridge leading to the valley, the only way in and out is to have a skilled horse jump the gap.

They also have a huge horseback archery range, and prowess in the sport is an incredible source of respect amongst the Gerudo, and many of the guards possess bladed polearms suitable for mounted use. From this, it can be assumed that during the recent civil war, Gerudo weapons, war tack and military tactics were probably built around mounted cavalry archers foremost, with a lesser focus on light and heavy cavalry aside (iron knuckle armour springs to mind).

Anyway, Horses are very important to the Gerudo in the era of Ocarina of Time.

So Ganondorf is also unique in the sense that he is the King of a people who value what it is that Ingo does very highly. He, of all people, stands to immediately recognise the knowledge and skill that Ingo possesses in rearing horses.

So this is a man who successfully stages a coup of Hyrule, who clearly inspires Ingo to do much the same of the ranch, and who Ingo also feels is very likely to take his side should he appeal the matter.

And Ganondorf does.

And if that’s not a great compliment to Ingo’s actual skill, I don’t know what is, because Ganondorf is not a man that suffers fools. He’s got a limited patience when it comes to shit that is beneath his notice. Clearly, he recognises that Ingo is indeed the backbone of that ranch-- and the main reason for the quality of its Horses-- and rewards this accordingly.

And for Ingo, being on decent terms with the big scary goth King is a very, very good place to be. But it’s more than that!

What a guy! Not only did he deliver on Ingo’s long due validation, he gave Ingo everything he’d ever dreamed of having to his name, and the authority to kick Talon to the curb. He gets it! Ganondorf, this great eight foot beacon of freshly sought divine power and topaz-encrusted glory, this absolute unit of a man, this great underdog horse-lover after Ingo’s own heart; he really understands how great Ingo is. Ganondorf is paving the way for people like them! Oh, to rub shoulders wiht such greatness when the rest of Hyrule is scorned.

Ingo feels seen. The Great Ganondorf made all that thankless time spent shovelling horse shit while Talon slept mean something. The Gerudo appreciate Ingo’s talents.

And all Ingo has to do is keep turning out really good horses, and promise to present the King with his finest.

So Ingo knows he’s in deep shit when he gets cocky and loses Epona to a wager, who at this point, he’s prepared pretty well and sunk a lot of money into on the idea that she’s going to Ganondorf.

Who he’s probably bragged to about how fast she is.

He lost her to some jerk in tights who’d barely ridden before, too. And then when Ingo tried to cheat him out of the win, the kid jumped the damned fence an in ass-bustingly cool move that really just drove home how excellent and rare Epona was.

One does not promise the King of the Gerudo a fast horse and then fail to deliver, let alone for such a stupid reason.

Honestly, by the end, the man’s just happy to be alive.

Also I’d like to think he and Talon had a much fairer delegation of work and forgave each other, each really learning to appreciate what they have and what’s really important.

how the fuck did the Kokiri leave the forest for this scene anyway, they don’t even have their faries???

#tloz #tloz oot #Ocarina of time #legend of zelda ocarina #nostalgia #ingo #malon #talon #lon lon ranch #hyrule #zelda meta #legend of zelda #gerudo #ganondorf #zelda discussion #zelda theory

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hanna-kin · 2 years

Text

Belle

Wille teaches Simon to ride a horse.

Hey you wanted to see it so here it is. You’re welcome? Will be posted on AO3 later.

“I really don’t want to,” Simon complained as Wille held his hand and dragged him towards the stables.

It was a crisp September morning and the trees had shifted from green to yellow, orange and red. The sun was shining and the sky a clear blue.

“You’ll be fine,” Wille smiled. “It will be fun!”

“For you maybe,” Simon muttered. “Until I fall off and die! You won’t be laughing then.”

“You will not die, and you won’t fall off,” WIlle said and squeezed Simon’s hand tightly as they finally arrived at the stables.

He turned around and laughed as he saw the look on Simon’s face. HIs boyfriends face was all wrinkled up and he looked skeptically at the open stable door. His nose was all scrunched up.

“Stop laughing,” Simon whined.

Wille laughed and brought Simon’s hand to his face and kissed his knuckles.

“I look stupid,” Simon complained and let go of Wille’s hand as he looked down at his own body and gesticulated towards the clothes he was wearing. Wille had lent him one of his old pairs of riding tights, a pair he hadn’t worn in years and had grown out of. In addition he was wearing Wille’s old riding boots and riding jacket. He looked absolutely adorable but clearly unhappy with the tight fit of the tights.

“Don’t say a thing!” Simon warned as Wille opened his mouth.

“You look beautiful,” Wille smiled.

“I don’t,” Simon poutted. “I don’t know why you made me do this. I don’t know how you made me agree to do this.”

“Because you love me,” Wille said and leaned forward and gave Simon’s mouth a quick peck before he took SImon’s hand again.

“C’mon, little cowboy,” he said as he led Simon inside.

When returning to school for the second year Wille had decided to pick up riding again after spending more and more time with Felice at the stables during spring and then riding regularly over summer. So when he moved back to Hillerska he also brought his horse Belle with him. She was a seven year old Swedish Warmblood. She was a big horse, measuring 173 centimeters and sorrel coloured with a thin white stripe and socks on all four feet. Despite being so young still she was a calming presence in his life. Whenever he spent time in the stables he always felt much calmer and his anxiety and been so much more manageable. Therefore it had not been difficult to convince his parents to let him take up riding again instead of rowing. They saw how much better he was doing and quickly arranged for Belle to come with him.

Now it had been two months and both him and Belle had fallen into a nice routine at Hillerska.

Belle was already in her box when they arrived. As were most of the other horses. Wille spotted Fredrika in Star’s box and he could hear Stella talk with someone in the saddle room.

“Hi, girl,” he said as he opened the box door and walked inside, leaving Simon outside.

He patted Belle’s neck gently and smiled when she rubbed her nose against his thigh.

“Aren’t you going to come and say hi?” he teased as he saw Simon stand outside with his hands in his pockets. “She won’t bite you, it’s okay.”

Simon let out a sigh as Wille opened the box door again to let him in but he stepped inside and put out a hand for Belle to sniff at.

“There you go,” Wille said encouragingly. “Look at you.”

It wasn’t the first time Simon had said hi to Belle but Wille knew it always made Simon a little nervous to be around her and the other horses so it made him happy and proud whenever Simon decided to join him in the stables. Simon smiled a bit and rubbed Belle’s head, tracing her stripe.

“Do you want to help groom her?” he asked.

“Do I have to?” Simon asked.

“I mean if you are going to ride you also have to groom her,” Wille said.

“Not the hooves right?” Simon asked and looked at Wille with a horrified look on his face. “I’m not going to do that. She’s going to kick me.”

“Well someone has to do it,” Wille said.

“You do it then, it’s your horse.”

“Alright, babe, I’ll do it but you have to help with everything else.”

A few minutes later they had Belle in the grooming stall and Simon was hesitantly helping him groom Belle by standing as far away from her as possible and brushing her neck with a soft brush with awkward movements.

“See,” Wille commented. “You are doing great.”

Together they finished the grooming and Simon looked as Wille picked the hooves.

“Aren’t you scared that she’ll kick you?” he asked as Wille moved to the hind leg and picked up Belle’s hoof.

“Actually it’s more likely they will bite you when you do that. If they don’t like it.”

Simon looked absolutely horrified.

“I’m never doing that,” he said and Wille smiled.

“Belle don’t mind, though. But once August was trying to help Sara with Rousseau and he bit him in the butt when he tried to do it.”

Simon smirked.

“I like Rousseau,” he said. “Best horse ever.”

“Now be careful about what you say,” Wille said. “Belle might hear you and you are hurting her feelings. Don’t listen to him. You’re the best and prettiest horse.”

“I don’t even know how you can tell them apart,” Simon said. “They look exactly the same. What if you take the wrong one from the paddock? How do you know this is not Rousseau?”

“They do not,” Wille said. “First of all, I know my horse. Second of all Belle is a girl, so…you know…you can always just check.”

Before Simon had a chance to answer Sara, Felice and Marcus appeared. Sara immediately walked over to Belle’s head and scratched the horse’s head with a smile on her face.

“Looking good, Simon,” Marcus commented as he looked Simon up and down. “Never thought I’d ever see you in riding gear.”

“Shut up,” Simon muttered and shifted consciously.

“I can’t believe this is what it took to get you to ride a horse,” Sara said. “I’ve been riding since I was seven and you’ve not done it once. You screamed like a stuck pig when mum tried to make you when you were like six or something.”

“All for love, right?” Marcus teased with a small smile and hugged Felices waist.

“You’ll do great, Simon,” Felice said and smiled encouragingly. “You are probably a natural like Sara. And Belle is super nice.”

“See you’ll do amazing, baby,” Wille said and walked up to Simon. “I need to go get her tack but I’ll be right back.”

He gave Simon a quick kiss before he went to the saddle room to get her gear. When he returned Marcus and Felice had left but Sara was still standing by Belle’s head cuddling her but Simon had taken a step back and stood with his hands in his pockets, shuffling his feet nervously. It was fascinating to see the two siblings be so different. Since spending more time at the stables Wille had gotten to know Sara a lot better and she sometimes helped him with Belle too, especially now that Felice had actually begun enjoying riding Rousseau. She was a natural with horses and always seemed to be the most at ease when she was spending time with them.

“Do you need help, Wilhelm?” Sara asked. “I don’t think my brother will be of much help. He’ll probably put on the saddle backwards.”

“Don’t you have anything better to do?” Simon snapped.

“No,” Sara shrugged. “Marcus and Felice are with Rousseau…”

She looked down and bit her lip.

“Can you help me with the boots?” Wille asked.

Sara nodded and smiled again as she gave Belle a final pat on the neck and took the boots from Wille’s hands.

“Do I have to?” SImon asked five minutes later when Belle was ready and Simon was dressed in a helmet, body protector and gloves.

“It will be fine,” Wille said as he led Belle with one hand and held Simon’s with his other, Sara following close behind as they made their way to the empty riding hall.

Wille led Belle to the middle of the hall while Sara went to retrieve the stepping stool from the corner.

“She’s so big,” Simon said nervously as Wille adjusted the stirrups. “Why can’t I ride the little one instead?”

“You mean Baltazar?” Wille smiled. “He’s a Shetland pony and he’s 1 meter tall. He’s too small even for you.”

“Sounds perfect to me,” Simon said. “Why do you have to have the biggest horse in the whole stable? She’s taller than I am. Is it because you are the Crown Prince? The bigger the better?”

“Actually Belle isn’t the biggest horse,” Sara chimed in and put down the stepping stool in front of her. “Storm is bigger. But she is bigger than Rousseau;” she added unhelpfully.

Wille rubbed Simon’s back as his boyfriend looked around nervously.

“You¨ll be okay, I’ll lead you. And you’ll even get to use a stool. Here, put your left foot here and I’ll help you. Then you’ll just have to put your right leg over the saddle and sit down. Be as careful as possible. You can hold on here.”

“Okay,” Simon said.

“I’ll count to three,” Wille said. “One, two, three.”

On three he hoisted Simon up into the saddle and before SImon knew it he was sitting in the saddle.

“See, that wasn’t so bad now, was it?” Wille said and patted Belle’s neck.

Simon was holding onto the saddle with a tight grip and his lips were pressed together into a thin line. Wille had probably never seen him look so nervous and scared before.

“Don’t let go,” Simon said warningly. “I’ll never forgive you if you let go.”

“I won’t let go, I promise. Do you want to grab the reins? Keep it between your pinky and ring finger. Yeah that’s it. And turn your hands so your thumbs are facing upwards. You don’t have to hold them that tight. Give her a little room to move her head and if you want to hold something else you can grab her mane so you don’t pull her mouth.”

Simon nodded silently and adjusted his hands.

“Are you ready?” Wille asked.

“No,” Simon said. “I’ll never be ready. Tell mum I love her.”

Sara rolled her eyes as she picked up the stool again but a small smile formed on her face as she looked at Simon.

They walked around for a few minutes with WIlle leading Belle. At first Simon was tense and nervous, sitting stick straight and gripping Belle’s mane so tightly his hands almost shook with the effort. After a while though he seemed to relax a little. Sara was watching them from the small stands.

“Do you want to try to go by yourself?” Wille asked.

“What? No? Are you insane?” Simon exclaimed. “You promised you wouldn’t let go.”

“And I won’t,” Wille said calmly. “But you are doing really well and Belle is not going to do anything. Even if I let go. You can even steer her if you want.”

“No,” Simon said stubbornly. “This is fine.”

“Okay,” Wille said. “You are doing great, though.”

They went like that for five more minutes with Wille leading Belle around the ring, lap after lap.

“Do you want to trot?” Wille asked.

Simon shook his head.

“But I might want to try by myself though. You know without you holding her.”

“Yeah, okay,” Wille smiled. “Shorten the reins a little then. Do you know how to steer?”

Simon nodded.

“You pull the reins right?”

“Yes, but you don’t have to pull hard at all. Start squeezing just a little and she’ll respond. And gently press your legs to make her move.”

Wille gave Simon some time to adjust and made sure his boyfriend was all set before he let go and took a few steps back.

From the stands Sara gave a supportive smile. Wille turned around and smiled back before he turned his attention back to Simon who was now steering Belle across the ring at a steady walk.

WIlle watched him with a swelling heart. He knew Simon wasn’t the most comfortable with horses, the opposite actually. And yet here he was. Doing something that meant so much to Wille just to make him happy. It made Wille feel warm inside and a huge grin formed on his face as he watched Simon interact with his horse, giving her a small pat and talking softly to her as they walked around the ring.

Another five minutes or so later SImon steered Belle towards Wille and made her stop just in front of him.

“Good job,” Wille said with a smile. “You are a natural after all.”

“Shut up,” Simon smiled.

“I’m so proud of you,” Wille said.

“Thank you,” Simon smiled. “It’s your turn now.”

He gave Belle another pat, stroking her neck.

Wille helped him down, steadying him as Simon stumbled a little by grabbing his waist. Simon turned around with a smile on his face. Wille moved his hand and cupped Simon’s face, fingers tracing Simon’s soft cheek.

“I love you,” he said quietly and moved his thumb along Simon’s lips, catching his smile.

“I love you, too,” Simon said.

Belle rubbed impatiently against Simon’s leg causing Simon to jump slightly before he relaxed a little and even moved his hand and rubbed her muzzle.

“No need to be jealous,” he said softly. “I like you too. You are alright for a horse, Don’t tell Rousseau but you are my favorite.”

Wille laughed again before he too reached out and patted Belle.

Then he looked back at Simon, into those beautiful brown eyes.

“I love you,” he repeated. “And I’m so proud of you for doing this. Thank you for doing this. It means the world to me.”

“And I love you,” Simon said, smiling back at him before leaning forward and kissing him.

#young royals #young royals fic #wilmon #wilhelm x simon

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