#do everything by hoof and take his time

[featherglum]

Klapaucius and Trurl ponysonas. If you even care.

[ceilidho]

sundog

prompt: Simon comes across a girl when she's recently been evicted and takes her back to his place, despite her reservations (nsfw, 8.5k) [based on this old post] [on ao3 here]

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The circumstances of your life change so abruptly that you lose sight of it for a moment. 

Then, you’re out on the streets with the clothes on your back and a suitcase packed so full that a sweater sleeve sticks out where the zippers meet. The locks to your apartment have already been changed. You know because you tried them anyway, desperately hoping that the eviction notice taped to your door might have been misplaced.

Evidently not. The keys don’t work. You contemplate chucking them on the walk out, but instead you keep them close like a talisman of protection, though it’s failed to live up to its purpose so far. 

You’ve got it under control for a day. If by ‘under control’, you mean experiencing a full body panic attack in the locker room of the twenty-four hour gym down the street from your old apartment. The staff gives you uncomfortable looks when you come in on the verge of tears with your suitcase rolling behind you, but they let you in because your membership is up to date. If you can count on anything in life, it’s consumerism. 

That doesn’t last long though, mainly because a locker and a wood bench won’t cut it in the long term. You sleep in the back of the local library until a stern-faced, if pitying, librarian threatens to call the cops on you. Pity isn’t sympathy, evidently. 

Gym management threatens to cut the lock on the locker you’ve been using as temporary storage space. Matter of fact, they say, you can’t be using the locker room as your quasi apartment between the hours of nine P.M. and seven A.M. just because everything else in the city is closed. Go home, they say. 

What home, you don’t say, before packing up your things and heading out on your way. 

If there’s one thing you can count on, it’s capitalism. 

You didn’t think this kind of thing could happen to someone like you. Someone like you being an ordinary person. Homelessness always felt like a far away concept. But the world is cruel and life is brutal. What you didn’t realize before was that, at any moment in time, you’ve been closer to poverty than wealth, and here you are now, sitting in the park with your suitcase between your legs, the sun rapidly setting behind you, your phone at ten percent battery, and nowhere to go because your family is, frankly, nonexistent, and your friends, for lack of a better word, have almost entirely washed their hands of you.

Sorry, they’d say, the frown emoji expressing something like pity at a distance. We don’t have a couch to spare. 

I can sleep on the floor, you’d texted back. They’d gotten cagey after that. People like to be wanted only to a certain extent.

You can feel the panic rise up in you, too big to contain. It comes out in the form of blubbering tears and snot running from your nose. Big, hiccuping sobs. It’s not pretty. Passersby avert their eyes for the most part, save for the ones that eye you with something bordering on perverse delight and that’s what finally makes you get up and speed walk away, lest they feel compelled to approach you. 

But even in the tailwinds of summer, it gets cold outside at night. Worst of all, as the evening grows dark, the streets empty out until you can’t help but feel like a beacon with your little rolling suitcase. It clatters against the sidewalk as you try to hoof it down the street, looking for any shop still open to loiter in. Most close after nine though. You’ve googled homeless shelters, but the sheer anxiety keeps you floundering around up and down the streets instead.

It feels beyond helpless. You’re in a state like you’ve never been before, crying under a streetlamp because you needed a moment just to get your bearings. 

What you know now is that this world is a house of false bottoms. You thought the circumstances of your life could never change. You were never well to do, but you were doing well. The sight of the unhoused sitting with their backs to the brick and mortar stores on your walk home or congregated in a park in the middle of the city with their tents and shopping carts used to fill you with immeasurable pity, maybe even a quiet moment’s reflection; now, you see them as kin. 

Easy, isn’t it? To slip between states. To go from solid to liquid to gaseous. Easier than you ever could have expected. 

When it starts to rain, you almost close your eyes in relief. Anyone could’ve predicted this. 

You almost don’t respond to him at first, keeping your eyes trained on the sidewalk to avoid any bumps. Also, it never pays to look up at a man barking at you, especially not when he’s barking something like, Girl or Bird, turn around. 

Then he says it again, closer this time, and you’re forced to look up, if only to see who’s approaching you. Your suspicion melts away to distrust at the sight of the man stalking towards you. Distrust with a touch of trepidation—maybe outright alarm. Surely no man his size wearing a balaclava tucked into a hoodie straining around his arms would have innocent designs on you. 

He’s one of the bigger men you’ve ever come across. You look across the street to see if there’s a bar missing its bouncer, but all the shop fronts are dark like the ones on your side. 

You don’t bolt at the sight of him, but it’s a near thing. He appears from nowhere, and yet there’s nowhere for him to hide. Not with the size and breadth of him damn near taking up the whole sidewalk. His demeanour and stride evoke such a sense of authority that at first you mistake him for a plainclothes man, and wouldn’t that be just the icing on the shit cake of a week you’ve been experiencing. But something about him says otherwise. 

“Plan on catchin’ your death out here?” he asks, and you shiver. Not from the cold, but from the sound of his voice. 

You’re not used to talking to strangers. A month ago, you would’ve ignored the man lambasting you for being out in the rain; maybe crossed the street and hailed a cab instead. You don’t have those kinds of options anymore. The only thing left in your repertoire is to shout back. 

“I’ve got mace!” you yell out, your voice a hoarse rattle carved out from hours spent crying. 

“That’ll do ya fuck all out here,” he says, a touch condescendingly. “You lost or somethin’?”

“I’m not lost,” you sniff, rubbing the snot away from your nose with the end of your sleeve.

“Then get home instead of roamin’ the streets. You’re askin’ to get snatched up, bird.”

The threat of that has been lingering in your head these past few days, even stretching back to the very first moment that you noticed the sign on your door, but now it has its intended effect. You shake. 

“I can’t,” you whisper.

“Bloody hell,” he sighs. “Why the fuck not? Need someone to call you a cab?”

“I got evicted. I don’t have a home,” you say, and sniffle when your nose leaks again. Saying it outloud brings tears to your eyes again, a pressure building behind your orbital sockets and down to the tip of your nose. 

You must look like the saddest thing in the world standing there in the rain under the dim light of the streetlamp, the pole looped with graffiti and old gum. When the man berating you for being out in it takes a step forward, coming into the light, you can finally make out the bored depths of his eyes. A deep brown. Entirely unimpressed with the picture in front of him, maybe even a bit peeved. 

Your socks are wet and your shoes squelch when you take a step back. You pull the sheer sweater tighter around your frame, but it does nothing to protect you from the damp, frigid air. 

“You been out here long?” he asks, taking another step closer. Not tentatively either. His gaze sweeps over you proprietarily, taking stock; his arrogance comes as an afterthought. He’s not rubbing it in your face that he can do whatever he likes—he just does. 

You wheel your suitcase around in front of you to put something between the two of you. “…Just today. The gym kicked me out.”

You sound petulant, words chewed between your lips and teeth; begrudgingly admitting to the various pitfalls of your existence. All the bad luck. It’s shameful to admit to losing complete control of your life. 

“Haven’t ya got any family, girl? Friends? What’re they letting a girl like you stay out on the streets for?”

You could be sick on the pavement. “…That’s none of your business.”

His eyes go flat at that, unimpressed. “You always this nasty to people tryin’ to help?”

And you’re not. That’s the part that grates the most. You’re all soft underbelly; no bark, no bite. It’s inconceivable that this could’ve happened to you—inconceivable because your head is filled with false promises and mythologies. The myth of exceptionalism. This happens to other people. Not good girls that go to college and get their degrees and find a stable job. 

They’ve pulled the rug out from under you so fast that you haven’t even toppled over yet. That’s how quick it all happened. 

“What help are you?” The bite comes out of nowhere, fueled by bitter humiliation and resentment for the predicament you’ve found yourself in. “Are you gonna put me up in a hotel?”

“Think I’m made of money, bird?” he asks rhetorically. 

“You’ve probably got more than I have.” 

Now you’re weepy again at the thought. Down to your last hundred dollars and you’re in between jobs at the moment. It might’ve been easier to haul yourself out of poverty if applying for jobs didn’t require a mailing address. That’ll be your first priority once you find a place to live. But conversely, how are you meant to find housing with no proof of income? Landlords laugh in your face before slamming the door shut. The conversations are circular, but they always come to a grinding halt; that’s the only thing you’ve learned to expect. 

The worst part of this whole conversation is that it doesn’t follow any of the scripts you’ve previously memorized. When have you ever had to deal with a man interrogating you about your place of residence? It makes no sense. 

It’s inconceivable to imagine that this is happening to you, but it is. Life comes at you hard, with a razor’s edge. Sharp enough to cut, to lacerate. 

“You need a place to stay,” he states bluntly. 

“It’s fine. I’ll—I’ll find something.” 

“You could come home with me.” He says it so bluntly that for a moment all you can do is blink. Surely you misheard him. Surely a man of his size and breadth, dark mask obscuring his face, wouldn’t be daft enough to ask a woman he found on the street to come home with him.

The offer, as well-intentioned as you hope it is, puts you on edge. “No, that’s…that’s alright. I don’t want to…put you out. I was going to look up nearby shelters.”

“Shelters’ll all be full this time of night,” he says. “Never been on the streets?”

You clenched your teeth, nerves starting to get the better of you. 

“I can go to a church,” you say, voice terse now, frayed with nerves. 

He snorts. “Haven’t been to one in a long time, but pretty sure those close too, pet. It’s late.”

You sway on your feet, the suitcase at your side the only thing keeping your knees from buckling. Dead ends everywhere you turn. You’ve always thought of yourself as resourceful; that if push came to shove, you’d figure your way out of any sticky situation. That smacks of arrogance now. All your suppositions are dissolving right in front of you, your own self-image along with it. 

A heavy foot stepping into a puddle brings you back to focus. The masked man is closer now, within arm’s reach. Your heart jumps into your throat. He towers over you, monolith man; big as a sequoia, or other deadland creatures that vanish out of sight when you catch a shadow out of the corner of your eye and whirl around to look it dead on. 

“I can’t go home with a stranger.”

You know you’re not supposed to put your faith in strange men. Bad things happen to girls that go around trusting any man that offers up their help. 

The fist in your chest loosens infinitesimally when the man reaches up to pull the mask off his head. He’s every inch the brute you imagined in your head—blunt chin and crooked nose, a nasty scar running up his lip. There are scars all over his face, in fact—bisecting his left eyebrow and down his cheek. The blond hair on his head is slightly grown out, like he’s used to keeping it neat and tight but it’s been awhile since his head has seen a razor. His beard grows in a bit patchy, the burnish gold of a five o’clock shadow.

You frown. “Is that supposed to make me trust you?”

“Well, now we’re not strangers, are we?”

“That doesn’t—that doesn’t change anything! I still don’t know you.”

He shrugs. Takes a step back. “Suit yourself then. No skin off my ass.”

Your stomach roils, anxiety coming back with a vengeance. You hadn’t noticed it recede since the man started talking to you, but you notice its return. When he makes a move to turn back around, you lurch forward, your hand extending out and fisting in the side of his shirt. He pauses, then looks down at you. 

“…Where else am I supposed to go?” you whisper.

He tilts his head. “Could sleep on a bench in the park.”

You glare at him through tear-soaked eyes. “That’s not funny.”

“Wasn’t meant to be. You’re shit out of other options at this time of night.”

“So, what? Now it’s-it’s my fault or something?”  

His eyes don’t exactly soften, but they lose their hard edge. 

“I’m not gonna ask twice,” he says. Not cautioning you, just stating a fact. “You coming or not?”

Disaster seems like a given at this point. At least you could pick your poison. 

Words are beyond you though, so you just bite your lip and nod, eyes downcast now. 

What else is there for you to do but follow him after that? You trail along after him like a sad, wet cat left out in the rain. 

He finds her wandering the streets with her pretty little suitcase rolling over every bump and crack in the sidewalk and there’s no fighting the urge to drag her home. 

She doesn’t look like a runaway. Just a poor thing down on her luck. Her cheeks practically glisten with her tears when she looks up at him with her big, pathetic eyes, and it makes his cock plump up against his thigh. 

That’s not what this is about though. Simon presses his hand against his dick to rub out some of the ache while she flutters around the bedroom and reminds himself of that again. He didn’t take her home to maul her like a dog. He dragged her back to his flat because she looked wounded and scared out of her wits. 

He can be good every now and then. 

“Sit down, will ya?” he grunts, tugging her down onto the couch when she flits across the room to grab more of her shit out of her suitcase, glancing down at him apprehensively on her way by. She yelps when he sends her sprawling onto the couch. 

His flat isn’t much. A one-bedroom above a laundromat; eggshell walls and torn up baseboards because he hasn’t gotten around to fixing the place up. It’s better than sleeping on the streets though, he knows that much. 

Simon’s no stranger to that; if being in the military taught him anything, it was how to survive regardless of circumstances. In the weeks after his medical discharge—his knees beyond busted, basically bone on bone, and even these days, though he works more to have something to do than to earn a living, they still scream at him when he puts too much weight on them—he wandered aimlessly for a bit, crashing on Gaz’s couch for a bit and sleeping on benches for a spell after that before finding his footing again. 

Simon ignores the way that she yaps at him though, used to tuning people out. He flicks on the television and flips to a show that looks vaguely entertaining before getting up and ambling over to the kitchen. 

“D-do you want me to help?” she asks from the kitchen, tripping over her words in her haste to get them out. 

She reeks of the need to please. Desperate; cloying, sickly sweet like flowering dracaena. It clings to her like a perfume, silk-wrapped and packaged just for him. It could give a man like him indecent thoughts. His thoughts already tend towards the impure. 

He must eye her like a ravenous animal because she flinches suddenly under his gaze, eyes flicking away nervously before meeting his again. Good girl, Simon wants to say. Eyes on me. 

“Sit down,” he barks instead, and relishes in the way she sits back down with her hands tucked under her thighs. 

She’s really a pretty little thing. A shame that he found her out wandering in the rain, out where any man with worse intentions could have stumbled across her. The thought alone could drive him to violence. Again he stares at the back of her head and the slope of her shoulders, evaluating. His bloodlust dulls to a simmer. It pounds in his ears like a dull drum, but at least now he can hear again. 

Anyone else could have found her first, but they didn’t. He did. That tempers the homicidal impulse thrumming in his blood. She’s in his flat now, freshly showered and skin still damp. When she looks over her shoulder, it’s him she sees. 

Poor bird with her clipped wings. She’s not in danger of flying off anytime soon. The thought placates him. Tucked away in his cage, he doesn’t have to rend anyone limb from limb.

It’s been years since he traded in his fatigues for a hi vis jumpsuit, but some days he misses it so acutely that his hands shake and his vision fades in and out. This is one of those days. He toys with the idea of reaching out to Price in the morning to learn more about her, but then discards the idea. Better if it comes straight from her.

Besides, he doesn’t like asking for favours anyway.

“Name’s Simon, by the way,�� he grunts, nostrils flaring when he sees her flinch at the sound of his voice. “Riley.”

“Oh,” is all she says. He waits a beat.

“Gonna give me your name, bird?”

She does, voice squeaky like it’s said under duress. That pisses him off more. 

He's not much of a cook, but he can whip up something quick, so he tosses one of his frozen meals into the microwave and sits her in front of the TV while she shivers and shakes on the couch.

They eat in silence, the TV on in the background. It’s the only noise besides the soft sound of her chewing. Simon can tell she’s gone hungry in recent days by the voracious way she eats, unable to keep herself from shovelling the food into her mouth. She seems almost embarrassed by it after swallowing her last bite, looking over at him from the corner of her eye like a guilty dog. He ignores it, keeping his eyes on the TV instead.

He can tell she wants to say something. A shit childhood and two decades in the military have left him with the ability to sniff out tension, and it comes off her in waves. After putting her plate on the coffee table, she sits back against the couch and squeezes her fists over her lap. Gnaws her lip and casts furtive glances in his direction. When the tears build up on her waterline, his cock twitches. 

“What?” he barks after the umpteenth sniffle, twisting to face her. 

“I—um—I just wanted to say thank you,” she whispers, her head still tilted downward, trying to make herself small enough to go unnoticed. 

Simon stares down at her, unblinking. He half wishes she’d cry a little more, just a few tears to soothe the beast in his chest. It’s better for her that her eyes remain dry. He doesn’t think he could hold himself back if one slipped down her cheek right now. He’d have to grab her by the nape of her neck and twist her over the side of the couch, shove down both their drawers and feed his cock into the warm, wet slot between her legs. Pummel her little cunt until his spend leaks out in thick, viscous globs, until her thighs shake so violently that only his hands on her shoulders and his shaft shoved deep in her pussy keeps her upright. 

He can almost smell it from between her legs, throbbing with gratefulness. He stares down unabashedly at the spot between her legs. Let her say something about it. 

“Don’t mention it,” he says instead, tilting his head when her tongue peeks out to wet her lips. “‘Was nothing.”

“No, it was really nice of you,” she insists, speaking more forcefully after gathering up some of her courage. “What if I…—you took a stranger into your house.”

That gets the blood pumping. “Gonna gut me while I sleep, pet?”

It’s half deranged that his cock chubs up in his jeans at the thought of his little bird with a knife in her hands, hands dripping with wet, dark blood. He shifts, readjusting himself so the metal teeth of his zipper don’t bite into his dick. 

She frowns. Endearing. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“Not really good at looking after yourself, are you?”

“I am—it’s just…” tears build up on her waterline again, “it was one thing after another. I couldn’t get it all together.”

Pity isn’t an emotion he’s accustomed to feeling. Simon’s not even sure if that’s what he’s feeling now. It’s more like the bastard child of pity. 

He lets her off to bed with a warning not to fuck with anything in his room. She skitters off quickly after that. Her cute little ass follows her into the room until she shuts the door behind her, hiding it from view. He huffs. Being good never gets him anywhere.

He lets her run away though because he can’t tarnish everything he touches. Some things deserve to stay polished. 

Instead, he brushes his teeth and washes the last of the dishes before turning in as well, getting a clean sheet out of the linen closet to drape over himself. The couch isn’t nearly long enough for him to stretch out on, not like the king sized bed in his room; there’s already a spring poking him right in the middle of his back.

Sleep won’t come easy tonight. 

Simon wakes up on the couch with a kink in his neck. He lays there for several minutes gritting his teeth until the worst of it passes. When he sits up, his back cracks and pops, joints loosening only reluctantly. His age is getting away from him again; the wear and tear on his body finally starting to catch up. There’s only so much abuse he can put himself through. 

The morning races on outside his front door and he has work to get to, but his body orients towards the closed door of his bedroom almost without his say. It creaks as it swings open. 

In the slowly dimming haze of sleep, he must have subconsciously thought he dreamt the night before because seeing the girl from yesterday curled up in his bed halts him in his tracks. Her suitcase is open on the floor beside the bed. She must have changed into her pyjamas after slinking away last night because he doesn’t recognize the little cotton shorts hugging the swell of her ass and the shirt riding up over her belly button. 

Despite the perfunctory morning jerk he gave himself just ten minutes prior, his cock twitches in his work pants, gaze locked on the underside of her ass, the flesh peeking out from beneath her sleep shorts. 

The hunger ebbs out of a deep, cavernous hole in him. A heavy, oppressive heat; lust so gnarled and twisted that he hardly recognizes it. He can see it play out in his mind—crawling over the bird’s prone form and turning her over onto her belly, his knees on either side of her legs, cloaking her. Tugging down the zipper of his pants and wrenching those slutty shorts down to mid-thigh before burying his shaft in her hole. Little bird that followed him home, sleeping in his bed. She should thank him for his help with a wet hole. 

Simon takes a step into the room and then stops. He won’t—can’t—

His teeth grind together from how hard he clenches his jaw. 

He stands in the doorway and watches her sleep in his bed for longer than he should. Only when he feels something ugly well up in his chest does he finally bark out her name, snorting softly when she jumps and nearly falls right off the side of the bed. 

“Get up,” Simon grunts. “And make yourself something to eat. I’ve gotta head out.”

He walks away before the befuddled look on her face makes him crack a smile. 

She tiptoes out a few minutes later, still in her PJs. Her wary glances tick him off. For the effort it’s taken him to keep his hands to himself, he deserves more than her shifty looks, scoring him like he split her little peach open in her sleep.  

Breakfast is an uncomfortable affair. It’s partly his fault, but he doesn’t apologize for it. They eat in tense silence until it’s time for him to head to work. 

“Don't think about leaving—any of my shit gets nicked and it's your ass.”

He leaves her with that warning, slamming the door behind him.

Your heart goes quiet at the dawning of your new life. 

Adjusting to your new reality takes a bit of effort. The first few days with Simon feel tenuous at best. You worry constantly about doing something wrong and finding yourself back out on the streets. You’re thankful to the point of pandering, apologizing for any sudden move or sound that you make. You can tell it annoys him. 

The real work is recontextualizing your perception of yourself. The world feels strange now that you’re outside of it; alien somehow. You used to think of yourself as somehow inextricably woven into the fabric of society. The thought of losing everything never even occurred to you. It never even presented itself as a possibility. You worried about homelessness the way people worry about quicksand—in some nebulous way touching on the real without being absorbed by it. 

And now you are cut from another cloth altogether; abruptly, without any warning. You used to feel like one with the rest of the world, a kind of kinship based less on parentage or ancestry and more on inner nature. Weren’t you the same as any of them? But now the drapery has been pulled down and you know—you are not the same. 

Your future used to shimmer under the surface like a bioluminescent fish, but now it’s just a ghost.

He tells you to stay put when he goes to work so you do, spending the days puttering around the apartment, watching TV, and cleaning. There’s not much else to do. It’s almost a relief, to be honest. You’ve spent so much time without a place to call home that the second someone offered you one, the outside world became anathema in your head. You couldn’t step foot out of the front door even if you wanted to. 

Tears well up at the smallest thing. You blubber over not being able to work the coffee machine in the kitchen. When the sound goes out on the TV, you cry so hard that it leaves you woozy. You’re lachrymose, downtrodden. Soul a startling verdigris; your waterlines might as well be white with encrustations of salt. 

He must notice the dark cloud following you from room to room, but he doesn’t bring it up. You’d find it tactful, but you know him a bit better than that. 

Then Simon brings home a cat after his shift one day and you don’t know what to say to that.

Thank you doesn’t seem to suffice. I love it doesn’t cut it close. The truth of the matter is that words only ever approximate the feeling; they can get close enough to give you a glimmer of what’s stashed inside, but you can’t pry them all the way open. So you take the off-white cat from him when he practically tosses the poor thing into your arms, and stare up at him wide-eyed, eyes already watering for reasons once again unbeknownst to you. 

“Thank you for taking him home,” you say, already on the verge of tears.

He stares down at you, unblinking. You’re learning to read into his silences though. 

“Don’t expect me to take care of it,” he says instead of accepting your thanks. “If you can’t handle it, it’s going back outside.” 

You hold the cat tight to your chest, staring up at him with horror until the little beast nearly scratches your eye out in an effort to squirm out of your arms. 

At first, you’re not sure what to make of it. It can’t be a peace offering because, apart from the rare occasions where you manage to get on his nerves (not wholly impossible, but you’re learning how to stay on his good side for the most part), you and Simon get along pretty well. You coexist, at least. He cooks, you clean. 

It’s likely a distraction, you finally realize, something to keep you from moping around the apartment all the time, listless and directionless. Despite the fact that you’re no longer in any immediate danger now that you have a roof over your head, misery still clings to you like a second skin. The relative safety of Simon’s flat has actually only given you a chance to really properly mourn the loss of your former life. 

Training the cat to wear a harness without tipping over (the little drama king) and taking him on his first walk outside (just a little turn around the block, though you half jump out of your skin whenever you cross paths with another person) gives you enough of a sense of purpose to propel you through the next week. 

You can tell that Simon thinks the cat is more trouble than it’s worth, especially when it decides to fixate on the one person in the flat that doesn’t pay it a lick of attention, but still it makes your heart melt to see it curled up by his side when you watch TV together at the end of the night. 

“Is this normal for you?” you ask, hands folded in your lap.

His gaze doesn’t move from the television screen. “Is what normal?”

“Taking in strays.”

He snorts, then takes a second to answer. “No.”

You wonder if he intends to sound as caustic as he comes across. The truth is self-evident though. Words only mask the real, and the real in this case is that Simon Riley is a man that feeds and takes home strays. He can grumble about it all he wants. It’s a bit demeaning to think of yourself that way, but once again, the truth is what it is. 

You study him from the corner of your eye until bedtime rolls around again. He’s become the most interesting thing in the world to you, through every fault of his own.

If he didn’t want you to fixate on him, he wouldn’t have left you home alone with nothing else to do. 

“Bird!” Simon roars from the other room. “The cat’s pissed on the floor again.”

You spring out of bed before Simon has a chance to toss it out onto the balcony. 

It feels temporary up until the first time you use Simon’s address on a job application. It stands out stark on your phone screen, black on glowing white. You’ve always preferred it to dark mode, though that preference has fluctuated in recent weeks as you’ve spent more and more time on your phone. 

This is the first time staring at the screen without blinking for a prolonged period of time that hasn’t left you with a throbbing migraine. 

He tells you to stop bothering him with stupid shit when you ask him if it’s alright to use his address. That answers that. Guilt lingers on the periphery of your mind the first time that you do, but then the application is submitted. An innocuous grey box that redefines your whole world in a way that [Thanks for applying!] doesn’t seem to encapsulate. 

Your old friends come next. They come back one by one, guilty, furtive looks aplenty. You Facetime the one who wouldn’t let you sleep on her couch while sitting on Simon’s bed. When she asks you about your living situation, all you tell her is that you found a roommate. It doesn’t feel right to give her more information than that. What has she done to deserve your honesty? 

You manage pleasantries and a half decent conversation, but truth again lingers at the back of your mind. The unspoken reality that this person—someone you trusted—could’ve been there for you in your time of need but chose to look the other way instead. Like taking you in would’ve been some big, terrible thing. 

The body forgets everything except what hurts it. The body remembers nothing except what helps it survive. 

Gratefulness lodges into your heart like an arrow shot from a castle’s ramparts intent on your demise. You could pull it out from the other side and succumb to blood loss, or you could push forward, lay siege to the man hidden inside its walls. 

And you do. You want to show him every grateful inch of you. Even when it only results in more upset. Simon comes home to the smoke alarm blaring and a small fire in the microwave before he bans you from the kitchen altogether. You only cry for an hour in the bedroom with the door shut before he drags you out to takeout on the table in the living room. It’s an improvement. 

“I’m sorry,” you sniffle into your veggie burger, on the verge of tears again when you glance into the kitchen to see most of the mess still there. 

“It’s fine.”

“I just want to—I wanted to make it up to you…for taking me in.”

“You don’t owe me shit,” he says brusquely, dismissing you. His tone tells you to drop it, but that seems as likely as you growing wings and flying away. 

“Yes, I do. You let me stay here when I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

“If you want to make it up to me, take care of the cat and stop leaving your shit all over the bathroom. Found your knickers on the floor after you showered yesterday.”

Your face goes hot at that. You have nothing else to say. 

Your attraction is a banal consequence of living under the same roof as him. There are only so many times he can come up behind you while you’re making your morning cup of coffee and swipe your mug before taking a sip from over your shoulder, barricading you against the counter. Acutely aware of the size of him with the way he’s pressed up against you. 

You lose your train of thought whenever Simon wanders into a room. He lumbers in like a beast, steel-toed boots covered in mud and dust, ignoring the way you scold him for walking around the apartment in his shoes. Just cocks an eyebrow and stares down at you knowingly, like he can see right through you, knows that you’re only squawking and flitting around to hide the way your thighs rub together. 

“It’s my fuckin’ flat,” he says instead of pointing out that your pussy’s wet because she knows there’s a man in the house that could take care of her proper. You know it too. 

“I live here too, you know,” you huff. “I can’t wash the floors every time you come home.”

“Thought I was doing you a favour letting you live here.”

His words would fill you with righteous indignation, but they don’t because his actions don’t line up. You study him like a moth under glass, enthralled by the parts of him that used to frighten you. 

It’s more than that though. He’s wedged himself into the hurt place in your heart, holding it up like Atlas. 

You really do think that there’s something so special about him that you’ll never be able to articulate. Simon is everything you didn’t know you desperately wanted. The longer you live with him, the harder it is to deny how much you need him. 

You will show your gratitude though. Every tender, aching morsel of it. 

The little peach she grinds on his thigh is wet and ripe. Simon doesn’t tell her that he doesn’t need her gratitude; if he wanted it, he would’ve taken it already. But he doesn’t shove her out of his lap either. It’s not his problem if she thinks it’s necessary or not.

Maybe it’s not solely for his benefit, he concedes when she winds both arms around his neck and pushes her supple tits into his chest, climbing over his lap until her pussy is pressed right up against the cock fattening up in his jeans. She whimpers like she’s in pain. 

Must not come a lot; he knows she at least hasn’t in recent days. Simon’s always been a light sleeper—he’s sure he would’ve heard any desperate attempts to get herself off in his bed, the springs creaking under her weight, her hushed, bitten off moans leaking out from under the doorframe. The thought riles him up more than he thought it would. 

Still, Simon doesn’t lift a hand to help the poor bird in his lap as she grinds down on his length. His arms stay stretched across the back of the couch, hips canted just enough to give her a perch and nothing more. 

She gasps every word into his ear, voice all pitched and breathy. “Ah, ah, ah—thank you, thank you, I…—can I please have it? Please, please let me, Simon, pleasepleaseplease—”

It feels like everything they’ve been through so far has been leading to this. He’d smelt it coming like blood in the water. 

All week, his bird has been sitting on her hands and trying not to give herself away. Cloaked in a nervous, frenetic energy. Anticipatory. She’d doe-eyed him the night before and begged him to sleep in the bed with her instead of wrecking his back on the couch, but he’d ignored her in favour of watching Argentina decimate Croatia in the semi-finals. It must have not sat right with her though because she’d been broody from the moment he left for work until he got home, steering him into the kitchen and practically hand feeding him before coaxing him into the living room to watch a movie while she cuddled up beside him.

That hadn’t lasted long. 

“What’s gotten into you, pet?” Simon asks, hardly dissuading her when she presses petal soft lips to his jaw and nuzzles, breathing heavily. His heart swells. Desperate little slut. 

“Took care of me,” she mumbles, almost slurring her words. “Always taking care of me, Simon.”

There’s no denying how hard it makes him to think about being her protector. The littlest things make her smile. Even the bloody cat had her trailing after him for a week straight after the fact, eternally underfoot. Always trying to curry favour. Eager to please. 

Her worship leaves him unbalanced. Unstable even. A train careening off its track, the massive weight of catastrophe right behind it. The sense that life will never be the same after this. His surface level indifference is underscored by steeled self-control. He keeps his arms on the couch because he knows the second he puts them on her, it’s over. There’ll be no holding him back anymore, no possibility of him ever letting her go back out into the real world. Lock jawed, teeth sunk into her tender underbelly. 

“Told you, you don’t owe me nothing,” Simon murmurs, curling his hands under her ass. 

“Then—then…—I don’t know, pretend it’s just for me.” It’s a joke because they both know it’s not just for her. When her eyes sparkle with amusement, his cock throbs.

He lets her ruck the shirt over his head and struggle with his belt until she manages to unbuckle it like he has no say in the matter. She’s far less considerate with her own clothes, shucking them off and nearly ripping her knickers in the process, which almost prompts him to take her by the wrists and slow her down. He likes the lace and frills. 

It’s a fight to fit his cock into her hole, as slick as she is. Coin slot tight; he almost breaks and tells her to take it easy when she reaches behind her to line his shaft up with her entrance and sits down, just barely stretching around the mushroomed head of his dick before wincing, tears springing into her eyes. 

Simon does break when she tries to sink down another inch, thighs shaking violently. “Right, get off—you ain’t ready for this.”

“I am!” she insists, face screwed up in a scowl and a bead of sweat dripping down her temple. “Just—I can do it, Simon—”

“No, you can’t. You’re rushing and hurting yourself—”

“Wait, okay, wait, I can…just give me a minute, okay?” she begs, and he doesn’t tell her that he’d give her all the time in the world. Stay on this couch until the flesh fell off his bones. He’s waited so long; what’s a little longer? 

Besides, the sight of her stretching herself out with her fingers is reward enough. She whines into his shoulder and shudders when she has to force another finger in before she’s ready. Too eager. It could give a man a complex. His blood is already scorching him from the inside out, too hot for his veins.  

He considers helping her out, but watching her writhe and struggle in his lap is far more enjoyable. 

He stopped paying attention awhile back, too focused on cupping her tits and running his tongue around the budded areola, sucking her pert nipple into his mouth, but she couldn’t have gotten to more than three fingers before running out of patience and lining him up again. This time, she sinks a bit deeper on the first stroke, still choking on her breath but forcing herself to take a bit more. 

“You’re alright—you’re alright,” Simon murmurs, stroking a hand up and down her back while she impales herself on his length. She’s still too tight to take him comfortably, sweats and shakes over him. He pinches her nipple to distract her from the pain and smiles when she yelps. 

She melts all over him, slick drenching his shaft and lap, her tongue lapping at the sweaty skin of his neck. Honeysuckle fragrant; the sweetest thing he’s ever known. Silken, tight. Fits like a glove around him. 

He could lose himself in her. Piston into her until the thought of where he begins and where he ends dissolves into the tight warmth between her legs.

His bird is a greedy girl. She uses him like a toy to get herself off, bouncing in his lap and mewling into his ear everytime his cockhead nudges against her cervix. Too big to fit all the way in. 

“You do this a lot, pet? Fuck every man that lends you a hand?” he pants, taunting her.

“No!” she snarls in his ear, feisty and sharp-toothed. Her nails dig into his back, scoring white lines into his skin. The shiver that wracks him is so violent that his arms tighten around her waist reflexively, making her gasp. 

It doesn’t matter whether she does this often or not; the only thing that matters is that he’s the only man that gets to fuck her from here on out. Still, winding her up is half the fun. 

“Perfect girl,” Simon chuckles, breathless. “Made for me. Got m’self a pet right off the street.”

And he did, didn’t he? Went wandering out into the night and came home with a bird fluttering her wet little wings. 

His conscience is clean. He could’ve tied her down, kept her right where he wanted her (in his bed, his flat, the yawning cavity of his chest—) but his self-control remains unparalleled. Tough as nails. Strong as steel. And now look at what he has as a reward for his patience—a fever-hot cunt around his cock and delicate fingernails scratching the base of his skull. 

A pretty bird that’s made his chest a cage. 

The world goes vertical, horizontal. Fluid; sliding away from him. Something crashes in the background, so far off in the distance that he can hardly make out the sound. 

He opens his eyes to find the ceiling staring back down at him, and then her face, hovering over him on the carpeted floor, her hands kneading the muscle of his chest. Her brows are drawn tight now, pinched. She stares down at him, past him, gaze like a transparent veil. 

“Gi’me…gi’me…” she pants, barely able to pull herself off his cock. 

He has to dig his fingers into her ass and pull her off, ignoring the way she whines and begs him to fill her back up. Ignores it because he knows what’s best for her; knows how to take care of what he owns. 

When he bucks up into her, she chokes, fingers nearly yanking his chest hair out. 

“Fuckin’ hell, that’s pretty,” he breathes. Snaps his hips up into hers again, relishing in the way she squeezes tight around him, almost to the point of pain. 

His pleasure always comes jagged though. Whether the ache of his joints or nails tearing up the skin of his back and chest. Vicious and messy—how he likes it. She gives him everything he could want and more. The hand dug into his chest right above his heart could pierce right through the flesh and tear it out.

He pulls her all the way off his cock just for the pleasure of hearing her beg him again, then pulls her up his chest and eats her out until the beast in his belly calms down. 

He yields to her whining only after a good few minutes. Soft bastard. Drags her back down until her soaked hole mouths at the head of his cock and he thrusts back up inside. Home. It’s his now, whether she likes it or not. Simon guesses he’s lucky that she wants it too; if he had to convince her, he would, but her desperation is just another gift for him to savour. 

“Squeeze me good, bird. Say thank you—” thank you for taking me home, thank you for keeping me– almost spills off his tongue, but he reigns it in. She knows what to be thankful for. 

“Nngh, Simon,” she sings, fucking herself on his cock. The sweetest sound he’s ever heard. 

Simon’s never felt bigger than under his sweet bird. Thighs spread so wide around him that he knows she’ll ache in the morning. Brutish hands groping her thighs and waist and tits, rough against the softness of her skin. Stuffed full of a big cock, not even to the root; she bites right through her bottom lip when Simon pets at the thin skin stretched around his cock, her gaze wounded, overwhelmed. 

Nearly blacks out at the thought of cramming a finger up there too. Only faint concern for her well-being tamps down the urge. 

“Come on, fuck—that good, pet?”

“R-right there, oh god, ohgodohgod—”

He lets her ride him until she comes, until he comes, until his spend is blistering hot in her cunt, drooling down the length of his cock, frothy white with her cream and his come. 

It’s a sight to look at. Gets him right in the chest. Nothing like times of yore; this is something with meaning, with feeling. When he lifts her off, his seed trickles out of her soft hole in white globs and makes his chest ache. It doesn’t matter whether it takes root or not. All that he needs is already here. 

Beautiful and rare as a sundog; haloed by light. All this time, he dared not think this could be it. 

He thinks he’ll love her with the same ferocity Icarus had on his descent.

She shivers when he traces his fingers up her spine. “N’more. M’tired.”

“Wasn’t gonna, pet.”

The bedroom then. She twitches in his arms when Simon carries her to bed and pats his chest approvingly when he slides in beside her. 

He could’ve told her that it’d end up this way. He smiles indulgently when she shifts and splays over his chest, her nose nudging his nipple. Already fast asleep. 

In the morning, you sit across from him, half a grapefruit in a bowl in front of you and a mug of coffee, black. 

“I think I want to go back to school,” you say, apropos of nothing. The spoon clinks against the inside of the bowl. 

“Yeah?” he says, only half-listening. 

“I can always get a part time job on the days when I don’t have class. I never liked my old job anyway.”

“Do whatever you want,” Simon grunts. “Not my problem.”

Under the table, your cat’s tail curls around your ankle while he waits for you to sneak him the scraps. 

You smile.

[suashii]

— 𝒶𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒷𝑒𝒸𝓀 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒸𝒶𝓁𝓁 ౨ৎ

boothill x f!reader. 2k wc. ﾉ sfw ﾉ fluff ﾉ non-canon compliant ﾉ farmhand!boothill ﾉ injuries ﾉ pet names ( darlin', sweetheart, doll :3 ) ﾉ mentions of food

so i wrote about horse riding but. . . know very little about horse riding! i did my best to research but there may be some details i got wrong so apologies in advance!

previous part ౨ৎ masterlist ౨ৎ next part

“that’s it, pretty girl, nice and easy.”

the horse beneath you sighs and you do the same, relaxation and contentment in the breath you let go of. it’s been a while since you’ve gone riding, a few years at least, but being sat on a saddle with reins in your hands feels as natural as it used to when you’d ride nearly every day of the summer. you’re lucky that your favorite mare—clover—is still healthy enough to take out.

you gently squeeze your legs into clover’s sides in a silent signal for her to move from a trot to a canter. the sequence of her hoof beats effortlessly switches from the two-beat gait to one of three beats and her pace quickens. the wind against your face is stronger now but you welcome the sensation, a small smile making its way to your face.

as a kid, riding was fun and exciting more than anything else but as you’ve grown into an adult, the activity has become something more cathartic—a release of sorts. your stress slips away when you’re on the saddle, lost in the summery breeze. you don’t allow a second for the thoughts that constantly nag at you to linger. all of your focus is granted to clover and the field ahead, to how you feel here and now and how you wish you could feel like this all the time.

unfortunately for you, nothing lasts forever.

you hear the dog before you see her, barking discernible in the distance. clover must, too, her ears pointing back to listen more closely to the sound approaching from behind. as the barking grows louder, the horse’s neck tenses, and it only takes a second more for her to decide that the noise is worth investigating. you’re in alert mode now, too—no, it’s probably closer to panic mode. it’s been a while since you’ve had to worry about the horse getting spooked and even then you had your grandpa or parents to rely on to make sure nothing got out of hand.

you don’t have time to even think about what the right thing to do in this situation is before clover spots the dog bounding towards the both of you.

“clove—!” you try to calm her down, to let her know that the dog isn’t a threat that she should be scared of, but it’s far too late. before you can comprehend what’s happening, clover is rearing. the motion combined with your loose hold on the reins is enough to send you flying off the horse’s saddle. a scream is ripped from your throat and you squeeze your eyes shut at being in the air, destined to fall.

you hit the ground with an audible thud.

pain courses through your body—your back, your shoulders, your head. everything hurts and hot tears spring to the corners of your eyes but they pool there, refusing to stream down your cheeks. despite all the pain, the growing soreness, you find your mind wandering. where did clover run off to? what was the dog doing out here alone? she rarely leaves the house by herself. someone is yelling, they’re calling your name. is it boothill?

“shit, little lady,” he shakily breathes, “you okay?”

relief washes over you and for a short second, you think that you’ve never been happier to hear the farmhand’s voice. it’s tinged with concern, a characteristic you have yet to see him display—especially for you. it doesn’t stop in his voice either, you can feel it in how he takes a hold of your shoulders, his grip firm but not tight enough to cause you any unnecessary pain.

you take the risk of finally opening your eyes and instead of being met with the sun’s blinding rays, boothill’s face crowds your vision. his eyebrows are pulled together and for once, there’s no smirk or grin playing at his lips. upon seeing that you’re conscious, the tension in boothill’s forehead lessens. “there she is.”

his voice is soft, like if he speaks too loud he’ll break you. though it’s unlike him to be so mindful, you appreciate what you imagine is the temporary change. he opens his mouth to continue but before he can get another word out, the border collie, missy, nudges between the two of you as if she senses something is wrong. boothill shoos her away before turning his attention back to you. “you okay? what happened?”

you think back on the moments that led to this—you laid out on your back in the grass. “missy… i think she scared clover. she threw me off.”

that’s right, you have no idea where she went after being so startled or if she’s okay, at that.

“where is clover?” you dart up into a sitting position, palms against the grass. it’s a bad idea and you face the consequences of it immediately, head throbbing and the dull pain throughout your limbs becoming all the more noticeable. you suck in a sharp breath in response to the discomfort but realize that the pain you’re in doesn’t top your concern for the horse. “is she still around here? i need to go find her.”

“woah, woah, woah, hold your horses.” boothill frowns. he stands up and holds both of his hands out to help you do the same. for once, you don’t think about the underlying meaning of having your hands touch his, you just grab a hold and let him pull you up. you turn your head in every direction you can in search of clover, readying to pick any of them to start walking in. though, you can’t, not with the way boothill is holding your hands hostage. his gray eyes bore into yours. “you aren’t going anywhere but to the hospital.”

“what? no.” you shake your head and try to pull away but boothill doesn’t budge. the longer he holds onto you, the more aware you become of his touch—how warm his hands are and how, even though they’re rough and calloused, his palms are more comforting than you care to admit. “i don’t need a hospital. i’m fine.”

“listen darlin’, people who have just been thrown off horses ain’t known for their good judgment.” he squeezes your hands but then seems to think better of it, loosening his grip but continuing to hold them. he gets his message across though, with the hand squeeze and the almost desperate look in his eyes. you’ve never seen him so uneasy, heard him speak so seriously. his new demeanor has your feet glued to their spot on the ground and your gaze glued to his. “you’re going to the hospital.”

you’re rarely one to jump at the opportunity to agree with boothill but maybe he’s right. you’re running on adrenaline right now and your mind isn’t in the best place—you’re worried about the wrong things. and if the topic is important enough to have boothill practically pleading with you, you should take it just as seriously as he is.

“fine, i’ll go, but you need to find clover before we do.” that came off a little more demanding than you meant it to. you add, “please.”

he clicks his tongue and groans before telling you, “alright, i’ll find your damn horse.”

● ● ●

boothill is a man of his word and tracks down clover, putting her back in the stable before whisking you away to the hospital. the ride there feels like a visit to the doctor itself with the way the farmhand practically interrogates you about your symptoms. he’s concerned but can’t help but laugh when you tell him that he’s exacerbating any head trauma you may have sustained by making you think so hard.

despite your initial resistance to boothill’s insistence on going to the hospital, you’re thankful for his urging. turns out he was right to be worried—you got a concussion.

your helmet helped soften the blow but the physician who explained your diagnosis still recommended a few days off work to rest and recover. it’s not the best news to receive but considering things could have been much worse, you’re grateful to walk away with a relatively minor injury.

and if your doctor had any anxiety about you ignoring his advice, it was misplaced. because boothill has personally made it his responsibility to be sure you get better.

as soon as the two of you arrived back at the house, he steered you into the living room, sat you on the couch, and disappeared into the kitchen with a demand for you to stay put. you’re tempted to argue but your head hurts too much so you cross your arms instead, closing your eyes and resting your head on the couch cushion.

it doesn’t take long for him to return and his hands are full when he does—a glass of water in one, an orange precariously rolling on a plate in the other, and a bottle of pain medication tucked under one of his arms. he sets the drink and pills on the coffee table before plopping down on the couch beside you, the dip in the cushion enough to make you open your eyes.

upon grabbing your attention, boothill jerks his head in that direction. “take a couple of those.”

you sit up and unscrew the bottle, shaking out two of the pills and popping them in your mouth before taking a few sips of the water he grabbed for you. a beat of silence passes before you speak up. “you know, i could have done all this myself.”

“i’m sure you could have,” he tells you with a grin, hands busy peeling the skin from the orange. it’s still all in one piece. impressive, you think, but you aren’t surprised. it seems like boothill is good at everything he does. “just thought you might enjoy having me at your beck and call.”

you frown. what does he think you are? some princess who needs a servant? “what’s that supposed to mean?”

“nothin’, darlin’.” he slides the plate of peeled orange slices across the coffee table so you can eat them when you’re ready. he wipes his hands on his jeans before standing up and stuffing them in his pockets.

the farmhand is on his way to the door when he says, “i’m off, but holler for me if you need anything, sweetheart.” 

you never thought you’d see the day you would stop boothill from leaving.

“wait, before you go…” he stops and turns around, eyebrows slightly raised in silent question, urging you to go on. you had more courage to say what was on your mind when he wasn’t looking at you. though, you know it’s only right to let him know that you appreciate all he’s done for you today. so, you turn your gaze to the floor and let it spill out. “thank you for finding clover. and for taking me to the hospital. and for this.” you gesture to the fruit.

there’s a flash of sincerity that passes over his features before that annoying smile makes its way back to his lips. “so you can say thank you.”

you don’t know what kind of response you were expecting, but you should have seen this coming. it’s like he’s hardwired to tease you, even when you’re being genuine. “you can leave now, boothill.”

“yeah, yeah, i’ll get out of your hair.” in contradiction to his words, he stays put. and you can’t find it in you to be upset that he does because the humor has left his face, replaced by earnestness. “but you’re welcome, doll. it was really no trouble.”

he finally takes his leave and when you hear the door close, you let out a frustrated groan and lay your head back on the cushion. that nasty fall must have done more damage than you thought. why else would your heart be working overtime over a simple change of expression?

you shake your head to get rid of the unwelcome thoughts—thoughts of how generous and caring he actually might be—before you think better of the motion. it hurts your head and makes you wonder how long it’ll take before the pain pills kick in. they’ll probably work better if you have something on your stomach.

your eyes fall to the plate boothill left for you.

orange slices should do.

thank u for giving this a read! reblogs and comments are appreciated -`♡´-

[amimuu]

“Hope”

VTA AU - #1

Word count: 5188 words

Reading time: ~15 mins

[‼️TW!: Implied decapitation, violence, suicidal ideation (?). Discretion is advised‼️]

Fic under the cut

They couldn’t keep their head in place.

And they tried, really hard. To keep it upright. It was stitched to their neck for a reason. But it had never actually depended on those strings to stay there. 

It depended on the crown.

A crown that moments before had gingerly placed itself back on their god’s head, slowly taking away what little sliver of power remained within the Lamb along with it. 

But they couldn’t rest just yet. They had to hold on for just a little longer. They had to listen to what their god had to say. 

But even with how much the Lamb pushed down the ringing, they couldn’t hear a single word. Their god simply stared at them, silently. Clearly, this was what he was expecting would happen.

Clearly, this was what he wanted to happen. What they both knew would happen. What the Lamb so desperately hoped wouldn’t have to happen.

But naturally, they were wrong. Of course.

Slowly, they let their gaze fall back into the ground, pristine white sand now stained crimson, proof of their mortality; slowly slipping away.

Of course, of course.

They squeezed their eyes, slowly taking their hoofs away from their neck. There was nothing left to do. This was the end. 

Of course, of course, of course.

A relief, he had said. They’d be finally fred from the role they were forced into playing. A leader. A prophet. A god-slayer. The last of their kind. The Lamb was no traitor, of course they were willing; how could they be not?

Back then, the Lamb had simply lowered their gaze, deep in thought. 

“Promise?”

“Hmm?”

“That it’ll be the end?” And they looked up to their god, a tiny glimmer in their eyes.

Rest, rest at last.  Their god had simply smiled back at them, a wide grin that exposed his sharp teeth.

“Yes” He replied, “I promise”

Still, the Lamb, unsure of what they truly wanted, had allowed themselves to hope. Entertain their selfish wishes for a while. Some pitiful way of self-comfort, they guessed. Maybe he’d change his mind. Maybe he’d let them stay by his side.

But when had hope ever been of any help to them?.

Hope hadn’t saved their kind. Hope hadn’t avoided their first death. And it certainly would not avoid this one.

Nothing would save them this time. Not hope. Not even their god.

A fool, the Lamb though, a bitter chuckle escaping their lips as they looked up to their god, one last time

 I was a fool.

–

Two thumps on the ground. And then, the sound of chains breaking.

The god of death stared at the little lump in the ground, unmoving, unresponsive. A prophecy fulfilled. Just as he had willed it so. 

His gaze softened, ever so slightly. “Rest now, vessel” He muttered, extending a clawed paw towards the lamb.

“You’ve earned it”

.

.

.

And they had. They truly had.

Still, it seemed like fate had different plans.

A small glimmer, and then another, and another, and another, until everything was filled with light—

And then, nothing.

SLAM!

Almost nothing.

They were supposed to be dead. 

But in the way their body ached, and the way it had definitely slammed into the ground a few moments prior it was clear that was likely not the case. Not anymore at least. Their head spiraled, ears ringing, and they could faintly make out the sound of retching–Oh. It was them. They were quickly pulled out of their thoughts, vision clearing ever so slightly, only to be welcomed by the sight of wood, covered in some dark matter. Ichor. It was ichor. A…resurrection ritual? But who? Why? How? What happened?

A heart offered, a vow made–

No, no that wasn’t right. They weren’t focusing on the most important question. Where were they? The Lamb squinted, struggling to push themselves upright, with trembling arms. Everything felt hazy, yet not like before. No welcoming light, no peaceful silence, no warmth.

Just cold wooden floors. Like in their temple. Their temple…

Their temple?

Their thoughts were interrupted again by yet another wave of ichor up their throat. They coughed, hands curling into fists. They felt a light touch on their shoulder. Great. Now they were choking.

“–to the side, it’ll be easier like that.”

What?

They tried looking in the direction the voice–likely belonging to the one that performed the ritual–came from, yet they were given a soft pat in the back, reminding them they still had something else to worry about. What had the voice said? Side–Turn to the side–? So they tried, yet it only caused them to lose balance, almost falling face first into the ichor-stained floors, if not for the other person holding them upright.

Finally–after roughly 13 seconds–, they were able to compose themselves. The other one present seemed to notice as well, swiftly removing their hands from the Lamb and standing once more. A paw was extended towards them in place, likely to help the lamb on their feet.

Their hoof was halfway towards reaching the paw when their gaze finally cleared enough to make out who was offering it to them.

Four red eyes stared down at the Lamb. Silently. Their god stood before them, the crown–in the form of a snake–curled around his shoulders.

The Lamb froze. No, no, it couldn’t be-

“My–My Lord” They blurted out. Their god tilted his head sideways, as if amused. The Lamb rose to their feet in a quick motion, ignoring the hand held out in front of them.

What. Why. How. Why. How. Why. Why. Why–

Their god was talking. They should listen. They couldn’t listen. Their ears were ringing, their head was spinning. There were too many questions. They felt like they were gonna throw up again. Their breath paced up. They couldn’t think. Their eyes fixed on the ground. On the runes. They were wrong. They–

Oh, that’s it.

Their god seemed to notice their discomfort, taking a step towards them. “Lamb–”

“My Lord, you– you made a mistake”

“Pardon me?”

The Lamb looked up, red eyes meeting their own, already settled on a reasonable explanation to what was going on. “You…tried to do the resurrection ritual, yes?” They continued, ever so calmly

“Not tried, it worked. Now if you–”

“Well surely you must’ve done something wrong- you brought me back, not whatever follower of ou- of yours that you were aiming for”

“Lamb–”

‘This runes here. They are all wrong. But don’t worry, I’ll help you fix it.” Their eyes scanned around the floor, fixing on a little red spot in the corner of the room. Chalk. “There, we just change this a bit and…done! Should work adequately now.” The Lamb made their way to their god, still talking, 

“Now you just turn the crown into a dagger, kill me again, and you should be good to go.” The Lamb smiled, fidgeting with their hoofs. Their god looked down at the now changed runes, and then back at them, unamused.

“So..?”

“I didn’t make a mistake.”

“…I’m sorry?”

“I didn’t make a mistake, vessel. The ritual worked as it was supposed to.” He continued, brows lifting slightly. “It was meant to resurrect you. Not some other follower. You”

…Them. 

He resurrected them. Meaning to resurrect them. Going all the way to change the base structure of the ritual so he could ensure it was them who was brought back. Them. No one else. Them. Them.

The lamb’s hoofs started to shake, eyes widening, an ever so familiar warmth spreading through their chest.  They shook their head, struggling to find the next words. “But…Why?”

Hope. Tiny, foolish hope.

“Because” Their god closed his eyes, sighing. “I still have need of you.”

Hope–

“ Your duty is not over.”

–Gone. 

Of course.

What else had they ever been, but a tool? Merely to be used, like a pawn upon a chess board. Yet the pawn could feel every stab, every kill,  every time they were taken off the board, only to be pulled back again and again until the players decided they were bored, and had had enough.

A tool, simply to be toyed around with. 

The lamb took a step back. Memories flooding into their head. A conversation. A wide grin, showing sharp teeth. A promise. Rest. Rest at last. Cut short. Hope. Cut short as well. Acceptance. Warmth. Calm. Peace. All gone. 

All gone.

Their gaze widened, mouth opening and closing like a fish before they were able to blurt something out. 

“It’s not–But, but you said–” 

He lied.

“And I misspoke, vessel.”

Of course he did.

“At the gate, you said–”

He went back on his words.

“My word is final.”

He broke his promise.

“What more could you possibly want from me?!” The Lamb snapped, causing Narinder and the snake-crown to flinch ever so slightly. Oh, they were getting themselves killed again for this. Good. “What haven’t I done for you?! I gave you my life, I gave you my death, my everything! I killed, I lied, I bribed, I stole–Everything you asked, I did! No questions asked, never!”

The god’s gaze sharpened. “Exactly. You performed your duties masterfully. Almost flawlessly. So that’s why I expect you to help clean up this…mess we caused.”

“What are you talking about?? What “mess”? Your siblings are dead, you are free, you have a faithful following–Has your greed for power truly made you that blind?!” The Lamb groaned in desperation, a little horrified with the satisfaction they felt when a look of annoyance spread through Narinder’s face.

“That is no way to talk to your god.”

“I am aware” The lamb took a step forward. And another. And another. Until they were standing right in front of Narinder. “So what will you do? Surely you won’t accept such blasphemy, will you?”

“Lamb–”

They chuckled, hysteria seeping through their words ”Go on, kill me again. See how I care.”

“Do not speak such–”

“Do it! Kill me!”

“SILENCE!!!” Narinder’s voice rang out through the entire temple, loud, divine; the crown positioning itself on his head, spikes stretched. His tone clearly not meant for mortal ears to hear. Mortal ears such as the lamb’s, who covered them and bent over in pain, wincing.  This seemed to snap Narinder out of his anger, being replaced with worry as he reached an arm out towards the Lamb, only to pull it back just as fast “Listen. I– This isn’t what I was planning either.” He sighed.

The Lamb looked up, hoofs no longer pressing as hard against their ears. “What?”

The crown on his head returned to its usual form. Narinder looked up for a second before talking. “It’s been eight summers since you laid down your life at my feet. Eight summers that the cult has prospered in your absence. Yet last week I was contacted by a nameless merchant whom I hadn’t seen in more than one millennia. They demanded I…free my siblings from the punishment I bestowed upon them.”

The Lamb scoffed, fully lowering their arms and folding them in front of their chest. “So? Why don’t you? Too much for your ego to handle?”

“I can’t”

“You what?” 

Narinder looked up at the Lamb, eyes fixing on theirs. “After I was freed from my chains I…There was a shift in my power. It’s not as strong as it is before. I can no longer access my realm.”

“As if you had been, what, cut off?”

“Precisely. Yet even after I informed them, the merchant pressed forward, saying it was my responsibility to do so. They told me without access to my realm I’d have to traverse their domains and slay them again.”

“Well? They said it themselves. It's your responsibility. How do I fit into this?” The Lamb’s gaze sharpened.

“I’m getting there.” Narinder straightened his posture, clearing his throat. He looked at the Lamb, mirroring the look he gave them when they first met, after the Lamb’s first death. A crowned deity, and a curse-bearing sacrifice. 

 “Lamb, I bestow upon you the honor of serving your god once again. You shall crusade the lands of the Old Faith a second time, slay the Bishops in my name…and, even if they clearly don’t deserve it, free them from the punishment I gave them, for I have given you life anew and you shall pledge it to me. In the meantime, you shall return to your duties as a cult leader and take care of the flock. Naturally, I’ll be here to assist you if it is needed. Are we clear?” The god smiled placidly, looking down at the Lamb–

–Who stared back at him with such intensity he almost felt their gaze was weighing him down, as if they couldn’t believe what they were hearing. Perfect. Narinder thought. Now that his vessel’s initial confusion had been cleared, surely they wouldn’t have a problem moving onwards. They shall crusade together and spread his word far and wide. All shall pledge themselves to the cult. Side by side, just like they wanted.

“Is that it?” The Lamb asked, quietly, unsure.

“Yes.” It is what we want, is it not? “That’s it”

Silence.

The Lamb looked down. Slowly, after what felt like an eternity, they extended a hoof towards Narinder, gently placing it on his cheek, lifting their gaze towards him. Tired eyes looked into his. The god felt goosebumps crawl up his spine, but he let them have their way. 

“...Vessel–”

SLAP!

Next thing he knew, he was on the ground. They were both on the ground. And the Lamb–

“YOU UNGRATEFUL ASSHOLE!!”

–Was punching him, continuously. Narinder tried to grab their fists, yet his paws were held down. The lamb was yelling, but Narinder couldn’t focus on half the words they said. He considered turning the crown–which was nearly knocked off his head–into a weapon, yet as soon as the thought crossed his mind,he decided against it. He didn’t want to hurt the Lamb. 

 “Stop this! Calm down!” He tried instead.

“Calm down? Calm down?!” The Lamb yelled back. Still punching, still speaking nonsense.

Yet with every punch they delivered, it looked as if they were the ones receiving the hit, not Narinder. Ichor stained the ground once anew, as the god and his vessel struggled. Narinder had never seen the Lamb this angry. Not when they were crusading, not when they were facing their siblings, not when dealing with dissenters. They always managed to keep themselves composed, always with a calm expression on their face. Nor happiness, nor sorrow, nor fear, nor anger. 

The god knew his words had caused them to snap. Yet he failed to grasp the why of it. He was giving them what they wanted. Eternity is to be spent in company. Once upon a time the Lamb would’ve been overjoyed hearing this news. Last time he saw them he knew they would’ve been. Last time–

Narinder felt something wet fall into his face. He looked up. Tears were falling from his attacker’s eyes. His own widened slightly. The Lamb’s eyes were filled with pain and desperation. Betrayal. Rage.

Directed at him.

And it clicked.

“You just don’t get it, do you?! What wouldn’t I have done?! How far wouldn’t I have gone?! Where wouldn’t I have followed, had you just said the word?! And yet you threw it away, you– you–!”

And they stopped. 

Narinder wasn’t fighting back anymore. He simply stared up at the Lamb, arms to his sides in defeat. 

“Calm down.” He tried again, softly. It’s alright. He lifted his paw towards the lamb, placing it on their shoulder and giving them a gentle push backwards. The Lamb complied, getting off Narinder and quickly pushing themselves back until they reached a wall, knees against their chest.

Narinder stood up, hesitating before approaching the lamb, slowly, paw outstretched towards them.

“Vessel–”

“Go away.” They interrupted, voice muffled. 

Narinder was not going to argue with that. He stepped away, back towards the entrance of the temple, sparing one final glance at the lamb before he disappeared through the door.

It was cold outside.

The Lamb looked up to the door, confirming that they were alone. Only then did they move away from the wall, opting to sit on the small stairs that led to the platform instead. They recalled the countless times they had given sermons from the lectern, preaching the word of their god, wholeheartedly believing the words they spoke; unaware of the fate which awaited them. 

They sighed, tears pooling at their eyes once anew.

There was no way to avoid it, was there? They could fight it all they wanted, but it wouldn’t change the outcome. No matter what they did they would be shoved back into their role.  A leader. A prophet. A god-slayer. The last of their kind. The devoted vessel of the god of death. Rest was not something possible for them. Maybe it would never be.

 There was a time where they would’ve been happy with it. Where they would’ve gladly taken eternity if it meant to remain by their god’s side. But what was that if not a lie? So they tried something else. Maybe he had skipped some details, but it was okay. They’d see their kin again, they’d know peace. 

But that too, was a lie. 

The silence continued for a while, until the doors of the temple opened once more. The lamb didn’t even bother looking up, they knew who it was. Quiet footsteps approached them, and then stopped. Something warm—a blanket?—was placed on their back.

“...It’s cold” Narinder said, hands lingering on their shoulders for a couple seconds, before he pulled them back.

The lamb looked up at him momentarily, and then back down.

“Get out of my sight” Was all they muttered, waiting for the sound of footsteps exiting once again. But it didn’t come. Instead, the Lamb heard a shuffling noise to their side, black fur visible from the edge of their vision.

“…You don’t want to do it” He acknowledged.

“You won’t let me refuse, will you?”

“...”

“Of course” The lamb scoffed, pulling at the blanket–No, it was a cloak–around their shoulders. They both fell quiet, sitting side by side, only illuminated by the light the crown–and partly, Narinder’s eyes–emitted.

After some minutes, Narinder spoke again. “Listen. There is something else.” 

The Lamb continued to stare at the ground, completely ignoring Narinder. 

The god sighed, and pressed forward. “Before my liberation, I thought you had destroyed the crowns of my siblings after you defeated them, or taken them back to the cult grounds as trophies to mark your victory over—“

“I don’t know how to destroy a crown, my Lord. And taking it back to the cult grounds was too risky. Might’ve gotten some crazy follower that could try to use its powers.” The Lamb interrupted, in a low voice.

“Then what did you do?”

“As far as I’m concerned, the crowns destroyed themselves after I took the hearts of the Bishops. I didn’t see them after the battle.”

Narinder hummed, reaching for the crown in his head and taking it in his hands. “There’s been sightings of miracles and impossible acts outside of the cult grounds. And we both know that couldn’t have been you”

“Who knows, maybe the Red Crown was thrown off balance and now it’s causing all this mess” The Lamb tapped their hoof against the ground, already having a vague idea of where this was going.

“What I’m meaning to say is—“

“You think the crowns fell into the hands of mortals who aren’t worthy of their powers?” The Lamb interrupted.

Narinder frowned slightly “Yes. And I could’ve dealt with that myself hadn’t your following been so stubborn”

“Ha, they don’t like you?”

“Nonsense! They fear and worship me…yet their loyalties remain elsewhere”

“You tried asking my disciples for help, didn’t you.” The Lamb stated, not asking.

“…”

“You knew they’d only listen to me” The Lamb muttered, mostly to themselves. They sighed “You want me to convince them to help you, yes?”

“Lamb, if the crowns were to fall in the wrong hands, hands that do not know how to make use of them, or worse, do know— the results would be catastrophic”

“Hmm…hands like yours?”

“Does the world around you look like destruction and chaos, Lamb?” He was starting to lose his patience. No. He couldn’t. Last time that happened he had accidentally blinded a follower. He took a deep breath. He couldn’t see clearly, but he could’ve sworn the Lamb was smiling.

“I have a proposal.” Narinder said after a few seconds, calmer. “If you do this, I’ll…consider giving you something in return.”

“Consider?”

“I’ll be indebted to you, Lamb”

 Their hoofs twitched. “You’ll let me ask for something in return?”

“One thing. Whatever you wish for. And then, If it’s still what you want, I shall send you back to my realm. Sounds reasonable?” he looked at them, a patient look in his eyes.

The Lamb looked back at him, ready to deny the offer, yet their gaze quickly fell towards the cloak Narinder was wearing. They hadn’t noticed it before. It was white, with accents in red and yellow that complimented his fur. Soft and warm, perfect for the winter. Woven carefully in the hopes it’d be of their god’s liking and comfort. Even with the dim illumination, they’d recognize it anywhere.

Crafted from their own wool, for their one and only god.

I guess what I’m trying to say is—

“...It gets pretty cold during winter.” They muttered instead, voice trembling.

Whatever you need, I’ll be there.

“It does.” Narinder replied softly. 

They fell quiet again, caught up in a moment in the past. The last death before fighting Shamura, the Lamb remembered. They had brought the cloak to their god, if only to show it to him, see how he would react.

“But…It’s too small” Their god had said, a little unsure. The Lamb chuckled, their expression not changing

“I don’t see the problem! You can shrink down at will, can you not?”

 Oh, how filled with hope had they been back then. How badly did they want to show their god the wonders of the realm above. How faithful, how foolish.

The Lamb looked back up at Narinder, hoofs trembling. Maybe, just maybe… “Whatever I wish for…you’ll do it? You’ll really do it?”

“You crusade, you convince your disciples, you have my word.” But that means close to nothing now, doesn’t it?

The Lamb fell quiet, considering their options, which weren’t many, they knew this was a deadend. Might as well take the offer before it’s gone. They stood up, looking down at Narinder. “Alright.” They gave in. “I’ll do it”

Narinder smiled, standing up as well. “Then so be it”

“However–”

“However?”

The Lamb tapped their hoof on the ground. “I won’t last a single crusade without at least a weapon. Got one in mind?”

Narinder looked at them, and then started walking towards the lectern. “Better than that, actually” He said, picking up a fancy–looking cup and walking back towards the lamb, placing it in their hoofs. “Here, hold this.”

The Lamb did, a little wary.

“See, back when I was still a Bishop,” Narinder started, willing the crown into a small dagger. “We had a certain problem, in which our disciples would become almost obsolete after just a couple years of service.” He pressed the blade into his palm, slicing a clean cut, ichor coming out and sliding down his hand. “It was pitiful, really. They might have been fully devoted to us, yet at the end of the day, they were only mortal. How could they ever hope to keep up with gods?”. He positioned his paw directly above the cup, letting the ichor fall into it, slowly filling it up.

 “Yet instead of simply accepting this, we came up with a method, a way for them to grow stronger alongside us, that would also allow us to lend them some of our power. This was a honor reserved only for the most faithful of our following, and a new title was bestowed upon those who received that blessing–”

“The witnesses?” The Lamb asked, eyes locked with the cup.

“Indeed.” Narinder said, pulling his paw back away from the cup, not bothering with the cut; he knew it would heal in less than an hour. 

“So” They started toying around with the cup. “I drink this and become a super creepy-looking giant creature that’ll be devoted to you forever?” 

“The beastly form was something achieved through mass sacrifice, Lamb. I thought you’d know that much” Narinder rolled his eyes. “You’ll simply reach a state similar to that of when you wielded the crown. Your devotion should be high enough to not blow up into bits.”

“Huh” The Lamb said, and lifted up the cup above their head, eyes locking with Narinder’s. They chuckled lightly, clearing their throat before talking. “And so the Lamb, twice betrayed, chooses to put their trust in the god that denies them rest once anew! Shame on them.” They exclaimed, pressing the cup to their smiling lips.

“Cheers”

They drank the entire cup in one gulp, coughing lightly before placing it back into Narinder’s paws. They squeezed their eyes, waiting for the stomach-churning pain that would surely overcome them for drinking the blood of a god. And they waited. And waited. But nothing came.

“Let me guess. Waiting for the gut-wrenching pain?”

“...”

“Don’t worry about that. As I said before, your devotion is high enough to safely consume ichor. Mine, at least” Saying that, Narinder’s gaze wandered upwards, towards the Lamb’s head. “Andd….there it is”

“There is…?” But the Lamb didn’t even need to finish their sentence. They could feel its presence. A light colored halo was now gingerly placed atop their head, emanating a very faint glow. “...So that’s the thing that appeared on the kids’ heads”

“Your disciples?” Narinder inquired, yet only received silence in response.

The Lamb poked their halo, seemingly already disinterested in the god standing in front of them. Some seconds later they heard the doors of the temple open and close, glad the god had understood the memo. The temple was filled with silence.

A voice in the Lamb’s head told them they felt a little lonely now.

 “...I like it better like this” They lied.

They sat back down, this time behind the lectern, and closed their eyes, focusing on the new flow of energy inside them. It was nice. They wondered if it would have the same effects as the crown. Would they need to eat? Sleep? They missed doing that. They missed normal meals, at least. Normal meals that weren’t—

The doors of the temple opened once again, and the cat walked in, this time with a candle in hand. He looked outside for a second and then back at the Lamb.

“What is it now?” The Lamb said, rather annoyed, standing up from the spot they had been meditating in.

Narinder’s eyes shifted between the door and the Lamb. He finally stepped away, opening the doors a little, as if to let someone in “I figured you’d like some company aside from me”

The Lamb was about to ask if he had gone mad when they saw three familiar faces walk in through the door. They froze. Halos that mirrored their own upon their heads, looking at the Lamb with wide eyes, almost as if they couldn’t believe what they were seeing.

“Kids?” They asked softly, taking a small step towards the figures. 

One of them–A deer–stepped forward, almost hesitantly. “Leader…? Is…is it really you?” The other two followed suit, looking at the Lamb expectantly.

“Yes–” The lamb chuckled “Yes, yes–! And–And you guys…you–Oh, come here–!” They opened their arms, the three disciples running towards them and wrapping their arms–and wings–around them, in a bone crushing hug. The Lamb laughed. The disciples laughed too. The god of death looked at them from the distance, a small smile appearing on his lips as well, which he forced down just as quickly.

“Look at you three! I almost didn’t recognize you!” The Lamb stepped back, their gaze moving from one disciple to another. “Pam–Oh, what happened to your beak?” They focused on one of them, a teal bird, worry appearing in their face. 

The bird–Pam, simply laughed “Got it from a dissenter! He smashed a glass bottle hard into my beak! Certainly didn’t know who they were messing with!” She nudged the lemur, who also laughed. “Sylvie here punched him square in the face right afterwards! Knocked the poor bastard out!”

The lemur, Sylvie, blushed lightly upon the comment “Well–It was still Pam who dealt with him..”

“And then I had to come and fix the mess you were causing.” The deer popped in, a look of playful annoyance in his face. “Fancy me almost single-handedly keeping this cult from burning down for the last few years” He continued. Pam rolled her eyes. 

“Oh yes Dipal, what would we do without you?”

“Paperwork. Loads of it.”

“Yuck, you’re right Syl. Seems like we’ll have to be stuck with him forever”

“HEY!”

The Lamb simply continued to laugh at the comments their disciples made. They sighed and patted their shoulders. “Alright, Alright, how about we take this back to my tent and you tell me all about the last couple years, hm?” The disciples looked back at them. “Unless my tent is already occupied?”

“It is not” Narinder popped in, leaning against a pillar. “It’s been left untouched since…since you last used it. Only the occasional offering left outside of it instead of the statue”

“Statue?” The Lamb muttered, a little confused.

“It was built after The One Who Waits was fred” Sylvie explained “A way to honor you. It is also where you were originally buried..”

“Original– What do you–?”

“Alright!! Let’s take it back to the tent! Oh! Surely, we should have some hot camellia tea left.” Pam interrupted, pushing Sylvie and the Lamb towards the entrance of the temple. Dipal followed along. One by one, they exited the temple, until only the Lamb and Narinder remained. The Lamb stopped for a second, hoof on the door.

They looked at him.

Really, really looked at him. 

Red eyes met their own. Just as tired. The Lamb sighed. “Go get some rest. If not for your sake, then my own” Was all they said, exiting the temple and scooting towards where their disciples were.

“You won’t believe half the things that happened after you were gone. It’s crazy!”

“And the paperwork…Oh the paperwork…I haven’t gotten a day of proper sleep in years”

“Dippy, you’ve been complaining about that even before the Leader…uh…left”

“Because it’s true. You two lazy heads don’t even try to help me–”

“Calm down you three, I’m sure you all had loads of stuff to deal with…” 

“...”

Narinder watched them go, exiting the temple, yet heading in a different direction than the one that led to his hut. 

Maybe he’d pray a little tonight.

–

[Comics offer a different perspective of certain events...]

damn i really wonder who is narrating huh.

Anyways OH BOY. WHAT AN UPDATE. What's to happen next? Will they get along? Will the Lamb attempt to murder Narinder? What's up with the disciples? And the crowns?!? Where are they?

With time, we shall know....And so concludes the second installment of the VTA au! Until next time :3

And then they kiss kiss fall in love

[penkura]

last forever [12/13]

Summary: Zoro only offered to marry you to keep you out of an arranged marriage with a man much older than you. You agreed with the caveat of ending it via annulment once you received word from your parents regarding the original engagement, despite your growing feelings for your close friend.

Pairing: Zoro x Fem!reader, mentioned Sanami later (like epilogue later so chill)

Warnings: Marriage of Convenience, Romance, Fluff, Confessions, Implied Sex

Note: The next to last chapter!! This was originally going to be the ending, but I changed it a little bit. The next chapter is the official ending with a small epilogue at the end!

Taglist:

@misfits1a | @alucardsdaddyissues | @louweasleymalfoy | @fluffybunnyu | @yerrimm09 | @eyes-ofhell | @emmaiscool22 | @xenop0p | @hank88999

[Ch. 1] ● [Ch. 2] ● [Ch. 3] ● [Ch. 4] ● [Ch. 5] ● [Ch. 6] ● [Ch. 7] ● [Ch. 8] ● [Ch. 9] ● [Ch. 10] ● [Ch. 11]

When you finally hear that Zoro and Luffy have woken up, you're still on the other side of the building with Sanji. Chopper comes running in to tell you both, and your eyes light up so quickly that when you look at Sanji, he's already smiling at you as you grin.

“Better go hug that husband of yours.”

You don't have to be told twice and you're running down the hall with Chopper, him holding one of your hands in his hoof while you use your other to keep the skirt of your kimono up so you don't trip. No need to see Zoro with a bloody nose, he'll think you're spending too much time with Sanji.

When you get to the room and Chopper throws the door open, he lets go of your hand and hurries to Luffy, while you catch your breath and watch the two, making up for lost time on their eating and drinking, of course. If you hadn't been so stressed and worried the last few days, you'd be laughing at them. When Luffy notices you, he says your name with a grin that makes you smile back at him, before you look over to Zoro and feel like you're about to start crying.

He's alive. Once again, he's pulled himself from the edge of death and come back to you. When he finally sees you, Zoro nods you over to him, pulling you to his side with an arm around your shoulders once you do reach him. You return the hug and bury your face in his chest, forcing yourself not to cry out of the happiness you feel right now.

You're alive. Thank God, I was so scared.

Almost as if he can read your mind, Zoro leans his head down towards yours, briefly brushing his lips against your head before whispering, “Everything's fine. We're okay.”

You nod a bit, pulling away to look up at him with a smile. You're just so glad he's all right, that he made it out of his fight against King mostly unscathed. Zoro moves his hand to your forehead, tapping the bandage for a second, before placing his hand on your back.

“What's this bandage about?”

“Oh,” you barely touch the bandage on your forehead, having forgotten all about it in your hurry to see Zoro, “A stray knife grazed me. Chopper says I'll be fine, no scarring.”

“Hope you cut the guy down.”

You nod, giving him a slight smirk. “Of course I did.”

“Yeah?” Zoro returns your smirk, pulling you closer to him, “Atta girl.”

That's my wife, I'm proud of you.

Zoro wants to say that aloud to you, but there's too many people around, and he hasn't been able to take you aside to tell you to get rid of those divorce papers,  to forget about your parents and how your marriage came about, to just stay with him.

He's back to drinking sake a moment later, but keeps you right next to him, even as Hiyori speaks up about how she'd help keep him (and Luffy of course) clean while they recovered. It makes your heart ache a bit, despite Sanji's reassuring you earlier, but Zoro doesn't say anything about it and keeps his arm around your shoulders, wanting you to stay there. Hiyori wasn't trying to upset you, you both knew that since she didn't know your relationship, but it stung a bit to know she was here when Zoro woke up while you'd been elsewhere.

He doesn't care, he cares that you're here now, safe and alive in his arms. Honestly, a few times he was worried for you during the raid, during the battles. Not knowing exactly where you were or how you were faring, until he started his battle against King, you were in the back of his mind. Even when that battle started, his mind would drift to you and silent hopes that you were safe.

Thankfully you were, and he knows you're more worried about him, just from how you hold onto him and don't look at anyone else, not even when Luffy and Chopper try talking to you.

“Hey, I need some help if anyone's free!”

Sanji interrupts a bit later, mostly expecting some of the guys to help, but you gently push yourself from Zoro and give him a smile when he looks at you.

“I'm going to go help Sanji.”

Zoro scowls for a second, making you laugh at his face.

“Curly brow can handle whatever it is,” Zoro pulls you back to him, kissing your temple briefly before letting you go, “but if you want to help him you can go.”

Smiling again, you nod before leaning up and kissing his cheek. “Thank you, husband.”

You don't miss the slightest blush on his face while you stand up, Zoro holding your wrist for a moment longer before speaking again.

“When we set sail…I want to talk to you alone, all right?”

Worry starts to take over your heart and head, but you do your best to hide it with a nod, going to follow Sanji and whoever else volunteered to help him. You fear Zoro is going to push you to sign the divorce papers, that despite how sweet he's been lately, it's all an act and he's going to end your sham marriage. It's what you've worried about ever since your crew's reunion in Sabaody. Even after the night you spent together recently, it still was in the back of your mind that he could choose to end your marriage.

While helping Sanji does distract you from your worry, there's still a small voice in the back of your head telling you that he doesn't love you, he must love Hiyori, that's all it is. He's going to end it there and that will be it.

You shake your head, forcing that voice to go away so you could continue helping.

Nothing you could do now except wait until you all board Sunny to leave again, and have your talk with Zoro.

Please don't end this….

+!+

“So, do you have feelings for her?”

Hiyori's question almost comes out of left field for Zoro, who simply finishes his drink and sets the bottle down, not making eye contact. You've gone off somewhere with Nami and some of the children to play games, which is probably why Hiyori chose to speak to him now, while you weren't around. It might make things easier for her to get some answers from him.

He has one, an answer, of course. He's known for a while now his feelings for you, how far they went and what he wants. It feels weird to think about telling Hiyori this, he can tell she has feelings for him too, but, he's pretty sure she already knows, even without having to ask.

“Your crewmate…the girl always hanging around you, um, [Y/N]?”

“Yeah, I know who you're talking about.”

“Is she truly your wife?”

Zoro nods, making Hiyori's shoulders slump a bit. She's heard Sanji call you “moss head's wife” once or twice or maybe several times to a few of the other Samurai, she believes on purpose whenever she was within earshot. Despite seeing you slap his arm and smile, saying you and Zoro were just really close, Hiyori could always see something like sadness behind your eyes and smile.

Truthfully, she wondered if it was unrequited love, that you loved him but Zoro didn't love you back. That's why she felt the need to ask before you all take off in the next couple of days.

“We didn't get married cause we were in love, if you're wondering.”

“Oh?” For a second she perks up, hearing that she now wonders if it was an arranged marriage, and that you two didn't have any feelings for each other. That would make sense, Hiyori thinks, until Zoro speaks again.

“I was keeping her from being sent home to an arranged marriage. Well…forced home, I guess,” Zoro doesn't even question where Hiyori got the bottle of sake she gave him, but he does thank her for it, “Thought after a few months we'd annul and move on with our lives. Didn't actually think we'd fall for each other.”

Her shoulders drop again, but Hiyori smiles anyway. There's something in the way Zoro speaks about you, as he tells her your story of how you two came to know each other, when you said you love him, and how he's come to feel the same way, after believing it would never happen to someone like him. It sounds like happiness, she realizes, recognizing it from what she remembers of her mother speaking about her father. Happiness and true love, it sounds like.

After a bit, Hiyori nods, still smiling.

“You love her.”

Zoro's quiet for a moment, before he simply nods. He's known this for a long time now, it's just been difficult to get alone time with you to tell you his feelings for you, despite how that sounded lame to him and something Sanji would say, despite your night together. He does hate that he never told you before that happened.

It's interesting how it feels to admit that, though, even with just a nod. To admit he loves you, when he was so sure love wasn't for him, that it would never find him and if it did, at one point he wanted to wipe his hands of it.

But you.

Of course, it would be you.

How you have changed things. You've convinced him that love isn't that bad, that yes, it's even for him, the self proclaimed king of hell. The once Pirate Hunter turned pirate himself, future greatest swordsman in the world. You've got him wrapped around your finger, got him thinking about what life after becoming the world's greatest swordsman and helping Luffy become King of the Pirates would be like. He's had thoughts more recently of you two settling down in his home village perhaps, maybe having a few brats of your own and living your life together.

It was crazy to him, to think about it, and know where he's come from with not knowing a real family or that kind of love, to wanting it with you. If he told his 8-year-old self about this, the brat he was would cringe and turn his nose up at the thought of marriage, current age Zoro would have to laugh at his younger self.

“It's not so bad. Yeah you have someone else to worry about, but, for some reason, knowing they worry about you too…it's comforting, really “

Taking another drink of sake, Zoro knows that later, once you've all set sail again, he's going to make things right with you. No more of you wondering what he was thinking about you and your marriage. No more beating around the bush, making excuses to be with or to avoid each other.

“Yeah. I love her.”

He's going to make sure you know that soon.

+!+

"Do you still have those divorce papers?"

Freezing up, you nod a bit before grabbing your bag, pulling out the crumpled papers you'd had for the last two and a half years, handing them to Zoro. The argument you two had gotten into when Robin first joined, where Zoro called you stupid for blindly trusting her and you called him an idiot for being so untrusting, had caused you both to seriously consider ending your sham marriage then, but you never ended up signing the annulment papers in time. If you wanted to end it now, divorce was your only option. You didn't think Zoro would ever actually ask for them, and you didn't want to give them to him, but he had asked and you did still have them.

He must've decided he didn't want to be your husband, sham or real. You'd seen how close he'd gotten with Hiyori during your time in Wano, especially after she gave him the sword Enma. Maybe he wanted to be with her, though it would be a long distance relationship you were sure they'd make it work. They'd be cute together, and–

Why do you hear papers being torn?

Zoro didn't say anything after you handed him the papers, but he ends up tearing them into pieces while you were running a million thoughts in your head, your eyes widening when you finally notice what he's done.

"What are you doing?!"

"What does it look like I'm doing? Ripping up these useless papers."

You can't get any words out, stuck stammering in confusion even as Zoro sits in front of you on your bed.

"Why did you do that? We can't get divorced without those!"

"Who says I want to?" The look on your face, one of pure shock and a bright red blush, makes Zoro smile a bit, mostly to himself. You two had such little alone time in Wano he never had a chance to tell you to rip up or burn the papers, that he didn't want to divorce you. Finally though, as your ship heads towards your next destination, he gets to tell you. "I don't want to divorce you. I've decided we're staying married and you're taking my last name."

You're still so in shock you don't know what to say or how to say it. Hearing Zoro say such a thing, and that he wants you to take his last name makes your face even redder. "W-what?!"

You end up slapping your hands over your cheeks out of embarrassment and to make sure you aren't dreaming while Zoro nods and places a hand on his chin like he was thinking

"Roronoa [Y/N]. Sounds pretty good to me."

"Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Slow down. I…I'm getting dizzy." Leaning against the wall, you hold your head in your hands and try to calm your pounding heart. This was all so much at once, he can't just tell you he's decided you two were staying married and you were going to be a Roronoa now!

Granted yes, it's what you've wanted the last two and a half years, but still. He could at least ask if you were all right with this!

"Are you…are you saying you…"

"Want to stay your husband? Yeah, that's what I'm saying." Zoro moves closer to you, putting his arm around your shoulders and leaning you into him, maybe that would help clear your head. "I won't divorce you or let anyone else marry you."

"But…what about Hiyori…?"

"What about her? She's nice enough and gave me her father's sword but…I don't…feel that way for her."

So you were wrong. Zoro didn't have any romantic feelings for Hiyori. You were never so glad to be so wrong before now. You can feel tears starting, but try to blink them away, sitting up and taking his hand in your own.

“When did you decide this?”

“A while ago, honestly,” Zoro draws you closer to him, the softest look you've ever seen from him as he places his forehead against yours, “I'm sorry it took me so long to tell you, I had to make sure it was right first. That this is what I wanted too.”

"You have no idea how happy I am to hear that," biting your lip, you look away with a slight blush, "but…are you sure you want me? I feel like you don't have a real choice here…"

"I made my choice when I offered to marry you to keep you out of that arranged marriage. You were my choice from the beginning."

You don't say anything else or give Zoro the chance to say more before you kiss him, no hesitation from him in returning it, pulling you as close as possible, into his lap just like your first kiss in Water 7 two years. It's been a long time coming, and you're just glad your feelings were finally returned, you don't have to worry about a possible divorce and the heartbreak that would follow.

No, you and Zoro are desperately in love with each other. It took you some time to get to this point, but you were here now. No need for an annulment or divorce, not even a need for you to find a place to get married, you're already several steps ahead.

"I love you, husband."

"I love you too, wife."

And you don't think you can be any happier.

+!+

Zoro wakes up the next morning to you digging through a drawer in your nightstand, muttering something like "where did it go" and "what did I do with it". He figures you're trying to be quiet, but you failed at that and woke him, though he isn't really upset about it.

It seems like Robin and Nami never came back to the women's bunks, something he's sure you're grateful for so they didn't walk in on anything they wouldn't want to see. Zoro won't ever tell you that he specifically asked them not to come by if they could, since he wasn't sure at the time how things were going to play out.

He lays there and watches you for a moment, until you seem to find what you had been looking for, happily pulling the item out of the drawer and checking whatever it was to make sure it was all right.

"Hey."

You scream a bit, not expecting Zoro to be awake and almost dropping the item in your hands. He just laughs at you so hard, you have half a mind to shove him off your small bed, he was near the edge anyway. Instead your face goes bright red and you punch his shoulder, making him laugh even more.

"You jerk, you scared me! When did you wake up?!"

"A couple minutes ago, while you were digging in your drawer."

You pout while Zoro sits up and tries to see what you have in your hands, you trying to keep it hidden and focus more on how he scared you. Of course you knew he didn't mean to, he'd never do that on purpose, but you were trying to keep something a surprise.

"What you got there, wife?"

"It's…it's nothing, husband."

The inflection you put on the word husband doesn't convince Zoro that it really is nothing. He knows you were hiding something you don't want him to see yet, to the point he pulls you into a kiss, keeping you in place by holding the back of your head while he reaches around you to take whatever is in your hands.

"Hey!" You push him back when you realize he took the item from you, and give him a glare. "You can't just kiss me and steal my stuff!"

"Thought husbands and wives weren't supposed to keep secrets."

"Surprises aren't technically secrets."

Zoro rolls his eye at you, ignoring the slight blush you have as you don't fight to get the small box back while he opens it. He's a bit surprised after all, looking from the box to you, who is trying not to look him in the eye.

Your secret item was a set of wedding rings it looked like, maybe just regular rings but they matched too well to just be random rings put in a box together. A plain, thick silver band and a smaller, thin silver band with a small jewel on it. Obviously, one for a man and one for a woman, definitely wedding bands.

When did you have time to get these though? Neither of you had acted on your feelings until after you'd all come together again, and even after that, no real confessions or anything had happened until the night before. Did you get these in Wano before your ship left, or had you gotten them a while ago? Zoro knew you would start talking the longer he looked at you.

"I," you bite your lip and keep looking away, your cheeks red out of embarrassment as you try to explain, "I found them in Loguetown…I know we weren't really together then but…I don't know, I couldn't help it…"

"You want me to put your ring on you then?"

"Huh?"

You didn't think Zoro would be willing to do something so romantic, but it is traditional and he leans more to that than you had originally expected.

Your marriage isn't traditional though, having gotten married at a backwater court house almost three years prior, only to save you from an arranged marriage. You'd nearly annulled your marriage, thought he was going to divorce you the night before, and spent two years apart.

The fact that Zoro, of all people, is willing to stay married to you and make it work, to actually make a life with you, it makes you happy.

"Then," you nod, smiling while Zoro turns to face you better, "I'll put yours on you."

You two are quiet for a bit, you looking at the rings you'd bought forever ago, honestly kind of amazed you'd reached this point. There was a time you thought they'd never be used, but now, as you watch Zoro take your ring from the box to put on your hand, you can't help but smile and laugh a bit.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing, it's just…weird to think we're doing this," a thought hits you, and you give Zoro a slight grin, "You know, you're supposed to say something when you put the ring on me."

He raises an eyebrow, while you blush a bit. Zoro had never been to a wedding, why would he know all the words said at those things? He always thought weddings were stupid when he was a kid, but now as an adult, he almost felt bad that you two didn't have a proper wedding, despite your insistence that it was perfectly fine and would be a fun story to tell your kids, if you had any.

"What do you mean? Don't I just put it on your finger and that's it?"

Giggling, you shake your head and take his ring in your hand to place on his finger. "So…what you'd do, if we'd had a real ceremony, is take the ring, and say, 'with this ring I thee wed.'"

Zoro looks at the ring now on his left hand, before looking back to you.

"That's dumb."

It makes you burst out laughing to hear that. Of course he thinks it's dumb, but you don't expect anything less from him. It does make you happy though, to give Zoro his ring and watch him look it over, getting used to it being there, before he takes your ring and your left hand in his. His face is red, and he looks like he's thinking about what you said, which makes you smile a bit.

"With…this ring…I thee wed."

Zoro barely speaks above a whisper, but you hear him. It's a vow, not something flowery or long winded, but still a vow that he's yours and you're his. The way he holds your hand, running his thumb across your fingers while staring at your ring. You giggle a bit at how shy he acted, repeating those words to you, giving him a kiss and a smile.

"I love you, husband."

"I love you too, wife."

"...you did put my ring on the wrong finger though."

"Damn it, [Y/N]."

[psychedelic-ink]

ㅤㅤㅤ✦ 𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐅𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐒

ㅤㅤjoel miller x f!reader x jack daniels

genre: smut, minors dni, dude ranch au, modern au

word count: 7.7k

summary: joel challenges jack to make you into the finest there possibly is in two days.

warnings: threesome (mfm), mlm dynamics, some jealousy, outdoor sex, piv, oral sex, dirty talking

a/n: happy birthday @fuckyeahdindjarin 🎉 I hope you enjoy you slutty cowboys--both of them nearly gave me a heart-attack while writing ❤️‍🔥 this gif was made my the lovely @pedrorascal who I am so grateful for helping me out preparing your this bday surprise!

**dividers by @saradika

You take a breath and sneak out of the cozy room. It had been hard parting away from your cozy bed. The warmth provided by the hand-knitted blanket and the scent of delicious wood made you want to never leave. They’ve really done a great job decorating the rooms of the dude ranch. It still holds the Western theme you love, but it's also adorned with rustic charm, from the weathered leather furniture to the handcrafted wooden accents, creating a welcoming atmosphere.

It had been a couple of days since your arrival. You were tired of... well, everything and desperately needed an out. You wish you could say that it happened like in the movies— a divine sign that made you come here, but no. There was no divine intervention, no mysterious flyer sticking to your face. You had to do an endless amount of research to find the perfect place, and when you were done, you picked the ranch that had the least foot traffic. You were running away from people. Choosing the most touristy one would defeat the purpose—you wanted to be alone.

And you were glad that you did. The place was amazing. Surrounded by large mountains and wide fields. This place wasn’t so people would come and see what was what. It was an actual ranch with actual people working all the time. Accepting guests was the side hustle and not the other way around. 

There were two cowboys that you constantly saw: Joel Miller and Jack Daniels. Both charming, both handsome enough to make you want to scream. Jack had been personally assigned to you, but Joel was always around, watching, observing, and, of course, running his mouth. You’ve grown accustomed to their odd friendship... rivalry? It was actually kind of cute to see Jack turn all red whenever Joel said something to undermine him. And the other seemed to know that well.

Two talented cowboys. And you, who had no idea what the hell you were doing. 

Which is why you were escaping your room like some kind of criminal at the brink of dawn. Joel’s teasing wasn’t only reserved for Jack, you got your fair share as well and it was even worse when Jack chimed in—the two seasoned horse riders letting you know just how out of your element you were. You needed to train without those two constantly spitting quips your way.

You silently make your way to the stables and blindly reach out towards Honeydust, the palomino Jack had gotten you accustomed to. You gently guide her away from the other horses. The rose-pink light of dawn has begun to trickle through the open windows, painting Honeydust’s coat in a gorgeous hue. You regret not bringing your phone; you would’ve loved to show Jack and Joel later on.

“Alright girl,” you mutter as you pat the side of her face. She whinnies slightly and digs her hoof into the ground. “It’s you and me. Let’s show them how it’s done.” 

As you reach for the saddle, you smile to yourself. You might not be that good at horse riding yet but you did learn some things—like the value of a good saddle. You take a moment to inhale the scent of it— a mix of leather, hay, and a hint of earthiness.

Honeydust stands patiently, seemingly aware of your fumbling attempts to secure the saddle. You take a deep breath, remembering the lessons Jack patiently gave you about saddling up. Slowly but surely, you manage to get everything in place. As you tighten the cinch, you feel a sense of accomplishment. A week ago, you hadn’t been able to do this. Maybe you're not a full-on cowboy, but you're determined to learn the ropes.

With the saddle secured, you grab the reins and lead Honeydust out of the stable, into the cool morning air. The sky is a canvas of pastel colors—blues, pinks, and golds blending together as the sun inches higher. It's a breathtaking sight. You pat Honeydust on the muzzle and press your cheek against her, watching the sky.

“Isn’t it beautiful,” you whisper to her. “Honestly I’m gonna hate going back. It’s been a couple of days and I’m already attached to this place.” 

Honeydust snorts and shakes her head. You smile wide as you pat her again, “You’re right. No room for sentimentality.” 

Mounting Honeydust, you settle into the saddle, adjusting to the feel of it beneath you. The quiet creak of leather is drowned out by the sounds of the waking ranch. Birds chirp in the distance, and you take a deep breath, your lungs filling with the fresh scent of the outdoors—

But then you’re slipping. 

And then falling. 

With a loud, sharp gasp, you find yourself unexpectedly upside down beneath Honeydust's belly. Panic sets in as you register the proximity of her powerful legs, your eyes widen, your heart pounding loudly in your chest. Honeydust remains still, your body still miraculously hanging to the saddle. 

Your heartbeat starts to slow, you take a deep breath. You’re fine. You’re okay. You just forgot to fasten one of the belts. 

“Need any help there, sweetheart?” 

Fuck. Busted. 

“I’m fine,” you answer, emphasizing the latter. Jean-clad legs come into view. “Just. . . trying a new riding style.” 

“Is that so?” Joel drawls, amusement dripping with every word. “And what would you call this one? The hangin’ fool?” 

“Rude.” 

His hips cock to the side and you see him placing both hands on his narrow hips, “Would it be better if I called it the hangin’ beauty?” 

“Yes actually, it would.” 

Your cheeks warm as he steps closer. You try not to stare, or perhaps that’s just you lying to yourself, but whatever your true intention was your eyes linger right over his crotch. Even with the thick jeans and the belt buckle, you know he’s packing underneath there. You can especially tell now since this is the closest you’ve ever been to it. Your mouth waters. Your brain delving further into sinful imagination when his low chuckle echoes in your ear. 

“A’right then beautiful, let’s get you out here.” he stops for a beat, his knuckles brushing down the outer part of your leg. You shudder, your legs tighten around Honeydust. “Unless you wanna show me this new ridin’ style of yours?” 

“You know what, I think I’ll take a rain check on that.” your voice is shrill and pitchy. Your eyes start to throb. “Especially since all the blood in my body is currently in my head.” 

“Oh shit—Okay, just gimme a sec.” he slides his hands under your armpits. “A’right now let go.” 

“What?” 

“Just let go, sweetheart. I got you. You’ll be okay, promise.” 

With a sharp breath, you close your eyes and loosen your legs. Joel's arms wrap further beneath yours, drawing you closer. You feel the tightening of his biceps, feel the huff of his breath against your cheek. He takes a step back and suddenly unbalanced, he falls backward, pulling you along.

With a huff, Joel lands on his ass, and you find yourself comfortably nestled against his chest. It takes you only a second for your gaze to find his. You hold your breath and so does he. His hand pleasantly curls around your waist, keeping you from moving away. His chest is firm under your own, your nipples tightening when you shift a bit, the graze of fabric makes you shudder. 

His other hand comes to brush a strand of loose hair behind your ear. You swallow not once but twice. The warmth of Joel’s palm cradles your cheek and a slow breath exits your lungs. 

“You a’right?” 

“Y—Yeah. . . thanks for helping me out.” 

“My pleasure.” His voice is deep, hoarse even, and it scratches your ears just right. You find yourself drawn to him. Your eyes dropping to his lips and back up to meet his heavy-lidded gaze. His lips part. The divot in the middle of his bottom lip more prominent than ever. You lean in without a thought, he mimics you, coming in closer and closer. Your chest heaves. Your heart beating madly against your chest. 

“What the hell are you two doin’ canoodling here?” 

You jerk away, your eyes lingering on Joel long enough to see the disappointment in his gaze. His eyes close slowly and he takes a ragged breath. Shifting slightly you see Jack holding a hay bale. His eyes are narrowed, his brows knitted together as his gaze flits between you and Joel. You chew the inside of your cheek, embarrassment heating you from the inside out. 

“We ain’t canoodlin’,” Joel answers, agitated. “I found her hanging upside down under Honeydust’s belly. Who’s fault do you think is that?” 

Jack’s mouth opens and closes, his cheeks suddenly flushed. His gloved hands tighten around the hay as he pushes it up his arms. Then finally, with a softened gaze, he turns to you. “Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine,” you reply, your heart currently beating in your throat. “I just forgot to fasten the other side of the saddle.” 

Joel squeezes your waist and you’re suddenly hyper-aware that you’re basically on his lap still. “It’s not your fault, sweetheart. You have a shit teacher.” 

“Excuse me?” Jack’s tone is enough to have you scrambling off of Joel’s lap. If looks could kill, Joel would be dead right now. On your feet, you move towards Honeydust, and with great comfort, she nuzzles your chest. Joel smiles lazily when Jack drops the bale of hay and walks up to him. “You better take that back, old man.” 

“Yeah?” his eyes glow with mirth. “Make me.” 

Involuntarily you cover your mouth with a hand. Is it bad that you’re secretly enjoying this? The amount of testosterone in the air is thick enough to cut with a knife. 

Joel slowly gets up, as if he has all the time in the world, and faces Jack. He’s slightly taller than the latter, smile still tugging at his lips as he tilts his head ever so slightly down. Jack’s nostrils flare. 

“You want me to knock you out in front of our guest?” 

“I’d love to see you try.” 

Joel takes another step closer, his chest nearly flushed against the other, he jerks his head to the side and places his hands on his hips. You swear you see Jack’s skin darkening with a deep shade of red from his chest to his neck. His jaw is wired tight, the muscle there twitching. 

“How about this,” Joel grins. “You manage to make our sweet girl here a full-on cowgirl in two days and I’ll eat my words right outta your hand, Whiskey.” 

Jack huffs and clicks his tongue, “Don’t call me that.” 

“It’s your name isn’t it?” 

“It ain’t and you know it.” 

“Your parents shouldn’t have named you Jack Daniels,” Joel rolls his eyes, “Do we have a deal or not?” 

You hold your breath when Joel extends a hand. Jack’s eyes briefly find yours, his fingers twitching. The morning chill is still in the air and despite it, beads of sweat appear on your skin. Two days. Two days and you still don’t know how to put on a saddle right. With a small shake, you attempt to warn Jack but that only makes him smile. 

He turns to Joel, “Deal,” he answers, taking his hand. “Two days. Be ready to eat your words, old man.” 

They shake on it and as they do Joel gives you a not so subtle wink. It reminds you of just how close the two of you were a mere couple of minutes ago. You avert your gaze, suddenly shy to face him, and think about what might’ve happened if Jack hadn’t interrupted. 

When Joel leaves, Jack lets out a long sigh and turns to you. 

“You slipped, darlin’, really?” 

“In my defense, it was early.” 

“Fuckin’ hell.” He shakes his head but you see the way his lips curl upwards ever so slightly. “Anyway, wait for me here and I’ll be right back. We gotta get you into tip-top shape because I ain’t gonna lose to Joel.” 

“I warned you, you know,” you softly kick the dirt with the tip of your boot. 

Jack’s tongue moves over his bottom lip, a shudder crawls up your spine and heat pools between your legs. He grips the bale of hay and throws it over his shoulder. 

“That’s why I accepted the challenge, sugar. No guest of mine is gonna leave here without feelin’ like they can conquer the world.” 

“Jack this is impossible I’m never going to get the hang of this.” 

“With that attitude you sure ain’t gonna.” 

With a crooked smile, Jack watches as you draw your shoulders together and stomp your boot against the soil. The lasso is tight between your fingers, the tips of which are chafed from turning the lasso again and again in an attempt to loop the rope around one of the wooden posts. He tilts his head to the side when you turn to him, a pleading expression etched onto your beautiful face.

"This is never going to happen," you huff. However, instead of keeping his eyes locked on yours, his gaze drops to where your flannel hugs your breasts, the poor buttons struggling to keep it all together. His cock swells at the thought of licking them, sucking on your hard nipples while the sweetest noises flee from your lips. "Jack?"

He doesn’t hide the fact that he’s been staring at your gorgeous tits, he drags his gaze back slowly, his smile only growing upon seeing your parted lips and glazed eyes. “Yeah, sugar?” 

“We’re never going to win this thing with Joel,” you say and he doesn’t fail to notice how breathless you suddenly are. “How am I supposed to learn to do everything a cowboy can in two days? Seems a bit unfair.” 

“Not everythin’,” he struts towards you and peels the lasso from your fingers. “We just need to cover the basics. No one is expectin’ you to catch a knife in mid-air with a lasso.” 

Your brows furrow, “What? You’re saying you can actually do that?” 

“‘Course I can,” he chirps back. “Unlike you, I’m a top-notch cowboy.” 

His heart breaks a little when he sees how defeated you look, with a small nudge to your shoulder, he draws your gaze back to him. “Want me to show you again darlin’?” 

“Sure but I’m not sure it’ll do me any good. I’m horrible at this.” 

With a reassuring grin, Jack steps back, unwinding the lasso he took from you. He takes a moment to adjust the coils and then demonstrates the art of lassoing, the rope flying through the air in a graceful arc before landing perfectly around a wooden post.

“You see, it's all in the wrist,” he explains as he smoothly tightens the loop, making it look deceptively easy. He repeats the motion a couple of times, each throw precise and controlled.

“You know who’s really good at this?” he asks, returning his attention to you. “Joel.”

You snort, “I feel like that man is good at everything. But I’m not sure why you’re telling me that.”

“Well, you know who used to suck at it—me.”

“You?” you raise a sole eyebrow, and a teasing smile touches your lips. “You who can catch a knife in the air, supposedly, that is.”

“It takes a lot of practice, sugar. That's what I’m tryin’ to tell ya. I sucked at it. Couldn’t even do one loop. Then the old timer helped me out.”

“Joel?”

Yup," he says, noticing your shock. He had been shocked too when the man had shown him how to properly do it. It was both amazing and terrifying. Jack had never had someone care about him enough to actually show him how it's done instead of letting him struggle on his own. "And eventually, I got the hang of it. So will you.”

You smile wholeheartedly and take the lasso from him, “Thanks, Jack. I. . . I appreciate it. You actually really respect him, don’t you? Despite all the banter and arguing.” 

“That’s just how I show love, darlin’.” 

“You never argue with me.” 

His eyebrows tilt up, along with the corner of his lips. You avert your eyes as you loosely hold the rope in your hand, the exercise quickly forgotten. Jack closes the distance until there's only a breath of space between you two. He entertains the idea of lifting your head by the chin, forcing your gaze upon him, but he refrains. He wants you to listen to him and oblige.

“Look at me, darlin’,” His eyes shine with delight when you do, he leans closer. “You want me to fight you?” 

Your brows furrow, your lips forming the most adorable pout, “No. Of course not.” 

“You sure?” This time he does cup your cheek to keep your gaze fixed on him. His pinkies move towards your neck, drawing soft patterns up and down your skin. You visibly shudder, a soft breath escaping your lips. “I see how you watch when Joel and I start to bitch and moan at each other, sugar. You sure you’re not into it even a little?” 

He knows your answer. But he allows you to giggle and escape his hold anyway. “You’re ridiculous,” you say and as a response Jack wants to touch on the fact that you can’t look at him anymore, however, he’ll allow you to escape him for now. 

“Come on then, now that you got your giggles on, let’s see you at least pull in one of those cones.” 

While you attempt to just do that, Jack ends up regretting teasing you because he ends up thinking about Joel instead. It’s hard to admit that the constant bickering is the obvious telltale sign of something more. And he knows there’s something. Joel only weaponizes his tongue when you’re around. Or someone else for that matter. But when it’s just the two of them it’s different. It’s lingering touches and heavy scotch-filled conversations. Sometimes Joel would even whisper so he wouldn’t wake the others. Jack shivers as he remembers how Joel’s lips felt against the shell of his ear. Downright sinful. 

It always remained at that, however. Touches and looks and talks. Nothing more and nothing less. 

“Jack,” you say, your voice drawing him away from thoughts he’s happy to be drawn away from. “How did you end up here? Like with Joel and the rest.” 

“It’s not much of a story. I was lookin’ for a job and came here lookin’ for one.” He lifts his hat and combs his hair back with his fingers. “I actually met Tommy first. Joel doesn’t like the hiring process and says his younger brother is a better judge of character. I met him after I was hired. Then I met the little munchkins.” 

“You mean Sarah and Ellie?” 

“Yes ma’am I do,” he reaches forward, letting his fingers nearly brush yours. He chuckles, "I also know what you're doing, so stop stalling and throw the damn lasso already."

You take your bottom lip between your teeth and all Jack wants to do is pry it away from the sharp edges, "Oh, are we arguing? Should I add this moment to my journal?” you manage to lock your gaze with his, a grin spreading across your face. “Does this mean you love me?" 

He takes a step closer, leaning ever so slightly into your personal space. A hint of a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, he breathes, "How 'bout this? You throw that rope, and I'll kiss you, sweetheart. Then you’ll really know what I feel."

Your eyes widen, "You’ll... excuse me?"

A wicked glint in his eyes, he quips, "I'll kiss you, full-blown on the lips. And believe me, it'll be my pleasure to lay one on you."

"Just throw the rope? Aren't you selling a bit short?"

Jack takes another step towards you and you can feel the heat radiating from him. His voice low and husky, he counters, "Fine then, manage to actually lasso something, and then I'll kiss you."

"You're mean. You said you'd only do it if I threw it." You challenge him by taking a step closer and he’s delighted to see it. 

Cupping her face in his hands, he grins, "Changed my mind. And you have yourself to blame for it."

With all his heart Jack wishes for you to make the throw. Something primal and ugly in him finds extreme joy in being the one to kiss you first. He hated to admit it, but his heart broke a little when he found you and Joel together, lips almost about to touch. He hated feeling like an outsider. Especially when it came from Joel.

With a determined glint in your eyes, you take a deep breath, and let it out slowly. Gripping the lasso in your hands, you start to swing it in a circular motion above your head. It’s sloppy and uneven but he can see how much care you’ve put into your stance. Jack watches intently, noting the way you shift your weight from one food to another, a subtle smile playing on his lips.

As the lasso gains momentum, you release it at just the right moment. It sails through the air, forming a perfect loop. Jack's eyes follow its trajectory, silently urging it to find its mark. The loop descends gracefully, and, with a satisfying thud, it settles around a nearby plastic cone and you pull it towards yourself, the plastic moving with ease. 

A triumphant grin breaks across your face as you complete the throw. “I did it,” you gasp in a low tone, panting. Your head suddenly snaps towards him, a shit-eating grin plastered over your perfect lips. “I DID IT!”  

Jack only smiles as he leans in and cradles your face in a rush. He crashes into you, lips meeting yours in an eager, lingering kiss. He teases the seam of your mouth with the tip of his tongue. Just a brief preview of how badly he wants this to happen. His hands slip to your ass, kneading the plump flesh, his cock stiffens at how you moan into his mouth. You press against him and Jack can’t help but roll his hips to feel more of you. It’s been so long. Too long since he felt something warm and tight around his cock. 

He parts away by dragging his lips down to your chin and from there to your neck. He nips at your pulse, feeling it beating against his mouth. 

“Jack,” you breathe. “I—Wow—” 

“Kissin’ is one thing I’m better at,” he chuckles deeply into your ear. “Among other things.” 

He holds you by the neck and gently pulls away. He can’t get enough of the expression you’re giving him; pupils blown and lips slightly parted. Your chest heaves heavily, your pulse beating wildly under his palm. Jack brushes your lips together, smiling upon hearing you whimper. 

“Now, throw that lasso again and I’ll give you another kiss.” 

And it all comes down to horse riding. You should be surprised but you’re not. 

The sun was finally setting over the ranch. A subtle chill settling at the base of your snake as the sun went down. It had been a tiring day full of lasso throwing, ax throwing, and knotting. Your back ached and when the final challenge finally befell you all you wanted to do was go back to your room and sleep. The only thing that gave you an ounce of energy was Jack’s proud smile after every challenge that was won. Joel seemed genuinely impressed. And you were genuinely surprised to find yourself acing every task. Seeing how smug Jack got made your heart flutter and stomach draw tight. 

The two of you had done a lot of kissing that day. It hadn’t gone any further but deep down you really wanted it to. 

You feel a deep sense of Deja Vu when you find yourself staring at Honeydust with a saddle in hand. You take a deep breath, fingers tightening around the leather. The open air gives you a sense of calm, the cloudy sky a pleasure to gaze upon.

Jack touches the small of your back, goosebumps rising across your skin at the gentle touch, “You got this darlin’ don’t worry so much.” 

You briefly glance at the track Joel and Jack had set up for you. Wooden fences stand tall at various intervals, creating a series of jumps that make you sweat just by thinking about them. Your eyes linger on the strategically placed cones that form a zigzag pattern. 

“Honestly no matter what happens I’m impressed,” Joel cuts in, cupping Honeydust’s cheek. Your gaze moves deftly from the track to the man standing before you. As always, he looks amazing in his red and yellow flannel. “You’ve done well sweetheart.” 

“Maybe you should just forfeit and accept we won then,” you answer, smiling. Joel shakes his head. 

“Someone is sure of herself.” 

“Hell yeah, I am.” 

“Look at that,” Jack pipes. “Soundin’ like a true cowboy already.” 

You expertly secure the saddle onto Honeydust's back. The leather feels cool beneath your fingertips as you tighten the straps, ensuring a snug fit. Adjusting the stirrups, you make sure they're the perfect length for your legs. As you stand beside the horse, you can feel the intensity of Joel and Jack's gazes on you. Their eyes trace the curves of your movements, a subtle tension lingering in the air.

With everything in place, you take a deliberate breath and swing yourself onto the saddle. The leather creaks slightly under your weight as you settle into position. Honeydust shifts beneath you. You catch Joel's gaze, and a sly smirk plays on his lips. His eyes linger a moment longer than necessary, you let out a puff of air, your legs tighten around Honeydust..

"Remember, just go with the flow. You and Honeydust are a team," Jack advises and with that, you head off. 

Gently nudging your heels against the horse's side, you urge Honeydust into a graceful gallop around the track. The steadying thud of her hooves pounding against the dirt creates a harmony that molds with the song of the wind, transporting you to a place of serenity. Each hurdle makes your heart jump with excitement. The jumps seem impossible at times. As you zigzag through the cones, you can feel Honeydust's muscles tense and relax under your hands, transitioning from one step to the next with the gracefulness of a dance—

A sudden jolt disrupts the rhythm, and you find yourself tumbling to the ground. You let out a deep groan as your back hits the earth and with the corner of your eye, you see Joel taking hold of Honeydust’s reins, calming the poor palomino. Jack’s face comes into vision a second later. 

"You okay, darlin'?" When you nod and begin to get up, his worry turns to frustration as he glances at Joel. "This was supposed to be about teaching, not pushing her to the damn limit."

"I didn't mean for her to fall, Jack. So don’t act like that was my intention."

“No, your intention was to make me look like I don’t know what I’m doin’.” 

Jack, eyes still glued on Joel, helps you up. Your head is still spinning a little from the adrenaline rush but other than that you feel fine. Your eyes flitting between both men, your stomach twists and turns at how they’re both glaring at each other. This time is different from the arguments. This time they both genuinely look like they’re about to explode. Joel has his jaw tight while Jack has both hands in tight fists. “Guys. . .” 

"Why you gotta make everythin’ personal?" Joel snaps, ignoring you all together. “It was just meant to be a harmless bet.” 

Jack's eyes narrow, he tears his hand away from yours and your heart drops, "You're the one who makes it damn personal by goadin’ me all the damn time."

“That’s. . .” Joel’s eyes grow soft, his demeanor changing entirely. You watch the furrow between his brows relax, his shoulders sagging ever so slightly. “I’m—” 

“Can it,” Jack hisses through gritted teeth and raises a hand. “I don’t want your apology, I just wanna go. Unless you think I’m gonna be bad at that too.” 

You reach out, head still spinning, your fingers graze the back of his jacket and he slips from between your grasp. You part your lips to call out to him. To tell him to come back. But Joel takes a hold of your hand and lowers it with the shake of his head. 

“I know where he’s goin’. Let’s go.” 

“Are you telling me he has a brooding spot?” 

“He does.”

The sun had set. The crickets now singing under the starry night, but Joel can't focus on any of it. He can’t because he might’ve actually screwed everything up for good this time— which would be typical of him.  

After months of contemplating whether he should take the next step or not, he’d finally made Jack snap. That had never been Joel’s intention, obviously. But he wasn’t the best at flirting. Never had been. And when Jack came into his life, all fresh faced and a lashing tongue, he couldn’t help but fall for him a little. 

You’re walking just a little bit behind him, trying to keep up. He can feel you staring at him. Your eyes curious like a newborn gazelle’s. 

“If you stare any harder I’m gonna start blushin’ sweetheart.” 

“I’m. . . I wasn’t. . .” 

“Sure you were,” he sighs. “It wasn’t my intention to be hard on him you know. It just. . . sorta happens. I care a lot about him and I just want him to. . . “ He clamps his mouth shut. What was he supposed to say? How he was hoping that all the teasing would finally push Jack into his arms? How he wanted to do more than touch Jack when he knew no one else could see. 

“You want him to. . .  what exactly?” 

“I don’t know,” he says through gritted teeth. “It’s complicated between us.” 

“You both have a crush on each other and don’t know what to do about it. It’s not that complicated.”

Joel’s mouth opens and closes— then opens again. “And how the hell do you know that?” 

“Because he talks about you a lot,” you answer with a soft smile. “He said he cares about you. And about your opinion.” Joel’s eyes narrow as you rub the back of your head, your eyes dropping to where you would be taking your next step. “I just don't know where I fit in all of this.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“You and I almost kissed,” you say finger moving between you two. “Jack and I actually kissed. And well. . . I don’t want to get in the middle of anything. It might be a bit sudden but I like you guys, I care about you, and want you guys to be together if that’s what you want.” 

“It’s not your job to worry about us.” Joel huffs, his guilt gnawing at him. “But I get what you mean. We. . . we didn’t intend to put you in that position. I can assure you this wasn’t some twisted game we were tryin' to play. I can't talk for Jack but I care about you. And I care about him if that makes sense. But I fear that me being emotionally constipated might’ve ruined it with him. He gets mad every time I open my mouth.” 

“That’s because you tease him all the time and honestly he’s not doing any better than you.” Joel’s eyes go wide when you suddenly cradle his cheeks and bring his face towards your own. “And you haven't ruined anything Mr. Miller. You just need to tell him exactly what you’ve been telling me.” 

“You think so?” 

“I know so.” 

Before he can reach he feels the soft touch of your lips. You kiss him slowly—tenderly. Joel follows your lead, parting his lips, he allows you to slip your tongue inside. He sucks on your tongue, enjoying the way your body presses against his. 

When you pull back, you’re completely dazed.

“Now what was that for?” he asks.

“To keep everything even” you answer, smiling. “Now let's go get our brooding cowboy.” 

It doesn’t take long for that to happen. They find Jack sitting on the ground, his back pressed snugly against the wooden fence. He’s staring at the stars. The gentle light streaming down his face and down his neck, Joel’s heart skips a beat at the sight and he feels as though he can’t breathe. 

Only when they walk closer does he notice the bottle of whiskey. He lifts the bottle to his lips and takes a swig, Joel’s eyes follow the way drops of amber trickle down his sun-kissed skin. 

All Joel wants to do is lick the bitter drop off of him. 

The two stop before him. Neither of you knowing what to do or what to say. Joel attempts to apologize by parting his lips and that is the exact moment where Jack finally meets his gaze. 

“I know,” he says curtly. “Sit.” Jack extends the bottle of whiskey. Joel, without a word, sits down and takes the bottle. Just as he’s taking a swig, he notices you’re about to leave.  Thankfully Jack stops that from coming to fruition. “And where do you think you’re goin’? Sit your ass over here.” 

Joel almost cackles at how shocked you look. With the tiniest yelp escaping your lips you sit down right next to Jack. Taking a mouthful of whiskey, Joel extends you the bottle. You take it and chug it down immediately—Jack snorts and finally Joel feels comfortable enough to laugh alongside him. 

“Calm down darlin’, it ain’t runnin’ away.” 

“Sorry,” you hiccup, shoving the bottle into Jack’s chest. “I’m nervous.” 

“Well, don’t be,” Jack sighs and his head falls back against the fence. “I shouldn’t have reacted that way. I—” 

“We know,” Joel says with a fond smile. He throws his arm over Jack’s shoulder and cups the back of his head, his hat tumbling to the ground—it was now or never. 

For the first time, Joel brings their faces together without the tease of what he might or might not do. He kisses Jack tenderly, softly. Just like how he wanted to treat him during all those nights they were alone together. Jack digs his fingers into Joel’s shirt, nails nearly biting into the skin. Much to Joel’s surprise, the other man tastes sweet. Their tongues move together, still unsure but eager to explore. 

When Joel opens his eyes ever so slightly, he sees you staring in awe. 

He nearly breaks away laughing. But also, he can’t really blame you for your expression. 

It really does feel magical. 

You hold your breath. Every nerve ending you have is buzzing with want and arousal. The space between your legs pulsing as you watch Joel tilting his head, slipping his tongue through Jack’s eager lips. Deep down you feel like you’re intruding. That this is a tender moment that should just be between the two men but you can’t help but stay there, like a deer in headlights, watching.  

You shudder at the sound of Jack moaning, his hands grip Joel’s shoulder and host himself up the older man’s lap. He grinds down, swallowing Joel’s gasps, he parts away, a trail of saliva connecting the two. You’re still holding your breath. The tips of your fingers numb, your brain a whirlwind as it registers the sight before you. 

“Stupid old man,” Jack rasps, tilting his head to the side. “Gettin’ all sappy.” Then his heavy gaze finds your struck ones. He reaches out and in a dream-like state you take his hand, his fingers hastily close around your wrist and tugs you towards him. Your gasp is caught in your throat when he kisses you. The taste of Joel and whiskey still heavy on his tongue. 

A hand that doesn’t belong to Jack trails up the curve of your ass and squeezes. A choked-out moan drops from your lips only for Jack to shove his tongue between them. He sucks on your tongue and nips at your bottom lip all the while rolling his hips over Joel’s lap. 

“God, look at you two,” Joel groans, giving your ass another firm squeeze before moving his attention to Jack’s spread thighs. “I want to watch you eat that pretty pussy up, Jack. Bet you want that too. . .” 

Joel palms Jack’s cock through the denim, stroking him with a smug smile. Jack parts away from your lips with a whimper. His chest heaves. “Yeah,” he gasps, staring into your eyes, and his hips jerk, chasing the heat of the other’s palm. “Want you to make a mess of me, sugar.”

“Please,” you answer albeit not really needed. Your body falls back to sit on your heels, Joel crashes his lips against the younger cowboy’s, drinking the noises in like a starved man. He rips his flannel open while straightening himself, the momentum of the movement forcing Jack to grip Joel’s shoulders. He slides off of Joel’s lap, the kiss breaking when he directs his full lust-addled attention to you. 

His gaze is enough for you to start struggling with the buttons of your jeans. You kick them off in a rush and before you can take off your shirt Jack is already laying you down upon the soil, the stars above blinking down at you with mischief. Joel sitting close, pulls your head so you’re nestled comfortably above his lap. His hands cradle your face, thumbs stroking your skin gently. It’s a complete contrast compared to how Jack is. He slides your panties to the side, the pad of his thumb resting right above your clit, he stares at your from between your spread-out thighs. 

“Fuckin’ delicious,” he mutters right before delving in. He drags his tongue slowly up your folds while tenderly stroking your clit. Your back arches off of the earth, your eyes fluttering closed as he goes back down, only to kiss you tenderly. He takes his time with you. His jaw moving and tongue teasing your fluttering entrance. Your breath catches in your throat, your chest rattling, Joel shushes you while praising Jack at the same time. 

When your eyes finally open, you find Joel looking down at you. His thumb traces the underline of your bottom lip and moves down until he reaches the hem of your flannel. Flattening his thumb over your stomach, he pushes the fabric up until he exposes you to the sky completely. He cups both your breasts and smooths his fingers over your tingling nipples. 

“So hard already. . . you must really like what he’s doin’ down there huh?” 

Tears stinging the corner of your eyes, you nod. Your silent reply is answered with a sharp bite to the inside of your thigh. Your body jolts, a gasp of pain rattling your throat. Joel smiles. “I think he wants to hear you, sweetheart.”

“I love it,” you moan and as a reward, he pinches your nipples. 

“Good girl.” 

Jack presses his tongue deeper, your body clenching at both the words and the movement. He groans into your cunt, the bridge of his nose brushing your aching clit deliciously as he swirls his tongue. Your stomach coils tight and you push more of yourself into Joel’s palms, your mouth drops wide. You want more. You need more. You want them both to take and take and take—take until you forget your own damn name. 

“Joel. . .” you breathe. He looks down at you curiously. “I want to suck your cock.” 

Jack stops only for a moment before his eyes flutter closed and loses himself in you. Vaguely you can see the way he grinds down, a groan reverberating between your legs. Joel sucks in a breath and exhales from his nose. “You sure?” 

Your answer is ready on your tongue, and as soon as you give it to him, he expertly unbuttons himself. The tip of his cock pushes against your lips and your breath hitches. Precome smears over the soft flesh, your tongue darting out for a taste, you end up tasting from the source instead. Joel’s hips stutter. 

“Holy fuckin’ hell,” his hips jerk a second time, this time thrusting himself deeper into your mouth. You feel him leaning over, a second later you understand he’s reaching for the other man who is working you toward your orgasm. “Jack com’ere—Let me taste her.” 

Jack doesn’t make Joel repeat himself and unwillingly pulls himself away from between your legs. Your tongue swirls around Joel’s cock as Jack kisses him deeply. He licks himself deep into the older man’s mouth, stealing a moan deep within Joel’s chest. While Jack steals the breath from Joel’s lungs, he pushes two fingers into you with ease. Your eyes rolling, you take more of Joel into your mouth, prompting the other to instinctively thrust deep enough to make you choke around him. 

He parts from Jack with a gasp, “Fuck, that’s it, sweetheart, choke on it.” he says through gritted teeth. Both men look down at you with dark eyes, the shadows caused by the moonlight caress their backs, deepening every crease of their faces. You shudder. 

You’re surprised to see Jack dipping down, lower from where you’re sucking Joel’s cock, he sucks the tender skin of the base, and the sound that Joel makes almost feels inhumane. 

But Jack doesn’t linger. He pulls away from both of you, his torso tall between your legs, he strokes himself at the sight of your mouth full of the man he admires. 

“You like having your mouth full, darlin’? Such a dirty girl allowing two men to have you like this out in the open.” 

You whimper and nod, eyes flooding with tears as Joel shoves himself deeper. Spit and precome trickle down from where his cock stretches your lips. 

“Fuckin’ filthy,” Jack says giving himself a firm squeeze before swiping his palm over the head of his cock. With his other hand, he follows the contour of your leg, reaches all the way to your hip. “You’re ‘bout to feel much fuller.” 

He shoves himself inside you with a single thrust; your channel tightens around him, a moan escaping your throat. Your mouth is pulled away from Joel briefly, gasping for air, before he pulls you back. He adjusts his hips and slides back into your mouth, kneading the back of your neck.

“You feel that? How hot and wet you are? Both of us stretching you?” Jack's voice is gruff as he thrusts into you; your eyes close as pleasure radiates through your body, your skin left tingling. You can hear Joel moan and pant in the background, his cock throbs above your tongue and you hollow out your cheeks.

Your eyes flutter as Jack's cock glides in and out of you; his plunges getting deeper with every thrust. You feel overwhelmed by both of them. You’re left breathless and spinning. You feel only them and nothing else. 

You grip onto Joel to keep yourself teetered to the moment as Jack's movements become more desperate, Joel matching him thrust for thrust. With each gasp, Joel's cock slides further down your throat. 

The tightness inside your body grows; waves of pleasure cascade through you. The pressure builds and builds and builds—You’re so close you can taste it. Jack presses a palm over your mound, adding pressure as he draws quick and tight circles around your clit. Your throat convulses around Joel’s cock and he pulls out, his length resting comfortably above your lips. You breathe heavily against him, his cock slick and warm on your skin. 

“Atta girl,” he coos. “Just a bit more. . . Show us how pretty you look when you come.” 

You feel the pressure between your legs mounting with each hard thrust from Jack, your moans becoming louder and more desperate. Joel encourages Jack to go faster, and with each plunge you feel the tension in your core build higher and higher. 

And finally the coil snaps. 

Your whole body trembles and shakes. Your orgasm still rolling over your body like a violent wave. Jack pumps his hips into yours as he digs his hands into your hips. He keeps thrusting relentlessly, pushing himself as far in as he can before he pulls out. His jaw goes slack, cock gliding over your mound, he spills over your skin. You shudder at the trickle of his seed. 

Joel’s cock slides across your lips, teasing you. Your tongue darts out and quickly wraps around him, you tilt your head to take in all of his length. You push your mouth onto him, bobbing your head up and down until he groans. His hips buck erratically and at the same time you feel the touch of Jack’s mouth against the side of your neck. 

You swallow everything that he offers you, savoring every moment of the taste of him. You stay close to him until his breathing returns to normal, his thighs shaking underneath you as he pulls out. 

“Holy shit,” Jack chokes out as he collapses on top of you, head right above your chest. Joel wipes the sole tear that had escaped you eye and smiles. You bring his palm to your lips and kiss the rough skin. 

“It’s going to be hard walking away from all of this,” you whisper, shuddering when Jack’s mouth moves against the side of your breasts. 

“Who says you have to walk away?” 

You don’t have it in you to go into the details of your life and how you have to go. Or entertain the idea that maybe the things that you thought were important aren’t as essential that you thought after all. It’s pure chaos and right now all you want is to feel their warmth against your bare skin under the stars. 

For now, you are content and feeling grateful for the two amazing men who coincidentally made themselves an inseparable part of your life.  

[onskepa]

Stxeli: Silly demon

Here is another chapter to keep you guys occupied while I type the next request! Enjoy!

Stxeli series

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

“Hhhmmmhhmm~” Stxeli hums in content as she returns home from her little yovo adventure. Harvesting a good amount, many will eat well tonight. As she passes by, many greet her, some gifting her little trinkets or snacks. All that stxeli happily accepts and gives them yovo in gratitude. 

Arriving at her home, making sure the fruits are away from direct sunlight and in a cool nook, stxeli snacks on one of her gifts. There is still plenty of daylight left, her mother doesn't need her assistance and her father is important with his duties. Neytiri, her poor big sister, left to teach the ugly demon. 

So what can she do now?

“What to do, what to do…” stxeli wonders as she walks around the village. Doing bits here and there, helping young mothers or playing with children around her age. Even helped one of the girls to braid her long hair. A skill stxeli is coming to be an expert at. Her family can proudly tell. 

“Stxeli!” 

She turns around to see Tsu'tey running up to her. Greeting each other, she smiles. 

“Hi tsu’tey! Aren't you going to train the others?” stxeli asks. 

Tsu’tey nods but grins a bit mischievous, “yes, we are going to ride the pali’s, would you like to come?” he offers. 

Stxeli loves pali riding, but the logical side of her speaks, “I love to, but I don't want to get in the way of your training” 

“You won't, your sister is already there with the demon” 

That instantly clicked in her mind, understanding tsu’tey now. Her grin matching his own, stxeli raises her arms up. 

“Up please!” 

“Again!” Neytiri demands, her patience running thin. 

Jake sighs tiredly, getting up from the ground groaning in pain and exhaustion. To think riding a pali would be easy. Not everything is easy in Pandora, Jake guesses. If this is the easier part, he fears the future challenges he has to face. 

“Get up!” Neytiri looks down at him, showing her very obvious disapproving look. 

“I'm up, I'm up” Jake says. 

Getting back onto his feet, dusting himself off, “I know you are making this difficult for me, isn't there a better way?” he asks. 

“No, now try again” short and straightforward, something jake is taking notes about neytiri. 

He does again, this time he succeeds on getting on top of his pali, calming down the creature, he bonds with her. It felt odd yet amazing,  he can feel what the pali is feeling, feeling her heartbeat. Gathering the courage to go further, “HYAH!” he yelps, only for the thrust of the pali to be too quick. 

He falls once more, his face meeting mud. 

It took a lot of strength from neytiri to not laugh at his failure. 

Groaning in pain again, jake suddenly hears the sound of multiple hoof sounds. All coming to his direction.  So getting up and turning he sees none other than Tsu'tey and his students. Along with a tiny someone. 

“You should go away!” Tsu'tey sneers at jake. Speaking in clear english. 

“No, you’d miss me” jake talks back, a bit in a joking manner as he gets closer to tsu’tey. By instinct, tsu’tey turns his pali to cover stxeli from jake’s eyes. 

Ignoring what the warrior is doing, jake points at him, “I knew you speak english” 

Neytiri walks to jake, gently guiding the pali back. Tsu’tey speaks something to neytiri, something jake doesn't understand but chuckles it off.

“He will not learn. A stone can see better. Look at him” tsu’tey tells neytiri, who just smiles. Shaking her head, she gives jake a little break to clean himself off. Jake happily does. 

“What are you doing here? I told you I don't want you to be anywhere near him” neytiri asks as she sees stxeli sitting comfortably in front of tsu’tey, while munching on some yovo fruit. 

“He offered!” stxeli was quick to point at tsu’tey. 

Neytiri glares at tsu’tey, grunting disapprovingly. 

“Are you two just here to watch Jake fail and laugh at him?” 

“Yes” her sister and friend both answer quickly and honestly. 

Sighing, neytiri places a hand on stxlie’s leg, “sister, please be careful, you as well tsu’tey. If she is joining you, then you will be fully responsible of her while I am busy”. 

Tsu’tey nods, “she is always safe with me,” he reminds.

While keeping a safe distance, stxeli was enjoying her time. Seeing the dream walker fail time and time again was very amusing. And the silly faces he makes! He may be ugly but his goofy falls make up for it. 

However, because of the constant failures, it is getting on Neytiri's nerves. Clearly the dream walker is not improving at all. 

“Bah! You are pathetic! You will never learn like this!” Neytiri shouts in frustration. Up on one of the branches, stxeli was observing the whole ordinal. Neytiri is looking a lot like their father when angry. Down to furrowing their eyes. 

Jake was huffing and puffing, exhausted beyond his capability. 

“Done, we are done for today. Bathe yourself! You reek!” Neytiri shouts as she walks away. 

“Stupid dreamwalker, stupid ugh!” Neytiri mutters in frustration as she chops the vegetables. The other na’vi kept their distance so as to not tip her anger even more. Mo’at took notice of neytiri’s emitting anger, and how it is frightening the others. Before she can ask, stxeli appear beside her. 

“Tsmuke is mad because the alien constantly fails. He is not improving sa’nu” mo’at’s youngest tells. Now finally understanding the situation. 

“You go on ahead, do what you like until dinner” mo’at says, nodding happily, stxeli leaves. 

Taking a deep breath, the tsahik gets up from her position to go speak with her eldest child. Knowing how much she takes after her father, mo’at prepares for a long talk

“DAMN IT!” Jake curses out in anger. 

Once again Jake falls on his ass from trying to ride a pali. Groaning out in anger, he slams his fist against the ground. 

“The hell am I doing wrong?” He asks out. Letting his voice echo throughout the forest. 

“Theenk tu demon!” a voice was heard. 

Jake turned around, his ears twitching, trying to search for the voice. It sounded like a little child speaking, with a very heavy accent. 

“Hello….?” he calls out. 

“Theenk na’vi!” the voice speaks out again. 

Jake gets up, trying to find the source, “where the hell are you?” 

“STAY AWAY!” the voice screeches. 

Jake does so, feeling very confused. “Ok, ok I won't move” 

“Theenk na’vi!” the voice repeats. 

Aaaah, Jake now understands. Grinning a bit, he asks, “are you helping me?” 

“Halp tsumke” the voice replies. 

The voice no doubt belongs to neytiri’s “little sister”. The child, Jake suspects, is a human. Neytiri and the other na’vi would do their best to hide her from his view. Seems the child is doing the same. 

“Halp you, halp tsmuke” the child’s English was very broken, can barely understand her words. Her na’vi accent is very thick. 

“Ok…think na’vi you say..” Jake understood more. How the hell does that work? 

Stxeli wanted to slam her whole head against the tree. Why did she think it was a good idea? Any of this? Maybe she was better off with tsu’tey. But seeing neytiri upset didn't sit well with her. No doubt she will be in big trouble for being this close to the demon, and alone non the less. Stxeli would do anything to ease her family’s tension. 

Too bad she didn't think it through that she had to speak in english to the demon. 

English is so hard! 

Stxeli only knows a few words from trying to repeat what her family says. Half the time she doesn't even know what it means. 

That demon better learn the peoples language soon because right now she sounds like a baby. 

“Theenk na’vi! Pali theenk!” the child continues to say. 

Jake tilts his head, trying to code what she meant. 

“Thump…!! To thump! Beating!” 

“Are you talking about heartbeat?” Jake asks. Remembering what neytiri said. Feel the pali’s heartbeat. 

“Theenk na’vi! Pali theenk!” the child continues to say. 

Jake tilts his head, trying to code what she meant. 

“Thump…!! To thump! Beating!” 

“Are you talking about heartbeat?” Jake asks. Remembering what neytiri said. Feel the pali’s heartbeat. 

Looking at the pali, Jake takes a deep breath. Heading over, slowly raising his arms, displaying no threat. The pali takes notice, hesitant at first. 

“Easy…easy girl…” Jake soothes. The pali snorts out, letting jake get closer. 

“Bond! Kuru! Thump!” the child instructs. 

Rolling his eyes, jake carefully gets on the pali, being steady to not scare her. Feeling how calm she is, jake connects his kuru with the pali. Feeling what she is feeling, the thump of her heartbeat, the dirt from her hooves, the air in her nostrils. He can feel it all. 

“Theenk! One! Move!” 

“Ok…” taking it slow, jake thinks of what he wants to do. The pali starts to walk slowly around the area. Even taking a bit of jumps in glee. 

“Woa..!” he smiles, seeing as he has not fallen off to the ground again. 

“Ok let's try it” he mutters, his smile growing. The pali walks a bit faster, then faster, to the point where she begins to run around the area. Feeling her strong legs, her lungs taking deep breaths. It felt great, it was as though it was Jake who was running. 

“Woohoo!!” he cheers. 

“You what?!” mo’at couldn't believe what she just heard. 

Stxeli looked down, feeling guilty. 

“I'm sorry sa’nu! I just didn't want tsmuke to be angry any longer” she tried to excuse. Mo’at wasn't hearing it. When her sweet child told her of how close she was in Jake's proximity, how it was so easy for him to see her. Mo’at was shaking in fear. 

One wrong move, that is all it can take, one wrong move and stxeli would be taken-

“Sa’nu?” 

Stxeli grabs her mothers hands, letting her smaller ones reach her warmth. 

By instinct mo’at pulled stxeli close to her chest, feeling her tiny heartbeat. Quickly it soothes mo’ats anxiety. 

“Ma’ite, that was very reckless of you. If neytiri told you to stay away from him, you do so. He is still considered dangerous ma’ite. I dont want anything terrible happen to you” mo’at says. 

Stxeli huffs a bit, “as if that demon can hurt me. He fell off of the poor pali multiple times” 

“I dont care. From now on you will be either with me, or your sempu. Do you hear me? If jakesully is close, you hide. I am serious ma’ite. Not until he is deemed trustworthy” 

Stxeli nods. However, seeing her mother behave like this is new to her. Not one did her mother display such uneasiness. It worried stxeli very much. 

“Sa’nu? Why are you and everyone so worried that the demon seeing me? Is something wrong with me?” stxeli couldn't help but ask. Mo’at was quick to shake her head, sharing a light kiss on her little head. 

“No, there is nothing wrong with you, my child. There are just things outsiders have no reason to lay their eyes on things that don't concern them”. 

Mo’at holds her child tightly, her golden eyes staring out into the world. Sharp and steady. She may allow Jake to stay in her village, but she will not hesitate to take him out if he ever dares to get close to her little one. 

Aaaaaaaaaand that is it! Hope you all enjoyed this new chapter! Until next time! See ya!

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Taglist:

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[sentientgolfball]

if you’re still doing the cute lil sentence starters can we do: “Let’s share my coat, since you’re so cold.”

for my beloved swiss alps (swiss/mountain)

WOE SWISSALPS BE UPON YOU

I need to write more of these two OUGH

The snow had stopped some time late, when not a single soul of the Ministry was awake save for the odd rodent. It left the land covered in a thick white blanket as far as the eye could see. The windows were frosted over, concealing the early winter morning from those who began to rise. The air in the abbey was frigid as Sibling and ghoul began their daily chores. The fire ghouls worked hard to shelter the ancient building from the bite of the cold. 

Deep in the ghoul den Swiss is wide awake. He normally stays in bed even after the first rays of the sun call to the little bit of fire in, but today he didn’t get woken from its light. Instead he was jostled from sleep when Mountain left the bed, mumbling something about duties when he pressed a kiss to Swiss’ forehead. He wasn’t fully conscious then, but now that he is he can’t close his eyes. 

He couldn’t even if he wanted to. If he had been more awake when Mountain left he would’ve stopped him. Winter leaves him drained, the frozen earth making it hard to hear his element. Yet Mountain continues to push himself. Swiss thought that by turning up his heat and curling close to his side he’d get Mountain to rest, but the snowstorm ruined his plans. Mountain would not rest until he was certain everything was handled. 

All Swiss can do now is go out there and bring him back. If Mountain won’t listen to his body then he’ll have to listen to Swiss. If he keeps pushing himself he’ll get sick, or worse. He doesn’t know what happens to an earth ghoul who refuses their hibernation and he doesn’t want to find out. He tries not to think about it as he fills a thermos with one of Mountain’s favorite blends of tea. Swiss gets himself bundled up before stepping out into the snowy world the Ministry has become. 

He tries the greenhouse first, assuming Mountain might be tending to some of the more versatile vegetation or pumping the place full of earth magick to keep things alive. He comes up short though, no Mountain in sight. No one in sight actually, not even a Sibling or another earth ghoul. He hums in disappointment before stepping back outside. 

“Alright big guy, where are you hiding?” He muses to himself as he scans the treeline. 

His eyes catch on prints in the snow. When he moves to investigate, he finds that they’d rather large hoof prints. They lead straight into the forest. 

“Bingo.” He smiles and begins to follow the trail. 

They lead him deep into the woods, thinning out every so often as the level of snow changes. He hopes maybe Mountain came out here to nest with Ivy in its den, maybe some weird earth ghoul bullshit calling out to him. He knows he’s wrong, but he can still hope. His only other hope is that Mountain isn’t passed out somewhere out here. Swiss may be strong but he’s not that strong. There’s no way he’d be able to get Mountain back to the Ministry. 

Thankfully it’s not long before he hears the rhythmic sound of someone chopping wood. He picks up his pace just a bit until Mountain finally comes into view. Despite the freezing temperatures, Mountain is sweating. His cheeks are flushed and every breath he takes results in large puffs of steam. He splits another log as Swiss calls out to him. 

“Glad to see you’re not dead!” He shouts as he walks over. 

“Why…would I be dead?” Mountain pants, tossing the two halves of wood onto a sizable pile. 

“Because, my love, you’re an idiot.” 

Before Mountain can even reply Swiss steps in front of him, extending the thermos out to him. Mountain hesitates before sighing and taking it from him. Swiss hums in satisfaction, wrapping his arms around Mountain’s shoulders and moving him to sit on a log. He must really be tired because he doesn’t protest, allowing himself to be guided. 

“Made it just for you. With that one rose blend you like.” Swiss crouches in front of Mountain, resting his hands on his thighs. His eyes shift from their normal black and white to orange and yellow as his fire comes to the surface. Mountain sighs appreciatively as the warmth bleeds through the layers of clothing. 

He uncaps the thermos, humming when the scent of the tea hits. He takes a long drink, practically chugging it. Swiss stares at him. Mountain would never drink so quickly, always going on about savoring the taste. When he finally pulls the container away, Swiss gets a good look at him. Past the flushed cheeks he looks pale. His eyes look sunken, dark lines carved under them. He’s exhausted. 

Swiss reaches out to take the thermos from him when Mountain extends it to him. He hisses when their hands brush against each other, “Momo your hands are ice. You need to take a break.” 

“Can’t. The fire ghouls need more wood for the abbey,” he mutters. 

“The fire ghouls aren’t gonna get any wood if you turn into a popsicle.” Swiss stands from his crouched position. 

He shoves his hands into his pockets before wrapping Mountain up in his arms, heat still radiating off of him. He feels him slump into it, muscles relaxing as he nuzzles his face against Swiss’ chest. He’s anxious to get Mountain back inside, maybe go to the bathing pools and lock the door. Let him soak in the hot water until he’s on the verge of sleep. Get him a hot meal and right back into their nest so he can rest. Even so, Swiss doesn’t rush him. He holds him like this until Mountain relents on his own. 

“I’ll let Ifrit know…” Mountain’s words are muffled where his face is still pressed against Swiss. 

He smiles and kisses the top of his head. He’s not going to say it outloud, but Swiss knows what he means. He’s just happy he doesn’t have to drag him back. 

“Let’s get going. I’ll make you that mushroom soup you like.” Swiss begins to pull away but Mountain tightens his grip. Swiss makes a questioning trill in the back of his throat. 

“Warm.” Is the only explanation Mountain supplies. 

Swiss just chuckles and presses another kiss to the top of his head, “Come on you overgrown caribou, I’ll let you wear my coat since you’re so cold.” 

Swiss shrugs off his canvas coat and drapes it over Mountain’s shoulders. He laces his hands with his, pulling him to his feet. They walk back to the abbey in comfortable silence. Swiss keeps his fire going the whole way, making sure his heart never freezes. 

[cloudmancy]

delloso de la rue is such an interesting character to me but I don’t think it’s for any of the reasons that the rest of the fandom likes rue for. oscar played them in such a metatextual way and it’s like, does he know? does he know how complicated and selfish and thoroughly flawed character he ended up creating? ruehob is so... fascinating to me and it’s not because I like the romance of it. there’s just such a twisted rotting core to it when you compare it to chirp & her wife, or even binx & andhera (and it’s FANTASTIC. I wish people didn’t shy away from how truly miserable ruehob is because that’s what I’m into)

it's like. you are delloso de la rue. you are an owlbear, under a spell of glamour. you have chosen to serve the court of wonder and at heart, you are a romantic. this year, you are planning what they say will be the very last bloom, and you are drowning in the narrative perfection of it. 

you do not like the court of wonder. you do not like the duty you hold. you do not like that you are in this pretty, lithe form you have chosen for yourself. but here are things you do like: love, romance, and EXCITEMENT. you meet two lords of the wing and you want to bear witness to love matches so badly that you make a wager for it. you want this to be the last, best bloom. you want this so ardently and selfishly that you are willing to fall for the first person you see who will fit this narrative (star crossed monsters in courts that don't accept them, what could be more perfect?) while ignoring everything you already have - because it's not enough for you. 

you say want love but you HAVE love. you say you want acceptance - but you could have that, too. you don't want love, you want the CONCEPT of love - the kind that people read storybooks about, that little owlbears dream of at night. you want romance. you want to be swept off your feet. you don't want acceptance, because acceptance and love is duty and you are beginning to hate the concept of duty. acceptance is (as hard as a knight pledging themselves to a different court for the sake of someone they love) as easy as realizing that of all the forms that the fae can take an owlbear is nowhere NEAR the most monstrous. the queen of air and darkness isn't even corporeal, half the courtiers of hoof and claw are feral beasts - but that realization is not grand enough for you.

you meet hob and you hold his paws in yours and you tell him (with tears in your eyes, so they sparkle better in the moonlight) that you feel - not alone - for the first time in your life (because it's something someone in a sweeping romance would say) and you (forget wuvvy, who followed you from her own court and accepted everything of who you were and repackaged herself smaller, neater, tidier like you, because that's what you wanted in the court of wonder) tell him that no one will ever use him again (while you use him to satisfy that hungry selfish hole in yourself that demands not LOVE but ROMANCE) because you love (what he represents, could represent for the grand romance of the sweeping fairytale you imagine your life could be if only someone loved you) him.

[quarterlifecrisis-activated]

I find it interesting that Stede is the unintentional cause of all 3 deaths of characters that represent toxic masculinity. Symbolically and thematically it’s just *chefs kiss*.

First take the Badminton twins. Stede is the opposite of toxic masculinity, he’s soft and picks flowers and cries and creates a safe space for meaningful male (for the most part) friendships. When Nigel and Chauncey die it’s because they were berating and attacking Stede and this form of masculinity. They also die by their own weapons unintentionally killing themselves. Toxic masculinity will always destroy itself because it’s hollow. If Stede and the crew are family and joy and connection the British navy is the system. There is nothing there to actually help people. But it’s so pervasive, one falls and someone else steps up. Same face, different name (literally). OFMD says that attacking this new way of life is meaningless because it is built on something more and trying to combat it will only turn inward. The Badmintons die alone and no one notices or cares.

Which brings me to Izzy Hands. I have a soft spot for that little nightmare (affectionate), he’s the character that I still haven’t pulled apart fully. Yes it’s Stede’s plan that leads to Izzy’s death but I don’t think Stede’s involvement is the same like for the Badmintons. It’s Ricky that’s important in the thematic meaning of Izzy’s death. Izzy is the toxic masculinity of the pirate world. It’s pretty clear that Izzy is the stand in for piracy and the old way of doing things. And he hates Stede! He also wins at the end of season 1. He removes everything touched by Stede from the Revenge and boy does it backfire. Raids for the sake of raids and no interpersonal connection sucks. And it was everything Izzy fought for in season 1. Continuing the idea of self destruction, I find it interesting that Izzy tries and fails to shoot himself. By his own hand and all alone. I believe it was Con who said that that moment was the death of Izzy Hands as we new him. Upholding a system just for the sake of upholding the system costs you everything and leaves you with nothing. And Izzy sees that and he changes!

If someone had told season 1 Izzy that he’d lose his leg that man wouldn’t bat an eye. But if you told him his new leg would be a gold painted unicorn hoof he’d go into cardiac arrest. But it’s his acceptance of what the crew made him that brings him into community. It’s a visual representation of what is going on internally and it culminates is his full look during Calypso’s birthday. He’s fully turned away from what was and put on this softness and femininity that makes him part of the crew. And I think that’s such a beautiful sentiment and I tear up every time I watch that scene.

Which brings me to Ricky. I mean, fuck that guy amirite?! He’s the worst and I wish we would have seen more of him. I think his conversation with Izzy is also so fascinating. It parallels nicely with Izzy meeting Chauncey in season 1. Izzy could’ve saved his own skin if he worked with Ricky like he did with Chauncey, if he upheld the system and played along. But he doesn’t and I love it. It’s so impactful to give Izzy that speech because every other member of the crew was already with the program. Having a character that was on the other side go actually fuck you you’re wrong is amazing storytelling. Izzy has learned his lesson and while he’s far from perfect he’s doing better every day. And that’s profound especially when you talk about trying to change people who upheld these toxic ideals. But it’s because of this rejection of toxic masculinity that Izzy dies. There’s no loyalty in the system; just because you helped them once doesn’t mean that it won’t spit you out and discard you. Even the people who have power in the system (white men) are not valued by it. But true community gives value. Izzy dies this time not alone but surrounded by people who care about him. The people around him when he dies pretty much all wanted him dead in season 1 and now they mourn and remember him fondly.

Izzy’s arc with crew is wonderful because it’s the shows thesis on unconditional love and the willingness to be kind even to those who don’t deserve it. Because look at how it helped everyone. To be loved is to be changed and it’s no surprise that the last shot of season 2 had Izzy and Buttons together changed.

[deliciousangelfestival]

Tears In His Ferrari || Chp 9 - B.Barnes

Character: Bucky Barnes x Farmer!Reader

Summary: Bucky Barnes, used to a life of luxury, takes on farm challenges in a bet with his father. Mud-stained Ferraris and a rustic farmhouse lead to unexpected personal growth, guided by the stern mentorship of Y/N, a farmer making his city-boy life difficult.

Theme: Fluff, Slice of Life, Heart-Warming.

Main Masterlist || If you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee on: Ko-fi

Thank you to anyone who gave a like, reblog, and left a comment. It motivated me to write more. 

Chapters: Chp 1, Chp 2, Chp 3 , Chp 4 , Chp 5 , Chp 6 , Chp 7 , Chp 8 , Chp 9 , -Chp 10 , Chp 11 , Chp 12.

Bucky, noticing the strained atmosphere between Kate and Y/N, decided to take matters into his own hands.

"Hey, Y/N," Bucky interjected, his voice laced with a hint of urgency, "could you teach me how to clean Alpine's hooves?"

Y/N paused, her expression softening as she recognized Bucky's attempt to diffuse the tension. "Of course," she replied, offering him a reassuring smile.

With a sense of relief washing over him, Bucky led the way to the stables, eager to learn from Y/N and escape the brewing conflict with Kate.

Meanwhile, Kate seethed with frustration, her hostility towards Y/N palpable. Clenching her fists, she struggled to contain her anger as she watched Bucky and Y/N walk away, leaving her behind.

"Shit!" she muttered under her breath, her perfectly manicured nails leaving indentations on her palms as she pressed them tightly together.

Turning to her assistant, Kate issued a terse command. "I want you to gather information on someone."

Kate couldn't fathom how Bucky could abandon her for a mere farm girl when there were plenty of wealthy suitors vying for her attention. The thought fueled her irritation, exacerbating her already sour mood.

With a frustrated huff, Kate stomped her expensive shoes on the ground, unwittingly stepping into a patch of mud. The dirt splattered across her face, staining her clothes and ruining her pristine footwear.

"Fuck!" she exclaimed, her outburst startling the nearby animals, who responded with their own cacophony of sounds.

As the chickens clucked "Buk-buk-ba-gawk!!!" and the cows mooed, "Moooo…!" Kate felt a surge of indignation. She despised the rural setting and everything it represented, longing for the comfort and luxury of her city life.

Determined to uncover any secrets Y/N might be hiding, Kate hoped that the information her assistant obtained would give her the leverage she needed to regain control of the situation.

***********

At the stable, Bucky observed closely as Y/N expertly cleaned Alpine's hooves. Her movements were precise and confident, a testament to her familiarity with the task.

She explained, her voice calm and knowledgeable, “Regular cleaning is also the only way to remove impacted dirt, mud, and manure from the hoof. When you give your horse a bath, take the time to carefully clean out their hooves to prevent horse scratches and infections.”

Bucky nodded attentively, absorbing her instructions. “I see. I'll try my best to take care of Alpine.”

Y/N smiled approvingly. “Good. You're getting better at living on this farm.”

Bucky felt a flush of shyness at her compliment. He hadn't expected Y/N to praise him. “Hehe, but I'm nothing compared to you.”

As she brushed Alpine's coat, Y/N chuckled softly. “Well, I'm already used to this. If you asked me to drive a sports car or make a vlog, I wouldn't have a clue.”

Bucky's curiosity piqued. “You've never driven a sports car?”

Y/N rolled her eyes playfully. “Not everyone is as rich as you.”

Realizing his unintentional insensitivity, Bucky hurriedly apologized. “Uhh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it that way.”

Then, an idea struck him. “Do you want me to teach you?”

Bucky said, "You have taught me how to drive a truck. It's more difficult than driving my Ferrari. I think you can do it."

Y/N paused, considering his offer. Bucky couldn't see her expression from his angle. “Hmm, I'll pass, but thanks for the offer.”

Disappointed but understanding, Bucky nodded. He had hoped to share the thrill of driving a sports car with Y/N, to give her a glimpse of his world, and understand his passion for racing.

Suddenly, Toby burst into the stable, his usually cheerful face now drawn with worry. “Y/N, Bucky, I need to go home!”

Concern etched across his features, Bucky approached. "What's wrong?"

“My grandmother,” Toby gasped, his voice trembling. “She's having a hard time breathing.”

Y/N wasted no time. “Get in my car, and I'll call the doctor on the way.”

Bucky, feeling a surge of determination, stepped forward. “I want to help.”

Y/N hesitated, considering Bucky's offer. “It won't fit since we're going to pick up both his grandparents.”

But Bucky wasn't deterred. “I'll use my car. It's faster. I'll meet you at Toby's house and then drive his grandma to the hospital.”

Y/N nodded, seeing the logic in Bucky's plan. “Alright.”

With determination in his eyes, Bucky hurried to his red Ferrari and fired up the engine.

"VROOM!"

The roar of the Ferrari's powerful motor sent a thrill through him. “Let's help someone,” he declared, gripping the steering wheel tightly.

As they drove towards Toby's house, Bucky followed Y/N's truck, his mind racing with thoughts. He couldn't help but marvel at Toby's resilience, realizing that the young boy had been walking to and from the farm every day.

Bucky remembered Toby, who never seemed tired each time he came by.

He felt like all his life he had the privilege to own a car and have a private driver to drive him around.

Arriving at Toby's house, Bucky took in the scene before him—the abundance of bee boxes and honey jars, a testament to the family's livelihood. Yet, despite their hard work, they lacked the resources and transportation in times of emergency.

Feeling a pang of guilt, Bucky reflected on his life of luxury, provided by his father's wealth.

Entering the house, Bucky saw Toby's grandparents. The love between them was palpable, even in their moment of distress. Toby's grandmother struggled to breathe, her frail form supported by her husband.

Bucky sprang into action with urgency, lifting Toby's grandmother gently into his arms.

Toby's grandfather regarded Bucky with curiosity who carried his wife into the small car. “Who is this young man?”

Toby assured him, “He's my great friend. Trust him, grandpa.”

As they hurried Toby's grandmother into Bucky's car, Toby's grandfather's eyes reflected both worry and gratitude, hoping for the best for his beloved wife.

With minimal traffic on the road, Bucky navigated the streets swiftly, arriving at the hospital in just 10 minutes. Carrying Toby's grandmother into the emergency room, he conveyed the urgency of her condition to the attending doctor. "She's having a hard time breathing. It's been 20 minutes."

The medical team, already briefed by Y/N, sprang into action, swiftly preparing a bed for the elderly woman. "Quick, put her here," they instructed, their sense of urgency matching Bucky's own.

As he received updates upon his arrival, Bucky prayed for Toby's grandmother's swift recovery. The weight of the situation settled heavily on his shoulders, a newfound sense of responsibility driving him to do everything in his power to help.

Ten minutes later, Y/N, Toby, and his grandfather arrived at the hospital, their anxious expressions mirroring Bucky's own concern. "Where is she?" Toby's grandfather inquired, his voice trembling with worry.

Bucky relayed the nurse's assurance. "The doctor is still looking after her, but the nurse told him her breathing problem has already improved."

Relief washed over the group, evident in their collective sighs. Toby's grandfather extended his hand to Bucky in gratitude. "Thank you, young man. Thank you so much."

Though unused to such displays of appreciation, Bucky accepted the gesture with a sense of humility, his heart warmed by the genuine gratitude.

Not just him, but Y/N felt it too. Watching Bucky's efforts to help Toby and his grandparents, Y/N's perception of him changed. He wasn't the spoiled person she had initially thought him to be.

*************

As they waited at the hospital, Bucky's thoughts drifted to his father. Reflecting on their strained relationship, he wondered when they had last spent quality time together. The sight of his father's graying hair flashed in his mind, prompting concerns about his health. Had his father undergone regular check-ups?

His musings were interrupted by Toby's grandfather's somber conversation with a doctor. "We couldn't afford the surgery," he overheard, the weight of the words settling heavily on Bucky's heart.

Caught in a moment of helplessness, Toby echoed his grandfather's sentiments. If only his father hadn't succumbed to gambling, they would have had the means to afford the necessary medical treatment for his grandmother.

Feeling helpless, Bucky watched as Toby and his family grappled with the harsh reality of their financial limitations. Meanwhile, Y/N, ever resourceful, discussed options to assist Toby's grandmother with the hospital administration.

In the midst of the chaotic scene at the hospital, Bucky felt overwhelmed by the raw emotions surrounding him. The sight of an 80-year-old man in tears and the anguished voice of another man grappling with his inability to provide for his loved one brought a lump to Bucky's throat, threatening to unleash his own flood of tears.

In stark contrast to his usual composed demeanor, Bucky clenched his fists in frustration, his heart aching with the weight of helplessness. In a world where a simple swipe of his card could solve most problems, he now found himself powerless in the face of someone else's suffering.

Determined to make a difference, Bucky stepped outside the hospital, his resolve firm as he dialed his father's number.

“Hello,” came his father's curt greeting.

“Dad. I need your help,” Bucky began, his voice tinged with urgency.

His father's response was laced with skepticism. “What did you do this time?”

Bucky's frustration mounted as he struggled to convey the gravity of the situation. “Huh? No, Dad, this isn't about me. I want to help someone.”

But his father's skepticism persisted. “Really? It's not the same as when you ask for a private jet to pick up your friends for a party?”

Bucky winced at the reminder of his past selfishness, feeling ashamed. “No, Dad, this is different. This is about someone's life. A farmer I know is facing a medical issue and can't afford surgery. I want to help them, but I don't have the money. Dad, can you help me?”

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line, stretching agonizingly as Bucky waited for his father's response.

“...”

“Hello? Dad?” Bucky prompted anxiously, his heart pounding in his chest.

“How much for the surgery?” his father's voice finally broke through the silence.

Relief flooded through Bucky, gratitude welling up within him. “Thank you, Dad. You're the best. Oh, can I ask one more thing?” he added, seizing the opportunity to make another request, his mind already racing with possibilities.

As he awaited his father's response, Bucky couldn't help but feel a glimmer of hope amidst the darkness, knowing that with his father's support, he could truly make a difference in someone's life.

Inside the office, with expansive windows offering sweeping views of the city skyline, sat a man of distinguished presence. David Barnes, at 50 years old, possessed an aura of approachability coupled with an unmistakable air of authority.

David was renowned in the business world for his astute decisions and remarkable success. With a seemingly effortless knack for turning ventures into triumphs, he had earned the moniker of having a Midas touch.

Yet, despite his prowess in the realm of business, David found himself somewhat adrift when it came to matters concerning his son, Bucky. His only child, Bucky's recent actions had stirred something within David, a sense of curiosity and perhaps even pride.

As he listened to Bucky's earnest plea for assistance, David felt a stirring within him. It was a rare glimpse of the young man his son had become, a departure from the carefree persona that had once defined him.

With a decisive nod, David motioned to his secretary. “Send $20,000 to this hospital,” he instructed, his voice tinged with a quiet resolve.

The secretary, ever efficient, sought clarification. “Did Bucky get hurt?” she inquired, her concern evident in her tone.

David shook his head, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he gazed at the sunset, casting its golden hues across the city cape. “No,” he replied simply, “he's helping someone.”

At that moment, as he watched the sun dip below the horizon, David felt a swell of pride for his son, realizing that there was more to success than just business acumen—that true wealth lay in the ability to lend a helping hand to those in need.

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[ankoluvly]

Draco Malfoy 100% does horse riding during the summer

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . I mean, his families literally rich, he’s a daddies boy, and fancy. there’s literally no way he doesn’t do horse riding, it’s the basic spoiled rich British boy starter pack 🤷🏻‍♀️

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . He spends his free time cleaning his horses hoofs. shampoos, conditions, uses a detangling spray. brushes his mane and tail, his coat. clipping. cleans his horses eyes when needed. cleans his horses ears once a week. brushes his horses teeth. He does everything, he’s extra ok? if it benefits his horse in any way, he’s doing it.

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . When he’s at Hogwarts, he occasionally goes to check up on his lil horse.

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . he(forces his parents to) hires somebody to take care of the horse daily while he’s away at Hogwarts.

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . he definitely has a Shire or Mustang horse, no doubts about it.

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . if it’s a shire horse then it’d without a doubt be black, a nice shiny coat along his body and beautiful mane and tail. then the white fur at the hoofs, nicely trimmed that looks like a lil foot warmer 🙈🙈 i feel he’d have a Shire more than a Mustang.

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . if it’s a Mustang then i’d be a buckskin color, beautiful shiny coat and mane n tail, just like a Shire.

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . i feel like he’d be the type of person to go and hang out with his horse when he’s frustrated.

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . he wouldn’t admit it but he looks forwards to the summers for his horse.

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . he definitely names his horse something like Champion or Winston 🙈🙈 maybe even Charlie. i feel like his horse would be a Winston though.

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . When he met you, he tried getting you into horse riding, he even bought another horse for you without asking.

“Try it.” Draco says simply, already having the saddle and everything ready. your eyes widened in awe at the sight of a beautiful black Friesian horse. before you blinked in confusion, “Try it? i don’t how to ride a horse, are you mental?”

“I’ll teach you. i already bought you the bloody horse just get on.”

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . And that’s how you and Dracos dates turned into going for horse rides, along a river or in a beautiful path. or taking care of your horses(Draco teaching you how to take care of yours.)

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . the head canon that Draco goes horse riding is now 100% canon to me and nobody can tell me otherwise.

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . Written by Ankoluvly 2024 on Tumblr!

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . Got this head canon from @nottsfawn ^^ (Post) Might do a Blaise version but idk

[boxofbonesfic]

Title: Brave [4 of ?]

Pairing: Orc!Steve x Reader

Summary: You earn your water for the journey to Tarrath—and more importantly, a place in the pack. 

Warnings: 18+ Only, Genre typical violence, Warlord Nomad AU, Dark Fantasy AU, Enemies to lovers, Eventual smut, References to past abuse

“You know what this is?” Carol’s displeasure with your distinct lack of tracking skill is evident as she squats down, poking a finger hard into the dust. You squint as you reach for an answer, knowing you won’t find one. She sighs heavily. 

“This is deer-sign,” she says, motioning for you to squat down like her. You do, the ragged remains of your skirt pooling around you. It’s riddled with holes now, long tears spreading up from the filthy hem that go almost to your knees. The pack isn’t scandalized by the sight of your ankles, however, and your concern for modesty in the face of your very survival is surprisingly low, so you haven’t bothered trying to repair them.

Carol fingers the snapped shafts of grass, their feathered tips bowed low. “You see the way it’s broken? With the prints, you can tell it’s gone this way. If you can’t smell it.” She adds, and you sigh. 

“You know I cannot.”  She shakes her head at your unsatisfactory response, furrowing her brows. 

“How do your people even hunt?” She complains exasperatedly, standing up to her full height.

“Skill.” You answer dryly. “And no small amount of luck, in my case,” you mutter, wiping your hands on your skirts as you stand. “This way?”

“Yes.” 

You’re practically swallowed by the grass, barely able to see over the top of it standing on your toes—so it takes you longer to see it than Carol. Her eyes narrow, ivory white fangs hanging down over her lips as she scents the air and  grins. 

“We’re close.” You can’t smell anything but the dry, hot wind pushing your sweat-laden hair back from your face. What you see, though, are the three-pronged hoof prints in the dirt that tell of the animal that came this way, the tufts of downy coat left snagged on the brush. You pinch the soft hair between your fingers, and sniff it as Carol nods encouragingly. It’s musky, with a distinct animal smell that makes you grimace. 

“Get your bow ready.” You do, pulling it from the strap on your back. It’s heavy; the buckle is almost as big as your head, but Carol had cut the leather down to size for you, slicing off a piece almost the length of your arm with the hunting knife at her side. 

“Show me how you draw. No, not like that. Here.” You feel like a child, the way she scolds the position of your hands when you draw back the string. “Were you an orc wean, you’d have been born with a bow in hand. But I suppose it isn’t abysmal for someone who first held one a day ago.” 

She leads you through the shifting grass-sea, crawling through the dust towards a stunted copse of dry trees. You stay low, mirroring Carol’s low-squat as she makes her way through. She is careful not to break any branches, taking her time to pick her way through the brush as quietly as possible. And therefore, so are you. There is water here—a little. You can taste the way it saturates the air, and a thrill passes through you. Water, here, means prey. 

The two of you stay low, approaching the muddy little pool with baited breath. The air is still, liable to shift at any moment, but Carol doesn’t seem nervous. You are, though, your palms moist and your heart beating so hard you fear everything within a mile can hear it. 

There, on the other side of the pool, is the deer. It’s a fully grown stag, his long, spiraling horns at least twice the length of your arms. There is nothing soft in the grasslands, your father had said, the words scented sour with ale. Everything eats, and is eaten. The stag has short, thick, wiry fur, with a tail that was long, like a lizard’s. You watch as it leans down toward the muddy puddle, snuffling through it with a long, pointed snout.

You draw back on the string as he stands up, nostrils flaring. It digs into the meat of your fingers as you pull back with all your strength and let go, the arrow whistling through the air to strike the stag through the fore-shank. It’s mouth opens too wide as it shrieks, the sound echoing out into the wilderness. 

“Move!” Carol yells as the stag paws the ground with its good leg, bloody foam frothing around its nostrils. It charges only a moment later, turning the dry, hollowed out trees you’d been using for cover into splinters and kindling. You roll away, the metallic stench of its blood strong in your nostrils and your own heart thundering in you ears. You push yourself up to your feet, your hand going to the quiver at your back. 

The stag’s tail whips excitedly behind it as it snaps its jaws, circling you.  You can smell it, the hot copper of its blood, the sweat gleaming on its flanks and the sour tang of your own fear. The stag lowers its head, its horns pointed straight at your chest as it charges. You barely have time to aim, bringing the bow up and loosing the arrow. 

It thuds wetly into the stag’s chest, and with another horrible scream it collapses into the dust, skidding to a stop just inches from you. Your own chest is heaving as you stare at its body, wide eyed. It feels like you aren’t getting any air as you gulp down breaths that taste of hot dust and fresh blood. You watch as the stag twitches in the dust, its chest heaving once, twice, before its amber eyes go dark. Your legs give out, dropping you to your knees in the dirt. 

Carol emerges from the brush on the other side of the stag’s body, but you do not see her, not really, your eyes locked on the thick arrows protruding from its hide like misbegotten horns. She smooths a hand over its eyes, closing them, before she squats over the carcass. Silently, she jabs a thumb into one of its sluggishly bleeding wounds, before crouching in front of you. She grabs your chin, before swiping her bloody fingers down over your cheeks.

She gives you a pleased look as she stands away, and you lightly touch the streaky marks of sticky red she’s left on your skin, your brows furrowing with confusion. 

“You earned them.” She says proudly, painting another few stripes on your forehead for good measure. Carol helps you drag your kill back to camp, a murmur passing through the pack at the sight of you. Steve es sat by the water, his broadsword laid across his thighs as he cleans it. He stands as you approach, and you duck your head as he inspects the stag. Your breath hitches in your throat as he reaches for you, one massive finger sliding beneath your chin as he tilts it up. 

“Let them see your honor, little hunter,” he says, smoothing his thumb gently over one of Carol’s marks. “Let them see.” 

to be continued…

next

[bookmaker-untaken]

everything's going to hel in a handbasket

Hajime Umemiya x Reader // Mythology AU

Summary: The God of Light takes an all-expenses-paid trip down to the Underworld, where he meets you.

Warnings: Canon Typical Violence, OOC!Umemiya, Probably (Look, I Tried)

Word Count: 4,461

vii.

Hajime was going to die. 

The dreams of death - his death - visited him every night and loomed dark shadows over his waking days. He wished to sleep no longer, to no longer see over and over as they pushed a funeral vessel, his funeral vessel, out onto the still gray waters of the foggy dawn. 

And, in what he knew was a time after he was gone, he saw the earth bare and blanketed in a powdery white and knew it was the same for miles.

The dreams told him that his inevitable death would be the beginning of a sequence of events that would bring about the end of everything he ever loved.

And Hajime could do nothing about it. 

So he pushed aside his inner helplessness with a brilliant smile that showed like the sun and accepted his fate with considerable grace. 

The other gods and spirits, however, did not. 

Makochi, the all-father, had gathered all of them into the Great Hall.

The Hall was often ringing with laughter and song, but now it is almost ghostly silent. They chatted amongst themselves in low voices, struggling to scrape together any sort of solution. 

But what could they do?

Even as gods, they where as powerless to Fate as the ocean to the tide or the wheat to the wind. 

But if they did nothing ... their light would vanish, and none of them could bear the thought of it. 

Makochi caught their attention with his booming voice. "I shall go to the Underrealm, Shishitoren, and see for myself if it is true. Only then will we be certain." 

"Come now," said Hajime. "Let's have a feast up here, instead! I've been growing tomatoes and they’re just ripe enough! Let's kill a fatted calf and eat together!" 

His plea fell on deaf ears.

vi.

The All - Father climbed upon the dark leather saddle of a noble horse the color of night, snapping the reigns and taking off into the dark. A clap of lightning stuck as each hoof pounded the earth, the rumbling of thunder between paces. The rider of the North Wind, Nirei, passed overhead, wrapping around them and vanishing them from sight. 

Hajime bit his lip and sighed. 

The hooves of the great beast met the dirt before the tall, ornamental stone gates of the Realm of the Dead. Before the gate, the three-headed dog slobbers.

Makochi tugged at the reins and the horse trotted in place, shaking it's flowing mane with a whiny that whistled in an invisible wind. 

"I have come to speak with the Queen."

The guard dog looked down at him for a very long time, it's maw dripping. When the heavy doors began to creak open, the three-headed beast did not move to stop him.

The ease of his entrance was already a bad sign. 

The throne room was made completely of perfectly polished marble, beautiful and cold like the Queen who sat upon the throne. 

Makochi kneeled before you. 

Although you lounged, draped over your throne, leaning your chin on your right-flesh hand, your presence held a great weight. He could not see under the layered, dark veil that was held in place by a twisted crown of tangled thorns you'd worn as always - as if permanently in mourning. 

The only other inhabitant of the throne room was a knight who stood near the foot of your stairs, on the orders of your brother - Jo. 

"My son ... will soon die. On my journey here, I have accepted that truth." He says. "I only ask that you watch over him."

You could feel his pain, the great and heavy grief of a father. For anybody else, to ask the Queen of the Dead to watch over their son would be ... unfit, to say the least. (You would argue that it still was.) 

But this was the All-Father.

"I will do my best." Your voice is low and raspy, yet somehow comforting. 

A promise from death is always sure. 

v.

Bofurin did not care what the Queen of the Dead had said. Gods could change the stars.

After all, who had put them there? 

Hajime tries to dissuade her. While it may be true that they had numbered the stars, fate had made it so they felt compelled to put them there. 

Makochi put a hand on his shoulder and shook his head. His wife was hurting, grieving for a death that had not yet passed. The earlier she started, the earlier she would come to accept it - as he had. 

With a torch in hand, guided by the Four Winds - Sakura, Sugishita, Nerei, and Suo - Bofurin walked the earth. 

She bowed before every creature and spirit, asking that they take a vow to never harm her beloved son. 

The few who did not already love Hajime were moved by the All-Mother's conviction and humbleness.

When she returned with a wide smile, the gods and spirits rejoiced. They would not have to lose their silver-haired god. Next to his Father, Hajime smiles.

It does not meet his tired eyes. 

iv.

They had discovered Hajime's invulnerability by accident. 

He had been tending to his garden, so engrossed that he didn't see the discus flying toward him. 

One of the boys called out to him too late.

But, instead of it slamming into his nose and drawing golden blood, it simply bounced off of him as if it were a mirror reflecting light. They all stood there, looking at each other in awe, afraid to move. The person who had caught the discus thew it directly at Hajime. 

It flew back.

Again, they exchanged looks. 

One of them held up a small knife. Hajime raised his brows, but didn't move. 

He knew it wasn't the day.

The boy aimed slightly above his shoulder and threw. The knife flew upwards, hitting the awning and clattering to the ground. 

With this, it became customary to use Hajime for sparring or target practice. He was already an expert at avoiding things - and if you accidentally managed to hit him, it would harmlessly deflect off. 

iii.

Bofurin sighed deeply, dragging her hands over her face. 

"Mother? What's eating you?"

She sat up to a smiling Hajime. "I ... I have made a mistake, my dear." 

He raised a brow, tucking her under his arm. "Do you want to tell me?"

She inhaled deeply, then sighed. "In my haste, I forgot to ask mistletoe to take the oath. It was so small, I - I must have overlooked it."

He placed a solid, comforting hand on her shoulder. "It's alright, Mother. Mistletoe is small and harmless!"

She sniffs, then nods. 

"All better?"

He rewards her with a grin. He gives her one final squeeze before walking back into the hallway.

With each step, the disguise of Choji - the god of mischief - slipped away. 

ii.

Nobody had seen the person who threw that spear. 

The spear that had launched itself into Hajime's chest.  

His eyes widened. He coughed, a line of blood trickling down his chin.

He smiled then, relieved that the wait was over. 

He fell to his knees. 

i. 

The yellow candles illuminated their grave faces as they traveled down the jutting cliffs in a single line to the gray waves. 

Although it was early, the seagulls cried.

One by one, they took a handful of dry sand and poured it into the boat. 

First the others, then his brothers, then Bofurin, with shaking hands.

Makochi emptied his palm of sand, bending down to whisper something into the dead boy's ear.

They pushed him out onto the lapping waves, surrounded by bobbing candles.

The light vanished with him. 

nulla

You were about to rise from your throne when a ball of light zoomed into the room, blinding you. You threw your arm over your eyes in an instinct, but curiosity convinced you to peer through the bones. 

The light began to expand and expand before peeling back, blooming like a flower to reveal the hovering Hajime. When his feet touched the ground, the bright lite fizzled out into gold sparkles.

He blinked, as if half asleep, looking around. 

His eyes fell upon you. 

He grinned brightly, "Hello! Oh, wait - I do apologize for, well, flying into your thrown room, honorable Queen of Peace." 

Although sometimes a name for death, it is uncommon. You raise a brow in slight surprise. 

You shift, wishing to disappear just as quickly as he had come. The weight of his focus makes you uneasy. 

But you have a promise to keep. "Rise."

Hajime did, and looked you right in your eyes. Your breath catches in your throat. It was if the pale stars had been dusted over the bridge of his nose and under his shining his eyes. There was no moon that night, yet the throne room was illuminated. His stare was attentive, yet gentle. 

He was not afraid of you.

"I have made a promise to your father to watch over you."

"Really? You don't have to, though!"

"A promise from death is sure." You say. "And there is no need to call me by my title. My name will suffice, Child of Light."

A grin broke out on his lips. "Then you've got to call me Hajime!" 

You hesitated, swallowing in an attempt to somehow stop the heat creeping up your cheek. Something about the idea of saying his name felt strange, an invitation of something, and you wanted no part of it. 

But to refuse such an offer would be more than rude. "H-hajime." 

Hajime's smile widened, brightening the room tenfold.

You needed him to stop doing that. 

i.

After a long silence, you take a sip from your goblet. "Is there ... anything that would make your time here ... more comfortable?"

Hajime's eyes swept around the room as he cut into his meat. He chewed as he thought. "Maybe some light in the halls? It's a bit hard to see where your going at night," 

You pull your lips into a thin line, looking down at your plate. You hadn't considered that. You knew these halls like the dark of your eyelid, like you knew the back of your flesh hand. You and the other servants had taken to tracing their hands along the marble veins of the hall to guide yourselves. 

He simply hadn't been here long enough. 

You nod to one of the servants. "See that his request is done." 

The young skeleton bowed her head to excuse herself.

"Anything else?"

Hajime thought again, a cute little pout forming on his lips. "Might I have a bit of earth, perhaps?"

You blink, eyebrow furrowing. "I ... can't promise that anything will grow, but if that is what you wish for, you shall have it."

"Great!" His eyes glittered more brilliantly than the table's candles. "Thank you!"

ii.

"A thousand pardons, your majesty. Supper is almost ready."

The servant hurried out of the room and back into the kitchen, leaving you alone again. You looked at the empty chair across the table. Despite an extensive length of table to sit at, Hajime had picked the chair only a few feet away from you. 

"Food's better when you eat together!" 

Where ... was he? When you came to the table in the mornings, he was there to greet you with that dazzling grin. When you came to the table in the evenings, he was there to excitedly talk your ear off about his garden progress.

You had gotten used to it. Expected it. And this small change had sabotaged any sense of routine you'd built.

Noticing your discomfort despite your steely disposition, one of your servants asked, "Would you like me to search for the Child of - Hajime?"  

Hearing his name from a servant only surprised you for a second. Of course he wouldn't  have let them call him by those traditional, self-important titles either. 

You open your mouth with one answer, then close it, rising out of your chair. "You have enough work to do. I will look for himself."

The servant nods, stepping out of your path. You fold your arms into your sleeves as you walked. If I were him, you wondered, where would I be?

You turned into one of the open air-halls that cut though a garden courtyard. Spotting something silver out of the corner of your eye, you stopped, taking a few steps backwards.

Hajime crouched over a small patch of earth he had cleared, making neat rows in preparation for seeds. He buried his hands into the moist dirt, the knuckles of his finger peeking out. His face was calmly focused, so still and serene.

You felt horrible for watching him this way, as if you were intruding.

Picking up the ends of your dress, you step widely on the stones so as to not dirty your shoes. 

"Hajime?" You clear your throat. "Hajime."

He turns around quickly, looking up at you. Your eyes dart away.

"You were late for dinner." Your mouth suddenly felt dry. "And I came to get you." 

"Oh!" Hajime said, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. Even with being on the stone, he stood taller than you. "I must have lost track of time. Always happens when I start to garden!" 

You shake your head. "I just didn't want your food to get cold."

"Thank you! If you hadn't come to fetch me, I think I would have stayed here until nighttime!"

"Until a short while ago our nighttime was your daytime," You looked at the dirt between the stones. "Adjusting takes time." 

Hajime starts to walk to the dining hall, glancing back to see if you where following him on the rocks. "I always stayed up late, anyway."

So he liked to stay up late, and garden. You often stayed up late as well, dedicating time to your duties, most of which required reading long documents. 

"I realize I never asked. What do you like to do?"

Panic rose in you slightly. What did you like to do? You hadn't ever sat down to think about it. The answer left before you could even register what it was. "Mealtime." 

Hajime laughed. A bright, hearty sound, like church bells and sunbeams and his ever present grin. "Well," He said. "I suppose you have a god's own luck."

iii.

"Would you like to help me out?"

You snap your head down to him with wide eyes.

"I couldn't possibly - " Wouldn't being touched by your skeleton hand kill the seeds?

As if he knew exactly what you were thinking, Hajime shook his head. "No, you won't hurt them." 

You swallow. "I'd prefer to just ... watch you."

"Aww," He drawled, heavy with disappointment. "Alright. I won't make you do anything that you don't want to do."

"Perhaps ... another time?"

He gives you a little smile. "Perhaps." 

iv.

The sprouts glowed golden as the magic traced though them, up their stems and into the leaves.  

It was the closest thing to the Middle Realm's sunlight they would ever receive - Hajime's magic traveling, pulsing, though their roots like the blood in one's veins. 

"They're coming along nicely," He says, taking a leaf between his fingers and expecting it. You look at them along with him, though you have no idea what indicated plants were 'coming along nicely' or not.

"I'm glad," You say, not sure what else may have fit better.

He smiles at the little leaf. 

v.

Your head bobbed, dried petals sprinkled onto your hands.

"Wha - "

Still half asleep, you looked around.

In the polished wall you saw yourself adorned with a beautiful crown of bright flowers that had half dried. Tentatively, you pressed a skeleton hand to the crown. The rot claimed another petal.

You look down the steps where Jo has a crown hanging from his sword. The two of you exchanged glances. 

Honestly, you were more shocked than angry. You looked again to the gleaming stone of the wall. Half of the flowers had shriveled and died. 

Honestly, you were more shocked than angry. You looked again to the gleaming stone of the wall. Half of the flowers had shriveled and died. 

All of the servants had flower crowns. The cooks, the maids, the gardeners. Even the Hellhound that garden the gate, each of the heads dwarfed a tiny wreath.  

You finally find Hajime, leaning out of a window overlooking the town, watching the people. The Realm of the Dead had musicians and artists who sang joyous songs and painted vibrant, lively murals. 

To Hajime, it wasn't nearly as cold or fearsome as the stories had made it to be. 

You cleared your throat before stepping forward, as not to startle him out of the window. "Thank you ... for the flower crown." You straightened it unconsciously, dried petals raining down. 

His own sat fully vibrant, almost magically energized, on his head. "I'm glad you like it! Some of the children saw me making one and then we had so many I had to start giving them away,"

You nod and your crown slips, falling to your feet.

Before you can react, Hajime had already scooped it up into his hands. The rotted flowers began to unwrinkled when he touched it, petals regaining their color.

"Thank you - " You'd reached to take it from his hands, but he had already placed it on your head.

The flowers recoiled, half of them shriveling up and dying instantly. "Thank you."

His eyes softened. "You're welcome." 

vi.

You listened to the various complaints of your subjects. As crimes were seldom, disagreements came more often - and your intelligent, quick solutions often allowed both parties to leave feeling as if they had gotten the better of the other.

After the last subject left, you slumped into your chair with a tired sigh. 

The door of the thrown room creaked open and in rushed Bofurin. 

You look at Jo, who looks back, equally confused. He doesn't dare draw his sword on the All-Mother.

"Oh, Queen of the Dead, Queen of Peace, you must return my son to the land of the living!" She cried.

You look at her, eye full of pity.

"You must! Since he has left, there have been relentless disasters without relief. Ask the Winds! They shall tell you!"

You where quiet for a long time. You knew that she wasn't lying, but had no solution for her plight. "I need time to think, All-Mother. As of now, I can see no way to allow him to leave."

Bofurin lowered her head, defeated. 

"If I can think of something, I shall send for the Southern wind immediately."

"Thank you," She bowed once more, unshed tears in her eyes. "May I ... see him?" 

You raise your hand to beckon for a servant. "Take her to the gardens." 

vii.

The Harvest season rolled around and you could still think of no solution for the problem. 

A part of you was beginning to think you were doing this on purpose - but you knew that was not ture. You would not allow selfishness to get in the way of what was right. 

The Middle Realm needed Hajime.

The Realm Above needed Hajime even more. 

Hajime was not yours to keep.

The Harvest festival was a joyful celebration. Dancers in traditional clothing leaping though the streets, followed by a band with shining horns and thunderous drums, tailed by a giant straw Hellhound, dragons, and spirits. 

At the end of the parade you sat upon a litter carried by four skeleton subjects. You waved until your arm hurt, finally relieved when they sat you down. The feast held at the castle was an expansive spread created from the crop surplus, and each family had brought their own dish to share, as it was required to attend. 

After they had all eaten their fill, there was dancing. 

You sat on your throne and watched the joyful steps. Your eyes fell on Hajime as did everyone else's. 

He was dazzling, pulled your eyes like a lodestone. 

Despite yourself, a small, secretive smile crept onto the skin-half of your face. 

It dropped when you saw him taking long strides toward you. 

Hajime opened a hand to you and your stomach erupted into butterflies. 

"Your majesty," He asked, grinning. "May I have this dance?" 

You looked over his head. Your subjects where muttering amongst themselves, peering over their hands. He had been standing there for too long. 

"Surely you must - "

"Nope!" Hajime said. "I'd like to dance with you, your majesty!" 

You gripped the sides of your throne, steeling yourself. You used them to push yourself up, laying your flesh hand against his.

It was as warm as you had subconsciously expected it to be.

Your skeleton hand was smooth and cool to the touch like ivory.

You let Hajime lead you to the dance floor and sweep you into a dance that started slowly, then begun to build as more people joined and the band begun to crechendo. 

The ghosts floated around you in streams of light, their ghastly dresses catching in the hovering candlelight as they twirled. 

You noticed none of this, nor how fast you where moving, kept fully entranced by Hajime's eyes. They were so much brighter up close - so intensely zealous, so deep you were afraid you would step into the clear water and drown.

His excitement jumped and sparked across his face like lighting.

The magic flourished and finished, releasing you from the spell. 

Breathing slightly heavily, you bowed in thanks, slipping your hand out of Hajime's. 

The sudden coldness was startling.

viii.

"Good day, sis!" You jerked.

What was it with people barging into your throne room lately?

Choji grinned at you, his wry smile gleaming with mischief. 

You massaged your temples. Your brother's spirited mood did nothing to sooth your anxieties. 

In fact, they often led to things becoming worse.

"Hello, brother." 

"What's wrong?"

"I ... " You bite your lip. "Have a difficult discussion to make."

"Yeah? Like what?" 

You turned your head. Your bother was smart. However, he loved to play tricks on even his closest comrades and family which meant you had to deal with him carefully. 

But … he was smart. So, maybe... "Hajime needs to return to the Middle Realm. It is in turmoil wihtout him."

"Really?" Choji shrugged. "Seems fine to me." 

You rolled your eyes. Trickery often led to chaos and it was not a surprise that he adored it. 

"It is disastrous, brother. I must send him back."You pause, eyes moving to your brother. His smile, sharper than normal, doesn't quite meet his eyes. "You didn't have anything to do with this, did you?"

"Nope!" 

"Choji." You say sternly. 

"And if I did? You can't prove it!" 

He's right. You can't prove he had anything to do with it. But something about the way he said those words...

You pinch the bridge of our nose. 

"Hey, sis? You're not beginning to fall for him, are you?"

You jerk. 

"Ah ha! So why are you so hellbent on sending him back?"

"Because it is what is right!"

"Wrong! He's dead now, so he belongs here!"

You glare at your brother. He has a point. 

"I need to think. Go bother Jo," 

Your brother smirks, but does as you order.

ix.

"Hajime," You begin.

"Yes?" He says, turning away from the seeds he'd just planed.

You begin to play with your fingers. "I have something to tell you, something important." 

He was looking at you with such bright intensity it forced you to look away. "You ... weren't supposed to die then, I don't think." 

"What makes you say that?" 

"I - " You say. "I can't tell you. But something's not right, and I intend to make it so."

A hand rests on the top of your head and you freeze. 

"That sounds super stressful! Try not to work yourself too hard!" 

You nod wordlessly.

ix.

The first solution that comes to you is a mirror of Bofurin's.

You request that she repeat her earlier pilgrimage and ask those to grieve for him. And if all things grieve for him, you may send him back. 

With a torch in hand, Bofurin once again walked the earth. 

This time she is more forceful, a mother's grief seeping from her eyes. 

In the end, one person does not grieve. 

You wonder ... if it is your brother, but you cannot tell. 

Bofurin is furious, in despair. She storms into her temple and shuts the door.

No amount of gifts nor offerings of any kind will sway her. 

They are not her son.  

The earth grows cold.

It grows hopeless.

x.

Soon your realm is overflowing with new residents. The infostrucutre cannot keep up.

You spend many sleepless nights bent over you desk.

One day, Hajime comes to see you. "The new plants have bore fruit. Please come outside, feel the fresh air."

You want to argue, but you do not.

The golden tree's trunk spirals upward, fat pomegranates drooping.

"I didn't know you could grow fruit,"

"I had been experimenting," He says proudly. "But you've been very busy, so."

He takes one from the branch and holds it out to you. She takes it, careful to hold it with her flesh hand. 

"Oh, let me," He takes it back, twisting it open. 

The seeds are blood red. You stare at him before something clicks, like a key sliding into a lock. 

"Hajime!" You say. "This fruit was grown with your magic in the land on of the dead! Life belongs on the surface! If you eat these seeds, you will be able to visit them!" 

He looks taken a back at first. "You would allow that?"

"Hajime! People are starving!"

"N-no, I mean... would you miss me?"

You blink at him, consider his words. "I ... yes of course." 

"Great!" He says, and before you know it you're in the air. "I'll miss you too!"

You hold onto his shoulders for purchase. 

He lowers you, slightly. "Say... how about a goodbye kiss?"

"You're joking.”

"I'm not," He says, face reflecting his seriousness. 

"Well, then." You take your veil and put it over his head. 

"Wow," He says. "You're beautiful." 

You can't help the quirk of your lip as you lean down. "Of course you would say that." 

Under the shade of the pomegranate tree, you meet lips. 

xi.

Hajime takes one hesitant step out of the realm of the dead, then another. 

Snow crushes underfoot. 

"My son!" Bofurin says, each step she runs to him making flowers grown under foot. "Your home!"

"For now," He says, holding the pomegranate in his hands. "Once these seeds are gone, I must go back."

Yet Bofrin doesn't care. 

In her happiness the flowers begin to grow once more. 

[thegildedbee]

Choice: May 10 Prompt from @calaisreno

Program Note: Here, apparently, is my version of the Fall (I didn't know I had one until writing this 👻 in response to the picture the word "Choice" prompted in my mind's eye.) Because I'm doing these on the hoof, you may find aspects that don't make sense or contradict something I wrote previously and so on. I point this out not to whine,😊 but to invite you, if you're perplexed at anything, to feel free to let me know, in the notes or by message! I'll add any feedback re incongruities to my own growing list of errors, and, if I do something with these prompt puppies someday in actual fic form, I'll be sure to ponder any observations you send my way! ( tgb 🐝) ...........................................

Fleeing from Kitty Riley’s home after Moriarty's escape, Sherlock is more furious than he has ever been at any time in his life, and his breathing is shallow and patchy. He stands in the middle of the street, caught in indecision, as he watches John paging through the cuttings in Jim’s “Richard Brook” file folder, his heart beating erratically, his mouth pressed into a line that twists into a grimace, despair evident in every centimeter of his body. 

John registers the sudden quiet, and looks up distractedly, his forehead creasing in concern when he spies Sherlock suspended between one side of the street and the other, immobile. 

“Sherlock? What? What is it?” 

Sherlock’s brain has been stoppered along with the rest of his body, through the force of the emotional tsunami racing through his nervous system. He closes his eyes briefly, registering the storm inside: fury, despair, futility, chaos, blackness, and a deep unhappiness that any semblance of okay has disappeared, blown far out of sight and beyond his reach. His mind stutters on the last one, and he suddenly knows where he should be. 

“There’s something I need to do,” he says grimly, looking at John as if peering at him from a vast distance, which he is. He feels his thought processes beginning to slowly start making connections again.

“What is it? Can I help?” John says, confused, tentative.

“No. The rest I have to figure out on my own.” Sherlock turns away from John and breaks into a jog on his way to Bart’s, intent on catching Molly before she leaves the building, his feet pounding in a dismal cacophony as he makes his way. The mounting tension pressing against his skin from deep inside his body levels off when he catches sight of her in the hallway, and he skids to a stop and flags her down. 

“Molly. Earlier – when you said I looked sad, and asked me if I was okay. You were right. I am sad, and I’m not okay. Time is running out. I have very little room to maneuver, and none at all if I can’t find an ally I can trust. You said you didn’t count, and that’s not true. You do count. I’ve always trusted you. That’s why I’m here now. ” 

He looks at her intently, saying urgently, “I need your help. Moriarty has injected a lethal poison into the world that surrounds me, and its effects are accelerating, and they’ll soon take on a life of their own, if they haven't already.” He stops, fists balled up, his fingernails sending sharp stabs of pain through his system. 

Molly returns his gaze, also intent, scanning his face, her forehead furrowed. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I think I’m going to die.”

“Explain.” 

“I will. But first – it’s important for you to know that you can tell me no, for what I'm about to ask” he says softly, slowly, carefully. “If I wasn’t everything that you think I am – everything that I think I am – would you still want to help me?”

Molly looks back at him, steady on. “Sherlock. You are many things, some good, some not so good, some peculiar, some hard to fathom, some astonishing. Inside these walls, I have spent thousands of hours reconstructing lives with you, and beside you. I know who you are when you are here and I know it to be who you are when you walk back out these doors.”

She sits down on a stool, and says gently, “Tell me what you need. I’ll do my best to help you.” She watches as Sherlock gives her an achingly helpless nod, an expression that she doesn’t think she’s ever seen before on his face. “It’s urgent, yes? Let’s get started then. What do you need?” 

“You. I need you. Your medical expertise. Your access to Bart’s. Your ability to work with my streetside networks. Your solidity. Your counsel.”

As he speaks, Molly sees him beginning to regain his footing, and says, encouragingly, “Go on.”

“Moriarty is nearly done setting up his fun house mirrors, reflecting a false image of me to the world, destroying my reputation. I think he means for this all to end by making it seem as if I’ve committed suicide, when it will actually be by his hand in one way or another. It’s inevitable.

“I have a very few hours to try and tilt the odds in my favor. I need to meet him at a time and place of my choosing – in the morning, here at Bart’s, on the rooftop. No cctv; no outside intrusions; no other people at hand. Just the two of us, finishing the game he’s been playing, moving the last two pieces on the board: him, and me.

“But the roof, Sherlock. That sounds incredibly dangerous. What if he forces you off the edge?”

Sherlock continues, his tone grim and determined. “It may come to that, although I will do my best to turn the tables on him. I won’t know until I meet with him what options are viable. I hope to capture him; my best chance of repairing the damages he's made by his slashing through my existence is to take him alive. But it may not be possible. The roof we’re standing on – he may go over the side; I may go over the side; we both may go over the side. I am going to try and prepare for these eventualities, but I have very few resources I’ll be able to have at hand. I’m afraid that, in the end, it will come down to the unanticipated, and to whatever luck the universe will allow.”

“If you fall – how are you going to manage that?” Molly probes, worried.

“Before I answer you, first -- when this is happening, I’m going to need you to be in contact with Wiggins. Hold on, let me make sure he’s gettable.” Sherlock steps aside to send a text and then sets down his mobile -- and then immediately picks it up again, glancing up at Molly. “One more – stay with me,” and his fingers set to work sending a message to another number. He regroups, then at the feel of his mobile vibrating, holds up a finger. “Okay, Wiggins is standing by for instructions after we’re done."

Sherlock takes in a deep breath and pauses, and then takes in one more. “I’ll ask him to have members of his crew gather signs that can be placed to block off the street, and arrange those people so that they can reinforce the restricted access. There will be a crucial period when there should be nobody on the street who is not one of our confederates. He’ll text you when that is, and I’ll need for you to keep a lookout and provide help from inside the building, in heading off any of Bart’s personnel who may be at ground level for some reason, and who look inclined to leave the premises.

“That’s one thing. The next is if I’m injured. I’ll need for you to assess the situation and, only if it’s absolutely necessary, get some of them to help you route me to the emergency room. But only if it’s absolutely necessary. You know that my definition of absolutely necessary will be much further out on the scale than anyone else’s. Anything short of that, I’m asking you to triage me yourself as best as possible until Mycroft appears.

“Mycroft is helping, then?”

“No, not yet. I can’t be sure he’s not compromised. After whatever events transpire on the roof, I’ll know which it is, but I don’t have enough evidence yet. If I’m dead, it won't matter which it is. If I’m conscious, I can let him stay, or send him away and zigzag myself away somehow, whichever makes sense.”

Molly waits quietly, absorbing all the details she's being entrusted with.

“There are two items I need, and I’ve told Wiggins where to find the first – one of the old-fashioned nets that firefighters used before modernizing their equipment, in the case of suicidal jumpers or people up several stories high, caught in a burning building. They’re circular, but they’re stored folded in half. There’ll be a large laundry truck at the site, and the net will be stored hanging on the outside passenger side panel. Wiggins’ people will grab it, open it, and hold it – and we’ll hope for the best.

Molly's eyes dart back and forth, turning over the scenario. “But Sherlock, that’s incredibly risky. If the net is that old – whatever material it’s made out of could have degraded over the years, as well as depending on how it's been stored. It may not hold, and that’s if you actually land on it.”

“Or I can land on it, and it holds, but the momentum causes my body to bounce off of it, and I may get smashed up even so," Sherlock says evenly.

“Or no matter how hard they try to manage it," Molly continues, "one or more of the people holding it could falter, causing it to tilt at an angle, or even drop it before you land, or drop it if and when you hit it, come to that."

"Yes," Sherlock affirms. “Or there could be a wind gust that throws things off. And so on. I know. As clever as we both are, I’m sure we could find more specifics of what can go wrong. But at that point I’ll have no control over the matter, so spending more time on it now won’t help me stay alive."

Sherlock’s mobile vibrates again, and he reaches out quickly to grab it, as if it is something vital to hang onto while floating across a stretch of ocean, lost. After he reads the message, he also sits down, the stool catching him as he sways, and slips, holding him up.

Feeling some of his rising panic receding, he says, “There, that’s the second piece. There’s a small company about an hour outside of London, D30, that makes body armor for extreme athletes who ski, use motorcycles, and so on, people who attempt jumps and find themselves falling from a height, and need impact protection. They're doing work for the military now as well. They’re brilliant chemists, and they’ve been working with polymers and created a material that’s soft and pliable, but when hit with force it goes rigid, dispersing the force at the points of contact, and then returns to its original state. I’ve texted one of the engineers to see if they can bring me something to wear, and they should be here within the hour. It should help some."

“That's good," Molly says, although the stern cast of her face is at odds with her words, the reason why revealed with what she says next. "Sherlock, what about John? Why isn’t he involved in this? Or is he, toward some other end?” Molly asks, tense and apprehensive.

“Whether or not Moriarty and I actually physically struggle, I may still need to make the choice to jump, because I may need to buy time up ahead to be safe from Moriarty’s people while I try and neutralize them – especially if I can’t trust Mycroft. I may need to appear to have died."

Sherlook looks her in the eye, and then drops his gaze. “I’ll need two forms of evidence to bluff being dead. One is to have you do the autopsy and sign the death certificate. For the second verification, I'll need a compelling witness at the scene, and that will be John. I will need for him to believe I’m dead, no question, in order to convince others, as everyone will be looking to him over the days ahead, to see if there are any falsities about what's happened, and if he puts a foot wrong, it will all be for naught. He’ll have to be there to confirm my fall and how it killed me.

“There’ll need to be some stagecraft – I’ve stored some blood in the empty cadaver bin at the end of the last row on the bottom, which you’ll need to hand over to Wiggins, and which they'll spill around my head. I’ll place a rubber ball in my armpit that I’ll squeeze against my side, and that will stop my pulse along that arm."

Molly looks dissatisfied with the chain of thoughts Sherlock is sharing, but she remains quiet. "An additional bit of insurance that this will go off as it should," Sherlock continues, noting her disquiet, but shrugging to himself mentally, "there’ll be a bicycle rider who will collide with John to slow him down as he moves toward where I've landed. When he stops to help John up, he’ll place one of his riding gloves over John’s nose and mouth. His gloves will be soaked in a substance that, when John inhales it into his lungs, will immediately hit his bloodstream; he'll be light-headed and disoriented and somewhat clumsy for a short while. After it clears his system, he’ll assume that how he felt will be due to the shock of seeing me fall.”

Having heard all she can without responding, she slides from her stool and stands up, bending her elbows and placing her hands on her hips. “You’ll tell him, won’t you? He’ll be devastated if he doesn’t know the truth, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock shrugs, this time physically, his countenance withdrawn, his voice hesitant. “Initially, maybe. But I don’t think that John’s regard for me is based on a solid foundation. I told him once that heroes don’t exist, and that even if they did, I’m not one. But I think he’s invested in my being an infallible genius, and a chief reason he's stayed with me is that he has a front row seat to watch me perform my mental gymnastics. I’ve been observing him over the last hours, taking in the information that has been amassing that I’m a fraud, and I think it’s starting to have an effect. Even if he doesn’t completely believe everything they’ll say about me, if he believes even some of it, that will be the end of us. And if he does manage to set all of that aside -- I will have irreparably disappointed him by not being able to anticipate Moriarty's game and to beat him at it . . . and, in fact, to have done as badly at handling Moriarty as anyone without a brain would."

“Sherlock, I don’t think that’s true about John," Molly says insistently.

"You may be right, Molly. But beyond me, beyond myself, the horrible stories that are being spun are catching John within the web as well. The collateral injustices he will have to bear is thatof being an object of curiosity, of pity, of scorn -- at the very least -- and, much worse, he will come under suspicion himself of having been duplicitous." Sherlock sinks his head down into his hand, his expression wrecked and weary. "I don't want to add fuel to that fire, and divorcing him from myself and my work is the only thing I have of value to give him, in a poor imitation of compensatory and punitive damages for loss of employment, emotional distress, and product liability," he says forlornly, his tone edging into bitterness.

"Sherlock, even so, you need to give John a chance to let you know how he’s responding to all of this. Don't assume you know his mind."

Sherlock's eyes dart back and forth, lighting anywhere but in her direct line of sight. "I will, Molly. I’ll see him one more time, here in the lab before I go to meet Moriarty. I’ll be able to tell what he's decided about me then, after he’s had time to take in the latest theatrics and make a judgment. I'm sure he'll let me know what he thinks of me, and how he feels."

........................................................ @calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @friday411 @peanitbear @original-welovethebeekeeper rest of the @s in the tags, which will work for communication purposes, I hope? just say the word if you want to be untagged or tagged xoxoxo

[first-edition]

Fox and the Hound

Sum-Joffrey wants to send a message to your family after your brother embarrasses him, so he marries you off to his most unwanted man in his court, the hound. But will this marriage truly be a statement for an eyesore, or will it grow into something more. 

Cw for chapter- 18+ words and themes overall, cussing, graphic deptiction of killing, mention of death, mention of sandors death, Family reunion, joss and Podrick being little gay cutie pies, y/n being a gay ally (HAPPY PRIDE MONTH)

// A/N: just wanted to apologize for the broken links at the beginning of the book since i changed my username they haven’t been working but i assure you I’ll get to fixing them. I will also end up making a goggle docs with the entire book for downloading when this series ends//

Previous chapter here

CHAPTER 23

A blood curdling scream can be heard from sandors plot in the forest as he chops up bits of wood. The scream comes from the same pathway he just headed through. 

“Shit.” he huffs before running  as fast as he can back to the village. The sight is gruesome, as the premade homes are engulfed in flames and some even already burnt out. The bodies amongst the mud, horse slaughtered and food supply turned over. But the sight that holds Sandor in his clutches is brother Ray, hanging from the structure that was supposed to be the church once finished. His skin purplish gray his black dark red his eyes bulging. 

Sandor grumbles looking around at everyone dead on the ground before he sees the horse hoof markings that lead into the side path of the forest. With an anger filled rage he picks up the ax he’d dropped and speeds after the men that did this. The only thought was to get back at them and do much worse than what they did. 

It's not long before Sandor comes up to them, easily hacking one down. The man's head rolling in the leaves and mud going to the next cutting his chest open as he swings the ax. He ducks and takes the third swinging the ax up as it slices into the man's crotch pushing up before Sandor pulls it out and back. The man falls to his knees begging for mercy. 

“Where the fuck is the other one? The one with the yellow cloak?” Sandor asks, holding the ax to his neck. 

“FUCK YOU!” the man yells. Sandor angrily grunts before taking the man's head off.

—-----

You watch as Sansa plays with your son. She holds him in her lap and makes babbling noises with silly expressions. It's been six months since everything and you and your others have become virtually one with a cold. Being able to stay out longer, your fingertips and ear no longer freezing on impact. 

This winter will be long and hard and with all the preparations for fighting the night king and asking the dragon queen for her help it is too much for some to handle. Sana has unfortunately left most of the work to you so she can spend time with you son although joss takes him away from her to bring him back to his rightful mother she will always whine a bit before understanding. 

The sound of metal clinking horse hooves pounding and people chatting is a lively sound you could only hear outside the gates of king's landing, as people work on sorting supplies and gathering for the possible fight to occur. 

“How much food does winterfell have?” you ask the head supplier. 

“Enough for a year your grace, with the wool, and steel there should be enough possibly over than that.. A-at least for those who are in the castle now” he says 

“Hmm. you're telling me there isn't enough food, especially not when the armies from the dragon queen will be brought back to winterfell.” you say as you begin your walk down the steps to your son who begins to fuss in Sansa’s arms. 

“N-no my lady.” he answers “Most likely not.” he ends 

“I’ll have my share of militia head out in a cart to bring back more supplies as we cannot have the other guests starve now can we.” you say he shakes his head. 

“Come here. I've got you” you say picking up your son from her arms holding him close to you fixing his furs so he's warm against you. He snuggles into your chest holding onto you before popping his thumb in his mouth. 

“The little prince is growing fast, your grace.” lord baelish says as he approaches. 

“Thank you.” You reluctantly want nothing more to do with him as you find him to be a weasel that could manipulate those for his pleasure. 

“M-my lady!” joss comes running up to you and sansa taking a few puffs of breath before standing straight and speaking. 

“Y-your sister has arrived..lady arya..st-stark.” he huffs which makes you giggle a bit at how out of breath he is.

“Where..” Sansa says standing up. 

“I dont i want to come and get you but when I turned around she was gone and said s-somthing about your mother and father and v-visiting them.” he sighs nodding. 

“Come with me.” sansa sansa says taking your hand leading you to the entrance of the castle. Joss follows. She leads you to the entrance of the catacombs where all the Stark family are buried. You've visited as Sansa has an honorary burriel for Sandor down there despite not being a member of the family. 

He basically pulls you anxious to see her sister. But she soon lets up as she sees Arya standing there looking up at Sandors statue. Sansa looks at her for a few seconds before ayra takes notice and smiles a bit. 

“Do i have to call you lady stark now? I never really wanted to.” she says. Sansa smiles and hurries to her sister giving her a much deserved hug. The hug is broken by your son's babbling. 

“Your grace.” ayra says giving you a small bow. 

“No need for formality.” you say walking twords them both joss following behind you. 

She gives you a hug as well. Even though you've spent the least amount of time together she still feels ecstatic you have you around. 

“Whos this?” she asks about the child in your arms. 

“This is Joss Dortain Clegane.” you say turning him slightly to face her. She holds her hand out and extends a finger he grips it and begins to bring it to his mouth. 

“oh..no no.” you both laugh as she pulls her hand away. 

“The little prince.” she smiles. You nod. 

“His last name, clegane. Like Sandor or Gregor clegane?” she asks. You take a breath before nodding. Your eyes divert to the statue they all stand under. 

“His father, sandor. Brienne told me what she did, fought him for you, she pushed him.” you say looking up at the stone carving still. 

“If it's any consolation, he fought hard, like...extremely hard. I've never had someone fight that hard for my protection, ransom or not.” she says. You look at her and nod.

“Thank you. For keeping him company. I know he's not the best to hang about with but-” you begin. 

“He was fun. He talked about you. Last he mentioned you was of your pregnancy, he hated traveling in the opposite direction made him ancy, angry, he would always mutter thing about volantis. I asked him if he loved you, and he said yes with no hesitation, then I teased him that he was technically a prince." Arya laughs, making you laugh as well. 

“I remember on our wedding night I said the same thing to him; he didn't like it.” you say

“He didn't like it when I mentioned it...from my time with him. He adored you; he killed a man for speaking ill of your likeness. He really did love you.” she says a twinge in your heart forces a lump to hit your throat that your force back down. You nod in compliance for fear if you speak you'll start crying. 

“You must be hungry, I'll have the cook prepare you a proper meal.” Sansa breaks the sadness before you all gather and exit the crypts. 

—-----

Podrick and Brienne spar. They play swords clinging against each other as he's gotten…somewhat better at his sword play. He lunges forward at Brienne allowing her to kick his ankle tripping him into the mudded ground and walks around him smacking his butt with the side of the sword. 

“Don't lunge.'' She sighs, turning around as Podrick bets up and grabs the sword he drops before raging at her and begging again. But as per the round he makes a wrong move and she rides him backwards. Granted she did it on purpose. 

“Don't go where your enemy leads you.” she says walking around him chuckling at his failure. 

He gets up once again wiping the mud from his cheek about to go to attack once more but is stopped by familiar words. 

“Don't fight someone like her in the first place, it’ll get you nowhere.” joss speaks his hands behind his back as he walks up the two dueling. 

“Joss.” Brienne. 

“My lady.” he replies, bowing a bit before holding out his hand for the sword. 

“Be my guest.” she chuckles. Handing it to him before nodding to podrick and walking off the inside to get a drink. 

“You have to keep your knees bent, your eyes at half looks, and your free arm tucked for fear you might get cut off if you are not careful.” joss says podrick scoffs and rolls his eyes before taking his stance brienne taught him. 

“When did you learn so much about the sword?” podrick asks. 

“Unlike you who knows of fine things, I was a king's guard squire fighting in the description.” 

Joss huffs in a laugh at the way he stands. But nonetheless begin the fight. Easily joss maneuvered the sword around as podrick is slightly confused as he follows the sword with his eyes. This leads to joss bopping him on the backside like brienne. 

“Eyes at half look doesn't mean follow the entire sword, you have to watch your opponents moves as well, predict them.” joss replies. Podrick nods before they both begin again, sparing this time it lasts a bit longer than a few seconds. But ultimately a hit on the ass is what seals the deal. 

“That was good. Could be better,” joss says, running his fingers through his own hair pushing it back and out of his face. To their surprise they last much longer now join for a minute or two and podrick even takes down his first opponent leaving him to straddle joss with the sword held to his neck. Joss chuckles, smiling at podrick both proud and enthralled. 

Joss pushes Podrick off of him and switches positions holding his dagger to his other neck before leaning close to him. 

“Don't let your guard down..no matter who you're fighting.” joss speaks. Podrick chuckles back before the space between them closes, their lips connecting. It consumes the moment for a brief time only for joss’s name to be put to air as you call him. 

He pulls off his partner and stands up looking toward the sound to see you at the side. A smirk on your face. 

“The others need your help in unloading the carts. You can speak to your boyfriend later tonight.” you say looking down to podrick who quickly gets up and bows to you. 

“Yes, your grace.” joss says, sheathing his dagger before handing the sword back to podrick their fingers brushing against each other before the other man hurries off the the carts you turn to podrick, 

“This is for you. John has requested your presence at castle black he needs you to meet him by the shore of the wall.” you say handing him a raven scroll. 

John was supposed to be back only a few weeks after the last scroll he sent about getting Daenerys' approval. But under certain circumstances he had to stay and collect the resources before returning which has taken longer than expected. Podrick nods. You turn to follow joss to oversee the cart supplies but you stop and turn back to podrick. 

“Please, come back alive, you're good to joss, he needs you.” you smile at him before turning around and going to the carts. 

Next Chapter here

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