#gettin back in the saddle

[wordstrings]

Understanding Harmony

Critical Role: Bell’s Hells. Ashton and Imogen take a watch after the events of episodes 33–38. Written for @feather-aesthetic for the Squealing Santa 2k22 fic exchange. Prompt: playful/bonding situations. Words: 1,500

—

“I just…” Imogen’s voice hitches with a tiny, incredulous laugh that lilts and wilts into something almost sad. “Just can’t believe she’s back.”

Ashton stares into the fire for another moment before dropping their eyes to the twig they’ve been fiddling with between their knees. 

“Crazy, huh?” they say, for lack of anything more intelligent to add. 

Imogen twists her fingers into a loose fold of her skirt. The fabric tightens across her hands, a smart pair to the tension still visibly lingering in her body. 

“It’s not supposed to happen. Bringin’ someone back from the dead. Though, I guess, for Laudna… maybe it’s not so strange. I don’t know.”

“No, it’s weird,” Ashton assures her. The nubby end of one toothpick-thin branch snaps under their thumb. They roll the broken bit between their fingers. The tiny splintered end is sharp. 

“I never… never would’ve thought I’d see somethin’ like that. That I’d be part of that. Y’know? Heck, I just thought I’d be spending the rest of my life staring at fields and feeling alone. It’s just… a lot,” she finishes quietly. 

“Being alone isn’t so bad.” Saying it is almost habit. It’s true enough. 

The firelight catches in the glance Imogen darts their way. “Feeling alone, though. It’s different when you don’t really have a choice.” 

Ashton shrugs. “Not much different, in my experience.”

There’s a gentle scoff in Imogen’s voice when she says, “Then why’re you stickin’ around with us, huh?”

“Because Letters needs people.” It’s just as quick to surface, just as habitual. 

“But you don’t.”

Ashton knows a jab, even in the dark. The retort is already in their throat, clambering on the back of their tongue. But they swallow it, because Imogen isn’t coming after them, not really. They don’t have a ready-made alternative response, though, so they focus on the splintered nub, trying to crush it between their fingertips. It’s too small and just digs in, a tiny hard granule of dead wood.

A soft glow leans toward their mind but doesn’t quite enter. Ashton braces internally anyway.

“They’re pretty important to you,” Imogen says aloud, instead.

Having someone important is dangerous. That’s how stupid decisions get made. Case in point: letting a complete stranger put them all under so they can go fight the spirit of a necromancer in order to yank a not-quite-living, not-quite-not woman out of a tree-shaped manifestation of her trauma, or some shit. 

But then Ashton is caught completely off-kilter when Imogen continues: “What the fuck is up with that?”

Ah, fuck them, but it works. They crack a laugh.

Imogen laughs quietly along, too. It’s something shared, and it evaporates the murk that’s been crowding Ashton’s throat. 

“Somebody’s gotta look out for ‘em,” they say with half a smile. “Otherwise Letters would end up trusting some pack of fools hell-bent on getting dead for each other out of some poorly-advised sense of integrity.”

“Out of all of us, I think FCG is the only one with integrity, sometimes.” Imogen’s grin has seemed to soften her, as well. “They take good care of us. So do you, y’know. You both make a good team.”

Ashton does their best to skirt the compliment, but there’s still some warmth that surges up unattributable to the campfire. Riposte. “Can’t talk about a ‘team’ without looking at you two.” They tip their chin toward the sleeping form that is Laudna, with an empty gap at her side for only as long as Imogen’s on watch. “Closest I’ve ever seen two folks who aren’t in each other’s pants.”

Imogen huffs softly. She rubs her forearm with one distracted hand. “Lotta people don’t get it. That’s fine, I guess. But she just… she saw me when nobody else really did. She knew what it was like. Keeping away from people, feeling like connections were impossible. Laudna was the first new person I got physically close enough to touch in… god, in years. That kinda messes you up after a while, doesn’t it?”

It’s said rhetorically, but her tone clearly expects agreement, and Ashton isn’t inclined to agree. Being messed up: sure. One hundred percent, all day every day. Being messed up because nobody’s holding your hand, or lying close while you sleep, or filling some sort of sappy hug quota: nah. 

They settle for responding with a noncommittal grunt. 

“It was the simplest thing,” Imogen continues, smiling wistfully down at her hands. “Just touching my elbow to draw my attention to a flower. Handing me an acorn cap or a dead worm or whatever she was decorating her next little doll with. Her hands were always a bit cold but it was still soothing when she’d hum to me, like this.”

Imogen side-leans in just a bit, and it’s a testament to how far Ashton has relaxed with this group – for good or for ill – that they don’t duck away from her approaching hand. Her fingers alight on the back of their neck, gentle as a songbird, as she begins to hum a folksy, unhurried tune.

The touch on their nape drifts back and forth with the cadence of the song. Ashton doesn’t recognize the melody, but it’s easy to imagine it tells a story of land remembered or beauty witnessed. Imogen’s fingertips are… fine. Ashton wouldn’t call them soothing. Wouldn’t really call them anything. Their skin doesn’t register much of anything duller than a slap, so the fire-heated warmth and pressure of her hand is barely notable. But, they suppose, it could be nice – for a person whose body is not constantly, quietly ringing with the ache of pain. It’s yet one more luxury that Ashton is not permitted to experience. It would feel unfair, if they weren’t just used to it.

Imogen’s humming trots up and down in scale as she reaches some chorus line. Her fingers shift, tapping nails in staccato on the back of Ashton’s neck with the time.

Ashton’s shoulders pull slightly inward. Okay, they can feel that a bit more than the softness of fingertips. Kind of itchy.

Doesn’t seem like Imogen is paying any close mind, though. She’s gazing into the campfire again, her head canted gently in unseeing reminiscence. The chorus ends and her fingers fall back into drifting touches with the next wordless verse.

This is so foreign. 

Not hanging out with a group, or even having a low conversation in the night; it’s this kind of interaction, this connection, with someone who’s sharing something beyond job-related banter or a clipped story. Apparently Ashton is going to be treated to a full song with tactile accompaniment for no reason except Imogen wanting to give it.

The second verse ends. The chorus picks up again.

Shit, that really does itch when she does that with her fingernails. But, like, a shivery itchiness. It makes Ashton’s belly clench up a little. Especially when the nail tips drag short little lines in a wave pattern up and down their nape. An involuntary shudder trembles through Ashton’s neck and shoulders, but what’s so remarkable is that they don’t want it to stop. 

Imogen must notice, because her humming bobs with a light chuckle. But she doesn’t stop the song. She carries into a third verse, this time keeping her nails gliding. 

Ashton would feel teased, except for that glow leaning against their mind again. It still doesn’t push in. Rather, it rests against the doorframe, watching kindly from just outside; a sentinel, careful and attentive. 

This is so, so foreign.

But fuck it feels… good. And that’s a revelation as much as everything else about this interplay. Ashton’s not thinking about the ever-present, spine-deep ache in their body. Not thinking about when the enjoyment might be soured. Just listening to a friend’s gentle music while fingernails dust sparks of static across their skin.

The hummed song dances off its by-now predictable path into a melodic bridge. Imogen’s nails skitter up and down with the notes, out in wider arcs and spirals, tapping and scraping along Ashton’s scarred, calloused skin, and it’s just– fucking hell, it tickles. 

Ashton can’t help the way they hunch even further at that realization. They’re fracturing into laughter before they have any hope of getting a grip on themself.

Imogen’s mental glow warms. It’s okay. It’s okay to sit here and snicker, to crane up one shoulder and then the other in conflicted attempts at protection, to grin and squint and squeeze their fists between their knees and just feel something good for once.

It’s okay.

The tune winds its way back to the notes Ashton now knows by heart, turning reflective and peaceful. Imogen’s humming slows, as do her fingers. She caresses long, gentle lines with the edges of her nails. Ashton’s eyes fall closed, though they still chuckle and shiver through their sighs. 

Maybe this is soothing, after all.

[the-lord-of-the-things]

some late night sleepy micky scribs I made instead of. actually sleeping.

despite being by all conceivable metrics a tiny dude(tm), micky has a remarkable talent for filling any given sleeping space when he wants to like a spindly human shaped cat

[ripjon]

verses

[wxlkerz]

COWBOY ELLIE HCS .ᐟ

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tw: none ??

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cowboy!ellie who spends her days in the saddle herding cows under the scorching, wyoming sun.

cowboy!ellie who after a hard days work, comes back home with her cheeks and arms red from sunburn.

cowboy!ellie who caught and broke in a wild mustang, just for you. she claimed that the horse had the same personality as you, making you both perfect for each other.

cowboy!ellie who taught you how to ride horses in just a few days.

cowboy!ellie who sometimes, just sometimes, lets you come out with her when she's herding cattle.

"why can't i go?" you pouted. your girlfriend was going out to herd in the cows and she refused to let you come along. a frown played on your lips as you looked up at the auburn haired girl, silently begging her to let you help. "what if they stampede n' crush you? i don't want you gettin' hurt. just stay here n' keep an eye on the place, yeah?" she'd give you a quick peck on the cheek before shutting the door in your face, not giving you time to argue back with her.

cowboy!ellie who takes you on trail rides and even camping out in the deep countryside. spending time with you, the horses, and out in nature? ellies HEAVEN.

cowboy!ellie who laughs as you name each cow in the pasture.

"ya know we're jus' gonna eat em right?" she'd nudge your side with her elbow causing a giggle to escape your lips. "yeah well we arent eating them yet so for now they get names." you'd continue to name them until there wasnt one left without a name. most of the names you picked were.. strange. "honey moomoo", "beef wellington", etc etc.. lets just say when it came time to eat them, you decided to never name one of the cows again.

cowboy!ellie who pretends to act annoyed when you steal her worn, tan, stetson cowboy hat but secretly thinks you look adorable wearing it.

cowboy!ellie who has had the same pair of boots for YEARS and refuses to get new ones for god knows what reason.

cowboy!ellie who has a shelf full of breyer model horses you've gotten for her over the years because she's secretly a horse girl and loves that stuff.

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a/n: this is my first time doing smth like this so its probably not the best but oh well! ALSO PLS TELL ME SOMEBODY GETS THE HONEY MOOMOO THING. third thing, GIVE ME MORE IDEAS

[twola]

Would it be possible to get some high honor!Arthur x reader thigh riding? 👀 Love your characterization of him!!

Y'all want the heck out of this specifically. I have three requests for the same thing! Here you go😚

-

Thank God for whiskey.

No, specifically, Arthur Morgan wants to thank a God he had never thought much of to bless him with whiskey tonight. It’s warm in his belly - the calmness of slight inebriation coursing through veins.

Your blush-stained cheeks are downright adorable as you reach toward him, leaning against that tree. He was not in the most social of moods tonight, smoking a cigarette further away from the campfire than usual. You float to him, your path not quite a straight line, but your eyes shine with just the right amount of gaiety.

"Mister Morgan, why are you out here by y'self?" Your foot glances against a root of the large tree and you stumble forward, and immediately Arthur drops his cigarette to catch you, his hands quickly circling your waist, steadying you and helping you to stand again.

"Watch out there, sweetheart. Almost took a tumble there."

"Nuh-uh, you caught me." You laugh, your hands moving to grip his forearms, "Knew you would."

"Now that's puttin' quite a bit of faith in me." He retorts, but does not remove his hands from you. You do not remove your hands from him.

"Some goddamn faith." Your voice lowers to imitate the boisterous leader of the gang, but you can barely finish the sentence without devolving into giggles.

Arthur snorts, half a grin sliding across his face.“C’mon, should get you to bed there.��

"Nooo, come with me. Wanna show you somethin."

Somehow, some way, you’ve dragged him further away from the campfire, back a bit into the woods. You point to a fallen log in the small clearing and he chuckles as he follows your order.

"Now what did you want to show me?" Arthur groans softly as he sits, his back sore from a day in the saddle.

You smile, stepping closer to where he perches.

"Nothin, just wanted to do this." You lean in immediately, before he can recoil and press your lips to his for a moment.

He stares, flabbergasted, but that gives you the opportunity to climb in his lap without any resistance, your hands grabbing greedily at his shirt as you perch yourself on one of his legs, facing him.

At that point, he gains just a bit composure and grabs your hips as you yank on the black bandana he has tied around his neck. Your lips mash together again, and after several moments, one of his hands trails up your back to wrap around the nape of your neck as he opens his mouth to you, and you greedily accept with a loud moan.

He cannot help but to groan in response, his tongue pressing into your mouth as your arms fly around his shoulders.

Thank God for whiskey.

He loses track of time there, tongues pressing against each other, his hands roaming all over your back, yours carding through his shorn hair.

It isn’t long until your rocking your hips atop him, and when you give a whine as you fully straddle his saddle-hewn thigh, he swears he goes lightheaded as all of his blood runs south.

Christ, you’re moaning like a whore as you dig your fingers into his shoulders, dragging your cunt along the hard bone of his femur. So damn close to his steel-hard cock, your thigh brushes it and his teeth carefully latch down on your shoulder. He needs to stifle the groan threatening to escape somehow.

You pant in his ear, whining in a needy high register as you thrust your hips back and forth, aided by his large hands clenched around your hips.

“That’s it, c’mon there darlin’, I know you’re gettin’ close.” He rumbles into your skin, tone husky and voice rough.

Christ, he’s getting close himself. Your desperate mewling and grinding of your cunt down on his leg has got him bucking up to meet you, his fingers digging into your skirts.

“Ar- Art- ngh - Arthur-” You moan, and he cups your ass fully, dragging you over his thigh.

Thank God for whiskey.

You’re goddamn beautiful when you come, your head thrown back, hips thrown hard against his leg, he swears he can feel a dampening spot on his trousers from your cunt.

One large hand flies up from your hips as you begin to still and yanks at your blouse, exposing the swell of your breast. He immediately moves his lips upon it, a mouthful of your skin stifling the groan as his hips buck up. He pulls you with his other hand, your thigh flush up to the bulge in his pants, and you whimper as he sucks on your breast hard.

A ring of teeth make indentations in your skin as he bucks up and spends himself in his pants.

It’s a moment before he unlatches his mouth from your breast, skin spit slicked and red.

The two of you stare at each other, panting, hair askew, breathless. Suddenly sober enough to realize what you had just done. Your slick noticeable along the seam of your bloomers. His spend cooling within his union suit.

Arthur internally curses.

Shit, did you regret what you just did? Was the fire in you just the whiskey burning off? Of course it was, how could a pretty, sweet little think like you want an old, washed up outlaw like him?

You frown slightly as he can feel his cheeks burning red with shame. In an instant, your hands move from his shoulder to the collar of his shirt, and you yank him into a smothering kiss. He is only surprised for a moment before his hands fly to your ass again, and he pulls you flush against him. Maybe in the morning, you’ll blush when you look at him with that pretty little smile.

Maybe you’ll wake up in his arms.

Thank God for whiskey.

[grimesgirll]

going horseback riding with rick has to be one of your favorite pastimes.

sometimes you ride side by side, other times you’re wrapping your arms around him and gallivanting through the woods on one of the horses your group had rescued.

with gas becoming more valuable than gold, your community opted to hop on the saddle to hoof it wherever needed when possible. you got a bit more up close and personal with walkers but you didn’t mind; they could be outran. that time out on those makeshift trails with rick is paramount to you however.

rick grimes is a busy man, so having an intimate trail ride with him is everything to you. time to talk, have your arms around him and a perfectly legitimate excuse.

and rick didn’t mind at all. not when the two of you typically wrapped up at the stables with your back flush against the outside of the stall, lips landing frenzied marks all over you.

“noticed your hands on my waist as we were ridin’,” rick admits. “you couldn’t handle yourself enough to wait?”

“not around you.” you reply playfully, tugging at his bronzed curls. “you’re like a living, breathing fantasy.”

rick pulls back from the kiss and you think you’re being too mushy but the pressure of his horsecock on your thigh puts your mind at rest.

“what was so fantastic about it?” the sable haired man asks, hands resting on your waist.

“you as a sheriff - on a horse.” you answer, barely containing your blush but it’s not like he holds back his smirk.

“really?”

“mhmmm,” you confirm. you cock your head to the side, exposing your neck slightly. “did you ever have to ride a horse as a sheriff? like for your job?” you inquire curiously.

“only a few times and it was really pageanty,” he remarks with a twang that has you melting into his embrace as he sears kisses onto your shoulder. “these rides are a lot better. help me clear my head,” he mumbles against your skin.

“you help me clear my head.” you think out loud. you don’t have the room to be ashamed because rick is right there and he’s in the same boat.

“happy to be help, ma’am.”

“you know,” you muse, your turn to smirk. “i feel like its only chivalrous, only right for a sheriff to help a damsel in distress.”

rick laughs. “and you’re a damsel?”

“definitely in need of some serious help,” you emphasize with a roll of your needy hips. the predictable dampness of your underwear only grows as he strains against you.

“and what is it that you need, damsel?”

“i want you to bend me over that hay bale,” you request with doe eyes between breathy moans.

the sheriff snickers. “you like the idea of gettin’ fucked in a barn?” the sunlight turns his dark locks copper and you’re hanging on to his every word as you stay locked in his deep blue gaze. “wanna get fucked like an animal down in the hay?”

you nod excitedly and the two of you are scrambling towards the more secluded section of the barn. rick tackles you onto the bundle, nearly ripping your pants on their way down your thighs.

before you know it, his brown jacket is slung off and he’s clutching you close to him, lifting your hips to place the garment beneath you. he takes advantage of the proximity to plant a hand on your thigh. sandwiched between rick and the hay bale, you’re surprised by how easily he drags your panties down.

rick has to hold back from whistling at the sight of your sopping cunt.

“have i got you worked up, sweetheart?”

you’re whining in response, looking back to meet his fascinated stare. “why wouldn’t you get me all worked up? you know i love a cowboy.”

“really? too bad i don’t have a hat.”

“maybe we’ll have to find you one,” you jest before the man hovers above you to lock lips.

a hand palms the small of your back while another snakes around to the weeping bundle of nerves beneath you. his fingers finding your clit is all you need to be begging for him to fuck you into this hay bale.

rick doesn’t waste any time; he’s rolling his pants down and teasing your entrance with the thick head of his cock. you don’t have the chance to register that his belt is down before you’re thrusted forward, palms sinking into the hay.

the first inch has you clawing, grasping at the bedding and feed you lay atop of as rick eases himself into your snug entrance. allowing you a moment to adjust, he unbuttons your sturdy top to reveal the square neck tank top underneath. with a slow push of his hips, your button up falls to the side of the bale.

rick distracts you from his horsecock plunging further into your when he rolls a nipple beneath his sturdy fingers. you’re puffing your cheeks at the sensation, and rotating your pelvis in full circles when he seizes your breast in his hand, squeezing as he stuffs you full of him.

the impact of his heavy balls swinging against you from behind has you arching your back and babbling as your cowboy effectively clears your head. faced forward, you wonder how the fuck he’s angling his thrusts to tease you so deliciously, inside and out.

“how’s that feel, honey?” he asks, checking in as you respirate like a winded smoker under him.

face scrunching from how you full you’re feeling, you hum. “better than on the bed,” you crow in the fuckdrunk tone you’re only slipping into to with rick around.

“fantasy over comfort, huh?” your leader teases with an especially filling thrust.

“rick!”

“how many times do you think i can make you come on this hay bale?”

“at least…fuck,” you pant.

“that’s not a number, sweetheart.”

you help when you feel a blush staining sting on your rear.

“how many times do you wanna come on this hay bale, honey?”

you whine. “i think i can handle two.”

“i didn’t ask how many you can handle,” rick points out with a snap into you. “now, how many times do you want to come, baby?”

with rick bestowing purple, puckered kisses onto the nape of your neck and kneading the flesh of your hip deliciously, you’d let him overload you all afternoon. you know he wants a number though, so you manage a, “three,” and allow him to tighten his grip into your sides, grazing your g-spot when he surges into you again.

then he’s agreeing, slamming his hips flush with your ass and muttering, something about the best things coming in threes?

[rookthorne]

⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭

Bucky had a few surprises for your special day — the main goal, of course, was to spoil you beyond measure, and make sure you felt the love he had for you. 

And by God, did you fall harder for the man you married.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 ☼ Farmer!Husband!Bucky Barnes x Wife!F!Reader

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 ☼ 1.9k

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 ☼ Tooth rotting fluff, Bucky is the best husband

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆 ☼ Today is a very special day — it is my partner in porn's birthday! @smutconnoisseur, happy bloody birthday, you bitch! I love you so much!

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒔 ☼ Freight Train (Bounce Remix) by JF Jake ☼ Run Boy Run by Woodkid

𝐏𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬 '𝐧 𝐂𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦 𝐑𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐡 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

“Sweet angel,” a deep voice cooed over your shoulder, and you felt the weight of an arm over your waist. “Angel, baby, time to wake up, darlin’.”

You sighed and blinked open your sleep ladened eyes. The golden glow of the sun casted the bedroom into light; yellows and oranges danced off of the walls and onto the covers that kept your body snug and warm. 

“I know you can hear me, Peach.” The statement was purely a tease, and you giggled as the arm that wrapped around your waist pulled you back into a broad, warm chest. “Why don’t you open those pretty eyes ‘n look at me, sweetheart? I want to wish my wife a happy birthday.”

“Buck,” you drawled, yawning widely. “Good morning, handsome.” 

The sight that greeted you when you looked over your shoulder stole your breath – Bucky was laying on his side, his head propped up on his hand while his other arm held you tight to his body. He looked positively radiant in the morning sun, happiness brighter than a glowing fire. The blue eyes you had fallen in love with sparkled with that same glee, and you couldn’t help but smile. 

“Hey there, baby,” Bucky whispered. He pecked you on the forehead, then the tip of your nose, and finally, on the lips, where he lingered. “Happy birthday, my love.”

You smiled against his lips and kissed him once more, before you pulled back. “Thank you, darling husband.” The covers shuffled and pulled as you rolled onto your back, and Bucky looked down into your face, the quirk of his lips your only indication he was up to something. “What’re you up to?”

“Well,” Bucky started, his smile widening into a toothy grin. “I thought I would start you off with some breakfast in bed–your favourite, of course, and then I thought… Why not take out the horses? Go for a picnic, up on those hills.”

“That sounds perfect.” 

Breakfast was indeed all of your favourites, placed on a tray and cooked to perfection – much to Bucky’s pride and satisfaction. After he waited on you, hand and foot, you rose from the bed with a loud groan and a stretch to get dressed. “What should I wear?” you called down the hallway to the kitchen, where Bucky was cleaning up. 

“Somethin’ comfortable, Peach,” he called back. “I don’t want you gettin’ achy and sore up there. I want us to have a nice time.”

“Right,” you said to yourself, looking at your closet with consideration. The choice for comfort was relatively easy, and you walked down the hallway to find Bucky leaning against the sink and looking out of the window to the pastures. “Are they ready to go?”

Bucky looked at you, and then back out to the pastures. “Yeah. Tacked ‘em all up already. Bebe was fussy, as usual–only wants her mama.”

You tried to not appear too smug at his words. “What can I say, she’s a mama’s girl.”

“Too fuckin’ right,” Bucky laughed, and he pushed off the counter with a grunt. “I already packed their saddle bags too–with the food.”

“You definitely were excited for this,” you teased, walking to the front door to put on your boots.

Bucky shrugged and grabbed down his hat from the hook by the coats. “What can I say,” he mocked. “I’m excited.”

Gravel crunched under the soles and heels of your boots as you walked outside, and the two of you made your way to the barn, where Colton, and your mare, Butterscotch, stood tacked and waiting to go.

The golden, cream colour of Butterscotch’s coat shone in the rays of the sun, and the white of her mane and tail swished and blew in the breeze. Her eyes were soft and kind as you approached, and you clicked your tongue softly; a low nicker and a snort of greeting made you grin at the mare. “And how are you doing, pretty girl? Did he tack you up good?”

“I did my best,” Bucky said sharply, a pout on his lips. “For all she’s sweet for you, she’s the devil for me.”

You shook your head, and you looked into her dark, considering eyes. “You’re just fire, darling. My pretty Bebe.”

Bucky swung his leg up into the stirrup of Colton’s saddle and mounted up, the stallion not even batting an eye as he did so. You rounded Butterscotch and kissed Colton on the cheek. “Good boy.”

“Where’s my kiss?” Bucky asked, brow raised. 

“Well, come down here then,” you answered, moving to stand at Bucky’s knee. The leather and buckled chinked and creaked as Bucky leaned forward in the saddle, and you met him halfway. You pulled away after a few seconds, smiling. “Now, why don’t we have a race?”

“Why not,” Bucky said, raising his brows. “What do we get if we win?”

You turned towards Butterscotch, then fitted your boot into the stirrup to mount. “I’ll let you use your imagination on that one, babe,” you grunted, settling into the seat of the saddle. “But it’s my birthday–I’m royalty today.” 

“Alright, sounds good,” he conceded, gathering the reins. Colton moved into a smooth trot, and Butterscotch followed. “You ready?”

“What do you say, Bebe–ready to give him a run for his money?” The leather of her reins slapped against her neck with the force of her head toss. You chuckled as she put her head down and out, her gait smoothly changing into a slow canter. “I take that as a yes.”

“On three,” Bucky challenged, urging Colton forward to keep pace with you. “One,” he said, grabbing your hand and squeezing it. “Two,” he continued, and he let go of your hand to grip his reins. There was a cheeky smile on his lips. “Three!”

Butterscotch launched into a gallop, her hind legs pushing her forward with the force of a bullet. You whooped and loosened the reins, letting her do her thing as she galloped full pelt down the driveway, Colton close behind. 

“That ain’t fair, Peach!” Bucky called behind you, and you just squeezed your knees. 

Butterscotch responded in less than a second – her stride became longer, her legs faster, and she powered down the road, putting more and more distance between you and your husband. 

You looked over your shoulder as she galloped, and you watched Bucky soundlessly curse and push Colton onto new heights – but no horse could beat a barrel racer in a burst of speed. “Go, girl! Go!”

Dust clouds kicked up in your wake and Butterscotch did not slow her pace as you approached a turn. You held the reins steady and guided her through the turn, not compromising her speed but well aware of how much she loved to run. “That’s it, that’s it, Bebe,” you soothed, squeezing your knees when she came onto the straight. 

In the distance, you could see the hills and dam that Bucky had mentioned. 

“Let’s beat him.” The wind whipped against your face while Butterscotch’s sides heaved with breath, her legs a blur with her speed. “Come on, get up!”

Behind you, you could hear the heavy, fast hoofbeats of Colton gaining on you; Bucky’s whoops and exclamations loud over them. The pressure of being beaten seemed to spur Butterscotch on, and her feet pounded the dirt with a fever pitch, faster than the beat of your heart – you had never seen her run with such speed, even in her competing days. 

The hills and dam neared and neared, and Butterscotch started to tire. Latherin built on her neck, and you soothed her, “Easy, you’re doing good, pretty girl.” She huffed and blew harshly, but she didn’t slow her speed. 

Gravel and dust turned into grass and dirt as you pulled her off the road, and she powered up the hillside with laboured breaths. 

Finally, after what felt like forever, you reached the top of the hill, gasping for air with the adrenaline of the race, while Butterscotch panted and shook her head to rid it of flies. “Holy shit, Bebe,” you rushed, patting her damp neck. “Where the hell did that come from?”

“Well, whatever it was, you won,” Bucky called, appearing right next to you. “That was one hell of a race, Peach. Fuck.”

You laughed and dismounted, leading Butterscotch to the shade of a tree. “Rest up, pretty girl,” you cooed, scratching her ear. She bumped your shoulder with her muzzle and cocked a foot, content to rest and catch her breath after a hard run. 

“Let’s get this set up, I’m starved,” Bucky said suddenly, and you watched him pull a couple of blankets from the back of Colton’s saddle. “The food’s in Bebe’s saddle, darlin’.”

With a grunt of effort, you lugged the containers from her saddle bag and walked to where Bucky set the blankets down. The view that greeted you made you gasp – the sightline of the edge of your property, where cows and sheep grazed, were tinged by the ambers and yellows of the morning sun. 

The weighted containers in your hands suddenly disappeared, and you started in place to see Bucky holding them, a soft, adoring smile on his lips. “I’ve seen a lot in this life, Peach,” he started, and he bent down to place the food on the blanket. “I’ve seen the best, the worst, you name it.” 

You watched him approach, a brow raised in silent question. 

He took your hands in his, and ran his thumbs over your knuckles, before the left stopped on your wedding and engagement rings. “I’ve been through hell and back. I’ve walked down the darkest roads; never knowin’ if I’d make it back home. But, Peach–” He paused, licking his lips, before he stared at you so intensely that you felt the hair on the nape of your neck stand on end. “I have never, ever doubted the love I have for you–for us. You are the one thing that kept this tired, old bastard goin’.”

“Bucky, I–”

“I’m not finished.” He stepped closer, and he rested his forehead on yours. “Marryin’ you… It was the best decision I could have ever made. Hell, shoppin’ that day on Colton? That’s a pretty close second.” 

Electricity charged the air, and your breath hitched as you stared into Bucky’s eyes – the blues turning grey with untold, overwhelming emotion. 

“Every day I wake up, I can never find words for you–for how much I love you,” he continued, now standing impossibly close. The sounds of the world around you had dulled, leaving you just in his grasp – one of love. “You keep me goin’, Peach, and it’s only fair that I work as hard as this tired body allows to give you the life you deserve. And to be the man you married, and the one you deserve.”

Tears welled along your lash line, and you inhaled sharply. You went to pull away, to gather yourself, but Bucky held you fast. “No, no, don’t go.” 

“Baby, I–” You tried again, hiccupping. “I– God, I love you.”

Bucky smiled, and in that moment, you decided that it was your favourite thing in the world. “Happy birthday, Peach,” he said quietly, and he kissed you, pouring everything that was left unsaid into it.

You kissed back with just as much passion and adoration, telling him without words that you were his, and he was yours; as long as your heartbeat in tandem with his. 

⠈⠂⠄ 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱 | 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 | 𝐚𝐨𝟑  ⠄⠂⠁

⠈⠂⠄𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 ⠄⠂⠁

[huramuna]

selkie's song - chapter 1.

night's watch aemond x wildling shapeshifter ofc work is 18+, minors do not interact, lest ye be smited.

this is wholly inspired by @lonelymagpies depiction of Night's Watch Aemond. please go check out their beautiful work here!

i am also partial to selkies bc irish 🤭 i'm going to take some liberties with wildling lore since we don't know too too much about them and mix some of my own heritage into it (indigenous american and irish) , which i feel would meld really well.

previous | next chapter

word count: 2.2k

content: smut (eventually, specifics will be under the cut of chapters with it), enemies to lovers, canon typical violence, canon divergence, ofc is a menace to Aemond and he kind of likes it

who is she? - I MONSTER • dead! - my chemical romance

The blood of the dragon runs hot and thick, pulsing through Targaryen veins like molten lava. His mother always snuggled him as a child, citing him as her own personal furnace. 

If only that would come in handy now. Aemond thought he knew cold, way up in the skies, skimming the clouds upon Vhagar’s back, feeling the chill away from the heat of the earth. A frigid autumn breeze going through his window, causing him to bundle up in two blankets— although he usually kicked them off sometime during the night. 

But this— this was cold. Ball freezing, bone chilling, blue lipped cold. He was stuck up in the ass of the North, stationed at the wall, dressed all in black. He puffed up the collar of his cloak, trying to find some respite from the gales of glacial air. 

“Saddle up, Targaryen,” the lord commander grunted. He was a broad man, some disgraced Northman who rose his way up the ranks of the Night’s watch. Aemond could hardly remember his name, “We’re goin’ beyond the wall. Scouts said wildlings gettin’ too close.” 

“Mm.” Aemond grumbled in response, not wanting to waste his energy talking to the ogre of a man when it could be better used for warmth.

The stable boy, no older than nine name days, tugged his palfrey to him, “I’ve got ‘em all tacked  up for ya, prince.” 

“Oy, Ryam,” the lord commander snapped. Lord Ennard Fir, that was the commander’s name, “He ain’t no prince anymore, so stop callin’ him as such. He’s just one of us now, eh? A man in black.” 

Ryam nodded slowly, handing the reins to Aemond. The boy’s face was tinged red as he puffed air into his cupped hands, trying to keep warm. He was a boy from the south, just like Aemond— a butcher’s bastard boy, Ryam Waters. He had accompanied the now scorned prince on his ride up the Kingsroad. He reminded Aemond greatly of Daeron.

“Stay warm, boy,” Aemond said, giving the youngster a stiff nod of his head, “Take the fur from my bed, it’ll help.” 

Ryam puffed out his chest, “Uh huh, your grace,” he giggled, speaking the title in secret. 

It almost made a smile come to Aemond’s lips. Almost. He tried to remember the last time he smiled– it was on that fateful day near Storm’s End, over Shipbreaker’s bay. He was taunting Lucerys, finally being the stronger one, the one who had control. He laughed and smiled like a madman, chasing his nephew on his puny hatchling of a dragon. He felt like a god.

Then Vhagar snapped her jaws, ignoring Aemond’s commands. The sickening crunch of Lucerys Velaryon and his dragon still lived in his mind. It played in his dreams, making them into nightmares. He constantly woke up in a cold sweat, muttering, “It was an accident, it was an accident, I didn’t mean it.”

His eye began to ache and he clenched his jaw as he mounted his horse. Glancing around, he saw that five other men were joining him. He tugged his hood up slightly before his hand rested on his blade. He donned two weapons; a standard issue castle-steel short sword, and the Catspaw blade. He had watched his father carry it for years, he watched his mother brandish it in his name and cut Rhaenyra— and now it was his. 

Not by precedent or bestowment, he actually stole it. When he was being sent to take the black, he pilfered it from Daemon’s chambers. The old fucker already had one ancestral blade, he didn’t need two. It was the only thing he had left of home, besides the sapphire in his socket and his eyepatch. It was gorgeous crafted Valyrian steel and he always kept it on his person. 

His thumb grazed over the ruby gem on the hilt of the dagger absentmindedly as they descended on their journey, spurring their horses further across the threshold of the wall. Lord Fir was at the front, with Aemond holding up the back in their procession of ingrates and outcasts. 

If he told his younger self that he was to be lumped in with bastards, thieves, rapers and ne’er-do-wells, he would’ve laughed in his own face. It was a ridiculous notion for a Targaryen prince to be even entertaining the idea. And yet, here he was. Living it out. 

He wondered what his mother was doing currently. Had she taken Helaena and Aegon to Oldtown with the children? Did she stay in the Red Keep to be squashed under Rhaenyra’s heel? 

“Aemond Targaryen, you stand before Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, protector of the realm,” Ser Westerling had shouted, “You stand accused of treason, conspiracy to commit usurpation, and nepoticide. You murdered Lucerys Velaryon in cold blood above the skies of Shipbreaker Bay.” 

Aemond had been in chains, his face haggard and stubbled from not being able to shave. They stripped him of his eyepatch and sapphire at the hearing, sending him down to his knees with his barren eye socket to behold. 

“How do you plead to these charges?” Ser Harrold asked. 

Aemond said nothing. 

Rhaenyra sat upon the Iron Throne, tapping her finger incessantly against the metal, “Brother. I’ve granted you the courtesy of allowing a hearing to your… crimes, rather than simply sending you to the block. Mayhaps I was too lenient on my decision to let you say your piece.” 

Aemond still said nothing, looking down at the ground. He heard his mother shuffling near him, off to the side in the throne room, murmuring something hurriedly to someone. 

“I have nothing to say. Lucerys is dead— nothing I can say will bring him back or undo what’s been done.” he finally grit out, his voice hoarse from disuse. 

“So, you have no objection to being punished for your crimes? The crime of Kinslaying is the most cursed,” Rhaenyra said, leaning forward, “Mayhaps I will grant you a death by dragon— I would honor you the same way you so graciously honored Lucerys, hm? Mayhaps have Syrax and Caraxes rip you limb from limb and scatter your parts over Blackwater Bay.” 

Aemond didn’t respond.

“Y-your grace,” Alicent spoke up, walking to Aemond and standing in front of him, “Please, have mercy upon him. Your son wouldn’t have wanted this—“

“DON’T YOU DARE TELL ME WHAT MY SON WOULD’VE WANTED,” Rhaenyra bellowed, standing up from her seat, “Your son took away his ability to want anything, and for that there should be repercussions! A son for a son.” 

“Rhaenyra, please,” Alicent murmured, “Please, I can’t lose him— it… it was an accident. Aemond, tell her it was an accident!”

He squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to admit their family’s greatest fear was true; they did not have complete control over their dragons. 

Rhaenyra gazed at Aemond’s pained expression, then at Alicent, “He will be punished. But I would not become a Kinslayer— I do not wish to be as accursed as you, brother,” she strode back to the throne, twisting the rings on her fingers, “He will take the black and be sent to the wall. He will have no titles, no land, no wife or children. He will have nothing for the rest of his life except for the Night’s Watch.” 

Alicent was stunned, as was Aemond. He wondered if he would’ve preferred death. 

“In addition,” Rhaenyra continued, “His claim to his dragon, Vhagar, will be severed. He will undergo the Valyrian ceremony for it.” 

“You can’t,” Aemond growled, “You can’t!” he panicked— Vhagar had been the only thing he ever achieved in his life, truly. He lost his eye for her. 

“Take him back to his cell and prepare him for the ride up the Kingsroad.” she said with finality, looking down at her hand as she sat back on the throne. 

Aemond saw— she had been pricked by the throne, blood beading at the tip of her finger. 

Mayhaps there are still small mercies in this world. 

A particularly strong gust of cold air snapped him back to reality, his hand still itching over his dagger. They reached the thick treeline that stretched out for miles, their horses trudging through the snow. 

They were at least ten miles out from the wall now, the Seven Kingdoms left truly well behind them. A small river trickled near them and Aemond saw the shadows of fish— large ones at that. 

He had been in the Night’s Watch for at least seven moons now, and this was his first expedition outside of the wall. It felt like a whole different world— a world without laws, without political duty, without fights of succession over a throne made of swords— there was something freeing about being here. It was only a remnant of what he felt soaring the skies on Vhagar, but it would have to do. 

The wind whistled through the branches of the trees, fresh snow beginning to fall. He heard a fly buzzing near his ear. No, that couldn’t be right. Surely there weren’t flies in the cold? 

It wasn’t right— another fly whizzed past him, sticking into the man in front of him. Those were the arrows. 

“Ambush! Wildlings!” Lord Fir shouted, reeling in his horse. 

Aemond went to unsheathe his sword when his horse went haywire, rearing up on its hind legs. “Lykiri, lykiri!” Be calm, be calm. He shouted at the horse, tugging at the reins as the wildlings descended upon them. He felt like he was above Storm’s End once more, screaming for Vhagar to heed his commands—

His horse bucked him off, sending him tumbling into a deep snow drift. He dropped his sword somewhere aside— his hand immediately went to his waist, gripping around the Catspaw dagger. 

A breath of relief washed over him as he rolled and hid behind a tree, unsheathing the dagger. He twirled it around, waiting for someone, anyone to cross his path. 

He then felt the cool pressure of a blade against his throat. 

“Don’t move, crow,” a voice said. It was almost diminutive, soft in tone— but it was threatening all the same, “I don’t need to paint the snow red with your blood just yet. Drop the dagger.” 

Begrudgingly, he dropped the Valyrian steel into the snow. 

“Now turn around, slowly. Keep your hands out.” 

He turned around, expecting to see an ugly wildling in his gaze. He had only heard the tales of them, that they were more ugly than not. 

His breath caught in his throat as he looked upon her— she was small, much smaller than he, her skin somewhat pale and cool toned, freckles dotting the bridge of her nose. It was her eyes that caught him— one was a deep, rich brown, and the other was a light blue, with fragments and shards of brown in it, like a mountain against a clear sky. Her hair, dark chocolate brown with one streak of white in it, was tied into a haphazard braid. She wore earrings made of the lower jaw of some small mammal, inlaid with opals. She was holding a dragonglass dagger to his throat, the hilt of it carved from a deer’s antler, encrusted with a matching moonstone. 

She wore a long, white coat— it looked to be the skin of some animal, but Aemond couldn’t tell which. It was spotted and fluffed. 

His brow narrowed as he noticed that she was soaking wet, dripping water from her nose and hair, the sheen of moisture shining from her skin.

He could only imagine how astonished he looked staring at her— but she stared back at him in the same manner, her eyes wide. She had huge eyes, Gods be good. 

“Fucking hell, you’ve got a purple eye.” she murmured. 

“You should see my other eye.”

A harsh crack across his face— she had slapped him, “Don’t be a pig.” 

Aemond blinked profusely, “By the Seven— I meant my actual other eye,” he grunted, “May I?” he gestured to his eyepatch. 

“… better be worth it, crow.” she murmured, nodding slowly. 

He lifted his eyepatch off, revealing the sapphire underneath. 

Her lips were slightly agape as she ogled at him, “You’re a fancy crow, aren’t you?”

“Hm.” he grumbled. 

She retrieved the Catspaw dagger from the ground, stowing it at her hip, “I’ll be keepin’ this for right now.” 

“Aren’t you going to kill me?” he asked, perplexed as to why he wasn’t dead yet. 

“Not yet— you got interesting eyes, I wanna show my papa,” she retrieved a leather cord from her belt and wrapped it keenly around his wrists, “Caught myself a crow.” she hummed, seemingly entertained with herself. 

Aemond rolled his eye, letting her hoist him up into a standing position. He towered over her, to which she didn’t seem too bothered about. 

She led him past the battle, which was now over. He saw three of his Night’s Watch brothers slain, and it looks like two others had run off like cravens, including Lord Commander Fir. 

“Where are you taking me?” 

“My tribe,” she replied, stringing him along. 

“Your… tribe,” he repeated, “And what is your name?”

“Euna. And you, crow?” 

“Aemond.”

[meowmeowriley]

@o-birdseed-o @27potatochips here's that other bit of Outlaw Outta Time I meant to post yesterday, but I got distracted. For context there's 2 pre-order bonus horses in RDR2, the war horse and the thoroughbred. Those are Ghost and Arthur's horses, respectively.

Arthur led Ghost and Soap to the stable and hitched Obscenity. Soap slid off Calypso, once again impressed that the beast could carry both him and Ghost, and watched as Ghost handed a sugar cube to her and whispered his thanks. He was so gentle with her, it never failed to make Soaps heart swell.

As they entered the stable a man approached. "Enjoying those horses I sold you?"

Arthur nodded. "I am. Found a use for that war horse after all." He then gestured to Ghost.

The stable manager looked Ghost up and down. "Fitting." He said. Ghost said nothing, though with his face uncovered there was no doubt that the stable manager though Ghost was scowling at him. People always thought that, he just had major RBF. The man turned back to Arthur once more. "What can I do for you today then, my friend?"

"Well, ahhh" Arthur sighed heavily in that way Americans would during casual conversation, "I'm in the market for two more. One needs to be very specific though." As he spoke, Arthur brought up his hands to punctuate his words. "I need something calm. Unspookable. Something that can handle wrigglin' in the saddle. Gettin' up and down, up and down." He sounded mildly exasperated as he made each point, but his eyes were soft and fond.

"A good first horse for a toddler then?" Tje man asked after a moments thought.

"Yes." Arthur immediately answered.

Soap elbowed Ghost in the ribs as he'd started to chuckle. He had to admit though, the comparison of Albert to a toddler was apt.

The man led them to a reddish brown horse in a stall. She had a white streak down her face. "Best starter horse we have."

"Perfect." Arthur said as he stroked her. She leaned her head into his touch. "We'll need tack as well."

They walked over to the tack wall and Arthur pointed out a set with small blue and red flowers on the bridle and saddle. As the stable hands began getting the horse ready the manager asked "You mentioned another?"

"For my friend here." Arthur said and Ghost patted Soap on the shoulder.

"What're you looking for?"

Soap cleared his throat. "Ah'm not sure. But I'll know it when I see it."

The man smiled and nodded, then led them out to where there were more horses in several round pens. "Most of what we have is out here. Take a look around."

They walked around and looked at the horses for a bit,  but nothing felt right. Until he spotted her.

A darker brown horse, with a black mane and tail. Black on her legs that looked like socks, legs that she was digging into the dirt. Several men with lassos around her neck were trying to drag her along. She had a funny shape to her skull, like her nose was turned up, and her tail was held high. She looked mean. Soap liked that.

"What about her?" He asked the stable manager.

"Uhhh that one's on her way to the butcher. No one wants her."

"She not rideable?"

"After her previous owner died, no. "

"Ah want her." Everyone looked at John like he'd lost it. He stood his ground.

Arthur sighed again. "How much?" He grumbled.

The stable manager laughed, "you know what? You get a halter on that thing? She's free. But you gotta do it without losing your hands."

John grinned. He could do that. He grabbed the plain black halter that was handed to him by one of the other men, and made his way to the horse. The first thing she did the second he was stood before her was open her mouth wide to take a chunk out of him. He stuffed the bit in her mouth. She seemed just as stunned at the rest of the men around them, with the exception of Simon and Arthur, who were both howling with laughter as he led his new horse over to them. She came easily now that she had her halter on, though her ears were still pinned, and she tried desperately to get the bit forward with her tongue. She seemed hell bent on chewing on it.

"She's got an explosive temper." The stable manager tried one last time to warn him.

"So've I." John called over his shoulder as he led her towards the saddles.

He could hear Simon speaking for the first time since they'd arrived, no doubt reassuring the stable manager. "Don't worry he's got a way with cold, aggressive beasts that'd rather be left alone."

"That so?" Arthur had gotten over his laughing fit.

"Worked on me, anyway." The pair had walked up beside him, watching him look over the saddles.

[ripjon]

test 3

[missnancywritesfanfic]

Desperate To Spite You

Wanderer(Scaramouche) x Reader

Contains: Light Angst, Comfort, Found Family, Established Relationship, Violence

A/N: Scara and Reader have a unique way of communicating <3

--

You are an incredibly vengeful person. Much to Nahida's dismay and Wanderer's surprise. Despite being aware of your protective tendencies, and even at times your obsessive tendencies, it may go over your head that even though you are an incredibly efficient soldier, you don't take loss well.

The first time Wanderer sees this in action is after you return from an assignment heavily injured. At first he feels rage boiling inside him, who dared harm his partner like this. However, that sentiment is dismissed when you wake up and first thing on your mind was murder.

"Unacceptable." You mutter as a medic inspects you. Your face stuck in a permanent scowl and your eyes suddenly void of light. "How could I failed such a simple task like an idiot."

You'd think that Wanderer wouldn't be bothered by this response, naturally he acts in a similar way. However, over the next few days of your recovery, your mood does not improve in the slightest. After receiving a report that your alleged perpetrator is still on the loose, nothing else mattered but capturing them (in a headlock and choking the life out of them).

You have no interest in your books or maintaining your weaponry, you barely eat properly as instructed, unless Wanderer scolds you. In fact, you spend a majority of your waking hours meticulously marking down your perpetrators weaknesses so that you may best subdue him. It even cuts into your dedicated time with Nahida, which you can imagine, makes the young archon miserable. That's as much as Wanderer can take, he decides to take matters into his own hands and bring in the perpetrator himself.

"I don't need your interference, I can handle it myself!"

"Don't be stupid. You're barely in fit condition to walk a dog. Now quit complaining, you can have your fill once I bring the bastard here."

"But it's my case!"

"And you are my partner. Open your eyes, can't you see you're making a fool of yourself?"

You want to hit him. Punch him. Kick. Scream. All of which you easily could. But you bite down on your lip, your mouth filling with a potent flavor of iron.

You grab the case file and chuck them at Wanderer before stomping out the door. He pinches the bridge of his nose, growling to himself.

"Childish..."

No matter, he'd head out at his leisure. You wouldn't be foolish enough to try and handle this yourself...

Of course you're going to handle this by yourself. You aren't some weakling and even though you won't admit it, whether you lived or died, the feeling of spiting Wanderer does invigorate you to get this job sooner.

Your conscience scolds you for a moment. Trying to saddle your partner with grief over something so trivial, ridiculous.

You aren't being serious. You sincerely doubt you'll die, once this mess is over you'll happily apologize. But until then, your desire to crush a man's legs is much stronger.

But your luck nowadays is horrid.

It's a lone bar just on the edge of the desert, completely packed by the sound of it. The energy shifts the moment you step through the front entrance, everyone's attention settles on you.

A wounded yet ravenous wolf, in a den of hyenas. You already have a grip on your blade and your vision prepped for command. Ten armed individuals. At least three with elemental weapons.

Are the odds in your favor? Not really.

But you're already here. It'd be rude not to ask a few questions.

You duck at the sound of a cocking gun and rush the first person you see hesitate. You have to be quick.

Aim for the muscle and tendons. Cut through the flesh. Break them down from the ankles up. Move fast so that they can never aim true and cripple their allies for you.

Simple execution as always. Or should be, if it weren't for the fact that you're not in top shape. But it's not a huge set back.

A few knicks here and there. Getting slammed into a table and smashed glass on the floor. A close call with a bullet to the shoulder.

But you can do this. You can do this. You can-

The mayhem of the bar is halted due to a sudden crash right behind you. An influx of wind gathered around you before being expelled outward. You didn't have to look up back to know your partner has finally caught up with you.

Your back presses against his, nursing your shoulder.

"I thought I told you I can handle myself."

He scoffs, tilting his hat to properly survey the situation.

"Like I'd listen to your screeching."

Even with one arm indispose, you both make quick work of every fool believing their worth a fight. The rhythym in which you two fight, reading each other's moves and cues. You still pull your weight, push yourself far more than you should, Wanderer notices immediately and makes up for it with his agility and range.

Don't mistake your teamwork for forgiveness. You two are still very much angry at each other, but instead of wasting time hurting each other, why not expend that energy in a more productive way?

You took down the entire bar in record time. Unfortunately for you, your "nemesis" of the week was nowhere to be found with no clues to go on. At least, not until your victims woke up from their concussions.

It didn't take long for the matra to congregate on your location and handle the mess you left. You and Wanderer settled a distance away from the scene.

He inspects your injuries, making sure you haven't aggravated them to the extreme. But chances are you did.

Neither of you say a word.

What could be said?

You already know you made a mistake, and Wanderer didn't have the energy to chastise you. That's what you'd hoped-begged-for this entire matter to fade into obscurity.

"You're lucky I know you so well. Otherwise, I'd have to deliver some terrible news to our Lord Buer."

You silently watch him finish his inspection and turn himself back to the view in the distance. Thugs being rounded up and arrested.

"I won't be there everytime to bail you out. Don't forget, you're not like us."

"I know." You mutter, shame already setting into you again.

Your mortality is an issue you always seem to run into, regardless of how many times Wanderer insists on reminding you. Making it clear every time you are reckless, how weak you are, how fragile the world made you upon conception. Just like every other human.

He shakes his head.

"That's not what I meant."

But of course his words are not complex. They didn't have a secret message hidden in his tone, only in your interpretation. Which fluctuates between the reality of your mortality and the way he expresses worry.

Badly. He expresses it badly.

Defeated, you sigh and finally concede to his worries, "Yeah, I know."

"Can't you say anything else?"

"I'm sorry..."

You hear him sigh again as he removes his hat. Just as you look away, he gently pulls you back into his gaze and caresses your cheek.

He pulls you closer to him and presses his forehead against yours. Another breath that you share, is drawn in and released.

"Do that again, and I'll kill you. Got it?"

You finally crack a smile. For the first time in days. He can feel your warmth again, and you are utterly consumed by his fire.

You must've hallucinated him smiling as you let out a small chuckle. The second your eyes focused in on his expression, his familiar scowl is in full force.

Your smile widens even more.

"How childish..."

--

(When You Return Home)

"I hope you finally learned your lesson."

You avert your eyes from Nahida. Despite her size, you felt like a child being scolded by their mother. It's not that she had a harsh tone, you genuinely believe she's incapable of such a thing.

But this is an incredibly wise, yet sweet little girl. You'd sooner upset Wanderer than disappoint her. Unfortunately, you manage to do both in a single night.

You glance at your arm now stuck in a cast thanks to Wanderer punching you after a poorly timed joke. Years together and you never learn when to keep your mouth shut. Of course he didn't mean to hurt you so gravely. It's only a sprain.

Tampering with the emotions of an easily disgruntled and teasible god is no joke.

Regardless, Lesser Lord Kusanali was arguably worse.

You heave a sigh, quite possibly the millionth tonight, and kneel in front of your lord. Before you can utter a single apology, you feel her pet the top of your head.

You blink surprised and meet her gaze. Her gentle smile always catches you by surprise.

"You're an invaluable member to Sumeru. So please treat yourself with more care."

You return her smile, heart swelling with pride, and nod.

"I'll do my best."

[grapeyguts]

NANNAR

My partner's back in the saddle so OUR MONDAY CAMPAIGN HAS RETURNED and I'm gettin portraits done! Bri's Tabaxi Artificier, Nannar!!!

[agoldengalaxy]

Bluejay at Sunset

read on Ao3

words: 1631

“He was always…” John sighed. “He was always lookin’ out for me when I first joined the gang. Back then I was just a kid. Dutch and Hosea showed me the ropes, but Arthur was the one who kept me straight, savin’ me whenever I was in trouble. That night, on the mountain, I felt like I couldn’t return the favor. Seeing him like that, so sick and still being the one to save me, I…” he looked down, feeling his eyes burn. “It don’t feel right. I never got to say goodbye.” While he fought the burning in his eyes, a gentle hand came up to rest on his shoulder.. Charles was soft as ever. “It was his choice, John.” That was what made it hurt more.

--

John pulled on the reins carefully, murmuring a soft word of encouragement to his horse as he approached the ridge. He pat her neck gently, then slowly slid off of the saddle, letting her graze nearby.

His heart was pounding, and he couldn’t quite tell why. It was so small, so inconsequential compared to some of the things he’d done in his life, but this felt like the absolute hardest thing he’d ever have to do. Inhaling shakily, he willed himself to walk forward.

The sun began dipping toward the horizon, bathing the world in golden light. It was almost too bright, but John pushed forward, lifting a hand up to shield his eyes. Finally, he reached the small monument, adorned in flowers that were still blossoming. He wondered if Charles was the one to put them there.

With a long sigh, John knelt down on one knee, reading the name etched into the wood. He could still hear him telling him to ‘be a goddamn man.’ Carefully, he took off his hat, resting it against his chest. “Hey, Arthur.”

A slow breeze blew by, and a small bluejay landed on top of the post, tilting its head at the man. John felt utterly ridiculous, but after all these years, he knew he had to pay his respects, even though he was sure the man in question would be laughing at him now if he could see him.

“Jack’s twelve now. He’s still reading all those silly storybooks, and gettin’ real good at it, too. Abigail keeps asking him to read to her.” He smiled, looking down at the grass. “He remembers more than I give him credit for, I guess. He told me about the time you took him fishin’. He still doesn’t like it, in case you was wondering.”

“And Abigail…well, she and I are getting married in a few days. I mean, for real this time. She thought I was joking, y’know? Guess I can’t blame her. But I’m real happy now. Got a house and a farm. Uncle and Charles have been staying with us for a while. Sadie, too. She’s a bounty hunter now, can you believe it? Well, I’m sure you can. She’s just as fierce and sharp as she was before. She’ll outlive us all. She…she misses you, I think.”

John glanced toward the skyline, the sun still not fully set. The bluejay flapped its wings, but didn’t seem to want to leave. “Hell, I…I miss you, too. I think about you all the time. The entire reason I’m happy, and free, is because of you, Arthur. I’m never gonna repay that.” His voice trembled, and he gripped his hat a little tighter. “I don’t care whether you were good, bad, somethin’ in between. You’ll always be my brother.”

Before he could continue, a twig behind him broke, and he knew it wasn't his horse. His shoulders tensed, his hand drifting toward his belt when a dejected sigh stopped him in his tracks. “Sorry. It’s just me.”

John paused, then glanced over his shoulder. “Charles? What’re you doin’ here? You should be resting.”

Charles glanced down, looking somewhat uncomfortable, but John couldn’t tell if it was because he got caught or something else. “I’m fine. Abigail…wanted me to check on you. Coming here for the first time, she knew it’d be hard. She cares about you, y’know.”

The bluejay atop the wood flapped its wings again. John watched it hop for a moment, his heart twisting with so many different emotions. “That she does.” He inhaled sharply, but let the breath out slowly. “Thanks for appeasin’ her.”

“I only said yes because I wanted to check on you, too.” He hesitated for a moment before walking over, kneeling down beside him. Because it was Charles, John didn't even think about shooing him away. “You know…buryin’ him was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, and I’ve buried a lot of folks.”

John eyed him carefully. There were always dark circles under his eyes, and he always looked tired no matter how much sleep he claimed to have gotten. He wondered how many times Charles must’ve visited this site after burying him. He exhaled slowly. “Arthur would be glad to know it was you. He always thought highly of you.” When Charles quickly looked away, John wondered if he’d said something wrong. In any case, he continued. “It’s been years, but I still think he’s gonna show up at the ranch someday, tell me it was all some big joke.”

“I know what you mean.” 

“He was always…” John sighed. “He was always lookin’ out for me when I first joined the gang. Back then I was just a kid. Dutch and Hosea showed me the ropes, but Arthur was the one who kept me straight, savin’ me whenever I was in trouble. That night, on the mountain, I felt like I couldn’t return the favor. Seeing him like that, so sick and still being the one to save me, I…” he looked down, feeling his eyes burn. “It don’t feel right. I never got to say goodbye.”

While he fought the burning in his eyes, a gentle hand came up to rest on his shoulder. “It was his choice, John.”

That was what made it hurt more, he thought. He could still hear it in his mind. “He said it would mean a lot to him. If I made it out alive.”

“He knew his time was up. I guess he wanted his death to mean something. Helping you was the best way he could think of doing it.” Suddenly, his grip on John’s shoulder tightened. John wasn’t sure why until he watched a tear fall from his face to the ground. Stunned, John reached up to touch his own cheek. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried. He was figuring he was more shocked than sad until Charles hesitantly spoke. “Are…you okay?”

The question was a simple one, but it had always been so hard to answer. “Yeah. ‘Course,” he choked, and the floodgates immediately opened.

Suddenly he was twelve years old again. Everyone was big and scary, and he felt so alone. Back then, he had Arthur, begrudgingly sharing his bedroll, offering him a cigarette, telling him jokes. Today, Arthur was six feet below him.

As he tried to force air into his lungs, Charles let go of his arm, and instead scooted closer to place an arm around his shoulders. “It’s okay, John. Let it out. It’s okay.”

John didn’t fight it, squeezing his eyes shut and letting the tears roll. He wasn’t sure how long they sat there, but when he opened his eyes again, the sun had completely disappeared below the horizon, and the sky was a deep blue. Charles had been patient the entire time, sitting there, holding him, probably watching the sunset.

When his tears subsided, he didn’t pull away just yet, and Charles didn’t move either. The latter exhaled shakily after a few minutes of silence. “…I loved him, you know.”

Glancing up, he watched the bluejay upon the wood, surprised he hadn’t scared it off with his crying. For a moment, he felt uncomfortable, even felt like he shouldn’t be this close to him, but he trusted Charles with his life. After everything he did for him, whoever he chose to love shouldn’t matter. “I didn’t know you swung that way, Charles.”

“I didn’t either, ‘till I met that poor bastard.” He sighed softly, carefully letting go of John’s shoulders. “Never got to tell him before…well. It was probably for the best.”

John blew out a breath. He couldn’t have been sure about what Arthur was thinking, but he could guess. “Maybe. No matter how he felt, though, I know he liked you. Probably the most out of any folk.” Charles looked away, a blush rising up to his cheeks, and John smiled slightly, wishing things had been different. He decided not to dwell on it much. “Was it you that’s been leavin’ the flowers, then?”

“Yes. I’m…gonna miss visiting him when I leave for the north.”

“Do you really gotta go?” John asked, feeling a little more like himself now that his eyes weren’t leaking. “I mean, you know you can stay as long as you want.”

Charles smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m grateful for that. Really. But I need to…I have to get out there. I have to move on.” He nodded toward the grave. “Seeing you, and Abigail, and Jack…makes me wonder if I could have a life like that. It just won’t happen here.”

“I understand.” Glancing up, he noticed the sky had become deeper blue, littered with faint stars. The bluejay flapped its wings and took off, soaring toward the mountains. John watched it go. “Well, I don’t have any concerns about you havin’ that kinda life. You’ll find a nice lady - or, uh, feller - and you’ll be happy.”

Charles smiled again, this time a bit more genuine. “How can you be sure?”

“‘Cause you’re the best of all of us. If I can do it, you sure as hell can do it, buddy.” Taking a deep breath, strangely feeling much better, John stood up, offering his hand. “C’mon. I got a bottle of whiskey with our names on it back at the ranch.”

“If Uncle didn’t get to it first.”

“If he did, I’ll kill him.” They began walking, but each paused for a moment to look back at the grave one more time. John placed his hat back on his head. “Goodbye, Arthur.”

Together, they mounted their horses, and rode back home, reminiscing fondly, because Arthur would have preferred it to tears.

[catierambles]

Back in the Saddle Pt3

Pairing: Syverson x Heather Markum (OFC)

Warnings: Non explicit sexy times

WC 2961

@brattymum96 , @ouroboros113 , @peaches1958 , @summersong69 , @eldarwen333 , @omgkatinka , @identity2212 , @lucypaulette , @km-ffluv , @kebabgirl67 , @squeezyvalkyrie , @rebelangel1102 , @dopegardensaladhuman , @ilsacharlotte , @josie-packard (if you name has a strikethrough, it's because I couldn't tag you)

Heather watched him sleep, propped up on her elbow on her side in bed. He had taken from her several times as they were together, and she thought she would feel some kind of side effect, but there was nothing. No fatigue. No pain. Nothing. He was very adamant that he never took from the other women enough to hurt them, so she figured there were some dangers in what he had to do to survive. Feeding off their life force sounded quite serious if he went overboard. The look in his pitch black eyes as he had fed from her would stay with her forever, gold swirling in the depths in a mesmerizing display, only adding to the feeling of him pulling from her.

The doorbell went off and she pressed one last kiss to his shoulder before she got up, pulling on an extra long hoodie that ended at her knees to cover her nudity before heading down the stairs to the front door. Turning back the locks, she opened the door and her arms crossed over her stomach when she saw who it was.

“Where is he?” David asked and she scowled at him. “Don’t play games with me, Heather. Where is he?”

“Asleep. We had a busy night.” She said, and paused for a moment, “And morning.”

“You slept with him?” David asked, his tone incredulous.

“Oh, we did that too, off and on.”

“Heather, he--”

“I know.” She said and he blinked at her. “I opened your email, I talked to him about it, he gave me an explanation, and we’re past it now.”

“What was his explanation for stealing the identity of a dead man?”

“None of your business.”

“What’s his real name?”

“Jake Syverson.” She said.

“Heather…”

“Don’t.” She said, “David, stop. And don’t try to pass it off as you’re just worried about me. You misused station resources to run the license plate of your ex-wife’s new boyfriend, and now you’re harassing your ex-wife about said boyfriend. That doesn’t exactly make you look good. Sy is who he is, and that’s more than good enough for me. So you’re going to drop it. I hear or see anything about this again, and I will be reporting you. I’ve always been on good terms with your Captain. Understood?” He was quiet, looking at her with angry eyes, “Do we have an agreement?”

“You--”

“Touch her and they won’t find you.” Heather looked over her shoulder, seeing Sy walk down the stairs in his uniform pants, the top button undone.

“You’d threaten a police officer?” David asked. 

“I’m warning my girlfriend’s ex-husband what’ll happen if he tries to hurt her.” Sy said, joining her at the door. “Come near her again, and you’ll be just another missin’ person.”

“Who the fuck are you?” David asked.

“Jake Syverson.” Sy said simply, “Have the day you deserve.” He closed the door in his face, throwing both of the locks. They waited until they heard his car pull away from the house before she let out a sigh, Sy pulling her to his chest with his hand at the back of her head.

"Be honest with me?" She asked, pulling away to look up at him.

"Of course. No more secrets."

"Have you ever killed anyone?"

"Doll, I was in the Army Special Forces."

"I mean after."

"Oh." He said and paused for a moment, "Once."

"Was it--"

"No, it wasn't some woman I went home with." He said, "It was before I settled on the speed datin' thing. I went out to a bar, but I struck out. Was about to go home when I heard a scuffle in an alley. A woman was gettin' attacked. I pulled the guy off her, and…I killed him."

"How?"

"I can control how much I take at one time. I took it all, in one big breath. Damn near made me sick." Sy explained, "I made sure the woman was okay, tellin' her I just knocked him out, and saw her safely in a taxi home. Last time I saw her and no one ever came knockin' about it. I wasn't thinkin', I was reactin'. I coulda just knocked him out for real, but I didn't."

"You saved that woman, though, and probably a lot of others."

"I know, it makes it a little easier." Sy said and she leaned into him again, wrapping her arms around his chest. "Speakin' of, how you feelin'?"

"I feel fine." Heather admitted.

"Not bullshittin' me?" He asked and she shook her head. "I took more from you than I usually take, couldn't help myself, but you don't…"

"Sy?"

"I can tell how much someone has to give me, like a gas gauge. I take just enough to make the needle move and that's it, but you…yours didn't budge. No matter how many times I took from you, it stayed firmly on full." He explained, "Couldn't tell you why, it didn't feel any different than any other time."

"Really?"

"Okay, maybe a little." He admitted with a shrug, "But that's only because I'm fallin' for ya."

“Really?” She asked again, leaning back to look at him.

“Doll, I’m pretty sure I started fallin’ for ya the moment I first heard you laugh.” He said and she stared at him for a moment. “What? Too much?”

“You’re not real!” She exclaimed, reaching up to pull him down into a kiss and making him laugh.

Sy stopped pretending to be normal, not eating or drinking anything all day, telling her that what he took from her would last him for a bit.

“So where do you live?” She asked as she ate from a bowl of pasta she made for lunch. “Can’t imagine you have a place under your real name, the background check would show that you’re legally dead.”

“I hop from motel to motel.” He admitted and she blinked at him. “What? You said it, a background check would give the game away.”

“You’re homeless?”

“I ain’t livin’ on the streets or anythin’.”

“Jake.” She said and he pulled an admonished face at his first name. “You’re living here.”

“Babe.”

“Don’t “babe” me, you’re moving in.” She said, “End of discussion.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He said, a small smile pulling at his lips.

“Do you need to get your things?”

“I have a couple bags in my truck. I travel light.”

“Go get them.” She said and he pushed up from his seat at the kitchen island, grabbing his keys from the table by the door where he had thrown them and leaving the house, coming back a few moments later with a couple of duffel bags in his hands. “How’d you get your things? Uniforms and such?”

“First stop after I was dug up was to my parents.” He said as he set his bags down by the stairs, “They know I’m alive, sorta, and my current condition. They were shocked to say the least when I showed up on their doorstep in my burial suit.”

“I bet. Who dug you up?” This was the weirdest conversation she’s ever had.

“I don’t remember. Don’t remember a lot from when I first woke up. Thankfully. Pretty sure those nightmares of wakin’ up in a coffin would be intense.” Sy said, “First thing I remember after…dyin’ was sittin’ against my tombstone with a poundin’ headache, dug up grave beside me, and I was alone.” He looked so haunted by it that she got up from her seat, going over to him and lacing her arms around his waist, looking up at him.

“Well, you’re not alone anymore.”

“I know.” He said softly, his hands on her back. “Heather, I…I just wanted to tell you how much I appreciate you. It’s only been about a week since we met, but already you…you accepted me, and now you’re helpin’ me, givin’ me a place to live.”

“Don’t thank me just yet, we don’t know if David is going to drop it, or if he’s going to cause issues.” She said and he nodded. "How do you afford things? Again, the standard employment background check."

"My parents funneled my military life insurance payout to me, along with my 401k. They were the beneficiaries." Sy said and she nodded. "Not much left though, after three years of hoppin' around. Even with bein' careful."

"Well, you don't have to worry about it anymore. I'm not exactly going to charge you rent." Heather said.

"Babe, I'm gonna be the best damn househusband in the world. You get home and the place is gonna be spotless and I'll have dinner waiting." He said and she snorted, going on her toes to give him a kiss. "I got no problem bein' a sugar baby."

"Oh my god." She giggled and he smiled down at her.

True to his word, when she got home from work the following week, he had dinner waiting for her and he was one hell of a cook. On particularly rough days when she dealt with difficult clients, he even had a bath drawn for her, fragrant bath salts mixed into the warm water. She could get used to this, she thought, as she relaxed against his chest in the tub, his arms warm and strong around her. His feeding from her became almost normal, although not regular, as what he took from her seemed to last longer than it usually did, probably because he could take more from her than usual without it having any kind of effect on her. He only did it when they were together, the pull in her chest adding to the feeling of him moving inside her.

A couple more weeks passed and they didn’t hear from David, but she knew him well enough to know that he wasn’t just going to drop it. His steadfast dedication to solving a mystery is what made him a good cop.

Locking her car with the fob, she headed up the walkway to the front door.

“Heather Markum?” She heard and turned, seeing the man walking up the driveway towards her. He was wearing a muted suit, dark brown hair combed back with a neat mustache covering his upper lip, the beginnings of a beard on his jaw. He would have been unremarkable, if he hadn’t been massive with muscle.

“Yes?” She asked.

“A notification came in that an AWOL soldier who faked his death was hiding here.”

“Motherfu--” She sighed. David. “I’m sorry you wasted your time, but he’s not here. It’s just me. My ex-husband sent you on a wild goose chase.”

“Your ex-husband?”

“David Steward?” She asked, “I’m guessing that’s who “notified” you. I’m dating an Army Captain, yes, but he’s not AWOL, he didn’t fake his death, and again, he’s not here.”

“I see.” He didn’t seem convinced.

“You’re with the Army?”

“Something like that.”

“I never got your name.”

“No, you didn’t.” Okay, she was starting to not like this.

“Have a nice night.” She said and headed for the door again, taking her keys out of her bag.

“Ms. Markum--” The front door opened before she got there, halting the man’s words.

“Back off, Walker.” Sy said, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Syverson.” “Walker” said, his tone somewhat incredulous. “How did you--”

“I didn’t.” Sy said simply.

“I was at your damn service.”

“Means a lot.”

“I’m the one who gave the damn flag to your mom.”

“Thank you.” Sy said and there was a pause before he stepped around her, going to him and pulling him into a brotherly hug. “Good to see you again, man.”

“Fucker.” Walker said, returning the hug, “You have explaining to do.”

“Let’s head inside.” He said as he pulled away and Walker nodded. Sy shooed her into the house, smacking her butt lightly and making her swat at him in retaliation, Walker’s chuckle sounding behind her. “Made carbonara, babe.”

“Nice.” She said and headed into the kitchen to grab herself a bowl. “Uh…Walker?”

“August.” He said.

“August, yes, Sy always makes too much food when he cooks, would you like some?” She asked and there was a pause.

“I’m good, but thank you.” He said.

“She’s just being a good hostess, don’t give me that look.” Sy said and Heather cringed inwardly, scooping pasta and bacon into a bowl and pulling a fork from the drawer.

“So…” Heather started as she came back into the living room, seeing Sy and August seated opposite from each other.

“Babe, this is the friend I told you about.” He said, “The one that got snagged by the CIA after his six years was up.”

“The one that said he would put in a good word for you?” She asked and he nodded. “Oh, I figured you guys were friends seeing as you bro-hugged and didn’t swing at each other, but nice to have it confirmed.”

“Explain.” August said and Sy gave a large sigh before he gave him the abridged version of what he had told her. How he had died, and was buried, it just didn’t take and he was dug up. “By who?”

“No idea.” Sy said and continued on with his new dietary requirements leaving out how he had found sources for what he needed now.

“Bullshit.” August said.

“Do the eye thing?” Heather suggested and he nodded, closing his eyes for a moment before opening them again. August sat back in his seat as he saw his pitch black orbs that quickly faded back to normal.

“Not bullshit.” He said and Sy nodded. “So you’re what? Some kind of vampire now?”

“I guess? Sorta?” He said, “I don’t drink blood or anythin’, but I do have to take some kind of life essence stuff to keep me goin’.”

“Energy vampire.” Heather said and they looked at her. “Sy, you should have realized by now that I’m kind of a goth. Of course I know about different types of vampires.”

“Didn’t think there was more than one, to be honest.” Sy admitted.

“The blood drinking variety is the most common, and commonly known, but there are ones that feed off the life energy or vital essence of someone rather than their blood.” She explained, “People have claimed to be this kind, but it’s bullshit and they should probably get some kind of psychiatric help because they also admitted that they still need to eat food and drink water to sustain themselves. You’re one in truth because food and water don’t do anything for you and you actually need to draw a person’s life force in order to keep yourself alive and have. You also have some party favors thrown in for good measure.”

“Such as?” August asked, arching a brow at him.

“I can fiddle with people’s memories of me.” He said with a shrug, “Make’em forget me altogether if I wanna. Can only do recent memories, though. Like, I can make you forget comin’ here, but I can’t make you forget when we served together.”

“Short term versus long term memory.” August said and Sy nodded.

“I guess.”

“Your folks know you’re alive?” August asked and he nodded again. “Good. Would have ripped you a new one if they didn’t.” He looked at Heather just as she took a bite of pasta. “And I’m guessing that you know all of this, as you seem unsurprised at any of it.”

“Uh huh.” She said around the pasta, “David pulled some shit, I did my own digging, and I confronted Sy about it. He laid it out for me.”

“And you’re okay with this?”

“Again, kind of a goth.” She said, “And what goth doesn’t want to shack up with a vampire?” Sy turned in his seat to look at her. “Calm down, that’s not the only reason why I’m with you.”

“Better not be.” He grumbled, turning back around, but the words lacked any real weight.

“Has he ever…have you let him…”

“Feed from me?” She finished helpfully and he nodded. “Yeah, sometimes. To say more would be going into really personal territory and you seem cool, but we just met.”

“Heather is…different.” Sy said, “I can take from her as much as I want without it hurtin’ her.”

“How?” August said and they both shrugged.

“Walker,” Sy said, “Question for you, though, bud. What the hell you doin’ here?”

“I told Heather that we were informed that you were here. Truth is I had a tracer on your name from when you were alive that I just never took off. It notified me when someone called into the nearest Army base saying there was an AWOL soldier hiding here using your name. I intercepted the call and told the person I would handle it.” August said.

“David.” Sy said, clicking his tongue against his teeth.

“Most likely.” Heather said.

“You had a tracer on me?” Sy asked.

“It’s how I kept track of you after I left the service.” August said with a shrug, “You never wondered how I knew to send you a bottle of whiskey every time you got promoted?”

“I was more stoked about the free bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue.” He said, “It’s great scotch whiskey, but it’s also stupid expensive on a military paycheck.”

“Oh!” Heather said, “I have a bottle of that!” She set the bowl down on the coffee table before heading into the kitchen. “It was a wedding present. David and I never opened it and we both forgot about it in the divorce.” She came back with the bottle, handing it to Sy and he looked it over before he and August looked at her expectantly. “I’ll get you guys glasses.”

“Thank you, babe.” Sy said with a smile.

“Uh huh.”

[cody-helix02]

CLOSE YOUR EYES! THERE'S NOTHING TO SEE HERE! NO COWBOY STUFF! NOPE! Srsly my traditional art is pretty RUSTY...I am gettin back in the saddle tho hehe 👀💀

[miryum]

It’s After Five (Spot Conlon x Reader)

Lena poked Y/n in the ribs. Y/n rolled over to find Lena standing over her, grinning. Y/n let out a yelp and quickly sat up.

“What the hell!” The girl cried. 

“Wake up! The bell’s about to ring.” Lena dragged Y/n out of bed and through her morning routine. 

“Did ya sleep in again, Y/n/n?” Blink snickered as he passed. 

“Yeah, she did.” Lena grumbled. 

Y/n splashed water on her face in hopes of waking up. “Go away, Blink.” 

“Love ya too!” Blink saluted the two girls and sped out of the room. 

Lena and Y/n had become close friends after Lena joined the newsies three years ago. Y/n had been with the Manhattan newsies since she was little, but Lena only joined because her family needed a little more money. Before Lena had come, Y/n was the only girl newsie in Manhattan. She was very thankful that Lena had decided to join. 

“Can we sell by the Brooklyn Bridge today?” Y/n asked as they walked to the circulation desk. 

“Why?” Lena scoffed, “So you can possibly see the faint outline of Spit Conlon across the horizon?” 

Y/n grumbled, “It’s Spot. And no! It’s a good selling point. Lots of people come back and forth. There’s foot traffic.”

“Yeah… right.” Lena squinted at Y/n. She bought her papes and then let Y/n buy hers. “You know you only saw the guy once, right?” 

“Yeah.” The only time she had seen Spot was at Jack’s rally for the strike a year ago. Y/n was up on the stage with Lena, right by Jack. Spot had soon joined them and gave a small speech. Y/n had avoided eye contact the entire time. 

After the rally, Spot had come up to Y/n and Lena to introduce himself. “Pleasure meeting you goils.” Y/n remembered that day very clearly. Spot had smirked and winked in their direction. 

“You’se blushing.” Lena had told her bluntly afterwards. 

“He’s cute!” Y/n had protested. 

“Hm, decent headline.” Lena said, looking over the papes they had purchased. “Riots in New Orleans.”

“You hardly have to twist that.” Y/n joked, knowing full well that at the end of the day Lena and herself would be yelling something closer to thousands dead in New Orleans. 

Lena sighed, looking over at her friend. “Fine. I guess we can sell by the Bridge. If we sell enough, I’ll even humour you by walking cross it.” 

“Really?” Y/n’s eyebrows shot upward. “What’s the catch?” 

Lena laughed, “No catch. I like playing matchmaker every once in a while. Though we probably should tell Jack just in case we end up gettin’ soaked and dumped in an alley somewhere.” 

“Can we’s tell Race?” Y/n negotiated, worried Jack would forbid them from going.

“Davey.”

“That’s worse. Crutchie?” 

“Deal.” 

The girls saddled up next to Crutchie who was talking to Romeo and Albert. “Hey goils!” He smiled, “What can I do for you this fine morning?” 

“We’re going to be selling by the Brooklyn Bridge.” Lena said, “We’re trying to fuel Y/n crush.”

“Oooo.” Romeo teased, “You got a crush on a Brooklyn Boy? Bad idea. They’s awful!” He waved a hand in front of his nose, miming a disgusting smell. “Who is it?” 

“Spot Conlon.” Lena said before Y/n could protest. Y/n groaned, covering her face with her hands. 

Romeo and Albert hooted and ‘oooo’ed while Crutchie looked worried. “Spot Conlon?” He asked, “Ya sure? That’s… that’s a bad idea. He’s not good news. But, sure. If ya wanna, you can sell there. Just… be careful. If you’re not back by five, I’ma tell Jack and we’ll come look for you two.”

“Great!” Lena dragged Y/n out to the streets, the latter still groaning in embarrassment. 

With the semi-decent headline, the girls sold their papes by four o’clock, collecting a good profit. 

Y/n saved one pape to read herself, something she had been doing since she became a newsie. “Remember the Paris train that opened a couple days ago? It’s been getting a lot of attention and customers.” She commented lazily as they slowly crossed the Bridge. Lena threw rocks into the river below. 

“Cool. I guess.” Lena shrugged. 

“Where should we go?” Y/n folded the pape and shoved it in her pocket. 

“Well, you wanna see Spot, right?” Lena asked, “We could go down to the docks and see if they’re swimming there.” 

“I could go for a swim. It’s a hot day.” Y/n agreed, ignoring the comment about Spot.

“Great.” Lena took the steep, rocky path down to the docks below the Bridge. Y/n followed, making sure Lena didn’t step somewhere unstable and fall. 

The docks came into view, boys lounging around or swimming. Some noticed the girls then started to alert the others. By the time Lena and Y/n stood at the end of the dock, the boys were all watching them apprehensively. Some were standing, arms over chest, others were still in the water, hanging onto the dock and staring down the girls. It was obvious the girls were not from Brooklyn, and it was odd enough they were girls in newsie clothing. 

“Hey.” Lena gave a quick, tense smile, raising a hand in greeting. 

“And what do you goils want?” A boy spoke up. “You’re on Brooklyn turf. So whether you realise that or not, ya need to scram.” 

“We just wanna swim.” Y/n said, meeting his glare. “Is that a crime? Not many good rivers in Manhattan. And it’s called the East River, not the Brooklyn River.” 

“He’s not even here.” Lena muttered to Y/n out of the corner of her mouth. “Are we sure we wanna risk a soaking?”

“Are we sure you can back down from this?” Y/n met her question, asking about Lena’s infamous need to hold grudges and never back down from a fight. 

“Touché.” 

“This is still Brooklyn.” The same boy cut into their conversation. “Go back to Manhattan or whatever inferior turf ya’re from.” 

“I’m surprised ya know the word inferior.” Y/n chuckled. 

“I also know some other words:” the boy cracked his knuckles, “beating you up.”

“Now, boys,” a new, cocky voice interrupted, “is that how we treat guests? Especially these lovely goils?” 

Lena grinned and nudged Y/n in the side. Y/n rolled her eyes, trying to conceal how her heart sped up at the familiar voice. 

A boy appeared out of nowhere, jumping down from a pile of crates. His pimp cane tapped on the wood, his slingshot resting at his side. His smirk was wide and knowing, his cap slung over his dirty blond hair. 

Spot Conlon. 

“From the rally, right?” He stopped in front of the girls, making a motion with his hand that dispersed his newsies. “Pleasure to meet ya again.” Lena scoffed, breaking the intense eye contact Spot was giving Y/n. Spot spit- shook Lena then bent down and pressed a feather-light kiss to Y/n’s knuckles. He glanced up at Y/n who was staring down at him, a heavy blush dusting her cheeks.

“What brings you to our Brooklyn?” Spot asked, leading the two friends away from the docks and into the depths of the city. 

“Was finished selling,” Lena said, “Wanted to explore a bit.” She noticed Spot was only looking at Y/n. Y/n was staring at the ground. 

“No other reason?” Spot questioned, brushing a hand against Y/n’s. Shockwaves of lightning sped up both their arms. Spot controlled his breathing. 

Lena stayed silent, hoping Y/n would take the reins in the conversation. “It’s such a lovely day,” Y/n finally said, “We thought we could go swimming or something?”

“An’ ya couldn’t do that on your side of the river?” Spot continued to poke and prod at Y/n’s answers. 

“We heard that Brooklyn was better.” Y/n glanced over at Lena, who looked aghast that she would suggest Brooklyn was better than Manhattan. 

“Well, ya got that right.” Spot let out a small laugh. He stopped at the Brooklyn Lodging House. It loomed over Y/n and Lena, who were cautious to go in. Who knows what could happen in there? Lena looked at the sky, noticing the sun starting to go down. However, once Spot opened the door for them and Y/n stepped through, she had no choice but to follow. 

Inside, boys were scattered around, sitting on couches or the floor. Some were huddled around a table, engaged in a game of cards. Lena’s eyes lit up when she saw that. “I’ma gonna go join that. See if I can swindle some Brooklyn Boys outta their money.” She sped off, leaving Y/n and Spot alone. 

Spot smirked his famous smirk and gestured to the stairs. “I can give you a tour?”

“Sure.” 

Spot showed Y/n all around the Brooklyn Lodging House, even the very cramped places where they had to squeeze together. The last stop of the tour was Spot’s office. It had originally been a small room, but Spot has shaped it up. It now had a desk that faced the door, two chairs, and a stack of newspapers. The top newspaper was the one that displayed the newsies on the front page. Y/n could see a small, black and white Spot beaming up at her from the pape. 

“I remember that day.” Y/n said quietly, picking up the newspaper. 

“An’ I remember you from that day.” Spot countered, coming up behind her and looking down at the pape. Y/n was now painfully aware of the places where he was touching her. His chest was pressed to her back, his arm grazing hers, and his breath on her neck. 

“I don’t think we met that day, did we?” 

“No, but I saw you at the restaurant. You were talkin’ to some of your buddies. I remember thinking that yous were the most beautiful goil I ever saw. I wanted to talk to ya, but didn’t have the courage.”

Y/n turned to stare at him. “The great Spot Conlon didn’t have courage?” She dramatically gasped. “I wasn’t sure that was possible. 

Spot chuckled. “Even I get cold feet every once in a while.” 

Y/n started to step away but Spot caught her elbow. He pulled her back towards him. Y/n cleared her throat and began, “The real reason I dragged Lena to Brooklyn today i-is because I wanted to see you. You know, we haven’t seen each other since the strike and… yeah. I wanted to see you.” 

“I’ve never been more flattered.” Spot pressed a hand on the small of her back, pulling Y/n flush against him. 

His eyes sparked with something. Maybe a mix of cheekiness, hope, and arrogance. Y/n wasn’t really sure. 

Suddenly, a loud commotion could be heard from downstairs. 

“The hell?” Spot huffed, reluctantly pulling away from Y/n and rushing down to the main floor. Y/n hurried after him and the sight they saw was enough to frighten the girl. 

A hoard of Manhattan newsies were piled through the door, yelling and pushing the Brooklyn newsies. The Brooklyn newsies were retaliating, screaming and shoving back. Lena stood in the centre of it all, looking around helplessly. She caught sight of Y/n and Spot at the top of the stairs and tried to yell over the din, “It’s after five! Crutchie told Jack! Then Jack was stupid and did this.” She gestured around to the room. 

Spot muttered profanities, looking tired enough to collapse. Instead, he steeled himself and whacked his cane against a window frame, the metal clashing against one another. “Enough!” He yelled, the scream silencing the room. His glare penetrated both Brooklyn and Manhattan newsies alike. 

“Y/n!” Jack exclaimed, catching sight of you. You shrunk back, running a hand over your face. Why did he always have to blow things out of proportion? 

“What in god’s name are you Manhattan newsies doing here?” Spot growled, marching down the steps until he was face to face with Jack. Spot poked him in the chest with his pimp cane, forcing him back. 

“We came to make sure you hadn’t beaten up two of our newsies.” Jack snarled right back. 

“But they didn’t!” Lena chuckled nervously, “We’re fine! Look, I even got some dough outta it!” She reached into her pockets and pulled out a handful of coins she had gambled for. 

“Then why weren’t you back by five? Why are ya in Brooklyn of all places? And why were you upstairs with Spot?” The last question was directed to Y/n. 

“We told Crutchie where we were going.” Y/n mumbled. 

“And he agreed that if you weren’t back by five, we’d come lookin’ for ya. So we did. This isn’t our fault, Conlon.” Jack said. 

“They’re right. It’s our fault.” Y/n agreed, stepping down to take her place by Jack. 

“Hey-” Spot reached for her desperately but once he remembered there were others in the room, he retracted and put his mask back on. “Fine. Go back to ‘Hattan then. But nothing bad was happenin’ to them here. Lena was playin’ cards and Y/n and I’se were just talkin’.”

“‘Bout what?” Jack demanded.

“None of your business, Kelly.” Spot said smoothly. “It’s not my fault my boys were about to protect themselves.” He scanned the room, looking over newsies. “If this happens again, there will be consequences. Next time, come here with only a couple newsies- not every single one in ‘Hattan. If the goils aren’t here, we’ll help ya look for ‘em.”

“Who says there’ll be a next time?” Jack took a step towards Spot. 

Spot stepped up to meet him. “I do.” His mouth twisted into a snarl. “’Cause there are no rules in this here Brooklyn. The minute those goils pass our Bridge, they're in my turf. And I say they can come over anytime they want. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Y/n and I have a conversation ta finish. Lena can go with you now. One of your newsies may wait until Y/n and I are done, but I will be walkin’ her back.” 

And with that, Spot brushed Y/n back upstairs to his office. He sat down heavily in his chair and she sat opposite of him. 

“Thanks.” She whispered, “For standin’ up for me and Lena. It was nice of you to do that for us.”

Spot’s smirk returned. “I’se wasn’t just doin’ that for you. I wanna see you more too. If you can come and go as you please, this’ll make this whole dating thing easier.”

“Dating?” Y/n’s breathing turned quicker. 

Spot’s smirk widened. “‘Course. Unless… you don’t wanna date me?” Though his words were confident and sure, there was a layer of worry in them. Was he reading the signs wrong? Was Y/n going to reject him? Was he going to make a fool of himself?

“No, I do.” Y/n smiled widely. “It’s just, we haven’t known each other that long, and I wasn’t sure you liked me back.” 

“What’re ya talkin’ ‘bout?” Spot's confidence was back. “We’ve known each other for a year!”

“I guess that’s true!” Y/n laughed lightly. 

“And yeah, I like you back. Ya know, at the restaurant? I saw you laughin’ along with Lena and playin’ with the younger kids. You seemed really nice. And don’t think I’se didn’t notice that pape in your back pocket. You read them everyday, don’t you? Bet you’re smart.”

“Does this mean I get to come to see you whenever?” Y/n asked. 

“Yeah. I can’t not see my goil everyday.” 

“And does this mean I get to kiss you?” 

“‘Course. Though, why don’t we wait until your newsies aren’t downstairs.” 

“Understandable.” Y/n chuckled. 

“Let’s get you home.” Spot stood and offered his hand. Y/n took it and they headed downstairs. Outside, Y/n could see Mush and JoJo standing under a street lamp, making sure Y/n got home safely. 

Spot rolled his eyes, “Thought I said only one newsie.”

“Don’t blame them. Jack just wants to make sure I’m safe.” 

“You’re safe with me.” Spot protested. 

The over-protectiveness Spot was showing made Y/n smile and duck her face. Instead, Spot cupped her chin and made her look up. “There’s that pretty face.” He nodded once. 

Soon, they were at the Brooklyn Bridge. Spot walked her across it, Mush and JoJo trailing them. Once they got to the end of the Bridge, Spot stopped. 

“Well, this is as far as I can take ya. Goodnight doll.”

“‘Night Spot.” 

“Alright,” Mush came up next to her and placed a hand on her shoulder, “time ta go.”

Spot scowled at Mush but didn’t speak. 

“You’re always welcome in Brooklyn.” Spot tipped his cap to Y/n, turning and starting to walk back to Brooklyn. 

“Spot!” Y/n called, darting to stop him. “Wait.” Y/n quickly pecked him on the cheek, a short and sweet kiss. “Same time tomorrow?” She asked. 

“Anything for you, doll.” 

Y/n waved and raced back to her friends. JoJo bumped shoulders with her and Mush rubbed a fist over her hair, mussing it up. 

Spot turned back to Brooklyn. He was certainly whipped for this girl.