#other sky cowboys creatures

[skycowboys]

This here is a male nymbak. They have boney heads, like a ram's horn was flattened over his skull so they can bash things in the air. Their fluff contains buoyant gasses. They normally roost on the sides of cliffs, hanging on with their wing claws.  

I'm thinking the fluff can be oily near the skin - the oil gives off natural fumes which collect in air-tight pockets near the body and naturally filters out slowly through the rest of the fluff. The fumes/gasses give the nymbak some buoyancy - allowing flight for an animal that would not normally be able to lift off. Baby nymbak have SO much fluff - they look like little cottonwood seeds floating along in the air. 

The people of the world cultivate nymbak for their fluff/wool to be spun into cloth, and for their natural oils to be used to make lamp oil and such. The oily fluff near the body can even be spun into waterproof fibers. Pilots who ride pegasi drive swarms of nymbak south across the land each summer like areal cattle drives.

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[flordeamatista]

𝗛𝗼𝗹𝗱 𝗠𝗲 𝗗𝗼𝘄𝗻

pairing: bull rider!bucky barnes x heiress!reader

concept: Passionate dusk pleasure covers you both with lust, spilling its mist through the night.

word count: 3k

warnings: best friends to lovers, ranch hand Bucky who works for reader's family, fluff, angst, smut (riding Bucky) soft kisses, nickname- Sweetheart

a/n: I created this fantasy daydream almost a year ago. Hopefully you'll love these other pretty men this fall/winter as well. Way Down We Go Masterlist

lovely beta: @writing-for-marvel and @lfnr-blog-blog-blog

line divider by the lovely @lfnr-blog-blog-blog and she made me the pngs

masterlist

Despite the danger of loss, time purifies something impure, but still wants to be touched.

He sees the world ticking off to every moment in life for him to be ready for the moment because you only have eight seconds to live.

Stepping up to the bull, Bucky felt its rage throbbing through its thick white hide. The creature looked mean, angry, and fierce as it pawed at the ground beneath it. It was ready to face its challenger, waiting for a chance to strike back at the man who dared to encroach on its territory. 

Under its thick, white hide, the bull's muscles bulged, while steam hissed from its nostrils. Grasping the sticky rope with one hand and clutching his cowboy hat with the other, Bucky's heart raced. People held their breath in the thick air of tension.

Suddenly, a crackling roar filled the arena, like a thousand thunderclaps rolling across the sky. 

One second.

Its horns aimed at the middle of the arena like deadly weapons, as the gates burst open, and the bull charged forward. The packed arena roared as the mighty bull rushed forward, its horns glittering in the moon’s light, and him riding it with the creature of the night. 

Bucky's show.

Two seconds.

Terrified that he wouldn't make it to the end, his limbs quivered and his grip on the rope tightened. But then he remembered why he was doing this.

The love.

Three seconds.

He felt a faint warmth behind him, which when he glanced in its direction revealed you at the edge of the arena beaming with pride and waving your arms for encouragement.  You came to see him. The applause grew louder and were about to roar even more when Bucky’s hold on the strap and his hat grew tighter.

 Three words: Only for you.

Four seconds.

A sudden wave of power surged through Bucky's veins at the sight of you, giving him newfound strength and focus as he fought against being bucked off the wild beast beneath him.  

Maintain his body's strength.

Five seconds.

The bull's fury was intensified by the crowd's jeers. The spectators continued to cheer wildly while Bucky remained atop the bull, wishing desperately that he could turn around and see whether or not you were still there.

Observe him, love him, sweetheart

Six seconds.

Bucky's cowboy hat was lifted off his head abruptly as he clung to the bull's back. His legs were spread wide, straddling the saddle and pinning him against its stiff leather surface. The force of the animal's bucking sent drops of sweat flying from his brow, into his sea-blue eyes, and down his throat. He took a deep breath and tightened his grip on the rope before stretching out his free arm. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the bull's rhythm, his muscles quivering with each buck. Though he felt himself slipping, he was determined to keep going. He was desperate for any gust of air that could keep him in place.

With every muscle in his body, he willed it to remain still. 

Seven seconds.

Bucky saw out of the corner of his eye that you were still there; leaning over one rail with your fist raised in triumph at his progress so far. With this last boost of courage, he made it through to eight seconds. 

Bucky soared into the air and landed on his knees, facing you. Dedicated to the person who never seems to leave his mind, the wind knew where to land his two feet. The bull rushed towards him out of the corner of his eye. His attention was caught by clowns maneuvering the bull away from him. Several yards from the fence, his hat lay in the middle. His instincts pushed him forward, despite knowing it was potentially dangerous.

The danger of losing you would be worse if he didn't do it. Then he picked up his hat and bowed when his name sung.

With arms outstretched and legs pumping, he leapt through the open gate and sprinted towards you, where you stood watching.

He wrapped an arm around you and pulled you close. His warm breath caressed your ear as he whispered, “You know I won in eight seconds. I don't want money. I want eight kisses from the sweetest lips in the world." He placed his hat on your head. When he stared straight at you, the glint in his blue eyes revealed something very lustful. A smirk spreads across his face as he licks his lips and walks away.

Electricity flowed between you. The air was electric with anticipation and excitement, as your heart raced. You had been moved by Bucky Barnes' first kiss, which made crossing lines with a best friend harder every day.

You want more kisses, and you want to give him more than eight.

Just as the sun began to glow over the horizon, pink hues were cast over the still landscape. Morning mist hung in the air, the cooling feeling kissing his skin.

A warm, orange sunrise tints his cheeks as he gazes at you in your bedroom, from his hiding spot on your balcony. Taking a breath, he opens the french glass door. A smile spreads over his lips as a breeze blows past him.

A single rose nestled between his fingers looked delicate compared to his strong hands.

Taking a deep breath, he bent forward and placed the flower next to your pillow.

With a whisper of wind, he left his love as he left the room.

Dreams and kisses make one 'I love you' form in his eyes when they are merged from your lips.

The air was heavy with humidity and the sky was painted with orange, pink, and tangerine hues. The light that reflected off the shimmering shadows around you slowly sank below the horizon as you.

A glass of red wine in one hand, you watched from your balcony as he emerged from the hills after working in the stables. Shirtless, he headed up to a spotlight near the tree line, pulling off his glove before running his fingers through his hair.

The soft petals caressed your fingertips as you slowly sank down into the mattress, a smile pulling at your lips as you felt the sudden rush of adrenaline, as if the night whispered in the breeze that things were going to be different from now on. He had given you proof of his love, and now all he wanted was for you to take what he'd offered, to hold onto it with him and keep it by your side forevermore. He knew better than anyone about one thing: love can never be separated from you, no matter how much the air around you sings out to carry his love with you.

In order to embrace this step in your friendship, it took more than just time; it required action as well. He gave you an exit that allowed you to see and feel his love without being forced to confront him; he left his words in this letter, giving you the upper hand.

Taking a moment to savor the memories of the day Bucky entered your life was a joy you recorded. The soft voices of joy and the ever-growing bond between you were evident. A giggle escaped your lips as you ran your fingers over the rose's velvety petals. When it comes to your feelings, he is the heart of it.

You can only watch for so long before dreaming of running your fingers through his hair. Pulling off his shirt, he stripped in front of a spotlight, showing off his body to nature. The sun highlighted his silhouette as he walked closer, to reveal tan skin adorned with sweat and dirt. 

The purpose of being outside is to tease him since he sees you. It's not like you walked from that spot to see if he could glance through your window or balcony. You were playing this game of riding with soft gazes, teasing.

You knew that it was wrong to play a game like this, but you couldn't help yourself. In your position, no one played games with the employees, but who has the authority to tell you no. Your body felt a burning sensation as it encounters the one person that makes it feel the meaning of lust and desire.

You felt your heart flutter as you realized what he meant. You wanted to tell him, but the words stuck in your throat. You know you crossed the line that night but what happens if you cross the line every night? 

Your family was left speechless when Bucky declined the prize money, saying he wanted something more precious than money asking only for  a single rose.

To him, you were the most valuable flower in the world.

The fire inside of me is being built patiently and carefully by you, and I eagerly anticipate the day when it is fully ignited.

Seeing you from the balcony, he stepped closer to get a better glimpse of you from below and saw your fingers tug at the brim of his hat. 

His blue eyes darkened, he called your name with a moan. To give him a little show, you slowly unbuttoned your blouse by sliding the buttons through their tiny loops. His eyes were fixed on you intently, watching every move you made. Shadows were cast on the wall behind you as the last sun rays glinted off your exposed skin. As the light faded, you stood proudly.

There was a whisper of wind around the two of you. 

You both watched each other attentively. 

To the sound of rushing air, he waited patiently while you undid them slowly. When you approached the railing closer to your balcony, your blouse fell to the floor. It was hard not to smirk at his eyes that roamed around you and looked behind him to ensure no one could see this beautiful painting he was seeing.

To start time, you blew him a kiss and yelled, "One".

Time was ticking away, and if he didn't act quickly, his chance would be gone. 

You caught his gaze in surprise. As the cool stone of the wall pressed against his hands and feet, he realized it wasn't a dream, but reality. 

You steady yourself on the door frame with one hand while the other grasps the blinds. He heard you yell "Two!" 

A journey was being set out, and he was determined to follow it wherever it led.  The power of your kiss drove him to scale the wall.

Not like last time. Last time he lost his opportunity. 

Love remains, despite time's passing.

Bucky saw you sob that night, tears dripping down your face as your ex-boyfriend’s words sunk in. You were nothing more than an object to him, and he told you so. 

His hands were strong and calloused as he grabbed yours, yet his touch was gentle and caressing. As he smiled, his eyes showed respect, love, security, safety, and patience. When he released your hands, his fingertips gently touched the side of your face before finding your lips.

Slowly and deliberately, the kiss deepened with an intensity that left you both trembling. 

But you ran. You left.

The next morning you ran to leave abroad, and all he could do was watch you go.

From that point forward, he devoted himself to becoming the kind of man who deserved someone like you in his life. In spite of all the advances he received, he refused to accept any of them.

The memories of the day you left melt my heart, I will never be able to forget you, I feel the nights so cold without you, and I keep hoping that I'll see you again soon

This is because he knew your kiss was the only one capable of bringing him the same amount of happiness. He worked hard at your parents' ranch until he was the star.

He waited to taste your lips again.

And now he gets that opportunity.

Bucky's strong hands gently yet firmly grasped your waist; the warmth of his touch sent a tingling sensation up your spine. He turned you around so that you faced him, the blue eyes you had imagined finally appearing before you. All the laughter, knowing you could always rely on him as a friend, him wanting to be yours, and you wanting to be his. 

Moving closer, he inhaled slowly, as if stalking his prey. His lips parted a little as he took in all of you.

His chest glistened in the light like a pane of glass, and his chest was covered with streams of sweat, reflecting the light like tiny diamonds. His touch was like a caress of liquid fire on your body, sending sparks of pleasure through your veins. You clung to his neck tightly, wanting to stay there forever. 

You knew why he'd reprimanded you for being sassy earlier—but when he looked at you with such hunger and desire, it felt like something greater was at stake.

Before yesterday, Bucky always stood by you, and he will stand by you tomorrow as well. 

In a whisper, he spoke four simple words: “My lips need kisses." 

You smiled to yourself and replied softly, "Let me finish counting. Three!”

His warm fingertips traced delicate circles on your neck nape as his hands reached your shoulders. You felt a sense of security as he gently yet firmly held your hand in his, and then delicately kissed its soft surface. With eyes closed and breath held, you savored the tender sensation of his lips on your skin.

He smirked as you open your eyes and see him. "Four seconds left," he says.

As you stand close to him, he moves down to kiss your lips and instead moves to your check.  Grabbing your throat, "Five, pretty boy," you tease him. You felt the heat of his breath tickle your earlobe as he hummed softly before placing a gentle bite just below your collarbone.

You opened your eyes and saw him licking his lips, a smirk playing across the corners of his mouth as he seemed to revel in the quiet. Through the still air, you heard your own soft whisper, "Six! You're running out of time Bucky. What's happened to winning?" 

His thumb shifted under your chin, tilting it towards him.

"Seven!" you softly whisper into the air.

A gentle touch, a kiss, a rush, a flame ignited, an unstoppable passion.

His mouth suddenly slams into yours, and you felt his tongue sliding into your mouth as he parted his lips. Moaning into the kiss, you felt him deepening it and he is wet, messy, and desperate.

In that moment, everything else melted away; the heat of the moment, the rush of desire; it's the kiss that ignites your heart.

"Think you can handle another one, Sweetheart?" he hummed between your lips. 

"Bucky, you win. You've got it all, and all the kisses."

A passionate lust for him consumed you, and you cannot resist it. You reach for his face and pull him in for a second intense ferocious kiss. You let him inhale every kiss from your lips into his. Your gaze flitted over his eyes and you saw the reflection of desire and hunger.

“I'm gonna ride you, Mr. Cowboy” you whispered breathlessly.

A smile spreads across his face as he hugs you, and you giggle into the room.

Passionate dusk pleasure covers you both with lust, spilling its mist through the night.

“Ride me, Sweetheart”

Straddling Bucky's hips, you slowly lowered yourself onto him. His thickness filled every part of you and you couldn't help but moan in pleasure at the sensation. His hands moved up to your hips, gripping them firmly as he pulled you deeper into him. With each passing moment, you both developed a deep connection; you long to ride every move with him and share every emotion. A wet tongue lapped against the tips of Bucky's fingers and wet fingers running all over your body, sending vibrations throughout. Teasing you as he marked every inch of you.

"You're such a fucking tease, you know that?" you moaned softly as you felt the electric shock pass through every inch of your skin as you kept moving yourself towards him. His gaze was hot on yours as he watched every second of this blissful ecstasy. Taking your time, you savored and you reached the point of perfection together. He swept his eyes over every inch of your skin, sending electric shocks through your body that increased with every move.

You were pinned beneath him as he spun around with your hands in his. He brushed your forehead sweat with his lips and whispered into your mouth, "Sweetheart, you feel so good. From kisses to orgasms, everything is yours, and so am I." With a tender kiss, he mumbled, "I belong to you, too."

Your feelings for Bucky were clear from this moment on; you could not bear to be apart from him. In the midst of this shifting world, you might be this lady, but all you wanted to do is ride your rider from sunset to sunrise.

Today, tomorrow, and wherever my kisses of love can lead, I dedicate my entire life to showing you my love.

[aheathen-conceivably]

🏜️ Deadwood Reach: A Wild West Starter 🏜️

Has your sim followed the gold rush out West? Left behind the hustle and bustle of the city for the open air? Decided to try and make it on their own with no one other than their trusty steed? Despite its intimidating name and the Cowplant skulls guarding its entrance, this little starter home has everything a sim needs to build a life.

Designed for a Decades Challenge or historical gameplay, this lot is off the grid and requires a bit of ingenuity (or anachronistic cell phone usage) to meet its simple living requirements. There’s a small area for gardening, cross-stitching, guitar picking, and of course, horse riding. For those who might want a few creature comforts, there’s a well equipped outhouse, two working fireplaces, and even a brand new feather bed.

So brew up your cowboy coffee, sit on a hay bale, and enjoy a fire under the wide open sky.

Lot Size: 20x15 Original Lot: Big Sky Reach Lot Value: 22,829 House Size: 1 Bedrooms, 1 Bathroom Lot Traits: Natural Well Lot Challenges: Simple Living, Off-the-Grid CC-free

As usual, it is CC free so that everyone can download it, but please feel free to redecorate it or redesign it, just tag me if you use it so I can see your lovely pixels enjoying it too!

Available to download on my gallery ID: aheathenbuilds or here (SFS, no ads).

[tw1l1te]

𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓒𝓱𝓪𝓲𝓷 𝓗𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓬𝓪𝓷𝓸𝓷𝓼- 𝖕𝖆𝖗𝖙 1

These are from the FinalPromise!Au. Some will be directly from the og Linked Universe, as I don't envision my story as straying tooooo far from the original. I might add more in the future, but these are the ones that I am thinking of for now! This is part 1/3, which includes Time, Twilight, and Wild! :3

Warnings: mention of scars

⋆｡°✩

𝖙𝖎𝖒𝖊

Mans in his early 30s in terms of appearance (actual age is unclear)

Speaks Hylian well but writing? Not so much. Growing up in Kokiri Forest doesn't really help in terms of school smarts, so he had Wars and Sky teach him a bit later down the line.

Has a slight Southern accent, way less prominent than Twilight's though. It comes out more when he's tired or being more flirty (Or doing it on purpose to fluster Y/n.)

Him and Malon are exes? It was a situationship, they didn't really put a word on it. She was there after his quest to support him and keep a roof over his head. They're more like family/friends now

Very tall. We're talking over 6 foot here, and he will also use that to tower over Y/n. They're into that

Also pretty muscular. He was more lean muscle when he was a teen/young adult, but he's bulked up especially since donning the armor.

Has rib tattoos, similar to the Deity markings on his face.

Only has his lobes pierced, however he wants to experiment with more piercings like Twilight.

Has some scarring on his stomach from the battle at the Water Temple, its faded over the years but its still noticeable if you look hard enough

Doesn't sleep well, so takes over night watch a lot. Twilight has to stop him from not sleeping for over 48-hours as that gets him into dangerous mental space territory.

I wanna say he's one of the first member of the chain to feel something for Y/n. I see a lot of pics placing him last usually, but I feel like he's one of the first, especially having tons of time to think about it at night and being the eldest.

Although he's one of the earliest to reveal his feelings to Y/n, he's still processing and taking it slow in terms of bringing it up to the rest of the group.

𝖙𝖜𝖎𝖑𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙

Time's his great great grandfather?? Some great, he's not quite sure

Twilight's in his early/mid 20's

His hair is a brown-gray mix, the grey becoming more prominent ever since his first time shifting into his Wolf form.

Southern drawl, need I say more

Ears are pierced, has double lobe piercings and an upper cartilage piecing

Pretty tall, close to 6 foot, maybe 5' 11"

Other than the Twili markings on his face, he has a small tattoo of a hoof to commemorate for Epona on his ankle

His markings do extend down his spine and upper arms which make a delicious sight when he's training or above Y/n

Some scarring on his legs and arms from his journey, one longer scar on his right ear from a close call with a Twilight creature once.

Senses are like tripled ever since becoming Wolfie, mr. cowboy can smell things like a mile away.

Similar to Time in terms of build, maybe slightly leaner because of his height

However his voice is the deepest of the group. Mans got the range in octaves and that sexy rasp that he will use to his advantage

Like his ancestor, one of the first to have/admit feelings toward Y/n

However, having a Wolf form also speeds up the feelings of protectiveness obsessiveness... and certain other things.

Has such a sweet tooth.

Loves chocolate so much but ever since Wolfie happened, he can barely eat any 'cause he got that dog in him

Protective of Wild too, other than Y/n, he's probably the only other person that knows what he's been through

𝖜𝖎𝖑𝖉

18-19 years old, his adventure has just recently finished

His hair is longer than in his quest to save the princess, though definitely more choppy and wolf cut-like when not in his ponytail

Definitely more lean muscle in terms of build, and is probably average in height

Has triple pieced lobes and a few cartilage piercings, plans on getting more

Left side of his body is heavily scarred, partially deaf in his left ear. Also tends to lose feeling in his left arm and leg, so he prefers to use his right side

Can actually read and speak Hylian How do you think he read everyone's diaries

As we all know, he's one of the best cooks in Hyrule and can cook almost anything, but his favorite thing to make has got to be meat curry and a simple nut cake.

After you came along and introduced him to your foods??? Oh boy he's never been so excited-

Somehow made your favorite foods better than they already were

Closer with Twilight and Legend

Takes longer to catch feelings for you, as the mere concept of feeling toward another person is still a confusing topic for him since his slumber

One of the last ones to catch feelings for you, partially in denial because his belief of not being good enough for you/being very harsh on himself

Twilight almost immediately catches onto Wild's attraction towards you, Wild's not the best at masking nervousness around you

⋆｡°✩

[grandlinedreams]

|| welcome fellow Ghoul fuckers ily

|| notes: sequel to [this], got nothin' to really say beyond reader and Cooper make the most fucked up implied pseudo parents for Lucy lmao, Canon somewhat compliant, post s1, gonna have to wait for the prequel meeting dic to know why reader knows Coop's whole name

|| warnings: weapons supplier!reader, Canon typical gore/violence, something something save a horse ride a cowboy, NSFW ㅡ fingering, edging (i had to take a lap around my house), irradiated cream pie, unprotected sex (supposedly those swimmers are FRIED but I can dream),

The low croak of a crow echoes over the barren stretch of sunbaked, irradiated earth ㅡ and the creature itself lands on the bent, rusted post of a long gone sign. Tilts its head this way and that, blinks liquid black eyes ㅡ three of them. Then squawks indignantly when a bullet narrowly misses it, jet black wings flaring as it takes to the sky to complain in that low, creaking voice.

"Get lost," you tell the bird, glancing at the way Dogmeat tracks the creature. Then she whines, licks at her muzzle like she wants to go catch and eat the damn thing.

"Don't even think about it, pup." You inform her, soothing the disappointment with rough scratches to her head that have her nudging for more before you walk away, sharp whistle summoning her to your side. You don't know why, but she's taken a shine to you over your companions, and you're not about to push her away.

The set up for tonight isn't far off, but it's the skitter of some other creature off in the distance paired with the ominous rumble from above that gets your attention ㅡ and you click your tongue at the foreboding, electric green that rolls in the clouds, cracking with lightning. It isn't nightfall yet, but it's growing closer with that mess on the horizon.

There's a pitiful attempt at a fire being made by Lucy when you return, and she offers a smile that you echo briefly before moving to Cooper's side, nudging him with your boot. "Storm's rollin' in."

He grunts, tugs his hat from where he'd been shading his face ㅡ pretending to sleep to ignore Lucy's still-attempting-to-be-friendly rambles, you suppose. "How far out?"

You shrug, slinging your pack back onto your shoulders. "About an hour, give or take."

Lucy flicks a confused look to both of you as Cooper gets to his feet as well, and her head tilts. "Why're we moving?"

You raise an eyebrow. "You want radiation sickness, vaultie?" It's worth it for the way she bristles, and you snicker. "Come on. There's something of a building not far from here."

You're kind enough to wait for her unlike Cooper, who heads off with Dogmeat while you trail with Lucy.

The building was probably an apartment complex at one point for the squared off, honeycomb like interior, the sections that remain halfway decent.

The presence of scattered, long empty supply packaging ranging from stimpacks to tins of cram says that you aren't the first to be here though, and you split off with Cooper to scout out the place, leaving Lucy with Dogmeat.

You're just as quick with tongue and trigger as Cooper ㅡ Lucy has learned that the hard way over the last week or so. But there's still a softness to you that Lucy likes, gravitates towards ㅡ and figure that Cooper likes it too, for the way she spots him watching you sometimes, pretends not to notice when he looks up and glares at her.

"Clear," you report, pulling her from her thoughts as you toss her a bedroll and a spare blanket. Where you got them, she doesn't know. And the dark stains of what absolutely is most likely blood tells her she doesn't want to know.

What she does know is that she's allowed what constitutes as a room to herself ㅡ three walls and a roof that won't cave in are enough for her to take it without complaint. Dogmeat goes with her, and when she looks up, she knows why with the unspoken way you and Cooper split off for the same little room a couple broken spaces down from hers.

"Get some rest, Lucy," you tell her, offer a small smile that makes her beam as she settles down for the night, deciding that she is far, far better off not thinking about just how close you and Cooper actually are.

"Cute kid," you remark as you finally trail into the room after Cooper, earning an amused scoff.

"Fuckin' annoying is what she is," he grouses, and it's your turn to laugh as you shrug off your pack and kneel, digging for your own bedroll.

"Considering that's what you called me when we first metㅡ"

"No, I called you an annoying bitch."

"Potayto, potahto." You tug the bedroll free and roll it out, blinking as Cooper settles himself over it with a groan and then a sigh. "Excuse me."

He peers up at you. "What now?"

"This is my bed." You snip, jerking a thumb over your shoulder. "Up, Cooper."

"Nah." He folds his arms behind his head. "You like the vaultie so much, go cuddle up with her."

You stare. "Cooper Howard," you say, "if I didn't know better, I'd think you were jealous of the kid." He's silent, and you raise an eyebrow. "Are you?"

"No." The words is sharp, and he lifts his head to eye you. "Don't need to be jealous when I know what's mine," he rasps, "now quit bitchin' and c'mere."

You don't know what it says that you do so without fuss, settling yourself to straddle his hips as he sits up, draping your arms over his shoulders.

"There," you snip, adjusting to flick at the rim of his hat. "Better?"

He watches you with eyes as dark as an oil spill, and you don't miss the flick to your mouth and back up. "Gettin' there."

You snort. "You know," you murmur, tone dropping lower, "if you wanted to kiss me, all you gotta do is ask."

He smirks, the flash of his teeth. "Where's the fun in that, sugar? I like the chase. Besides," he lowers his tone, leans in further, "you're the one bitchin' when we can share this sad excuse for a bed. And the way I see it, you're gettin' the better deal anyways."

You roll your eyes, act like you're annoyed ㅡ but the way you don't tell him to shove it or get off of him speaks volumes enough.

Poetically, it starts raining just as you kiss him. The fingertip drum of it on the roof, sour-sweet smell of it that still reaches you because this isn't a real bedroom, just some shitty excuse for it. Doesn't matter, because this is far better than the kisses you've stolen over the last few days when you're absolutely certain Lucy isn't watching either of you.

Cooper seems to think so too for the way he deepens the kiss, cups your face as he nips at your lower lip and licks into your mouth when they part.

He squeezes at your hips, snakes his fingers back under your shirt, pinches and tugs and maps until you're squirming in his lap as he shoves your shirt off completely. He pulls, coaxes you into an arch that lets him mouth at your ribs, nip and sow sparks of pleasure in your veins as he leaves little patches of bruised pink skin in his wake.

He likes marking you, he realizes, the subtle claim without him having to say it. Mine.

He welcomes the grind of your hips against his, your body soft in all the ways that his isn't, filling in the cracks and rounding out all his sharp edges until he can't think of anything but getting his hands on you properly.

The pop of the button on your jeans is easy, the slip of his hand deliberate ㅡ you're louder this time, covered by the storm above as you whine and moan and buck into his hand and the sinful, clever work of his fingers.

And then just as you're about to crest that wave of pleasure, he stops. Smirks at the way you glare, taps your nose with his other hand. "You know you don't get nothin' for free around here, sugar."

He's teasing though, pushes you back to work his belt open, pants down ㅡ then dragging you back over him. Groans, tips his head back at the teasing glide of you before he's adjusting to line himself up and guiding you down.

The gasp he gets is music to his ears, nearly lost to the gutteral, hissed noise he makes himself at the tight, warm squeeze of you around his length. His eyes roll, and he bucks his hips up.

"C'mon sweet thing," he rasps, "don't make me do all the work. Ride for me."

The rhythm is stilted for the way he grips your hips anyways, reluctant to let you pull off of him too much ㅡ but it still feels good. Your breath matches the staccato movement, hands splayed on his chest for balance and head thrown back, looking for all the world like some sort of dedication to a long gone diety that he'd gladly worship to the end.

And he does still, reverence to the way he touches, kisses, bites ㅡ throbbing vitality in your veins calling to him, sweet siren song wrapped in those plush lips of yours. Soft skin squeezed under his fingers, forgiving for all the ways he can't be gentle, desperate as he is.

It's the throttled clamp of your warmth that says you're coming undone, gooey and wet and warm in all the right ways that has him clutching at you, cursing as his hips jerk and he fills you, mouthing at your pulse point as he does.

Heavy breathing sets the undertone of the roll of thunder outside crumbling walls, rapid beat of two hearts, and there's something dangerously soft, romantic in the way he lets you melt into him.

You drape over him, whisper soft kisses to his cheek, his jaw, his mouth until he kisses you back, slowly, selfishly, dangerously sweet.

"You," he tells you, "are absolutely no good for me." He slings an arm over your waist, softens the bite until it's nonexistent.

After all, what's one more vice?

ㅡ

In the morning, the four of you leave ㅡ there's a lot of ground to cover, after all. Lucy walks beside you, Dogmeat and Cooper just a few feet ahead.

"So," she begins conversationally, "what're those marks on your neck from?"

To your credit, you neither flinch nor blush, busy yourself with fussing with something at your hip. "Mosquitos."

Lucy hums. "That's funny, didn't realize mosquitos got so big. Best be careful then, huh?"

[lucid-romances]

The Family Ranch

Spencer Reid x Fem Reader

The reader takes Spencer home to meet her family.

Word Count: 1k

Genre: Fluff

A/N: Remember when he told JJ he wanted to be a cowboy? I remember.

Spencer drives slowly, his hands gliding over the steering wheel of his Volvo Amazon, which had seen better days.  He rolls down the windows, and his unmanaged curls get caught in the summer breeze. They become a crown framing his face, kept from his eyes solely by the pair of sunglasses that shielded them.  The road had long since turned from smooth pavement to trails of gravel inlined with dirt.  (Y/N)'s childhood home hides behind valleys and hills, a small ranch tucked away from the rest of the world. 

They can see the pasture of cows before they see the house, and (Y/N) sits at attention, crooning at the many calves shepherded by their mothers and kept in line by a Great Pyrenees.  The dog turns to watch the car tumble down the road but doesn't dare to leave his post. 

The sun is high in the sky, it's a hot day for Virginia,  and (Y/N)'s already rolling up the cuffs of her jeans to prepare for time in the mud. Spencer watches her from the corner of his eye, pleasantly surprised to see her shuck off the professionalism she had to wear at the BAU. 

They pass by a mailbox, its white metal covered in years' worth of colorful handprints.  "Excited to be home?" He asks, not for the first time, in a tone sweeter than honey. 

The Volvo lurches to a stop, and the screen door of her parent's house opens before she can respond. The words are unnecessary because she's out of the car before he can count to three and scooping up an eight-year-old boy in her arms.  Spencer recognized him from pictures, with his freckled skin and outcrop of curly hair.  His flannel was two sizes too big for him, a lizard sat in the pocket of his overalls, and as (Y/N) would say, he was undeniably Daniel. 

"You've gotten so big!" (Y/N) says as Spencer retrieves their bags from the trunk.  He had his reservations about staying the night with her family.  Mostly, he worried they wouldn't like him, but if they were anything like the girl he'd started to consider a permanent life with, he knew he would come to love them just as much. 

"Maybe you've just gotten shorter, Auntie." Daniel teases, and Spencer notices he has (Y/N)'s smile. 

"You think? No, it's all you, kiddo, you're growing up on me!"  (Y/N) hugs the boy again, finally letting herself miss her family after living in Quantico for the past year.  "Do you remember Spencer? You spoke on the phone." 

Daniel's gaze sweeps over the older man as he approaches, squinting at the dress shirt and slacks he wore, unaware of how casually Spence happened to be dressed compared to usual.  "Everyone is excited to meet you." 

"Are they?" Spencer's heart soars. "I'm excited to meet you all too! Who is your friend?"  

Daniel pulls the lizard from his pocket and holds it aloft to Spencer, giving him a view of the spotted Bearded Dragon, rough to the touch. "His name is Dash." 

"Well, it's nice to meet you, Dash.  Did you know that Bearded Dragons are one of the few lizards who will mimic other creatures?" Spencer tilts his head to stick out his tongue, and when Dash reciprocates, Daniel takes a surprised step back. 

"Woah! You have to come show my mom!"  

When Daniel takes off towards the house, (Y/N) loops her arm around Spencer's. "You're good at that." 

"What's that?" 

"Kids." 

Spencer shrugs, unwilling to admit that he finds children easier to talk to than most adults. "That's just because Dash vouched for me." 

"A pretty cool guy, that Dash."  (Y/N) plays along, leading Spencer inside as Daniel approaches a woman at the stove.  Her light hair contrasts (Y/N)'s, but they share the same eyes.  She watches with patience that only a mother could know as Daniel tries several times to get Dash to stick out his tongue.  When it finally works, the woman offers him a beaming smile before acknowledging the couple in the doorway. 

"The FBI has finally released my baby sister back to us humble cattle ranchers? Bestill my beating heart!"  The woman, who Spencer knew to be Amelia, crosses the room to pull her sister into a bone-crushing hug.  Spencer has to let (Y/N) go to allow this, but he isn't out of the woods yet.  Amelia appraises him, trailing her gaze from his head to his toes.  "He's cuter in person." 

"Amy!" 

"What? You don’t mind, do you, Spencer? I'm just repeating the things (Y/N)’s said about you." 

Spencer beams, his gaze flickering between the two siblings.  Their dynamic reminded him of how Derek continues to tease him daily. "Not at all. I hope everything she says about me is half as nice." 

"Like you wouldn't believe! 'His eyes are so dreamy. I love it when-'"  (Y/N) cuts off the embarrassing stories, most from when she first started working at the BAU and barely knew Spencer as an acquaintance.  She shoves Amelia back towards the stove, threatening to knock a pan of homemade chicken noodle soup from the burner.  "Hey, hey! Chasing serial killers has made you violent! MA!" 

Amelia raises her voice so she’s heard in the recesses of the house, and not a few moments later, an older woman comes skidding into the room.  She has the same friendly deposition as her daughters. Her skin’s notably wrinkled from years of hard labor, but there's a kindness in her eyes that Spencer can't ignore.  "What's all the fuss about? (Y/N)! When did you get here?" 

The mother and daughter close the distance between themselves.  Spencer can't help noticing how tightly (Y/N) clings to her parent as if proving all her sleepless nights- fearing that she would never see them again- wrong.  

"Hey, Ma," she finally says, after moments trickling into minutes.  "I brought a boy home." 

Everyone calls her Ma, even the people down the valley in the closest town, but Spencer knows her name is Beth.  Against his better judgment, he holds his hand out to her, expecting a polite handshake to break the ice, yet he's not surprised when he's pulled into a hug. "Doctor Reid!"  She greets him with an open welcomeness he isn’t used to. "We're so excited to have you finally join us. I hope you don't mind roughing it out here." 

"Spencer, please, and not at all!  Your home is lovely, and so is your family." 

"Well, that’s very kind of you! You've both made it in time for lunch. Why don't you get comfortable while I find your father?” Beth excuses herself before the couple can respond. 

Spencer finds himself at the dining room table, served a bowl of soup while having a riveting conversation with Daniel about the local reptile population.  He was more comfortable in (Y/N)'s childhood home than expected, and even as the rest of her family settled to join them for their meal, he couldn't help holding her hand beneath the table. 

[adore-laur]

BULLSEYE: PART ONE

— a lonely small-town boy meets a demure city girl (this series is unfinished)

| The Boy | 

Morning fog drifts throughout Lurgashall, West Sussex. Doves faintly coo in the dense forest. The sound of the rushing river nearby gives life to the rural landscape. The pathway is hugged by trees on both sides, weeping willows and broadleaf evergreens bending over the gravel as if to greet passersby. The sky is a silky shade of periwinkle, and the sun gently grapples to peek out from behind a sheet of looming stratus clouds. Squirrels and hares race through the thicket to rustle and stir up insects. The crickets will soon chirp and wake the rest of the sleeping nature around them. 

Distant footsteps crunch rock fragments with each stride, the approaching noise startling the birds as they scatter away to their homes nestled in the slim branches above. A boy whom the townsfolk know as Harry is the product of the sound. His intriguing and mysterious presence always makes itself known, even to placid wildlife. Unless he's with his father, of course. In those moments, he's a silent shadow in the background of the older man's domineering limelight. 

As the steps grow louder, creatures turn their heads to observe the boy's blue, melancholy aura that walks the timeworn path every dawn. He holds a metal bucket filled to the brim with fresh water from the stream. It's heavy but no challenge for his strong arms. He ventures down the winding trail, disrupting the pebbles with each clunky trudge of his steel-toed boots. Atop his head is a cowboy-esque hat made of straw, and his freshly showered hair, damp and curly, makes an appearance underneath as it dries with assistance from the crisp breeze. His long legs are clad in light-wash jeans, and his upper half is covered with a cream-colored button-up. He leaves it open over a trusty white tank top, the fabric sticking to his perspiring chest. Humidity is starting to make its presence known, and he wishes autumn would arrive faster. He despises summer for his own repressive reasons. 

Harry is not a cowboy by any means. He's what people would instead consider a rancher. His father had once told him that there was a significant difference. A rancher doesn't wrangle cattle or compete in barrel racing. They don't herd sheep or wear chaps. Nor do they own a lasso or race horses for profit. No, Harry takes care of the horses. He nurtures them by feeding, grooming, and riding them across the village fields. He speaks to them when he locks the stable up at night, telling them about the newest baby born in tiny Lurgashall or the fawn he saw grazing in the pasture. 

He works at his father's ranch. It provides services such as horseback riding and equestrian lessons. His father handles the latter, having grown up in the village his entire life and acquiring decades of experience. On the other hand, Harry helps with the guided horse tours by visiting the picturesque countryside a few times daily with a group of locals or tourists. They travel the paths overrun with blossoming flowers and satiny grass matted down by hoof prints. Farthest out on the tour, they stop at beautifully eroded rock formations on the hill and soak in the expanse of the sky.

It never gets old, yet the boy still feels stuck. He's caught up in a constant cycle of living the same day repeatedly, always ending with desolation crawling into his lonely heart that so desperately wants to be loved. It doesn't help that he doesn't have many friends, not that it's such a horrible thing. However, living in a place with a whopping population of six hundred people leaves him relatively isolated. He doesn't mind, though. He's grown used to going home to his cabin in the woods and having the entire place to do as he pleases. He can play his records as loud as he wants. He can get drunk off cheap whiskey and dance around his living room, thinking about all the things he should have said and done in his past. He can fall asleep under his quilted blanket and dream of flying through the sky, his fingers sweeping through the soft grass of foreign fields he wishes to visit one day. 

When Harry does manage to hang around other people, it's usually at the singular pub in Lurgashall. It's small, with a rustic, sixteenth-century interior and matching decor that comforts him. He walks there from his cabin or the stables, either chosen way taking less than ten minutes, and admires the scenic view of the whole journey. 

Whenever he steps through the doorway, he comes alive. Talking to strangers and locals, listening to their stories with endless questions bubbling up inside him. He sometimes rides his horse there and ties it to the porch fence, then excuses himself from the pub for a moment to feed them a carrot that he always keeps in his satchel. Hogging the jukebox by playing Dolly Parton back-to-back until a drunk man yells at him to pick something else. Harry will often go behind the bar and help serve drinks to the patrons, charming them with his infectious smile, never forgetting to undo a couple of extra buttons on his shirt to attract anyone interested. Someone usually is, but he never acts on their flirtatious exertions. Harry prefers going back to his cabin alone with rosy cheeks and a dizzy head. His father calls him a dry-as-dust introvert with how much time he spends in solitude. So be it, the boy thinks. He's doing perfectly fine on his own. 

Harry's favorite thing to do at the pub is partake in a game of darts. He claims he could be a professional one day and travel the world, knocking down any competition far and wide with ease. He'll play by himself for hours straight with complete focus and a light buzz coursing through his blood from the beer or whiskey he drinks. The local ladies will watch while whistling and cheering him on. It feeds his narcissism nicely. Then he'll stumble home and crash on his bed, getting no more than four hours of sleep before dragging his feet to work the following morning with a headache and a feeling of existential dread about the stand-still life that his father gave him. Needless to say, the boy has some unresolved daddy issues. 

That's not to say Harry isn't fond of where he lives and works. He loves horses and showing people the beauty of his hometown. He doesn't mind waking up at dawn to sit with the horses after completing his duties. He'll bring his sketchbook and pencils and draw potential ideas for tattoos. 

Oh, don't even get him started on tattoos. His father hates them, so Harry gets dozens out of pure spite. His arms are covered with ink inspired by his own drawings. He will often tattoo himself with his gun and supplies in a drawer at his cabin since the nearest tattoo parlor is an entire town away. He honestly can't get enough. The feeling of the needle piercing his flesh brings him a painfully addictive pleasure he hasn't found anywhere else. 

It's six in the morning when Harry walks into the main stable. He hears the familiar sound of hooves clopping against the wooden planks. This is where he can stop thinking about everything wrong in his life. This is where he goes to get away from his father's disapproving demeanor. This is where he can reminisce about his mother, his angel in the sky guiding him toward better days. 

—— 

| The Girl | 

It takes just under an hour to drive from Portsmouth to Lurgashall. There's green everywhere, a pleasant change from the grey city. Boundless fields and forests seclude the cozy, spaced-out cottages and farmhouses along the road. It's technically not even a road; it's simply a gravel path looping throughout the village. 

Cramped in a car with three other people, it's becoming hard to breathe with the muggy air wafting in because someone insisted on rolling the windows down. It's almost comical to think about how city girls could survive staying here for a week after being conditioned to traffic and bumping into people on concrete streets. 

The girl, who suburbanites know as Shyla, has friends who insisted they travel to the countryside to temporarily flee their swarmed hometown of Portsmouth. They quite literally threw a dart on a map of England to determine the destination. Lo and behold, it hit the microscopic region of Lurgashall. 

Eight square miles. Six hundred residents. She's absolutely dreading it. 

Shyla was left out of the trip planning. She also wasn't given the option to ride shotgun in the car. Now, she's on the way to go horseback riding at a ranch when her friends know she's never ridden one before and has absolutely no desire to. The guided horseback tour is private for the four girls. Shyla is thankful for that since she doesn't want strangers laughing at her inability to steer a horse properly. Needless to say, the girl doesn't have a great support system. 

See, Shyla is lonely even when she's around her friends. They ignore her and leave her out of conversations. They only hang out with her when they need something out of it — a designated driver, money, or someone to tease. Shyla is fed up, to be honest, but she's too terrified of confrontation. She doesn't want to lose the only people she has left. 

Once the ranch comes into view, Shyla feels her heart sink with an anchor of anxiousness. From the backseat window, she admires the rolling hills that expand as far as the eye can see. Behind the ranch is a fenced pasture connected to the stables. Horses are tied up, chewing on hay and stomping their hooves, causing dust to swirl in the stale air. 

Gravel crunches under the car's wheels as they slow down. No parking spots are marked, so they park in front of the wraparound porch. The ranch building is cute, with its horseshoe hanging above the front door and the crooked wooden sign that reads Styles Stables. 

Shyla thinks maybe this won't be so bad after all. The exterior atmosphere of the place seems inviting enough. She wonders how the business stays afloat in such a small town, especially since there are currently no other cars. The owner will be in for a surprise when a group of girls from the city asks to ride their horses. Her friends can be obnoxious sometimes, so she prays they won't embarrass her and make anyone's job more difficult. 

They all clamber out of the car and stumble toward the front door on legs that haven't been used for a while. Shyla strays behind, trying to get fresh air in her lungs. Plummeting apprehension has suddenly hit her. 

The door is already open, revealing a naturally lit room. Shyla is the last one to step inside, and she's taken aback by the overpowering smell of sawdust and leather. It's a spacious area with creaky wooden floors decorated with only a rustic bench and a shabby front desk. There are two men behind it. One has grey hair that shines from the sunlight pouring through the window. The other has curly brown hair. Their backs are turned, and they seem to be poring over a stack of papers. 

One of Shyla's friends rings the silver service bell to get their attention. The silver-haired man slowly turns around with a stoic expression and studies each person. He seems intimidating right off the bat. Suddenly, he snaps his fingers at the other person behind the counter. The boy flinches slightly and silently hurries out the back door. Without a word, the older man slides four waivers toward them. They paid beforehand, and Shyla assumes they must not have anyone else riding today since he didn't ask for their names. 

Her three friends sit on the bench to fill them out, leaving Shyla to remain standing and write on the splintered surface of the desk. After they finish, they give the papers to the man. Shyla gets negative vibes from him. It's no wonder no one comes here; the owner is the most off-putting person she's ever met. 

Then he speaks. A low, gruff voice thunders when he says, "Harry, my son, will be your guide today. Go out the back door, and he'll situate everyone with a horse based on experience. Let me know if he's cranky. I'll make sure to give him a stern talking-to." 

They all nod and head to the stables. They're met with posts lining a fence that several horses, all varying colors and sizes, are tied to with rope. Shyla's eyes start watering from the dryness outside—or maybe from fear. 

The boy, who Shyla now knows as Harry, carries saddles out and begins setting them on a few select horses. She has an unobstructed view of him now, so she takes in his outfit, consisting of a beige button-up with a brown leather jacket over it and jeans with a hole just below each of his knees. His hair is almost parted down the middle, with some loose curls hanging over his forehead, and there's faint stubble growing above his lips and along his jaw. 

Once the horses have saddles on, Shyla watches Harry lead a tall, sleek black horse in front of the girls. Shyla guesses it's the one he'll be riding since it doesn't have a saddle on, and it looks daunting. He ties it to the entrance gate leading to the trail, then brings another horse out. He's silent the entire time, and Shyla thinks he might actually be cranky. She's not a snitch, though. 

Harry stops in front of the girls after the four horses are tied to the fence. He clears his throat, then asks, "Has anyone here never ridden a horse before?" 

Shyla glances over to her friends and quickly realizes she's the only one who hasn't. With a hesitant raise of her arm, she indicates her inexperience. The boy locks eyes with her and nods before untying a copper-colored horse. He walks it over to Shyla while adjusting its saddle. 

"This is Quake," he explains, patting the horse's neck. "We use him for beginners. Are you comfortable mounting him by yourself?" 

"Um, I've never gotten on a horse before, so I might need some help." 

"Sure. Start by putting your left foot in the stirrup." Shyla steps into the stirrup and waits for further instruction. "Then push down on it to lift your leg up and over his body." 

He's watching her every movement. Shyla swallows her parched throat. She does what he says and hoists her leg to stretch uncomfortably over Quake's wide body, then sets her feet in both stirrups and holds onto the saddle's horn. She peeks over at her friends to see if they'll be proud of her, but they're all too distracted taking pictures on their phones. She tries not to let it bother her. 

"Do your feet feel loose at all?" Harry asks, placing the reins in her grasp. 

"They feel a bit loose, yeah. I also feel like they're too low. Sorry, I'm short." She doesn't know why she's apologizing. She just feels bad for being a beginner and wasting everyone's time. Her friends are obviously bored while waiting for her. 

"All right, let me fix those for you." He grabs the left stirrup and pulls the strap to tighten and lift it, his fingers grazing Shyla's ankle. She almost shivers at the touch. He goes over to fix the other one and gives her a questioning thumbs-up. She hastily nods to confirm they're better. 

"What's your name?" he mumbles as he adjusts Quake's bridle. 

She almost forgets it but manages a quiet murmur of "Shyla." 

"Shyla. Pretty name." Harry puts his hands on his hips. "So, if you want to steer right or left, just turn the reins in that direction. The hand you write with holds the reins, but you can use two if you're more comfortable that way. If you want to slow down or stop, gently pull the reins back. Quake is a good horse, so there shouldn't be any problems. Going downhill, you want to lean back. Going uphill is when you'll lean forward. If Quake stops moving, just lightly kick his side. Let's see... always sit up straight, but keep your body relaxed. No need to worry about trotting or accidental running since he's our most easy-going horse. He doesn't get spooked much." He exhales, eyes squinting from the sun. "That's it, I think. Any questions?" 

Shyla shifts in the saddle, overwhelmed by all the rules. "No, I should be fine. Thank you." 

"No problem." He hikes his thumb over his shoulder. "Quake will just stand still for right now, so I'll get everyone else set up." 

Once everyone is on their designated horses, Harry unties his horse and gracefully mounts it. He then takes his leather jacket off and hangs it over the fence post, skillfully turning his horse around to lead the front of the line. 

"Okay," he says, looking at everyone. "Since Shyla hasn't done this before, I'll have her ride behind me. Sound good?" 

The girls all nod their heads. Harry opens the rusty gate and gets his horse to start walking by clicking his tongue, causing the other horses to follow suit. Shyla sees him twist back to check on her, and she smiles softly to show she's good. He just bows his head and stares straight ahead again. 

Shyla doesn't remember what she was ever anxious about. 

—— 

| The Boy | 

Harry has concluded that the girl behind him is catastrophically pretty. He finds himself looking back at her every so often to make sure she's all right, and each time he does, she grants him an innocent smile paired with eyes the color of chestnuts. 

Harry has also concluded that her friends are absolute shit. They won't stop gabbing about city gossip with their whiny voices. He thanks his lucky stars that they're not behind him; otherwise, he would be seconds away from getting his horse to kick them off. The girl not being annoying, who Harry now knows as Shyla, is reserved and respectful. Whenever he subtly steals a glance at her, she's admiring the nature around her and petting Quake's neck with a delicate hand. 

When they finally reach the rock formations, everyone gets off their horse to stretch their legs and appreciate the view. This is Harry's favorite part. He likes to watch his groups be impressed with how beautiful little Lurgashall can be. 

He observes Shyla with his hands stuffed in his pockets. Her wide eyes scan over the rocks and endless greenery around her. For some reason, it makes his mouth twitch with a ghost of a smile. 

Five minutes pass before they begin their trip back to the stables. Shyla, who has been otherwise quiet, suddenly speaks up, much to Harry's surprise. Her friends are too busy talking about where to get dinner to join in. 

"How long have you been doing this?" she asks. 

Harry turns his head toward her momentarily before turning back and taking a deep, calming breath. He's awful at small talk unless he has alcohol in his system. He keeps his backstory vague and says, "Around a decade. I started as a guide when I was sixteen. My father built the ranch long before I was born, so I kind of had no choice but to follow in his footsteps." 

It's true he didn't have a choice, but there's a more personal side to it that he can't talk about without either crying or getting angry. It's about his mother and any fleeting thought of her begs for tears to fall. If he starts crying on a horse in front of a pretty girl, he's officially hit rock bottom. 

"Is it just you and him working at the ranch?" Shyla questions further.

His shoulders tense. "Only us," he curtly replies. Shyla must notice his discomfort because she's silent the rest of the way back. 

Eventually, they arrive at the stables. Harry smoothly dismounts his horse and walks over to help Shyla off Quake first. He reaches his hand out, and she firmly grips it while swinging her leg over and hopping onto the ground. His thumb lightly strokes the back of her hand before he lets go. If she feels it, she doesn't let it show. 

As Shyla dusts off her pants, Harry glimpses at her friends, who are getting off their horses and taking more pictures of themselves. Irritation simmers inside of him. They could at least pretend to care about her. 

He shakes the thought from his head and coughs gingerly into his fist before mumbling, "Have a nice day, Shyla," and bidding farewell with a two-finger salute. 

Again, he's awful at making conversation. He gets nervous, especially when mesmerizing brown eyes give him a tenderhearted look he hasn't seen since his mother left him. 

—— 

| The Girl | 

Shyla and her friends have decided to go out for cocktails tonight. Much to everyone's disappointment, there's only one pub in Lurgashall to choose from, but it'll have to do. They drove aimlessly after horseback riding since the checkout time for the inn they are staying at isn't until tomorrow morning. The girls are terrible at planning, so they have no other option but to sleep in the car tonight. It's going to be hell. 

It's ten o'clock when they walk through the threshold. Shyla's view is instantly bombarded with people chatting, dancing, and drinking in every corner of the confined space. Her friends are already heading toward the bar to order drinks. Shyla lingers behind and soaks in the lively environment. Friendly smiles fleetingly greet her. Bony limbs accidentally elbow her. Boisterous laughs invitingly lure her in. 

As her curious eyes scan the room, she quickly spots a familiar face. Harry, the boy from the ranch, is in the far corner, standing next to a retro jukebox. He's wearing his brown leather jacket from earlier with no shirt underneath, and several tattoos can be seen in the dim lighting of the pub. He nurses what looks like a glass of whiskey or bourbon in his hand as he slowly sways to the song playing. He's mouthing the lyrics with his head tilted back. Shyla recognizes the song as "You're the Only One" by Dolly Parton. She flits her gaze away so he doesn't catch her gawking. 

The mix of conversations around her on top of Dolly's smooth-as-butter voice creates an ambiance that eases her anxiety. Clinking glasses and the sudden outburst of hysterics make her want to participate in the drunken bubbles. Walking over to the bar, Shyla finds an open stool to sit on when Harry suddenly slides behind the counter with a beaming smile and dilated pupils. She stares at him for a while, trying to understand how quickly he noticed her. Now, his tattooed torso is right in front of her, and she thinks he's one of the most attractive people she's ever seen. 

"Hi!" Harry cheerfully greets, blowing a curly strand of hair away from his face. Shyla can immediately sense that he's a bit tipsy. 

"Hey," she says awkwardly. "Um, do you work here?" 

"I don't work here," he slurs with a smug raise of eyebrows. "But I can make you anything your heart desires." 

Oh, so tipsy Harry is an entirely different person. Got it! 

"Could I please get a lime margarita?" she asks, his intense eye contact making her flush. 

He winks as he grabs a glass from under the counter. "Coming right up, Miss Shyla." 

She's shocked he remembers her name as she watches him run a lime wedge along the rim of the glass and skillfully coat it in salt. After that, he pours the liquid ingredients into a mixer filled with ice and then shakes it like a professional bartender. His stomach muscles flex as he does so, and his tongue pokes the inside of his cheek in concentration. Shyla wonders how he's so good at making drinks if he doesn't work here. 

Once he pours the concoction into her glass, he kisses the lime wedge and garnishes the rim. Lifting it in a cheers gesture, he slides it toward her. Who is this man? He can't be the same one she met earlier today. 

"Thanks," Shyla mumbles meekly. She takes a sip and puckers her lips at the sour taste. 

Harry's palms cradle his cheeks, his elbows resting on the counter. He has a cute smile on his face as he watches her expression. He looks like a kid in a candy store, his dimples deep enough to build a dreamland in them. 

"I'm tipsy," he admits, his mouth barely moving. "Apologies if it's not my best work." He stands up straight with a slight sway. "Hey, do you know how to play darts? I can teach you. Not to brag, but I'm pretty decent." 

Shyla peeks at the dart board snug in the corner of the pub. She's never played before, and her friends probably don't care that she's not with them, so she nods, grabs her drink, and heads over. Harry shuffles around the counter to walk beside her. He smells like pine trees with a hint of something floral. 

They reach the board, and Harry leans against it with his ankles crossed. He takes a dart and points it at her. "So," he says, "the simplest version we can play is 301. Easy rules. We each start with 301 points, yeah? The goal is to reach zero; to do that, we have to try to land the dart on high numbers to get there before each other. We subtract the scores each round, and whoever gets there first wins. However, if you go past zero, you bust out and have to reset your score to what it was when you started your last turn." 

Shyla's sure she'll be terrible at it, but at least it'll be something fun to do while her friends get hammered without her. She takes a gulp from her margarita to get some liquid courage churning, then sets her glass on a nearby stool and grabs a dart, the only pink one in a bundle of red and blue ones. She stands a decent distance away from the board. 

"Is there a certain way to throw it?" she wonders aloud, spinning the dart between her fingers. 

Harry tuts. "I'm not supposed to help you since we're competing, but yes, there is. Here, let me show you." He stands behind her, his bare chest resting against her back. His cologne and presence dangerously invade all of her senses. 

"See the white line in front of you?" he says, his warm breath heating her ear. "It's called the oche. You can't step over it, or you'll be disqualified. Your feet need to be hip-width apart behind it, okay?" Shyla spreads her feet to the appropriate length. "Keep your feet at that width and then turn sideways to face the board," he adds. She does as Harry says. He continues, "Place every finger except your pinky on the barrel of the dart. Toward the front of it." Shyla attempts to mimic his direction. "Ah, ah, ah. Not too firmly. Try not to curl your fingers. Keep them long and open." 

She readjusts her fingers on the dart, then turns her head to meet Harry's eyes. He licks his lips and nods. "Good girl. Now raise the dart to eye level with your elbow at a ninety-degree angle." Shyla feels him lightly grip her wrist to raise it as he bends her elbow. "Just like that." 

Fuck. Her skin is on fire, surely. 

"Now tilt the end upwards a bit," he murmurs, his thumb stroking her elbow, "but don't let the tip drop too far down. Then aim it right at the bullseye. Is this your first time throwing a dart?" 

Shyla swallows. "Yes. Sorry if I end up putting a hole in the wall." 

Harry hums a low chuckle. "Trust me, you won't. So, what you'll do now is use your dominant eye to aim. You held the reins at the ranch with your right hand, so I'm assuming you're right-handed?" 

He remembered. Is that the bare minimum? Shyla can't think straight when she can feel every single one of his breaths against her neck. She manages to squeak out an affirmation. 

"Okay. Keep your right eye open and close the other one. Then pull your hand back and keep your shoulders motionless as you throw it." Harry's hands place themselves on her shoulders. She tenses but relaxes instantly when he gives them an assuring squeeze. "Place weight on your foot closest to the board when you throw, but don't lean or sway. Stay as still as possible." 

"All right," Shyla whispers. "Then I just throw it forward, right?" 

"Snap your wrist forward, not downward, as you release it. And always remember to follow through with the motion." 

He removes his hands from her shoulders and tucks in the tag from the neckline of her shirt. Has that been out the entire day? How embarrassing. 

Shyla clears her throat and gets ready to aim. She closes her left eye and keeps her shoulders still like Harry said. She then lightly pushes her foot closest to the board and snaps her wrist to release the dart. 

Not quite a bullseye, but pretty damn close. In Shyla's peripheral, she sees Harry whistle by sticking his pointer and middle finger in his mouth. He removes them and claps slowly but not mockingly; he looks thoroughly impressed. Shyla curtsies and takes a sip of her drink. 

It's Harry's turn, so he takes a red dart and stances up behind the line. Before he gets any further, Shyla can't help but ask, "How do you play when you're tipsy? Won't your hand-eye coordination get messed up?" 

Closing one eye, he pokes his tongue out in concentration and gracefully releases the dart. It hits the bullseye. He glances at her and smiles lopsidedly. "Practice makes perfect, darling." 

She's stunned by his perfect aim as he removes the two darts and then writes down both scores on the nearby chalkboard. When he faces her, he spreads his arms out and arrogantly shrugs. 

"You're good," Shyla compliments, breathing out a laugh and clapping. 

"All in a day's work," he replies, gesturing his hands like he's dusting them off. 

Shyla is about to grab another dart when Harry suddenly gasps. "You're Still the One" by Shania Twain starts playing from the jukebox. She really enjoys the song, too. She's not tipsy enough to dance around like everyone else, but when Harry holds his hand out for her to take, she can't refuse. 

"What about our dart game?" she asks, taking his warm and calloused hand. He twirls her and brings her into his chest, beginning to sway them to the romantic song. One hand in hers, the other gravitating to her waist. 

"Nothing else matters when Shania comes on. You'll have to stop by again so we can finish." 

"Already trying to get me to come back, huh? I'm only here for a week, so you better make it worth it." 

She hopes that came across as flirty. The margarita in her bloodstream is doing wonders for her boldness. 

Harry's eyebrows dip sadly. "You're only here for a week?" 

Shyla's unoccupied fingers graze along his abdomen. His skin is soft but somehow firm. "I'm from Portsmouth, which is about an hour southwest. I'm here on a girl's trip." 

"Oh, a trip with your shitty friends?" he says monotonously as he looks over at them. They're taking shots and talking way too loudly. "Sounds absolutely riveting." 

Shyla's mouth clamps shut. Had he really noticed that they mistreated her? Is it obvious? 

"I mean, it's been fine so far. They're just a little more outgoing than me." 

"Bullshit. They treat you like rubbish, and I've known you for less than a day." 

Shyla is quiet because she knows he's right. If she can see it, why can't anyone else? She's in this boy's arms, touching his skin, and she feels more comfortable with him than the girls she's been friends with for years. Is that wrong? Or is this a feeling she shouldn't fight? 

Shyla stares into his glassy eyes and then down at his lips. Something is magnetizing about him. He pulls her in and makes her feel seen.

"Do you want to come back to my place?" Harry asks, just loud enough to hear over the music and chatter. "I have a jacuzzi, or we could listen to records and dance some more." 

"I would really like that," Shyla says, releasing herself from his proximity. "Um, let me go tell my friends." 

"Screw them." He catches her hand before she can leave, pulling her back. "Just come with me. They're too plastered to notice you'll be gone." 

Shyla thinks they wouldn't notice even if they weren't plastered. "Okay," she gives in, playing with his fingers. "Are there taxis here? Maybe an Uber?" 

Harry laughs, his nose wrinkling as his hand rests on his stomach. "I'm afraid taxis in Lurgashall are nonexistent." He gently picks an eyelash off Shyla's cheek. "Listen, it's a ten-minute walk to my cabin. We can get to know each other on the way there." 

She doesn't have to contemplate. "Let's go." 

—— 

| The Boy & The Girl | 

On the journey to his cabin, Harry sobers quite quickly. Shyla had a few sips of her margarita, so there was only a faint buzz coursing through her veins. They talked about what it was like growing up in their respective hometowns and their favorite music artists. He's a Dolly Parton fan, and she's obsessed with Blondie. 

They round the corner of the main path, his arm slung around her shoulder. When the cabin comes into view, Shyla's breath hitches. It's a black A-frame structure with a wooden balcony. The jacuzzi Harry mentioned is surrounded by potted plants. The place is completely secluded in the forest, with no other houses visible for miles. 

Harry guides her up the stairs and to the front door, opening it for her. He reaches for the light switch, and the room lightens as they enter. To their left, there's a kitchen, a cozy and compact area with a small island and a counter along the wall. A tilted window panel is angled over the sink, providing a glimpse of the pine trees outside. 

His living room is opposite the kitchen. It has a leather couch, a rustic fireplace, and rugs scattered across the floor. Along the wall is a bookshelf packed with all sorts of titles. On the other wall, there are shelves filled with records, and under them is a vintage record player. The wallpaper is old-fashioned, with picture frames holding minimalistic paintings of roses, daisies, and orchards. 

A rickety staircase leads to a loft area where his bedroom is. It fits a queen-sized bed and a square wooden bathtub next to it. String lights hang along the log rafters and railing, creating an inviting and intimate ambiance. 

Harry begins removing bags off the counter in the kitchen while Shyla admires his space. "Sorry for the mess," he mumbles, putting groceries in the fridge. "I wasn't expecting anyone tonight." 

"It's okay. You have such a beautiful home." Shyla hopes she's not intruding when she asks, "Is it just you that lives here?" 

"Just me. And my horse on occasion." Harry is suddenly nervous. It's been so long since someone was in his home. Does she think it's odd that he lives in a cabin alone in the woods? Does she think he's a loser for having a bookshelf stuffed with romance novels? 

"I would kill to live here," Shyla says, disproving his insecurities. "Living by yourself sounds so nice. I have to live in a congested apartment with one of my friends you saw today." 

"Hmm," he hums while slowly walking toward her. "That's a shame." 

"It's fine. Once I get my degree, I'm going to find somewhere to live on my own." 

He stops in his tracks. This girl keeps surprising him. "Yeah? What do you study?" he asks as he changes his course and strides over to his record player. 

She joins him and replies, "Psychology. I want to be a school counselor." 

"Shit... you're quite clever, then. Have you been trying to psychoanalyze me all night?" 

"From what I can tell, you're a very composed person. At least on the outside." She begins sifting through his records. There's ABBA, Supertramp, Stevie Nicks, and Pat Benatar. He's an old soul.

Harry stays silent at her assumption as he takes a black record out of its sleeve and carefully sets it on the turntable. He moves the needle to a specific spot, and a crackling song eventually filters through: "My Girl (My Love)" by Dolly Parton. It's her slowed-down version of the original song by The Temptations. 

Leaning his hip against the table, he watches Shyla take out a Stevie Nicks record. She gazes up at him and gently smiles before setting it down and closing the distance between them. Her hands innocently grasp the lapels of his leather jacket. His skin looks so smooth under the subdued lighting of the cabin, the black ink on his chest and stomach standing out. 

Shyla begins taking his jacket off, raising her eyebrows to silently ask if she can continue. He nods, so she removes it and lets it fall to the floor. Then, she drapes her arms around his bare shoulders. Harry hesitantly places his hands on her waist, swaying them to the steady music. He can't remember the last time he touched someone like this. 

He has always felt like a bullseye. Everyone tries to hit him straight in the heart and win his affection, but they miss every time. No one has gotten close. No one has wanted to get to know the real him. 

Except for Shyla. 

She hit him in the bullseye when his green eyes met her brown ones. She pierced his lonely heart, and now he's terrified because he knows he'll mess it up. He's forgotten how to love another person and keep a flickering spark from dying. He takes the road less traveled and refuses love before he can get hurt. 

Yet he craves it like a greedy beast. Every night, he becomes jealous when he goes to the pub and watches couples dance. He becomes wretched when he tipsily listens to love songs and wishes he had someone to sing with. He becomes desperate when he falls asleep and dreams of being held by someone. 

The opposing path is right in front of him, but he's scared. He should run away before it grows into something he can't control, right? That's what he's used to. But as they sway, Harry obliterates those thoughts and focuses on the present. This sweet, gorgeous girl is in his arms, and she's real. 

When the song ends, Shyla steps away and moves toward the sketch papers she noticed while dancing. She admires the unique designs; flowers, suns and moons, and minimalistic landscapes of oceans and desert views fill the pages. 

"Did you draw these?" she quietly asks as her fingertips trace the graphite. 

Harry clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. He's slightly embarrassed since no one has seen them besides himself. "Kind of. Well, yes, actually. I have a lot of tattoos, as you can see. I drew most of the ones on my skin myself." 

"These are incredible," she says, facing him. "You're so talented. What's your favorite tattoo?" 

This is what he means. She's the only one who tries to dig past the hardened shell around his heart. 

Harry spreads his left arm out and doesn't hesitate to point to a specific one above the inside of his elbow. Shyla leans in closer to read the small lettering. 

Mirror in the sky, what is love? 

"I got it for my mother," he explains, his throat tight. "She's... not with us anymore. She passed away eight years ago. Anyway, she would always play "Landslide" on her guitar when I was a kid." 

He hasn't opened up about that in years. What is this girl doing to him? 

Her fingers delicately touch the ink. Harry watches her softened eyes graze over the other tattoos on his arm. "I'm so sorry," she whispers with a sympathetic frown. "I lost both of my parents, so I understand how difficult it is." 

She rarely talks about her parents. Why is it so easy with him? 

"Shyla," Harry breathes, grabbing her wrists in comfort. "God, I'm sorry. That's awful." 

"It's okay. I was only four when it happened, so I don't remember much. But growing up with no parents was strange. I still feel lost a lot of the time." 

"Yeah, I get that. We don't have to talk about it anymore. Kind of a mood killer." 

Shyla laughs and nods. "I agree." She pauses and says, "Hey, I think I'll take you up on that jacuzzi offer you mentioned earlier." 

"You read my mind," he says before letting go of her wrists and walking toward the patio door leading to the balcony. 

When they step outside, the nighttime chill makes them shiver. Harry turns the string lights on above the circular jacuzzi tub and then presses the button to turn the water heater and jets on. The moon and twinkling stars above make the forest visible, the leaves rustling in the wind. She's glad she dressed warmly. 

Oh no. She just remembered that she doesn't have her swimsuit. It's in her luggage in the trunk of her friend's car. 

"Harry?" Shyla says timidly. 

"Yeah?" 

"Um, I don't have my swimsuit with me." 

He twists around and blinks once while checking the water temperature. "Oh. Well, that's a problem." 

"I could walk back to the pub and grab it out of my suitcase," Shyla suggests. She really doesn't want to say goodnight to him yet. 

"No, no. It's late, and you don't know your way around. I could… give you a pair of boxers to wear? Is that weird? Sorry, I shouldn't—" 

"No, that would work! If you're okay with it, of course." 

"I'll be right back." Harry shuffles back indoors, and Shyla dips her fingers in the hot, bubbling water of the jacuzzi. This night has not gone as planned, but she's not complaining. 

Moments later, Harry comes back with a folded pair of grey boxers. He shyly hands them to her before they both turn their backs to change. He first removes his shoes and jeans, then puts on a pair of white swim trunks he grabbed from his dresser. He usually sits in the jacuzzi completely naked, but that's neither here nor there. 

Once he's changed, he doesn't turn around in case she isn't done yet. 

Shyla puts his boxers on and decides to keep wearing her shirt. She regrets not wearing a bra tonight. She'll have to cross her arms over her chest the entire time. 

"Okay, I'm all set," she says, shifting her hair to one side. 

When Harry slowly turns around, his breathing instantly falters. She's in his boxers. It seems wrong, but so right. 

He gestures for her to get in the tub first. Seeing her curves and exposed legs makes his blood rush. Once she's in, he gets in and sits across from her. He submerges his entire body in the water except for his head as Shyla brings her knees to her chest and thinks of something to break the awkward tension. 

"Thank you for tonight," she says eventually. "And for making me a drink and teaching me how to play darts. And how to ride a horse." 

Harry rests his arms against the edge of the jacuzzi. "My pleasure. I hope I didn't mansplain darts to you. I just love playing and got excited when I got to teach someone." 

"No, it was fun. I'm totally going get a bullseye next time we play." 

"Good luck," he murmurs with a smirk as he tilts his head back and closes his eyes. "So, you're planning on coming to the pub again tomorrow?" 

"My friends will probably want to since they seemed to be having a wonderful time." Shyla rolls her eyes at the thought. "I'm sure they wouldn't care if I went alone, either." 

Harry opens his eyes and studies her face. He can't help but wonder why she's friends with such horrid people. They should appreciate her grace and kindness, not ignore her, and act like she's a burden. 

It's quiet for a few seconds before Harry sits beside her. The silence that ensues is unbearable as he brushes his arm against hers. 

Then, without warning, his pinky grazes the back of her hand under the water. It's the lightest touch, but it sets her skin ablaze. His eyes are burning holes in the side of her face. Flipping her palm so it faces up, she awaits his next move. Her heart nearly gives out when his fingers slowly walk across her palm. His thumb strays and begins stroking the crease, stretching directly underneath her own fingers. 

Enough of the tension. 

Shyla straddles Harry's right thigh and holds the sides of his neck. He stares at her, hunger and smug desire in his eyes like he wants her to initiate something.

"Is this okay?" she asks. Harry isn't saying anything, so she wants to be sure. 

"Can I ask you two things?" Harry replies, his voice low and steady. Shyla is confused, but she nods anyway. "First question: Is this okay?" His hands rest on her ass. She nods again, more eagerly. "Good. Second question: Do you want to ride my thigh?" 

Oh. Shyla was not expecting that. When she feels Harry lift his thigh to apply a slight pressure to her core, it feels heavenly. 

"I've never done it before, but I want to try," she whispers as she grinds against the defined muscle. 

Harry groans at her movement and pushes his hands on her ass to keep her grinding against him. Shyla rocks back and forth, the relief making her whimper into his neck. He keeps his thigh propped up as he runs his hands across the expanse of her back. 

"That's it," he murmurs. "Just like that." 

"It feels so fucking good," she says. Her swearing causes Harry to let out a low rumble and nip at her jaw. She doesn't even know what she's doing to him. 

"Atta girl," he praises, barely brushing his lips against hers. "Use it. Make me a mess." 

Shyla realizes they haven't kissed yet. His lips look soft and inviting, and they're right there, so she tests the waters and gently, almost hesitantly, suckles on his bottom lip. Harry smirks into it, causing their lips to part. 

She shakily exhales as she continues grinding against his thigh. "Kiss me."

He laughs at her impatience, then envelops his lips with hers. He kisses her deeply, moans getting caught in both of their throats. Shyla slows her motions down since she's close. 

Harry's tongue parts her mouth, and he inhales when she starts sucking on it. She switches to gliding her tongue under his. A fueled desire to be closer makes their teeth clash, and their hands roam near dangerous places. He lifts her and sets her over his other thigh, never breaking the kiss. A fleeting glance at her face tells him she's confused by the change, so he separates their mouth contact and squeezes her hip to get her attention. 

"I tattooed something on my thigh a couple of days ago," he says, his chest heaving. "It's still sensitive. I want you to ride it." 

Shyla doesn't waste any time as she grinds down, continuing her mission to orgasm strictly using his thigh. She can't see the tattoo he mentioned due to the cloudy water, but the thought alone makes the pressure bloom in her stomach. Harry's jaw goes slack as she rides the sensitive skin with fresh ink on it. The friction is borderline painful, but he loves it. It hurts better than any needle piercing his flesh. 

"Good girl, Shy," he whispers. His cock is throbbing at this point, straining uncomfortably under his shorts. "Gonna make me come just from watching you." 

The nickname and one last skim over his thigh has Shyla stilling and pouring her moans into Harry's ear. She feels like she's floating outside of her body as she orgasms. 

Harry, on the other hand, isn't done yet. He situates her body so that it's facing a jacuzzi jet. His arm circles around her stomach as she straddles backward on his slick thigh, the pulsating jet directly in line with her core. Shyla cries out from the sensation, her head lulling against his shoulder. Harry rubs soothing circles onto her clit through her — his — boxers as the jet stimulates everywhere else. She can't help but grind against his thigh again as another orgasm begins building. 

"Again," he encourages against her cheek. "One more for me." 

The double stimulation and his dirty talk quickly coax another orgasm out of her. Shyla's body crumbles when she releases for the second time, Harry's hands rubbing up and down her trembling thighs. 

"You did so good," he says, pulling her away from the jet. He turns her around, and she wraps her legs around his waist. 

Shyla clings to his warm body, slumping her head against his neck and breathing heavily from the adrenaline. Harry holds her and soaks in the physical intimacy he's been craving for so long. His cock is still aching, but he just wants to hold her right now. Feel her skin melt with his. Her heartbeat. Anything other than loneliness. 

After a while, Shyla removes herself from his arms and stands up on shaky legs. She steps out of the jacuzzi and looks at the sky. 

"You're leaving?" Harry asks with a hint of insecurity. 

"I should get back. My friends will be wondering where I am." 

"Ah, okay. Wait here. I'll get some towels." 

Harry hops out of the jacuzzi, his bulge on full display, and then goes inside. Water drips all over the floor as he jogs upstairs to his loft, palming at his cock to get some relief. He bites on his fist to stifle his moans as he swiftly grabs two bathroom towels he keeps by his dresser. 

Shyla's cum is on his thighs. She came twice on each of his thighs and soaked all the way through the boxers she had on. Even when he got out of the water, the result of it stayed on his skin. On his new tattoo, no less. The mental picture is unbelievably raunchy. 

When he steps back outside, he sees Shyla squeezing her shirt out. Her nipples are pebbled underneath, and he nearly passes out from the explicit sight of her casually standing before him. He snaps from his immature fantasy and hands her a towel. She dries herself off, a weird silence lingering in the air. Harry hates it. How did they go from being intimate to not knowing what to say? Will she ask to stay the night? Or will she leave him lonely like everyone else? 

He turns around when Shyla begins to remove the boxers. He nibbles on his swollen bottom lip, dries himself off, and puts his leather jacket back on. He decides to just keep his swim shorts on so he doesn't have to face the shameful reality of how she made his cock the hardest it's been in years. 

Shyla inhales sharply, making Harry turn back around. "I'm going to leave," she says, buttoning her denim shorts. "My friends are probably blackout drunk, and I need to drive them before they stupidly do it themselves." 

He nods understandingly. She's right, but that doesn't mean he wants to say goodnight to her yet. "Will you let me walk you back to the pub?" he softly asks. 

Shyla smiles and gestures for him to lead the way. He puts his shoes back on while she does the same. They then head down the stairs, Harry grabbing a lantern on the way so they can see. 

In the limited light, Shyla catches a glimpse of the tattoo on his thigh. It looks like the head of a tiger, and she notices the leg hair surrounding it is still coated with her arousal. It must not have washed off in the jacuzzi. Something fervent stirs in her stomach when she realizes he didn't even wash it off when he went back inside. 

They walk to the pub silently, and Shyla is irked by the awkwardness. Did she do this whole thing wrong? She checks her phone and sees that it's almost one a.m. 

She's about to shake every doubtful thought from her mind, but when they finally arrive at the pub, the car she rode in is gone without a trace. 

Now that's just cruel. 

Shyla takes deep breaths while swallowing her anger. It manifests as prickly heat spreading across her skin like wildfire. The inn they were going to stay at tomorrow is close by, so she could just see if she could acquire a last-minute room. It's not a big deal, right? 

Harry is furious. Who does that? He can't believe anyone would do something so disrespectful to such a kind girl. It doesn't matter if they're drunk; it's selfish and reprehensible in his eyes. 

"Stay at my place," he says abruptly, his jaw clenching. 

Shyla looks at him and shivers from the breeze. "I can't. Listen, I had a great time, but I need to figure this shit out with my friends and make sure they're okay. I'll find directions to the inn and get a room for the night." 

"Shy, I'm not letting you walk alone when there's a pub full of drunks nearby." 

That damn nickname makes her weak. 

"I carry pepper spray in my pocket. Go home and get some rest." 

Harry sets the lantern down before stressfully raking his hand through his hair. "I won't get any rest if I don't know you're safe," he says. 

"Do you have your phone with you?" Shyla asks. "I'll give you my number." 

"I- I don't use one," he mutters, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment. 

"You really should have a phone, Harry." Her posture perks up. "Wait, the pub has to have one, right? Go in there, and I'll call it when I get to the inn. Does that sound good?" 

Harry sighs and peers at the door. "Yeah, sure. But I'm gathering a search party if I don't hear from you in twenty minutes." 

"Don't worry. I know self-defense." 

"Good, but… just please be safe," he says anxiously.

"I will." Shyla begins walking down the gravel path. "I'll call the pub. Promise." 

Harry helplessly watches her leave. He should say something, maybe convince her to stay with him, kiss her, walk her to his cabin, and hold her under the covers. But he's an idiot that fucks things up every time. 

When Shyla calls the pub seventeen minutes later, Harry answers and gets his heart broken. She tells him that her aunt is picking her up tomorrow to go back to Portsmouth because she got into a nasty argument with her drunk friends over the phone on her way to the inn. 

She hangs up before he can say anything, and he can't help but feel like he just lost her. 

—— 

| The Girl | 

Shyla's aunt arrives at eight in the morning. Despite all the yelling over the phone, her friends were decent enough to drop her luggage off at the inn where she managed to get a room. 

They were smart enough to have one of them be the designated driver at the pub. As much as Shyla is beyond livid, she's relieved they're all in one piece. But she can't forgive them for leaving her without knowing where she was. 

Then there's Harry. God, she feels sick to her stomach about what happened. She hung up on him because she was frustrated. Not at him, but at her friends who had been assholes, telling her she should've told them she met someone and went home with them. Well, she technically did go home with someone, but she thinks it's common decency for friends to tell friends when they're taking the car with her belongings in it to who knows where. 

Shyla was going to wait until she calmed down to call the pub, but it would have taken too long. Harry would have gone looking for her by then, so she spoke to him in a high-strung tone and told him she was going home. She was so focused on finding someone to pick her up that she didn't get to ask him about seeing each other again.

She has no way of contacting him now unless she calls the pub again or the ranch he works at. What would she say? Would he even want to talk to her? It doesn't matter since she doesn't plan to return to Lurgashall. Her friends are still staying there for the rest of the week, and with the tiny population, she'd be bound to run into them. 

Shyla looks out the car window as the city of Portsmouth slowly fades into view. She's back where she's comfortable and ready to stay with her aunt for a few days until she finds another apartment. 

Everything will be fine. She'll forget about her friends and forget about Harry. It was just one night. She has always been replaceable. 

—— 

| The Boy | 

Why can't he just say what he means? Why did he let her walk away so easily? Why won't she leave his mind? 

Sitting in the bathtub in his loft, Harry numbly stares at the ceiling as the water's warmth consumes him. Rose bath salt tints the water pink, and petals from his mother's favorite flower float on the surface. He purchases a bouquet from the general store every week since it's the only physical remembrance he has left of her. His father got rid of everything else. 

On the table across from his bed, a record player echoes Dolly Parton's Jolene album throughout the cabin. "Lonely Comin' Down" plays, and Harry almost laughs at how the lyrics perfectly fit his forlorn mood. 

He didn't get much sleep last night after the phone call, maybe three hours interrupted by tossing and turning. He had jerked off in the bathroom, feeling unbelievably ashamed of himself. He then drowned his sorrows with whiskey until his heart became heavy enough to knock him unconscious. He woke up the following morning with a migraine and drank some more whiskey for breakfast. His soul sank when he saw the Stevie Nicks vinyl Shyla picked out still on the table. 

She won't leave his mind. Her presence lingers everywhere. 

He wallows during his bath and thinks of everything he should've said and done differently. He's drunk with blurry vision from either the alcohol or tears. He doesn't know or care. All he wants is to feel her again. Try to love her. He's known her for less than twenty-four hours, yet it feels like a lifetime. He felt it at the ranch, the pub, and the jacuzzi. She pulls something out of him that hasn't seen the light of day in so long — nervousness, desire, sensuality. Idyllic emotions that are otherwise scarce in his life. 

He has never fallen this fast before—never at all… until now. It was inevitable that he'd be an idiot and not fight for her. He let her slip through his fingers without a kiss goodbye, and now she's miles away, probably cursing his name. 

Swallowing the aching lump in his throat, Harry lets the petals in the water mend his damaged soul as tears of loneliness drip down his face. 

—— 

[violettduchess]

Hello! Congrats again on the big 1k! May I request #14 kissing to try it out + Gilbert in your Wild West AU, with a side of enemies to lovers? Or if you just wanna photoshop Gilbert's head onto a scantily-clad cowboy, that's cool too. Totes up to you! Thank you and happy writing! Yeehaw 🌵🤠🖤

A/N: Here you go @atelier-the-atelier 💜 I love that you love AUs as much as I do and I hope I did our boy proud in his first role as a cowboy 😉

A contribution to @xxsycamore and @queengiuliettafirstlady's Different Universe Same Love CCC; an entry for my 1k First Kiss Celebration with the kiss prompt: "Let's try it out"

Warning: Spoiler for Gilbert's route ⚠️

Gilbert x female Reader

WC: 2.8 k

It’s a long way from town to get to the hot springs on the very edge of Rhodolite County, but every aching muscle in your body is telling you it’ll be worth it. You would ride as far as Benitoite if it meant you could have some peace and quiet and time to recover from today. 

Sheriff Michel had been pleased with you. Single-handedly stopping a stagecoach robbery by a band of Obsidian ruffians is no small feat. Add to that the fact that you’re a woman and half a head shorter than these varmints? Hot damn. When you had shown up with the three men tied together, several with missing teeth and black eyes and one with a bullet hole in his shoulder, the sheriff’s lips had lifted in a cool smile before he nodded for them to be taken away to the county jail.

“This is why you’re Chief Deputy,” he said, offering you a satisfied nod. “Now go and take the rest of the day to recover.” It was an order, loud and clear.

And the best place to recover from an ordeal like tussling with bandits is the hot springs. You can see them now up ahead. Nestled into the narrow gap of a rocky ravine are several small pools of dark water, each one right next to the other. Above you the sky is a bright and brilliant blue, the sun shining high enough that you know you have plenty of time until nightfall. 

You slide off your horse with a grunt, then turn to pat his neck affectionately. “Go on now, Luke. Find yourself some grub.” He snorts, shaking his mane of red hair, and then wanders towards the side of the ravine where taller, darker grass is growing freely. You never worry about him coming back. He’s one of the most loyal creatures you have ever known.

Soon your clothes are folded, resting on top of a smooth, flat stone, warmed by the sun. Your worn boots, with their scuff marks like battle scars, rest on the ground beside it. You consider moving your holster and gun to a patch of ground right behind you but decide to lay it across your boots so it won’t get wet. Your hat is the last thing you remove, tossing it with casual ease so that it lands on top of your clothing, perched there like it was on display. 

You pause a second, stretching your arms up towards the endless blue of the sky, enjoying the feel of the wind as it ribbons itself around your bare body. If someone asked you what freedom feels like, it would be this. Just you and the world and nothing in between. 

Carefully you step towards the edge of the dark blue water and then lower yourself in, inch by inch. The heat engulfs you and you sink down until only your head and shoulders are uncovered. 

Good lord, if this ain’t heaven.

The warmth kneads its way across your sore muscles, untying knots and soothing aches. Your eyes fall closed and you allow your head to tip back, your throat exposed and vulnerable but you don’t care. You don’t need to worry about protecting yourself 'cause there isn’t anyone here but you and the water and a whole lot of nothing for miles.

“Now this is a sight.”

Like a bullet through muslin his voice tears through your peaceful relaxation. 

Several thoughts, wild as runaway trains, collide in your mind at the same time: No! Why? Go away! Fuck!

Forcing yourself to remain calmer than you feel, you open your eyes.

In front of you stands The Trampling Beast himself, the outlaw Gilbert von Obsidian, leader of the Obsidian gang and a wanted man from here to the Acroite territories. The gold accents on his signature black leather boots and belt buckle gleam in the sunlight. His leather-gloved hands rest casually on narrow hips, but the deadly LeMat revolver at his side is just inches away. He tips his beautiful onyx Diamond cowboy hat in greeting, smiling at you with his perfect, white teeth. He reminds you of the drawings you’ve seen of tigers in those science periodicals the schoolhouse gets delivered. 

Beautiful and dangerous as hell.

“Goddamn it, what are you doin’ here, Gilbert?”

Your voice is steady and you’re deeply grateful for the water’s opaqueness. You’re also deeply aware of how vulnerable you are, naked and trapped in the water while he’s standing there in all his black and gold glory.

He watches you with his brilliant eye, red as sundown. A black leather eyepatch covers the mystery of his left eye. All kinds of rumors live around that eyepatch: the outcome of a deadly knife fight, a childhood accident, a science experiment gone wrong in his country of birth. Part of you wonders if it isn't just a ruse, a scare tactic to intimidate his enemies. Maybe there's nothing at all under that eyepatch but a second, perfectly healthy crimson eye.

His smile never falters as he shrugs, the motion far too performative for your liking.

“The same thing you are, I imagine. Looking for a place to recover from an arduous afternoon.” He catches your gaze and holds it. His eye gleams. The tiger has you in his sights. “You see, three of my men were accosted today. And then brought to jail.” He shakes his head. “Freeing them was……strenuous.”

Anger snakes its way around your spine. “God DAMN IT!” You slap the surface of the pool in frustration, water splashing up harmlessly. When you finally meet his gaze, his smile is still in place and absolutely infuriating. “Did anyone get hurt?”

He raises a hand to his heart, pretending to look wounded. “What kind of man do you take me for, Deputy?”

Your voice quakes with fury, glows with an anger hot as a blacksmith's forge. “A varmint. A dirty, no-good, black-hearted-”

“I see.”  Something crosses his face, a fleeting moment where his smile falters and it surprises you enough to quell some of your outrage. Have you made a dent in that armor of his?

“Let’s talk. I believe if I explain some of the situation, we may be able to come to an agreement. Save us both the burden of our rivalry.”

You raise your hand to your forehead, squinting at him. Even the sun seems to be in love, lovingly outlining his body in gleaming gold. But…..if he wants to negotiate, it needs to be on a level playing field and not one where you are vulnerable in the water and he’s fully dressed and armed.

“Fine.” You jerk your head towards the hot spring next to yours. “Get in and we’ll talk.” 

You’ve surprised him. He glances from you to the pool and the expression on his face sends a thrill of satisfaction through you. It’s not often Gilbert von Obsidian is thrown for a loop like this. It takes him a moment before he comes to a decision.

“As you wish.” 

He reaches up, removing his hat and places it carefully on the smooth, flat rock next to yours. His hair is dark, like the sky at early night and looks shockingly soft. Next he removes his black leather gloves, slowly, finger by finger. Have you ever seen him ungloved before? Somehow it feels almost indecent, the sight of his strong hands and bare fingers. Next comes his holster and gun which you note he places as far away from the spring as yours are. He’s playing fair. He bends down, moving his boots and socks and again, the sight of his bare feet shakes something loose inside of you, some part of you that you wish would stop reeling and be still again. Those naked fingers unbutton his black and gold shirt, revealing skin as pale as cream and when he removes it, your breath hitches. He’s long and lean, the lines of muscle cutting through him as if made by an artist’s brush stroke. You don’t realize you’re staring until he grins slowly.

“Like what you see?”

God damn it. This man is the enemy.

With an agitated exhale you turn in the water, facing away from him. What you don’t realize is that now he can look without restraint, his gaze running freely over the slope of your shoulders, the curve of your neck. Water beads and slides down your skin and some primitive part of him wants to catch them with his tongue, sink his teeth into the delectable place where neck and shoulder meet. 

With a start, he realizes where his thoughts are going and why he very quickly better reign them in. He strips off the rest of his clothing and lowers himself into the neighboring pool of warm water, sending the same prayer of gratitude for its dark opaqueness as you did earlier. 

“You may turn around, Deputy.” 

You turn around slowly, one hand still close enough to cover your eyes. But he is in the water up to his chest, resting his forearms on the rocky shelf between your two pools. 

Oh for fucks sake. 

He looks so…..

So…….

Your heart is racing and the heat that rushes through you has nothing to do with the springs. 

My God. He looks so…..

You build a dam to stop those thoughts from forming. A dam of anger, outrage, cold hard logic. This man is dangerous. He is your enemy.

“Well then spit it out, Gil. What did you wanna tell me?” Best to get this done as quickly as possible. 

He leans forward, resting his chin on his forearms in a move that is endearingly child-like. He’s left his eyepatch on but his one eye is focused on you intently.

“Did you ever stop and notice who my people have been…..relieving of their goods?”

You arch a brow. “Innocent victims.”

He frowns slightly and you can see he is disappointed in your flippant answer. Even more surprising is how much that bothers you. You clear your throat and try again.

“Your gang stole from a merchant family from Jade County, a visiting Tanzanite noble and the mayor of Rhodolite, all within the last three months.”

He nods slowly. “Yes. And what do they all have in common?”

You scoff. “They’re all rich.” 

He makes a gesture with his hand for you to continue. 

“They’re…..very rich.”

“Go on.”

While considering  you absently reach up to adjust the pins in your hair. His gaze darts to the curve of your arm, the water running in enviable rivulets down it, the way your shoulder hikes up and exposes the elegant line of your collarbone and a few tantalizing inches of skin below that. He licks his lips. The tiger lowers itself inthe tall grass, haunches tensed.

“So wealthy….,” you murmur, “that they can afford the loss.” Something clicks into place as you look him in the eye. Obsidian is a poor county, home to a lot of desert and rocky hills. Hot days and freezing nights. The people who live there have a reputation for being a hard folk. You hear someone from Obsidian is around, you tend to give them a wide berth. It’s a tough place to live, often populated by people who have nowhere else to go. It’s a wonder they manage at all, if it weren’t for……

He sees you have connected dots and realized that what he has been doing isn’t for him, but for the poor people of his county. The ones who took in an abandoned foreigner after his parents died and made him one of their own. 

“You’re using the stolen goods to help the people,” you say out loud, searching his face for the confirmation you know will come.

“Good girl.” 

Those words, almost a purr, nearly send you to the bottom of the springs but you manage to grip the rocky ledge between you and remain upright. You mirror his body language, resting your forearms on the same ledge. There are mere centimeters between his arms and yours. Your faces are closer than they have ever been but you need this, you need to look him in the eye and see if he is sincere. Has he really been playing Robin Hood this whole time? And if yes, does that make his actions any more excusable?

He sees the questions in your eyes, the way you are scrutinizing him. He’s told you the truth but he can see you need something more. A gesture of trust. It comes to him after a second. He reaches up and slowly removes his eyepatch, resting it on the ledge you’re both leaning on.

Your lips part but no sound comes out. What you see under the eyepatch isn’t scarred skin or a milky eye or even another crimson one. What you see under the eyepatch is an eye that echoes the sky in summer, the bluebonnets of the prairie, the bright feathers of the bluejay. 

You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until it starts to ache and you’re forced to inhale.

“Why….why do you hide it?” You tilt your head, slowly adjusting to the sight of his mismatched eyes, both arresting, both magnetic.

“A lot of locals feel if you look like me….it’s a sign of being cursed. And minds steeped in superstition walk more easily down paths of violence.” 

You nod slowly. It wasn’t too big a stretch of the imagination to see someone who looks different being blamed for a drought. Or a wave of illness. You’ve heard stories of people run out of towns for it. Sometimes even worse. 

You hold his gaze, letting this new idea of Gilbert von Obsidian settle over you. It coats your previous conception of him as a ne'er-do-well criminal, remolds him into something….if not exactly noble, something certainly more…understandable.

You take a moment before speaking.

“Alright. I’ll make a deal with you. When you…..liberate….the very wealthy of their goods and it happens to be around the border between Rhodolite and Obsidian, I’ll turn a blind eye. But if you attack anyone, wealthy or not, clearly within the boundaries of Rhodolite County, you’ll be pursued.”

He considers this. There is a major stagecoach hub in Rosewater, the Rhodolite town right on the border to Obsidian. It also happens to be a busy train station where the wealthy often switch to stagecoach when traveling to the capital city. What you are offering him is, in fact, quite a gift. 

He smiles slowly, truthfully, devastatingly beautifully and you stifle the urge to gasp, stung by twin emotions of dismay and excitement. 

“I’ll take that deal,” he says. You clear your throat, lifting a hand. A handshake to seal the deal and then you would have the entire ride back to the sheriff’s office to figure out how to explain this all to Chevalier.

Gilbert looks at your hand, then looks you in the eye and his smile sharpens. “Oh there are better ways to finalize a deal.” His gaze drops to your lips. “Let’s seal it with a kiss.”

What the hell did he just say?

“I……that’s…..what…..”

He tilts his head and it is so roguishly charming you could scream. 

“Why not try it? Hmm? Or am I really so repulsive?”

Oh no, no you’re not and that is the problem, you think as you stare back into those eyes, those beautiful crimson and azure depths that seem to actually twinkle in the sunlight as they regard you.

But you can’t show weakness, right? It would reflect poorly on the sheriff’s department. At least that's what you're telling yourself. 

“Fine,” you mutter, ignoring the wild fluttering of your pulse. “Let’s just get it over with.”

Now he laughs and good God almighty it is nothing like the harsh, sharp-edged laughter you’ve heard from him before. This is soft, almost breathy, dreamy with anticipation as he leans forward, forearms pressed against the slick rocky ledge and presses his lips to yours.

Gilbert von Obsidian tastes like the coolest mountain spring, right before winter hits. Cool and clean, crisp and exhilarating. Never would you have imagined his lips would mold so perfectly to yours, that they would be so soft, so sweet. He's the first drop of cold wine, the first splinter of chocolate, the first spoonful of iced cream.

The water sloshes as he reaches for you, leaning further across the rocky shelf that separates your bodies. His hand slides over your bare shoulder, up the curve of your neck and lingers there as his mouth learns everything there is to know about yours: shape, taste, texture. 

And then, with his hand on your neck, your fingers gripping the rock for dear life, you part your lips in invitation. 

He accepts without hesitation and my God did that sound come from your throat? 

Your low, soft whimper sparks something in him and your whine is answered with a growl. The tiger is ready, springing from its hiding place, scaling the rocky shelf and plunging into the water beside you.

You welcome him with arms as wide as the western sky.

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @alixennial @alexxavicry @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-writer @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @redheadkittys @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @tele86 @rhodoliteschaos @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @aria-chikage @queen-dahlia @aceuuuuu @scorchieart @joiedecombat @bubblexly

[quillofspirit]

Chapter 2 - Réod

Tropes Slight cowboy AU (some elements only), platonic relationship. tw loss, grief, some injuries mentionned Word count; 3,100

Read on Ao3 here

Chapter 1 here

Chapter 2 – Réod

The fire crackled between well placed rocks and kept Aragorn warm despite the chill night air. He looked at the sleeping woman across the fire pit.

There was something familiar in her story, from the little he knew, and also quite perplexing. He struggled to understand how a woman so naturally at ease with horses and with a name like hers would feel anything else than relief knowing she was heading back to her homeland. She worked hard for her skills, that much was clear by the defined muscles and the confidence of her movement, which could only be the result of practice, lots of it. But parts of it seemed to come to her naturally, like instinct forces the foal to run, or the wolf to hunt.

His travels allowed him to meet many people, royals and subjects alike, those bound to the law of the land and those to their ancestors. His time as a ranger meant he also felled many orcs, goblins and other foul smelling creature, and he found they too had habits and ways of seeing the world that felt central to their identity. It linked them with their land and their people.

He knew within meeting another where they came from, there was always something to give away their origin, whether they meant to keep it from his ranger's ears and his keen eyes or not. She did not appear to be hiding her ancestry, and he felt confident that she would not do so intentionally. Unless she did not know it herself.

She was curled up by the fire, head resting on her arm. She'd be sore tomorrow, he knew from experience, but she was deep asleep before he could voice any concern. Though from what she'd admitted earlier, she didn't need it. Leaving everything you knew demands strength and courage.

If he looked long enough, he thought he could still see traces of their first meeting in the way her eyebrow furrowed at the slightest sound. He struggled to explain the shock of seeing a woman arguing with a horse in the forest. It should not have surprised him, he grew up with people and spent time with others who had a deep connection to their horses. Unexpected, that was the word. It had been unexpected.

Sparks flew up to the night sky, blending into the glittering stars, and Aragorn let his eyes drift to the horse snoozing behind the woman. It looked asleep, its bottom lip hanging loosely and quivering occasionally, but he knew better.

"You have looked after her well Réod," he spoke lowly in Elvish.

The horse's ears twitched and he shifted his balance.

"One might think you are returning a favour."

His eyes opened and looked at him, with a twinkle that wasn't from the fire or the stars, but something much more akin to wisdom.

A log cracked loudly in the fire and the woman shifted in her sleep. At the sound, Réod stepped closer to her and put his nose to her cheek. Her brow relaxed at the warm and familiar touch, and she sighed, pulling the cloak closer to her chin.

He hadn't responded to her offer yet, and if he had any doubts about her honesty before, the obvious care from the horse solidified his belief. One could always trust a horse's instinct. And, he knew he would not outrun Réod.

Éostré woke with a sore neck. She couldn't be surprised when her sleeping accommodation consisted of her cloak and some loose dirt. Still, she sat up gingerly and found the annoyance stubbornly holding on to her mind vanquished by the beauty of her surroundings. The sun streamed between tall trees where birds chirped and trilled in the early morning, the small creek twinkling in the shy sun light. Except for the occasional gallop between pasture, she rarely had the occasion to appreciate a sunrise. She breathed the moment in deeply, finding the chill air – still untouched by the sun – invigorating.

A soft splash broke through the singing of the birds, and she smiled fondly at Réod making his way into the shallow water, amused by the sound and the sparkle of the drops. The horse snickered when water hit his nose, and he paused briefly before pawing at the stream with vigour. While she laughed, Éostré wondered if the will of the horse could win out over the relentless water, and was all the more warmed at the thought of that horse by her side again.

She got up from her sleeping spot with minimal grimaces and whines, though not without effort, and looked for the Ranger, disappointment snipping at her optimism when she didn't find him. In truth, though he had not verbally accepted her offer, she hoped he might travel with her at least part of the way. It would make for an easier time, and she did really want the company.

She was reassured when her eyes fell on his cloak laid by the fire, and wondered if he had slept at all. When rough whiskers tickled her, she turned to see Réod had abandoned the battle of wits to nuzzle at her arm. Regardless of the Ranger's decision, she had a loyal and trustworthy companion by her side.

"I'm glad you slept well," said Aragorn as he appeared from the forest, "we should break fast and travel while the sun shines."

Réod startled at the sound of his voice, displeased by his interruption as it moved Éostré's attention to the Ranger. The woman chuckled at the horse's spark of jealousy and offered a few scratches, which he accepted, happy to compromise.

She had heard whispers, some of it in revered tones, about the skills of rangers, those that seemed to be invisible unless they wanted to be seen. It was the first time the thought brought her some comfort, as she did not tend to be unnoticed, and neither did Réod. She kept hope that their journey would be unimpeded, but knew in her gut it might not be so.

It did not take long for them to find a comfortable pace, with Réod firmly by her side and Aragorn leading. By the time the sun shone above their heads, they had made good progress and Aragorn fallen back in step with Éostré.

"How did you come to form such a formidable friendship with another's horse?" His voice carried without much effort, and she wondered how well he would sound in a great hall. She smiled as she answered.

"I raised Réod from a foal. His dam passed not long after his birth, and I couldn't stand by and let him follow her. He was so fragile still, but he had a desire to live," she looked at the horse trotting ahead as she talked. "By the time I finished training him, some of the Lords had heard of him and were ready to purchase him from me."

The breath she let out then told him how much that choice had cost her. She watched the horse fondly as he quickly grazed on enticing leaves. Her reticence to have Réod accompany her made sense now, not many would believe the horse had followed her despite her protests. She would be treated a thief by the Lords and an arsonist by the innkeeper. She could start a new life in Rohan, where her talents would be highly regarded. 'She might be surprised how at home she feels' Aragorn thought to himself.

"My family didn't have much, and that's how I could contribute. Both my parents passed two years later, and I started to work at the inn. When I saw Réod again, I knew I had to stay."

"In spite of the owner?" Aragorn asked, though he thought he knew the answer.

"I would fight the earth, the sky and all the magic in this world for that horse, and I won't be the one to abandon him again." she said.

Aragorn smiled, thinking of his own dear mother. Éostré continued

"His new owner liked to stay nearby, and Réod always had a place in my – the stable."

Her smile lost a bit of shine, and she almost hid it well.

"I suppose it is mine no longer," she shrugged. "It never was, but people called it so and I spent years caring for the place and the horses. I have the scars to prove it."

She added, and there was a mischievous twinkle in her eyes as she showed her hands and forearms. Aragorn was surprised by the amount, her sun-tanned skin peppered with scars, big and small.

"This one I got from a bad splinter. This one from a troubled horse before we found out he was unwell."

"So, I just felt like it was mine. I might have grown old and happy there."

She reached for her back and stroked a hand over her shoulder absentmindedly.

Behind them, Réod halted and blew air, almost at the same moment Aragorn stopped and put a hand on the hilt of his sword. The horse snorted and looked at the forest uneasily while Éostré grabbed the hilt and nimbly swung herself on the saddle.

From the shadows, three rugged men appeared. They sneered at the group and strode towards them with every confidence they would walk away with a good horde. Two other had used the distraction to block retreat, and Aragorn turned to them while Réod and Éostré faced the front.

"Aye boys, what do you suppose the lady has for us?"

It was a mean looking one in the front, with an ugly smirk curving his lips. Before Aragorn could answer, Éostré was advancing with Réod.

"This lady has only the edge of her sword and the might of her steed to offer those who would impede her travels."

She continued through the men's shock.

"I would advise you consider your options, Sirs and let us pass."

The man who had spoken looked at Éostré, his smirk widening like he was already enjoying how he could break through the facade. The woman stood tall in her saddle, and she looked him straight in the eye, but the sun shone brightly behind her head, her hair the colour of autumn leaves as the light passed through each strand, and he struggled to hold her glare. The bandit told himself he needed to keep and eye on that damn horse instead, and he faked a laugh, pointing his sword at the horse.

"Now, now, we've asked gently! Thought you nobles were s'posed to be courteous."

Today was the day their instincts failed them, but turning back now was admitting defeat to a woman and her horse, and that he couldn't stomach. She pushed Réod closer, and he was forced to look down as the sun burned his eyes.

"The lady's been generous enough to let you keep your tongue, to expect more speaks only of your greed." she spoke with confidence and grabbed the rope at her hip.

Réod was growing impatient, his ears pinned back and unable to stand still, and Aragorn didn't know how long Éostré would hold him back. The two men at the back of the group were stealing looks at each other, slowly edging back into the woods.

When Aragorn spoke, the men startled. They'd quite forgotten him.

"I wouldn't test the lady or the horse, they're quite unforgiving."

"Ah, so the guard dog talks, she must be paying you handsomely."

Éostré did not take kindly to his tone and calmly adjusted the rope in her hands. The man seemed amused by the gesture.

"He's not known for his patience," Aragorn replied.

"Neither am I." Éostré added.

In one swift movement, she'd circled the looped rope above her head and sent it towards the three. Seeing the rope come, the bandit grabbed his sword with both hands and moved to block it. Instead, it slipped down the blade and settled around his wrists. At the same moment, Éostré wrapped her end on the hilt of the saddle and Réod took quick steps back, squeezing the bandit's wrists and sending his sword clattering to the ground. In less than a breath, the man was disarmed and caught.

"Are you happy with your little trick, lady?" He spit at her.

Éostré laughed at him and pulled a little on the rope to remind him of his position.

"Well, you are now alone and unarmed."

Seeing their leader vulnerable convinced his friends to flee back into the trees. His eyes betrayed his fury, but he stayed silent now.

"Go find them before they decide you're not worth saving." She said.

A flick of her wrist loosened the rope enough that it slipped off, and the man massaged his red skin, hesitating. Éostré interrupted his planning.

"Leave the sword, you won't need it."

Réod pawed the ground aggressively as the bandit ran back into the woods, disappearing between trunks and bushes

.

With the men fully chased off, Éostré stroked Réod's wide neck.

"One would think you've had practice intimidating ruffians," Aragorn offered as he sheathed his sword.

Éostré chuckled and slid down her saddle.

"I am in the habit of dealing with animals over 40 stones trying to trample me, I am not, however, in the habit of being intimidated by an overpowered babble of boys better suited as jesters."

Aragorn hid his laugh in a cough and pet Réod's head, whispering words of comfort. She didn't understand it, or know what language it was, but it had a sweet melody, she noted. If she had been more familiar with the elven-tongue, she would know he was expressing fond concerns about escorting a woman with her temperament, but the horse knew it to be good-matured teasing and agreed.

As they walked, the forest slowly gave way to valleys decorated by bushes blooming little yellow flowers. Around them, the sparse trees grew fewer, leaving only the yellow grassy hills. Instead of trees, thick lupine flowers grew in bushels, like spears of vivid yellow lining the road.

Réod kept grabbing handfuls of them any time he could, trying to hide it from the two walking behind. Éostré smiled fondly at him everytime, but her gaze seemed far away. Aragorn was content with only the breeze to occupy the silence, he didn't feel it was his place to prod. She, however, could bear the heaviness of silence no longer, and though her stare remained far, she addressed him.

"I have grown fond of the purple and pink kind, but I had never seen so many yellow lupines. Réod seems to think they taste wonderful."

He smiled at that.

"Horses tend to like the white ones most, but I prefer the seeds of the blue one."

The woman almost missed her next step, so concerned with the words she heard.

"You – you eat them?"

"Once prepared, they make for a sweet nut-like pea."

"How long was it before you started sharing your horses' preferences?"

Aragorn shook his head and watched Réod take a mouthful of the sweet flowers, ripping it up to the roots with his enthusiasm. The horse was surprised by the unexpected appearance and nickered before attempting to jump away from the roots flying around his head threateningly.

Éostré and Aragorn laughed as they watched Réod gallop away from the terrible danger suddenly emerging.

Over the next few days of travel, Éostré often found Aragorn looking after Réod. His affection did not go unnoticed by the horse, who had grown into the habit of using the man's broad back as a scratching post, and to the woman's surprise, he let him.

One morning, he woke and found the spot where Éostré had curled up to sleep empty. Not one to give in to fear, he called for her, receiving nothing but the waking snort of Réod, who looked startled not to see her.

Aragorn found footsteps in the soft dirt just as Réod picked up the same direction. The Ranger grabbed his sword out of habit, he doubted something might have happened without him or the horse hearing it.

A short but brisk walk had them climbing a small hill, upon which sat Éostré. She was on her knees, arms tightly wound around herself and tears falling freely down her cheeks. Empathy grabbed hold of his heart, and Aragorn sat beside her in the grass, Réod on the other side.

She did not acknowledge either of them, sighing shakily and wiping her cheeks with her sleeves, drawing calming breaths before she broke the silence, her voice scratchy. It betrayed how long she'd been sitting here, alone with her thoughts.

"I had a vivid dream that brought memories forth. I did not want to wake you before the sun did."

She looked at him and forced a smile on her lips.

"I saw a few rabbits around, I bet we could catch one for breakfast."

Aragorn mulled over her words, and his answer had her smile faltering.

"Do not let your burdens weight on you alone when you are not, Éostré."

She turned back to the horizon and took in another shaky breath. Then, she closed her eyes and a big tear rolled down her face.

"When I was little, my neighbour fell from his roof one day and I was the only one around. His arm and two ribs were broken from the fall, and his wrist was in bad shape. I was too young to know how to help, even though I wanted to."

She kept her eyes closed as she spoke.

"I got on one of his horses and fetched help. She was the biggest mare I've ever seen, with a beautiful grey coat and intelligent eyes. I learned to ride on her, my neighbour insisted since my family didn't have one of our own."

"One morning, years later, the mare came to me as I walked to his house. She seemed calm, and intent on appreciating the warm summer sun. She gave her last breath that day, laid on soft green grass and belly full."

She was no longer sobbing, but small tears fell down her cheeks as she talked. The sun was barely over the hills, shy fingers stroking the tops of bushes and making the drops on her face glitter.

"Today marks the 5 year anniversary, and I am no closer to feeling at home than I ever felt caring for that mare."

Wiping her cheeks, she looked to the sky and stroked Réod's shiny coat, mind far from where they sat. They stayed watching the sunrise until it was well over the hills and Éostré's stomach grumbled its discontentment.

She chuckled despite herself and turned to Aragorn.

"Who'd you think can catch breakfast faster?"

I love Réod more everytime

[rotijalas]

Skyler & Sam Chen for @sims4thehoes Caliente Whore's Ranch

Being identical twins never bothered Sky and Sam when they were growing up. Built in best friends and all that, yeah? But it was very quickly evident how different they were as people. Sky's contagious energy went unmatched, while Sam enjoyed keeping to themselves. They were both extreme overachievers in school (thanks to their old money grandmother, of course), and they excelled in basically everything. Recitals, sports, arts. There wasn't a person in their prep school that didn't know the Chen name. But of course, that never lasts.

While it took Sky another year before she crashed and burned like Sam, by sixteen, they were both struggling and experiencing horrible burnout. They had each other, of course, but the wrath from Grandma Alicia Kowalksi was unending so when the both of them had their chances, they moved out.

Skyler (she/her) has always been a flighty one. She liked doing everything and anything, and never really settled on one thing that was truly her thing. After high school and a failed stint at university, she spent most of her days partying and mixing in with an... interesting crowd. So with many, many people around her, she naturally took to hosting. Which then grew, and then developed further into developing her cooking skills and taking courses. At the height of her partying life in San Myshuno, she was having dinner parties every night, serving up meals that became quickly sought after. Too bad her naivete made her easy prey for people who didn't have her best in mind.

Sam (they/them) naturally took to the creative life, burrowing themselves in their work and blocking out the rest of the world. They tried university too, but dropped out after a year and just took to writing by themselves. Their first novel was an unpolished smut novel about orcs and elves - and unsuccessful as they self-published it, but from there began the spark that was a following. They published a few more niche smut novels and eventually caught the attention of a small publishing house that specialized in erotic content. They have written a number of novels since then. Their relationship was even more strained with their grandma compared to Sky due to their acceptance of their non-binary gender, and as such lived in a tiny apartment in Evergreen Harbour without much help.

Sky was the first one to move to Chestnut Ridge. She craved a simpler life, one that didn't require anything from her except to take care of unasking creatures and to share her joy at her own choice after an incident with her ex and "friends" that left her jaded. She was a bit out of place at first, but after a year, found a comfortable palace within the community after several potluck attempts and sending food to her neighbors. She's horrible with horses, but does wonderfully with goats, sheep, and gardening - recently, she's begun trying to make her own nectar. If anything, the town knows her best for her amazing food and tendency to host brunches out the backyard of her sizeable ranch (because grandma never really stopped sponsoring them).

Sam only moved in with Sky after their grandma's death. They agreed to sell their childhood home, finding nothing but contempt for it, and so after a few years apart the Chen twins were finally together again! Sky is helping Sam get used to life in Chestnut Ridge, and for the most part, it's been a blast for the past six months (not to mention the treasure trove of inspiration they were getting for their new cowboy-themed novel).

They had always been close even when apart, but now that they were living together, it meant they had each other to lean on.

[teeth-go-clink]

*Nope (movie) spoilers ahead!!!*

I will now post my rambles about the various similarities Jean-Jacket has with with the phylogenetic group of Echinodermata.

It seems obvious that Jean jacket is inspired by some kind of sea life. The very way it moves, swimming around the sky.

Many have compared its final form to jellyfish or something similar, and while I do not disagree, I would like to propose something different.

First of all, let me explain what Echinoderms are.

Echinodermata is a biological group, including starfish, brittle stars, sea urchins, sand dollars, sea cucumbers and sea lilies.

Now to the similarities:

UFO stage:

Jean Jacket feeds 2 ways.

One: it sucks in air, along with whatever debris and/or food comes with

This is also something a lot of marine species do! It’s called filter feeding.

This feeding tactic is also what sea urchins do! They filter through the central hole:

See the similarities?

Now you might think: well, that’s not really how Jean-jacket looked.

Well, how about this?

Looks a bit closer, doesn’t it? That’s a sand dollar, although a dead one. But that’s what most people picture when they think of one.

Here another picture, for reference. As well as a very good example of Jean jacket filter feeding.

Okay, now to move on to Jean jackets other form. Wether that was supposed to be a sort of ‘evolution’, or something it did because it was angry/threatened, I don’t know.

Here it is!

Now, a different group of Echinodermata, the feather stars.

See some similarities? (Also please not how damn cool feather stars are)

Here, have another because I adore them.

But alas, I have more than mere comparison of physique!

The hunting strategy!

Of course, for marine species, it is very popular to do what Jean-jacket is doing. Floating around safely, and swooping down to the ground to devour pray, who may not get away fast enough, or be able to get away at all.

So that is not very specific for the group I am about to mention, although they sure do it.

No, what I mean is way number 2 that Jean jacket eats what it considers prey.

Sadly I am unable to find a screenshot, but in it’s final form, trying to eat the giant cowboy ballon, Jean jacket envelops it while simultaneously shoving it towards its central hole.

You know who else does that?

Fucking sea stars!

Because they have a really cool thing called a cardiac stomach.

Basically, they can eject it, and envelope larger prey, to either pull inside, or digest outside of its body cavity.

(It can also use it to slip into a crack in a imperfectly closed mussel shell, and slurp the terrified prey right out, which I must say is quite the power move)

As you might notice, most of the sea creatures I have shown you pictures of poses radial symmetry. Actually, it is penta radial symmetry, which may be hard to notice in some though.

While I cannot see any markings on Jean Jackets UFO form that could confirm or debunk the idea of penta radial symmetry, the radial symmetry part sure seems to fit.

But Charlie, you might say, the last stage of Jean Jacket seemed to have a clear front and back. Doesn’t that mean it possesses bilateral symmetry?

Yes! You are right! It seemed to have its body opening at the ‘front’

First of all, there is something about the symmetry of Echinodermata that you should know.

Yes, they are penta radially symmetric, but they haven’t always been.

They have actually secondarily lost their bilateral symmetry in the adult stage, but their larva still have it.

Meaning that it is not too far off to assume a different stage of Jean jacket might have a different symmetry as well.

But that aside, I want to show you another group, or more a specific species from that group that has some stunning similarities.

This specific deep-sea sea cucumber.

I rest my case. I think it’s clear that the creators have either knowingly or unknowingly created a lot of similarities and parallels between Jean Jacket and the Echinoderms.

As you can see I am very excited about that.

[skycowboys]

Kickstarter Extras Poll

So since this thing is 200% funded, I want to add a thing or two :) Leave other suggestions in the comments!

[theplumsoldier]

aftermath [4]

summary: it's the day where joel and ellie are leaving for their final journey before jackson. a morning hunt with joel makes you realize a couple of things; you're despondent, in no rush to be alone again; and you're incredibly attracted to him

pairing: joel miller x reader

word count: 2,6k

warnings: vulgar language, pining, sexual frustrations, mentions of blood, encounter with an infected, descriptions of wounded animals

series: aftermath as always comments are appreciated <3<3

The thunderstorm raged on all night and into the early morning, and although it did not keep you from falling asleep, it did wake you.

Joel's offer had laid camp in your mind since last night. Although you had insisted you were not very good with people, you found yourself fantasizing about what it would be like. He said that if you became a part of the commune, you could join the patrol, guard the stronghold, and get respect. It appealed to you yet you were not sure why.

In school, you learned that humans were social creatures. With an innate capacity to form connections with others, our norms take root in our culture, which in turn goes back to social harmony. You used to think yourself an alien because you lacked this capability to form bonds, well you could, you were just never very good at it. It made all the more sense when you found yourself in a family where the norms just didn't float your boat.

You had been opinionated and argumentative which, when oppressed for several years, diminished into nothing but a constant bellicose hostility toward others. They did not listen to you, so you stopped trying to get through to them.

Only out of spite you had grown to not like people. They were bigoted and impolite, and you found no need in keeping them about. And perhaps that was what made you bigoted and impolite.

So why was this, Joel's offer on you joining him and Ellie to Jackson, suddenly tempting? you wondered.

While you hadn't engaged in much conversation with them, you enjoyed smoking with Joel last night. You wouldn't have guessed it, but it was nice not being alone for once.

It made you wonder if you had made a mistake in living isolated all these years. You thought about whether you would still be alive; if you'd have friends and if you'd have children. It made you shiver, but a warm feeling spread in your stomach, too. Maybe it was just an infection.

Cleaning yourself up in the bathroom you put on a new bandage—the wound no longer bled, not to your surprise (your nursing skills were impeccable), but you remembered your storage had exhausted a couple of days earlier which called for strenuous activity. You needed to go hunting today.

You rolled a joint and pulled into a fresh blouse and sweater, and cowboy jeans. The jeans had to be tightened with a belt cause they were several sizes too large, but loved dearly as the threaded stitching and poorly patched-up holes revealed. Normally you would wear the same outfit for a couple of days, as you had found that handwash would roughen up some types of materials and make the clothes uncomfortable, much like the discomfort a pair of new leather boots gave.

Only when you looked at yourself in the mirror, you stopped and wondered why the fuck you suddenly cared about your appearance. You watched your jaw tick. You knew damn well it was because you had guests and growing up that meant one had to look presentable. You damned the pre-apocalypse world and stepped out of your room.

Joel was awake—of course, he was. He offered a gauche wave of his hand as he looked up from the bent position he had taken by the fireplace.

In turn, you nodded, barely acknowledging him before stomping outside, like a storm passing by. Cursing at yourself you stroke a match and lit the joint embarrassingly quick—you hoped he hadn't noticed the way you had gaped at the size of his thighs. They looked fucking enormous in that bent position.

Outside it seemed to calm a bit and before you knew it the sky had cleared, the breeze had gone and the sun was out. It was still cold but the sun's rays warmed your cheeks when you stepped out from under the pent roof.

Before long Joel stepped out on the porch, too, thumbs fitting in the belt loops in his jeans, looking up through pinched eyes.

"Brew a pot o'coffe. Hope that's okay," he murmured without looking at you. His voice was deeper than it had been yesterday, more coarse and a bit groggy from sleep. It did something to you.

You didn't say anything, instead only speaking when you felt he had begun watching you.

"Wanna go huntin'?" you blurted. Just like last night, the cannabis made you brave. As if you needed an excuse for inviting him, you added, "don't think I can pull much weight with Ellie's souvenir on me, but I need the fresh air."

Joel was a bit surprised but also delighted with your offer. He assumed the weed spurred you on, making you more comfortable in his company—nevertheless, he relished it and agreed to go with you.

You handed him the rest of the joint.

"Let me grab my gear and some coffee," you said before heading back inside.

Joel went upstairs to inform Ellie, but she was fast asleep still. Instead, he found a pencil and a piece of paper and wrote that you had gone out hunting. He added that they would leave for Jackson that same day.

Trotting through the shabby ice and mud, you found yourself a few miles from your home before you spotted anything. Joel thought it was good you had been with him because he would not have noticed the two grazing hinds with their white rumps in the landscape.

Joel crouched on one knee when you urged him down with you.

You turned your head slightly but did not look at him yet. Scanning the hills you looked for a trail to get closer to the hinds. You would need to approach them from the opposite direction so that you were downwind.

"We'll go downhill and follow that track over there so they don't sniff us out."

You didn't wait for him to move with you but you heard his heavy steps crunch the snow behind you. Joel kept close watch of the deer while you navigated. Suddenly Joel halted, making you look back.

"There," he pointed.

You looked yonder and saw a stag's antlers peak up from a mound. It peacefully sauntered toward the hinds. As it stalked closer you realized its size, smirking to yourself as you knew it would last at least two weeks on frost.

"Think you can hit it from 'ere?"

From this distance, you thought you would miss. There was a reason you had chosen the sword and perfected your swordsmanship; you never had been good with long-range. Either way, if you had been, a bow and arrow would obviously have been preferred to a gun.

Joel seemed to find no trouble with the challenge though. Getting down into the mud, he positioned his rifle against the eroding trunk of a dead tree. He bit the finger of his glove, swiftly pulling it off so that no barrier was between his index and the trigger.

You squinted your eyes and prepared for the bang as he drew a couple of breaths.

The shot drilled through the air and straight into the heart of the stag, killing it instantly. Deer were slow to react, so between the time it took the hinds to process the danger and flee, Joel had reloaded and went in for another. The hinds' movement did not faze him one bit and another fell in the scuffle.

It was not unusual to be excited during a hunt, howbeit this arousal was purely sexual and you knew exactly what you wanted. There was no reason for it to be not okay, but it did not sit right with you.

Shifting your weight did no good either, as it merely rubbed one thigh against the other, adding to the tingling already growing.

You awkwardly cleared your throat. "Impressive."

Joel offered a humble look, but you could tell he was satisfied with himself.

Moving forward, you secured the stag and the young deer on the homemade sleigh you had made of rope, deerskin, and wooden cylinders.

Joel made futile conversation on the way back, and you joined in as best you could. Right as you wished you had brought along a joint for the trip, Joel pulled out the remaining of the one from the morning.

"We'll leave in a couple of hours," he said and handed you the lit joint. You accepted it within a second but it took a little longer before you realized what he meant. "You're still welcome to come with us. To Jackson."

It should make you happy to be able to return to your solitary way of life, after all, you had been rather reluctant in letting them stay, but suddenly you were in no hurry to become alone again. Your heart solemnly dropped when you realized it would be just awful to never see them again—to never see him again.

Later in the evening, when they had left for Jackson, you felt yourself growing increasingly restless, sometimes forgetting your solitude and looking up, expecting to find Ellie sprawled on the couch with a comic in hand.

As you sat quietly, you thought back—Joel had offered you to come with them. For a minute you had dwelled on it, but eventually, you decided against joining them.

Before parting ways and wishing one another luck, Joel gave you a hand-drawn map. He had carefully traded the area as well as a road to reach Jackson. "In case you change your mind," he had said.

The feeling between your legs — the one which had appeared on the hunt with him — was resurrected once again. It made you think that Joel wanted you there; otherwise, why would he provide you with a clear guide to reach their destination?

Was it out of the kindness in his heart or the very same feeling that formed goosebumps on your skin? Did he feel it, too?

With sudden movement you stirred away from your thoughts, eyes blinded with flickering light after having stared for too long into the fire.

You busied yourself with rearranging the cushions, getting it back to normal, praying that your voice would stop imagining things, and trying to persuade you that Joel was attracted to you. But when you went to fold the blanket, the smell of him filled your nostrils and engulfed you. It felt as if being held by a ghost, Joel's scent warm and inviting, providing a false sense of security.

Leaving the mess as it was, you decided to heat up an early dinner which was leftovers from the lunch you had prepared before Joel and Ellie's departure.

You would never have guessed it, but it turned out your hosting skills were quite commendable. You had cooked the hind, for the meat on smaller deer was more tender, and while you had prepped a surprisingly lavish lunch for them, Joel skinned and diced the stag in portions, preserving the beast for future feasts. There had been enough to send them on their way with their bellies full and packs of meals they could eat on their journey.

Joel had praised your culinary skills and Ellie said that she would miss your cooking while stuffing her mouth full with it. That made you happy, knowing someone would miss something about you.

After dinner you went outside to clean the bloodshed off the ground, using the hose to flush the area where the deer had been chopped like it had been wood for a fire.

The croaking sounded suddenly and you froze in your place, the hose leaking aimlessly at the ground.

An infected was stepping out of the woods and into sights. It was by no means careful in its approach and you were surprised you hadn't heard it until now. The rustling of the trees and howling of the wind had served as a perfect disguise. You gulped.

It emitted another clicking noise, its skewed jaw falling open to reveal a set of rotten teeth. Fungi pushed out from the eyesockets and completely swallowed what used to be a human face.

A step too close for comfort and you set into a sprint, giving yourself away for the sake of arming yourself.

The clicker was inhumanly quick, on your tail in no time, barging through the door you shot in its face. Sprinting to the kitchen you snatched a knife from the sink, you barely managed to get a grip before you had to strike.

The infected's crude coordination sent it into the counter with a thud and a sliced chest. It did not halt though, and you shuffled to distance yourself from the attacker.

Using the layout of the room, it gracelessly stalked you and flew across the couch, catching the flames from the fireplace. You moved in time to not get hurt, but the corpse on fire had you cursing at yourself. Bad call.

It scrambled to its feet, and for a moment you stared terrified at the burning corpse, wondering if this was your time. It was obviously not your first encounter, but it was the first time in years an infected had come around here. When you had first settled in the area, you had thought the rugged landscape made it difficult for the infected to roam the place or something like that. After you had set up home here, you had only ever had 3 infected come this close, the rest of the encounters had been when you were out hunting.

You lunged at the infected but the wet knife slipped from your grip and lodged in its cheek, leaving you with nothing to fight with.

You focused on dodging it, and the clumsy brawl spread out to the entirety of the room, leaving you to desperately search for an object while utilizing the obstacles in the makeshift arena that was your home.

The clicker beat itself up by running into furniture, and you felt it wouldn't be long until the flames would completely burn out the fungi—that was if it didn't manage to harm itself further with the kitchen knife still wedged in its face.

It tumbled awkwardly to the floor, flopping in the veil of the curtain it got tangled in. Circulation blew through the open door and a gush of wind licked the flamed curtain, blowing just right, like one would to get a bonfire started. You realized that if the fight didn't end soon and you could extinguish the fire, your house might verily burn down.

Suddenly much more eager to end the fight, you turned your back on the clicker and darted up the stairs case. The steps slowed it down a little but just enough for you to collect your sword and raise the blade so that it ran directly into it.

The infected collapsed down the stairs, now more brain dead than it had ever been and you survived without a scratch. The stitches in your wound, however, had opened and you were bleeding heavily.

With exasperated steps you limped back down the staircase, taking no break to let the adrenaline disappear. You needed to stop the fire, but it was raging now, having spread to the ceiling and caught onto the beams. It was not good.

You slumped against the counter, abruptly faced with overwhelming emotions as you watched your house burn down around you. You thought of retrieving the hose still pumping water outside, but it was no use. The damage was irreparable and your home was done for.

Your eyes flickered to the map Joel had left you.

You were going to Jackson.

[qutiesquish]

“Hexed Child”

Chapter One Chapter Two/ch3

Prompt: a child ends up in the Entity’s realm, in the cursed hell where those who had already suffered enough in life had been chosen to suffer for eternity, a hell where they had to kill or survive, and make constant sacrifices. How well will they handle having a child to take care of in this constant game of death.

Authors Words:

I have chapter 2-4 currently posted on Quotev, I will soon release this to Wattpad aswell! Anyways, hope you will enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it!<3

Pronouns: not sure if I specified in this chapter actually, but it will be male reader

Warning(s): strong language

Black smoke clouded the sky.

Survivors and killers across the ‘safe realm’ all know what this means. A new survivor, a new killer, and a new map that they would have to learn about.

At least, that’s what they expected, but when neither the killer nor survivor campsite watched a person walk out of the forest and into the campsite as what would usually happen, they knew something was wrong. Really, really, wrong.

Normally a new person, or creature, would walk out of the forest line and into their respective campsite, where they would then be explained about what’s going on.

So when that didn’t happen after a few minutes, people had concluded something had gone wrong.

——

Survivor’s Campsite

——

“What do we do? The new survivor hasn’t shown up? What if they got attacked by the new killer?!” A man with glasses, otherwise known as Dwight, asked shakily.

“Yeah, it’s weird.. really weird.” A red headed athlete said, throwing suspicious glances towards the tree line.

“Calm your horses, everything should be fine, right guys?” A blond with cowboy boots said, trying to reassure people.

“Maybe-“ A muscular man started, only to start fading.

“David- Ah!” A girl with black hair and blue & black athletic wear yelped as she too started to fade.

“Ah fuck, me too?!” An old man cursed quietly as he started fading not long after Feng.

“Bill!” The only witch survivor shouted.

A girl with a pink shirt looked around frantically. “That was only three of them! Who’s the fourth one?!”

All the other survivors looked around, all muttering and trying to see who else had been summoned for the trial, then it hit them.

‘The new commer!’

——

Killer’s Campsite

——

“Where’s our dazzling new killer?!” The k-pop killer complained. His impatience showing severely.

“Shut the fuck up screaming kink! No one cares!”

“Says the peporoni burn victim!”

The two killers starting to get up in each other’s faces, weapons drawn. Both trying to size the other up.

“Wanna say that again fuckface?!”

“My face is gorgeous thank you very much, if anyones a fuckface it’s gotta be you right?~ I mean… have you seen yourself Freddy?~” The purple haired idol laughed.

“I’ll fuck your “gorgeous” face up you asshat-“

Freddy was cut off by a hatchet.

It had been thrown right between the two arguing killers. The one who threw the weapon bore a painted bunny mask.

The Russian woman huffed and walked towards the two males, she stared down at them.

The idol backed down and laughing it off with a “yes yes, sorry darling” and walked away.

Freddy however, decided to try and face off with the Huntress that stood before him.

Though he was immediately pushed to the side as the Huntress grabbed her hatchet and pushed Freddy again as she went back to where she was once before, not after mumbling something in Russian.

As the woman sat down the killers who had been secretly watching the interaction, lowkey craving some kind of action, went back to what they were doing before. Nobody noticing that the bright and sinister idol had dispersed into a dark mist, fading away.

——

Campsite

——

David, Feng, and Bill looked around the campfire, of course they could see the killer out past the forest line, but they couldn’t see who it was completely as the entity wouldn’t let them.

Then they realized something, there wasn’t a fourth survivor.

Maybe the Entity was still choosing someone for this match? But then-

That’s when they noticed, off to Feng’s right there was a puff of black smoke, and black shiny like claws.

Was… was the fourth survivor in there?!

The killer, otherwise known as the Trickster, noticed this and held back a laugh.

Was this the new survivor?!

Did they have a perk that kept them hidden during the start up so that way the killer doesn’t know who it is or what they have?

Although it was a good theory, Trickster had no idea that the other survivors couldn’t see the fourth survivor either.

Trickster watched as the three survivors he could see make their offerings to the Entity using the fire pit.

Bill had brought a green toolkit, with only god knows what on it. Feng had a yellow med kit, had she just been saving those or did she just have that many?! And then there was David, thick skulled David who had brought a map.

Trickster decided to pull up his perk list and decided to switch some things out, bringing Hex:Ruin, Nurses calling, barbecue and chili, and of course, his personal favorite perk, star struck.

After everyone thought they were ready to go the game had started.

Bill had brought shroud of bonding, which allowed all the survivors to start the trial together.

David had also brought a shroud himself that would spawn them as far away from the killer as possible, that way they could have some time to tell the new survivor what was going on.

Though when they looked for the person they couldn’t find them, until they heard something start walking on the other side of the wall where they stood.

That’s when they saw him.

The new survivor… was a child.

[puppetsoftomorrow]

⭐️ the phoebmonster fanfiction masterpost ⭐️

🌟 💛 all complete, but series may be ongoing

multichapter

all these roads lead back to you - 11k

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wild wild whisper - 15k

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for reasons wretched and divine - 20k

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heaven sent - 12k

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flip a coin, decide your fate - 9.2k

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the girl in the movies - 20k

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oneshots

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for science! - 3.7k

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🩵 ava is a fire warden, alone and in 1989, and her radio connects to the waverider, with sara on the other end of the line

star child, are you out there? - 5.8k

💙 set in season 4a - ava temporaily adopts a baby who's also a magical creature. but what if it's not so temporary?

series

twelve and thirteen - a second ava becomes a part of the legends

now the day bleeds (into nightfall) - 4.7k

🖤 post 4x09 - a new clone is brought in to replace ava as director, and they get to know eachother as ava deals with her breakup with sara

you can see the difference - 6.4k

🩶 ava 13 returns to the waverider to go on holiday with the legends, and lots of introspection for ava

halley and the comet - snippets of avalance family life, with their children halley and grayson

i've been waiting for you - 3.5k

🤍 how the legends escaped from the time prison, as told in a bedtime story

now i stand here looking at the sky - 1.9k

🩶 the legends come around for dinner, as sara is carrying a pretty big secret

my love, my life - 1.2k

🖤 sara and ava's second child is born, and halley meets her brother

tumblr oneshots

these were all orginally posted to tumblr, and were then cross-posted to ao3

you've got a hold on this heart of mine - 1.5k

🩷 post 4x05 - ava comes home from thanksgiving to find sara, and domestic fluff ensues

if you could bring her back to me (or take her from my memory) - 1.1k

❤️ ava's angsty introspection, post the break up in 4x09

you're too much to forget - 0.4k

🧡a series of voicemails from sara to ava, set between the break up in 4x09 and when sara finds ava again in 4x12

no matter what, just be my girl - 1.6k

💛 what happened between sara and ava after ava gets home from purgatory

i'll trade all of my tomorrows (for one single yesterday) - 0.7k

💚 an alternative version of the break up scene in 4x09 - still angst though

got leavin' on her mind - 1.6k

🩵 sara can't brush off atropos' attack so easily - Major Angst!!

(i'm so) afraid of losing you again - 1.1k

💙 an alternative take on the opening for 6x01, written before s6 aired

i thought i'd been kissed and i thought i'd been loved (but that was before i met you) - 1k

💜 an au where sara doesn’t get kidnapped by aliens … or the one where ava gets tucked into bed

i'm just me - 1.2k

🩷 an alternative scene for sara telling ava that she's now an alien-clone. hurt / comfort

it's the happiness of having you (that makes my world a place worth living in) - 2.1k

❤️ my take on the avalance wedding! absolutly nothing like the wedding we got aha

hoping just by chance that i'll get a glimpse of you - 1k

🧡 written based on the 7x05 promo that something goes wrong and maybe ava gets erased for a bit when gwyn's time machine is on the fritz

heaven watches over fools like me - 0.8k

💛 ava and sara play gay chicken - originially from a tumblr prompt

the green green grass of home - 1k

💚 a potential s8 where sara and her baby escape from the time jail

[the-artist-of-chaos]

Lottaham Hcs?

LOTTAHAM HCS! >:)

———

•I am so sorry, but I feel like they would elope; run away in secret to go get married. Probably out of fear that the citizens in their area wouldn’t accept a cowboy marrying a goth girl

•Triffany loves dinosaurs, and wambus loves sharks. Sometimes, they’ll infodump to the other about their favorite creature :3

•Wambus is the kind of person to need a reason to trust you. Triffany however, is the kind of person to need a reason to NOT trust you.

•Okay, alright— If wambus gets to have a cactus named cactriffy, then Triffany gets to have a scarecrow named scambie. >:D

•Sometimes, Wambus will snatch triffany’s hat and hide it somewhere so triffany will stay longer before she goes off into scorched gorge.

•Once a week, they’ll bathe/shower together, either in flavor falls, or sugarpine woods (after replaying the game, I noticed there was like- a small body of water in sugarpine woods). It’s more peaceful, secluded, and they get to be with each other.

•(Heheh) sometimes, when they’re mad at each other, they’ll be sitting with their backs turned at each other like they’re a pair of pissed off toddlers. But then once they calm down, to check if the other is calmed enough, they’ll touch tails. If they’re both calm, then their tails intertwine! If one of them is still a little upset tho, they’ll both stay there for a couple more minutes.

•Wambus will sometimes go with Triffany to her dig sight, but in some cases, a small conflict will occur. Not between them! But when you got not 1, but 2 aggressive bugsnaxs (looking at you spuddy and scorpino) in the same part of the island, it’s hard to avoid them. So half the time, he either gets rammed into by a spuddy, burnt by a scorpino, or in an unlucky case? BOTH. They both find it funny tho, and they get a laugh out of it

T - “I love you” *proceeds to nibble on his arm*

W - “I love you too” -///-

•And here’s a final headcanon. :3

Sometimes, when the night just feels special, they’ll go and stargaze in simmering springs. Cuddling with each other, watching all of the shimmering stars in the sky…it’s a beautiful experience for the two of them.