#saddle mountain trail

[hike2moons]

[dopescissorscashwagon]

Late afternoon sunlight graces the tip of Miners Needle in the Superstition Mountains Arizona. This view of the amazing pinnacle was taken near the Miners Saddle facing southwest. The eye of the needle can be seen at top left. It is the “other” famous needle here in the mountains and about 3 miles as the crow flies from the much renowned Weavers Needle. The Forest Service reworked the path of the Miners Trail in the early 1960s and also changed the name to Dutchmans Trail. Dutchman's Trail climbs the eastern side of the canyon and continues all the way through the mountains. Traces of the old Miners Trail can still be seen across the canyon along the western draw (Needle side). Like many places in these mountains Miners Needle has a rich treasure hunting history and lore associated with it. 🤙

[fotocoffeeflower]

[rcmclachlan]

Relative Value (buck/tommy)

"And I feel for her, you know? I really do. The dissolution of a relationship, especially a marriage, feels like you're drowning in hot tar, and you spend every waking moment kicking your way to the surface to try and breathe. But if she brings up her divorce again while I'm in the middle of peeing? I'm going to divorce her head from her body."

Buck makes a face at the thought of Maddie's decapitated coworker. "Please don't send the 118 to that scene. I'm not so great with entrails these days. Send the 147—they deserve it after they botched that extrication on Monday." 

Maddie laughs, the sound tinny but comfortingly familiar coming through his phone's speakers. She'd propped her phone on Jee-Yun's dresser halfway through the call so she could put away laundry while she talked, and for the last five minutes he's been watching her fold Jee's clothes like she's being judged at the Olympics. 

It's nice to see that hasn't changed. Maddie should've been in jail years ago for the way she loads a dishwasher, but when it comes to laundry she's a goddamn wizard. When he was younger, his parents saddled him with taking out the trash and doing the dishes, but putting away the laundry was always Maddie's chore. She actually enjoyed it, the weirdo. She used to tell him the first whiff of warm Snuggle right out of the dryer was a cure-all. Also, she can fold a fitted sheet in under ten seconds. He'd timed her once.

Maddie takes an eye-wateringly orange shirt out of the laundry basket and with three decisive motions turns it into a perfect rectangle. If Jee ever decides she wants to go deer hunting, she'll be all set. "Since when are you not good with entrails?" 

"Since that guy was ripped in half last week."

It'd easily been the grizzliest car crash he'd ever been called to. It made the 405 pileup a few years back look like Disney on Ice. About halfway through tagging and bagging almost a dozen casualties strewn all over the westbound lanes of the Pomona Freeway, the guy responsible for the crash snapped awake while Hen and Chimney were setting up and drove off in a panic. The top-half of the motorist stuck under his car was dragged maybe sixty feet, and Buck had a front row seat to the sight of the poor guy's nerves and vasculature trailing behind him like squid tentacles before the driver came to a stop by hitting yet another car. 

"I'm also not eating spaghetti for the foreseeable future, FYI," he adds.

Maddie wrinkles her nose. "Okay, changing the subject: when do you leave again?"

It wouldn't be an overstatement to say the smile that question invokes explodes over his face. He feels it happen; the spark eats the fuse so quickly there's barely any lead-up and his cheeks burn from the sheer magnitude of the blast. 

"You look deranged," Maddie says, laughing.

"I feel deranged." He's been like this all week and it's starting to scare everyone. Chimney keeps leaving pamphlets for Clozaril in his locker. "Tomorrow morning. We're picking up the bird right after we do a coffee run."

"I wish my boyfriend was whisking me away to the mountains for a romantic getaway." Maddie heaves a theatrical sigh. "My husband says the best he can do is Shake Shack."

The whole thing is absolutely bonkers. He'd been minding his own business, half-watching a documentary about volcanoes with his feet in Tommy's lap, when they showed some insanely beautiful footage of Mount Rainier. And although his mind was focused on completing level 29 of Euclidea, his mouth was busy saying, "I've always wanted to go there." 

Thumb digging into Buck's instep, Tommy had made a thoughtful sound and said, "I'd tapped a buddy of mine to get us into Griffith Observatory after hours, but I like your idea way better. Let's do it."

If someone had told Buck 1.0 that someday a beast of a man would be flying him by helicopter to the Cascades for their two-year anniversary, he would've laughed his way into a pneumothorax. And then he would've tried to fuck his nurse. 

He looks across the living room to where their bags have been sitting, fully packed, since last night, and grins. "Tell Chim he needs to step up his game. You're worth Zankou, at least."

Maddie snorts. "Gee, thanks."

Behind her, there's unexpected movement, and every muscle in his body locks up as his heart stops in a moment of brief, blinding terror. 

It's stupid to feel this way after seven years, but a little part of him is still waiting for Doug to crawl out of the shadows like a wraith to finish what he tried to do. He's spent many a sleepless night spiraling to the soundtrack of Chimney's desperate, Do you know he's dead for sure? Did you see a body?

Buck did see his body, but a little voice sometimes whispers to him from some deep, dark place at two in the morning: it was freezing that day. It could've slowed the bleeding, could've kept him alive long enough to go to a hospital. You don't know what happened after the ambulance left with him. What if he survived? What if he's out there right now, just biding his time?

Which are bad and ridiculous thoughts to have because he knows that monster is dead, and frankly he's got better things to think about than Doug, who's absolutely having his skin torn off in hell right now—especially since his adorable, perfect niece is the one who came into the room. 

"Say hi to your uncle, Jee," Maddie says, smiling. In her hands, a pair of polka dot leggings becomes a polka dot brick with hospital corners. 

Jee-Yun jumps a little like she can't quite see him, and Maddie goes over to the dresser to obligingly tilt the camera down. 

"Hi, Uncle Buck." Jee-Yun waves, then rises an inch or two higher in the frame, and he realizes she's standing on her tiptoes. She cranes her head, moving it a bit from side to side like she's looking for something. After a few seconds, she drops back down, grimacing in disappointment.

He looks over his shoulder, but no one's there. "Sorry, kiddo, it's just me."

"Just you is fine, always," Maddie immediately pipes up, and he ducks his head with a smile. It's always nice to hear her say that. "It's just that… well, she had a question and we weren't sure if you were the one we should be asking."

Buck grins. "Lay it on me, Jee."

It's always a little hilarious to watch how Jee reacts when the spotlight's on her. She bounces and twirls a little, and her whale-spout pigtails move with her. For someone getting ready to enter kindergarten, she's got the stage presence of a Broadway star. "Uncle Buck, how do airplanes fly when they're so big and heavy?"

He opens his mouth to answer her, but there's nothing there, just an empty pocket of air that tastes vaguely like the ham sandwich he had for lunch. He closes his mouth with a click, stymied. He could've sworn he knew this one. Something about lift and drag?

"Jee, I-I'm sorry. I don't know off the top of my head. I could look it up for you?"

A little groan escapes her, but it turns into a shriek when a tie-dyed sweatshirt comes winging from off-camera and lands on her head. Jee wrestles the shirt away, static making her hair cling to her face, which she swipes with a whine. 

"That's why I wanted to ask Uncle Tommy!"

Buck has forgotten a lot about the tsunami. Time has softened the memory of how warm the water was, how it shoved its way into his mouth and nostrils like it was trying to find a way inside his veins, and that it was filled with so much debris it scored the insides of his cheeks bloody. But the one thing he never lost was how his feet went out from under him when that first wave hit like a freight train. He hasn't been able to ride a roller coaster since: he doesn't see the need to pay to experience the feeling of free fall again. He remembers every second of it like it just happened. 

He may be sitting on the couch with his feet firmly on the floor, but his stomach is thrilling at the familiar sensation of being completely unmoored. Only instead of being dragged into the dark, he's being pulled up into endless blue. 

Breathless with stratospheric joy, he digs his trembling fingers into his knees like it's going to do anything to keep him grounded, and chokes out, "Who, Jee?"

The look Jee turns on the camera is so confused that Buck isn't sure he was even using real words just then. It could've been a jumble of sounds falling from his mouth like aquarium gravel. 

"Uncle Tommy," Jee says, with the patient air of someone who forgot they were talking to an idiot. "It's okay if you don't know about airplanes, Uncle Buck. You drive fire trucks."

He's pretty sure he was just insulted. Behind Jee, Maddie's wide-eyed and mouthing an ecstatic oh my god! 

"Tell you what. When—" he swallows thickly, overcome "—Uncle Tommy wakes up from his nap, I'll have him call you and he can tell you all about how planes stay up in the air."

She mulls it over, and he can see the outline of her tongue poking the inside of her cheek like she's swishing the offer around in her mouth. Finally, she gives him two decisive nods of her head that has her pigtails bouncing. "Okay. When's that?"

"I-I don't know. Soon." If the lightning had struck a few feet away from him instead of dead-on, he thinks it would've felt like this. Any second now he's going to vibrate out of his skin and scar Jee for life. "Maybe I should go check on him." 

"I think that's a good idea," Maddie says cheerfully, coming into the foreground. Her eyes are glossy and red, and even with two screens and several miles between them it feels like she's about to wrap him up in the warmest hug. "Why don't we let you go for now? Uncle Tommy can give us a buzz later."

"Yeah, t-that sounds like a plan." He knows he's rocking the deranged look again, except it's somehow so much worse. He doesn't care. He hopes his face gets stuck like this. When he rolls into the station two weeks from tomorrow, he's going to take every pamphlet Chimney shoves at him and eat them.

Maddie's grin is threatening to split her face in half. "Give Uncle Tommy a big kiss from us."

He's going to do way more than that. "You bet. Bye, Mads. Bye, Jee!"

The very second the call ends, he's on his feet and practically running down the hall. Tommy had been coming off a rough 24 earlier when he'd sloppily kissed Buck and then staggered into the bedroom. It's been almost three hours and Buck hasn't heard a peep since. 

Buck makes sure to lift the bedroom door when he opens it so the hinges don't creak, and when he sees Tommy—sprawled diagonally across the mattress with his jeans still on and enough drool soaked into the pillowcase to fill a bathtub—his knees decide it's the perfect time to stop working. He clutches the door frame so he doesn't crumble to the floor under the weight of all this euphoria.

Jee thinks of Tommy as family. It's not hard to figure out the logic she must be using to get there: she has an Uncle Buck, who has had a Tommy for as long as she's been making real memories, and therefore… 

He can't help but wonder who else in the world is operating on that same intel. Jee has no doubt told the teachers at her kindergarten about her mom and dad and her amazingly cool Uncle Buck, but maybe she's also told them about her other uncle, who always lets her ride on his shoulders when they go to the park and who talks to her like she's a forty-seven-year old at brunch. Maybe she's told kids at the playground about the uncle who knows why planes stay in the air and who folded himself into a pretzel because she wanted him to sit next to her at the kids' table last Friendsgiving. Maybe she's drawn shitty pictures in crayon of two stick figures holding hands under a smiling sun, and when her classmates ask who they're supposed to be, she tells them, "That's my Uncle Buck and my Uncle Tommy." 

Inhaling shakily, he makes himself move from the doorway to the bed, crawling in as gingerly as he can. It's all for nothing, though, because Tommy cracks an eye open and fixes it on him. Buck scrunches his face up in apology, but Tommy just smiles a little and tugs Buck down, pressing his face into the space between Buck's neck and shoulder and settling with a hum.

Buck slides a hand into his hair and holds him close, breathing in old sweat and a hint of his own shampoo. "I love you, Uncle Tommy."

"If this is a new kink, I'm going to need at least another two hours of sleep before I'm prepared to tackle it," Tommy mumbles. 

Choking on laughter, Buck presses a kiss to the side of his head and wonders if it's possible to die of happiness. "Not quite. Your niece has a question about airplanes and wants you to call her when you wake up."

When there's no immediate answer, Buck is sure Tommy's fallen back to sleep, but then Tommy shifts a little in his arms, presses a kiss to his shoulder, and murmurs warmly, "Will do."

[scealaiscoite]

⋆˚࿔ wild west prompts 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

¹⁾ “those wanted posters are plastered on the doors of every general store and livery for ten miles in any direction - did you really think you wouldn’t be recognised?”

²⁾ “how charming of all these outlaws to wait until i was sworn in as sheriff before they rolled through town.”

³⁾ “i know this town is more modern than most we’ve come across, but i think there’ll still be questions raised if we head on into the boarding house together and ask for a single room.”

⁴⁾ “i can’t say i’ve ever seen a pairing so odd as a gravedigger and a midwife before.”

⁵⁾ “psst… psst! the guys took a ride out to the creek and spotted one of the sheriff’s goons scouting out the trail we took up here yesterday. we need to get moving, now!”

⁶⁾ “shit, if i knew they’d started making bounty hunters this pretty i would’ve stopped trying so damn hard to stay clear of you.”

⁷⁾ “that rancher came by asking after my hand again today. you don’t get your act together soon, and i’m gonna start letting him believe it’s a possibility.”

⁸⁾ "there's easier ways to get my attention than to get bucked, y'know."

⁹⁾ "does your madame require you to pay this much attention to all your patrons, or have you taken a shine to me already?"

¹⁰⁾ "for a city kid, you're starting to look awful comfortable up on that saddle."

¹¹⁾ "i can't help but find it curious that in a wagon train so big, you keep finding your way back to my side day after day."

¹²⁾ "i would've never brought us out west if i knew this is what laid ahead."

¹³⁾ "and tell me, do all your fellow preachers spend as much time in the cathouse as they do in their church?"

¹⁴⁾ "when you said you wanted to spend time with me i figured it'd be in the saloon, not driving a herd of batshit mustangs up the goddamn mountain on our own!"

¹⁵⁾ "the most fearsome gunslinger in the west is afraid of cats?!"

[themusingsofacurlyhairednerd]

In Love and War Pt II

Summary: Warlord!Rhys takes his mate back to his mountain camp and Tamlin's!sister!Reader has to decide the best way to try and escape

Content Warnings: Morally Grey!Rhys, talks of violence

Part I

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

We ride for hours. The first two riders I’d seen join us after the first; they too have wings, tucked tight against their backs. Under different circumstances, I might be tempted to ask why they bothered with horses at all when they can simply fly, but thought better of it. The less I learn about them the better. All the easier to keep them in my mind as some faceless evil so I feel a little less guilty about putting an arrow in their eye when I escape. Rhysand has foolishly left me with my weapons, I'll put that mistake to good use when the time is right. 

By the third hour, we’ve left the bog and the forest behind, riding through what was once a sprawling plain but is now nothing but weeds. There is no magic left to keep this place fertile and thriving. Hybern’s Cauldron backed powers have stripped most of the land of its power, leaving ruin and famine behind in its wake. Little has managed to grow since, he’s been using the Cauldron to make sure a majority of the crops grow in his fields, where his slaves can tend them and ensure he gets the bulk of the harvest. There's nowhere to run out here.

Especially not when the rest of the riders regroup. There are twelve of them in total, all falling behind my captor as his great, midnight black stead takes the lead. 

I haven’t ridden a horse in a long time, could not afford to keep one, but the ones that I had, back in my youth, had never been this graceful. Even with my added weight the horse gallops like it has wings, swift as the wind, its blue-black mane trailing gracefully behind it. I almost don’t mind the ride, minus the circumstance and company, as the sun begins to set ahead of us, the sky a symphony of purple, orange and pink.

Eventually, we come to a river, flowing with large chunks of ice from a not yet frozen ice flow further upstream, where they stop to water their mounts. 

My captor dismounts first, large, gloved hands gripping my waist to help me down. By the Mother, his hands are so large against my hips! I’m suddenly very aware of my own size. 

“Don’t try and run,” he warns.

I glance around to my lack of escape routes and roll my eyes. “Darn, I was planning on throwing myself into the river.”

One of the others, the male I’d spotted first I think, snorts beneath his hood. 

Rhysand grunts out a warning before leading his horse to drink and filling a canteen he had tucked in his saddle bag. His back is, foolishly to me, I could easily draw my knife and stab him right here, but a quick glance around tells me that really would end with me taking a trip down the river. All his men carry swords and knives and there’s one with a wicked looking dagger strapped to his thigh; I barely reach the chin of the shortest among them, and that doesn’t account for at least a hundred pounds of muscle difference between us. I know that I have thinned, my ribs poking out beneath the heavy, hole ridden sweater. Some days I feel… brittle. Today especially. I’m not winning any fights against one of them, let alone twelve.

No, I just need to be smart. Wait for an opening, steal a horse, and run as far away as possible. So far, whatever this monster thinks I’m supposed to be to him has saved me from harm, I don’t plan on sticking around to see how long that protects me. Even if I did believe in mates-- as if the Mother ever cared enough about me to give me a soul tie to anyone--I’ve seen the worst in people enough to know it didn’t mean much in the end. What’s a mate but someone obligated to be a breeding mare? What’s a bond if not a magically induced aphrodisiac? I have little doubt that I’m actually safe here; just alive and conscious because it’s too much of a hassle to try and drag my limp body around.

My scheming comes to a grinding halt as Rhysand returns with the canteen, water sloshing the edge as he holds it out for me. It hasn’t occurred to me just how dry my mouth is until I see that water. 

Of course, I’m not going to let him know that. “No thanks.”

“I’m not going to poison you,” he returns.

“Poison's the least of my concerns,” I retort.

He grabs my hand and pushes the canteen into it. “Drink.”

“Bite me,” I snarl.

His men chuckle at that, which must upset him because his wings twitch behind him. He draws a deep breath before saying, “Ask nicely, mate.”

I should dump the water directly on his head, and my hand twitches around the canteen as I debate it, but in the end I decide against it. This male murdered half my family in cold blood, whatever thin amount of protection I might have remains only as long as he doesn’t think I’m a threat. To escape, I need to be smart.

On that subject, does he even know who I am? Does he remember riding into our camp that night, sword drawn, slaughtering my people as they jumped from their mats? Or were we just another blurred face in the mass of lives he’s taken in the name of conquest? He’s as bad as Hybern. Even if he has forgotten, I won’t.

I twist the lid back on without drinking anything, ignoring the way my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.

“Don’t say I didn’t try,” he growls as he takes it back and slides it into his saddle bag. There’s a rolled up sleep mat, a blanket, and another sword all tied neatly to that bag. Nothing too heavy, meaning their encampment can’t be far. I need to find a way to get away before they reach it; there will be too many eyes there.

“Your bow,” he says, holding out his hand. 

My hand tightens instinctively around the belt across my chest, the leather worn and cracked from years of use. “No.”

“You can’t ride into camp with them.”

“Great, then you can just leave me here.”

It takes him two steps to be back beside me, and I’m embarrassed to admit how easy it is for him to snag the strap and yank it over my head, despite my best efforts to keep that from happening. 

“Give that back!” 

“The knife can stay, as long as you don’t do anything stupid,” he says like I’m a misbehaving child. 

He keeps his back to me as he ties my bow and quiver up next to his second sword, my stomach rolling at the sight of my things next to his. 

Rhysand orders his men to mount up as he turns back to me, and I get the impression he’s looking me over for more weapons beneath the hood. I still have no idea what he looks like. Ugly and scarred, like most warlords are, I imagine. I’d never gotten a good look at him that night, had only seen those three stars on his hood and that giant sword between his wings, dripping blood. 

“You won’t need any weapons,” he says, in what sounds like it’s an attempt to be gentle, but falls flat. “You’re safe with me.”

I’d have been safer with the kelpie. But I don’t say it, I don’t say anything at all as those large hands lift me back onto the horse, or when he swings into the saddle behind me. I don’t say anything when we cross the river, icy water biting through my thin pants, making my teeth chatter, or when the wind whips relentlessly at us as we leave the grassy plains and head into the mountains. The chill feels like a thousand needles being jammed into my skin, but I will bear it silently. He will not get the satisfaction of seeing me weak; will not be gratified by any sort of conversation for the duration of our journey.

Or at least, that was the plan. 

“You’re shaking,” he says, one hand gripping the reins as he uses the other to slide his cloak off his shoulders and over mine.

The material is thick, lined with fur inside, so startlingly warm between his own body heat and the fur that when it settles over me I give a little sigh of relief. The sleeves are too big, swallowing my hands as I try to pull it more fully over my body. “Thanks.” It slips out of me before I can stop myself.

“You still haven’t told me your name,” he replies as he settles around me again.

The smell of him, jasmine and citrus and the sea invades all my senses. I want, more than anything, to get it out of my nose, to keep the knowledge of him far, far away from me, but yet, despite my mind’s protests, my body burrows deeper into it. 

There’s still no encampment or settlement on the horizon, the horses moving deeper and deeper into the mountains as night falls around us. As long as we’re not stopping to make camp, I think I’ll survive. 

“And you haven’t told me yours.” If there must be a conversation, best I can do to buy myself time is steer all conversation away from me.

“I’ve had many names, but most call me Rhys.”

Most called him Death Incarnate amidst a number of things that would make a sailor blush, but I don’t think I’d ever heard anyone call him Rhys. That was entirely too normal. 

“Ok, Rhys,” it tastes like bile on my tongue, acknowledging him as anything other than the monster he has always been called back home. “Where are we going?”

The moon shines bright above us, illuminating the slender path we take through the mountains, a steep drop off on one side of us, nothing but sheer rock wall on the other. 

“Home,” he replies. 

I can’t help the scowl that escapes me, but at least he can’t see it. “And where is home exactly?”

“You’ll see soon,” he replies as he expertly guides his mount up a rocky path. There is no hesitation in his movements; he’s ridden this path many times.

I run a hand over my forehead. “I don’t remember coming this far out.” It slips out of me. If he knows this path then we’re close to the Illyrian borderlines, where his warband can make a semi-permanent encampment. These are grounds I’m not supposed to be anywhere near, nor did I think I was. 

“Where were you headed?” 

My brother’s made his claim through the Grasslands, the ground barely fertile to feed the livestock in the summer. With winter coming fast, he’d tried pushing his boundary lines into the forests near what had once been the Human Lands. I meant to go through the woods, skirting around Hybern’s slave camps and slip into the Uncharted Territories to find some game. I must have skirted too far past the slave camps when I’d lost my map running from those Highway Men.

“The Uncharted Lands,” I say because I honestly can’t come up with a lie that doesn’t make it look like I belong to Hybern or Amarantha. The boundaries between the warbands shift too often, encroaching too close. Sometimes I can barely tell who’s who and this is the only world I’ve ever known.

“Why?” He asks as we crest an incline and lead the men over a long, smooth plateau on the mountain’s western face. The wind is worse here, snapping at us like whips and before I can even burrow into my borrowed cloak, he’s drawing the hood of it over my head.

His arm tightens around my waist as he barks at his men to start riding single file. 

“Was looking for food.”

The horse’s hooves echo between the valley of rock beneath us as we press forward, the precariousness of our situation buying me time to figure out my lie. If I’m not hunting for my brother, what am I doing out here? It’s been a long day; a long week honestly. The rumbling of my stomach and the wind at my face and the warlord at my back seem to occupy the limited space in my quickly tiring mind. The hood of the cloak doesn’t help. It is embedded with some sort of magic, because even though it makes everything dark and warm, I can somehow see right through the fabric, right where that cluster of stars are, as if they’re eye slits. Magic items are rare these days, and expensive, I could probably buy out the Grassland’s market of deer jerky for this item alone.

Eventually the plateau dips, taking us down the other side of the mountain, into the misty canyon below. If I didn’t know where I was before, I really don’t now. Mountains are Illyrian territory, as forbidden and unwelcoming as the Imperial City Hybern had erected in The Middle centuries ago. I need to be paying attention so I know the way back; my eyes are sharp, sharper than most, I should be able to make out a deer path or trail easily, even in the dark, but my eyes are so heavy.

I give myself a little shake. Gotta be paying attention.

The swaying, even gate of the horse reminds me of being a small child, sitting in my mother’s rocking chair as she reads me to sleep. She and my father had always loved telling us stories, my father his made up theories and tales from the road, my mother her books and poems. I try to sit up and adjust my position in the saddle so I’m not slouching forward.

“You do not ride often,” Rhys says, his grip pulling me back more solidly against his chest, so I can feel all the hard planes of him. He’s got to be freezing without his cloak, even if he is still wearing long sleeves and gloves.

“No,” I bite back the rest of the story; how my people had suffered with the loss of my father. How Tam hadn’t been able to organize our survivors in the aftermath, how he’d been unable to store enough food for us that first winter and many of our rider’s had deserted. How he’d had to decide if keeping our stables full was worth the price of the lives hunger was stealing from us; how we’d been forced to eat and sell a few of them, my father’s prized war horse included. 

“We’ll change that,” he says, half to me, half to himself. “I think I like having my mate ride with me.”

I bite the inside of my cheek until it bleeds. At least I’m awake now. 

“You still haven’t told me your name.”

The mist settles around us as we step into the valley, even as the path ahead becomes nearly invisible, he doesn’t slow or get down to walk the horse. He knows where he’s going, has done this so many times he could do it blind. A rare gift many of our traveling cities don’t receive. Envy swells in my chest. I have never had  a place secure enough to set up a permanent camp. The Grasslands are our borders sure, but we move through them daily in fear of an attack, keeping ourselves vigilant for whenever Hybern or Amarantha decide they want more than they’ve already taken from us. Always changing our paths, our camp layout, always moving. How come this monster gets this luxury and my people don’t? 

“You are so hesitant to give it,” he muses, drawing me out of my thoughts. “Do I know it already?”

Shit.

“No, that can’t be right. Our bond is too obvious, I would have remembered.”

He’s as clever as he is quick on his feet, unfortunately.

“So I will know you by association, is that it?”

I should just fling myself off the horse and try to lose myself in the mist. If I’m lucky, maybe one of his men will trample me by accident and this horrible nightmare will be over. At least, if I’m dead I will not have to explain my failure to Tam, or face the alternative of being this male’s breeding mare. Neither is a future I wish to meet.

It is only then that an alternative solution occurs to me.

Tam said I couldn’t come back without food; I’d made a nuisance of myself back home and had swiftly suffered the consequences of it, and with winter coming in fast, my brother has to know he sent me on a fool’s errand. Perhaps intending to keep me out of his way for a while; or to finally get me to bend the knee and submit to his authority as warlord. I hadn’t been of age to take father’s mark, and my allegiance had fallen through the cracks in the years after. Until I was integrated, Tam couldn’t marry me off, as I suspected he wanted to do often, and was probably using this opportunity to try and make me see reason. A future I also loathed to picture. Perhaps, if I played my cards right here, then I could find something more useful than a deer to bring back. If I played along with this little mates concept, what could Rhysand show me? Couldn’t I use any knowledge he gave to my advantage? Surely Tam would find other uses for me than marrying me off with this sort of leverage. My brother was known for his grudges, if I found a way to offer up his enemy on a silver platter, perhaps I’d never have to worry about being married off again.

My stomach twists as the plot plays out before my eyes: This fool taking me into the lands my people had never been able to access before, convincing him to let his guard down, to show me where his people were vulnerable. I could get my hands on camp movements or their supply lines; I could count the fighting men or the horses, make list after list to take back in the place of a few meals I know deep down I’d never be able to find before winter. 

My parents faces flash before my eyes. My mother, so gentle and…sad. She had been sad long before my birth, always missing a home she couldn’t go back to because of Hybern. But she had always tried to be there for me. To sing to me and hold me. She had been good and kind and if she knew where I sat now… what I thought I might do…

And my father. He was cruel and cold and I’d spent a long time wondering if he’d ever loved me at all, but he had been a good leader. He had inspired the men, even on days that had been bleak. He’d been willing to shed whatever blood was necessary to ensure the survival of my people. If this opportunity had been presented while he was alive, he would have tossed a collar around my neck and dragged me to Rhysand’s doorstep himself. 

As for Tamlin, well if he so much as saw Rhysand’s arm around my waist as it was now he would have torn him to shreds. He would hate it, but I think my brother was as calculating and ruthless as my father had been. His protective nature could be overruled by what he deemed necessary to keep us alive. 

I’d need to play my cards right, if I was to make this work. “Yes,” and I force my voice to a whisper, my shoulders hunching in feign defeat. I will have to find ways not to look so utterly revolted about this male touching me; will have to bury all my base instincts to run and claw and fight every time he calls me his mate. But I can do it.

I will do it. For vengeance. For my angel of a mother. For the survival my father died for. I’d damn myself a hundred times over for a chance Tam had never found. 

He rests his chin on my shoulder, thinking and it takes every inch of willpower I possess to not shrug him off. A few hours together and this prick thinks he can just touch me so casually? As if I have no say in the matter because he is my mate and therefore owed whatever affection he sees fit to grant me?

“You can tell me, I promise I won’t hold it against you,” his voice is… gentle. Far more gentle than a man in his position should be and I have no idea how to respond to it. 

“My name is Y/N,” I saw softly, like I’m scared the wind will hear me. “Tamlin is my older brother.”

He stiffens behind me and I find myself holding my breath. This is it.

“He never mentioned he had a sister,” he says more to himself than me.

I almost audibly let loose a massive sigh of relief. “Yeah, well he isn’t too fond of me at the moment.” Never mind I didn’t know that he and Tamlin had ever talked on a mutual basis. Sometimes, usually over a mutually beneficial wedding ceremony, did rival camps come together and exchange weapons, food and sometimes training. If I remember correctly, I think there might have been times when we’d done so with the Illyrians, but never did Tam mention that he knew Rhysand personally. Rhysand was always a name whispered like a curse, as if saying it too loud would bring death and destruction upon us. 

“He sent you out here? Alone?” That last bit comes out like a growl.

“Banished, is more of the term he used,” I say under my breath, hoping the tone conveys embarrassment. 

“For what?” He hisses, his tone promising violence. It makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

Now what would convince Death Incarnate that I was something meek and fragile and in need of protection from my big, bad brother? If we really were mates, it would be in his nature to want to protect me, from both physical and emotional harm, but I needed to be careful. Too extreme a lie and I was likely to restart the war between our camps that had cost me my parents. I needed something to pack enough punch to convince him he needed to keep me close, to be looked after, but not so bad that it sparked a fight.

Perhaps my best bet was to appeal to the bond. “He wants me to take his mark,” I twist the sleeves of the cloak between my fingers as I speak. “So he can reap the benefits of marrying me off to one of Autumn’s commanders.”

Rhysand has gone still as death itself behind me and every nerve ending in my body feels like it’s on fire as whatever dark power lives within his skin comes to life. All my instincts scream at me to run, hide.

“But Eris is… cruel and I told Tam I couldn’t do it.” Eris was probably too old for Tam to try, but there had been talks, even when I was a girl, about how my father had wanted an alliance with Autumn, and Eris had his own history with the Illyrians. “He told me I needed to sort out my priorities and when I didn’t, he threw me out.”

“That’s just like him,” Rhysand snarls.

I bite down on my tongue to keep from snarling all the things I’d rather say in my brother’s defense. 

“How long have you been out here on your own?”

“About a week, I think,” I could say longer, but on the off-chance he has spies that could check that sort of thing--and I’m fairly certain the stories about Illyrians and their shadow agents are not far off--I’d rather play it safe. 

He brings his mount to a brief halt as two, looming carvings in the mountain’s face appear through the fog. The touring statues sporting the same great, talon tipped wings as Rhysand, stand guard over the pass ahead of us, their hewn sword held aloft. Sleeping wyverns lay at the base of each statue, their carefully carved eyes at eye level with us as the men fall in line behind us. The air is tinged with magic--overly sweet and oppressive-- as we approach, some sort of shield.

“From here,” he says softly in my ear, the mask still shielding the lower half of his face from the wind rough against my cheek. “You’ll never have to worry about being alone again.”

I’m going to be sick!  Play it safe. Play the game. For Tam. For Mom and Dad. I will myself to picture their faces again, to keep reminding myself what is at stake. 

Rhysand kicks the horse into motion again, passing through the shield with a flick of his gloved hand, soft ripples of magic parting for us like someone had pulled back a curtain. I’ve never seen anyone use magic so casually, so fluidly. Once all the riders have passed through, I feel the shield fall back into place behind us. No turning back now.

Ahead, the path begins to widen. At the far end of the path, still shrouded on either side by the mountains, sit two torches, the light guiding the way. When we reach them, the path dips dangerously into a valley, all filled with large, midnight black tents. More torches and bonfires light the cloth city, the sounds of drum beats and revelry beckoning from beneath us.

“I see the party started without us,” one of the men says from behind us.

“Devlon must have had a good run,” Rhysand muses as he takes us down into the valley. 

As the lights draw closer, I can start to make out the tribal markings and depictions sewn into the sides of the tents. There’s singing to go with the drum beats, all in a language that makes no sense to me, just like the markings. Something from the Mountains none of my people had ever been privy to. 

When we reach the outskirts of the city, we are greeted by two towering males, wearing little other than loose, dark paints and a smattering of blood red paint along their bare chests and faces. Each holds a spear, a dagger strapped to their muscled thighs. 

One barks something at Rhysand in Illyrian, his slate colored gaze fixed on me, still wearing the lord’s cloak. I’m grateful they cannot see my face, the fear I know will be clear in my eyes. It is hard enough to hide the trembling in my hands.

Rhysand dismounts to greet them, still speaking in Illyrian until they retreat into the maze of tents beyond. Despite the raucous laughter and music coming from the center, the rows of tents are organized into clear streets and sectors, some dancing bodies visible in between the rows, though most of the camp seems to be in its heart at the moment. 

He runs a gloved hand over the horses neck as he turns to face the men, their mounts dancing beneath them. “We will strategize in the morning.”

That is apparently dismissal enough, as his men bow their heads and kick their steads into motion around the outskirts of camp, soon disappearing into the darkness. My stomach drops as I realize I’m alone with my enemy for the first time all night. My anxiety only heightens as he takes the reins and guides the horse forward without a word of where we’re going.

I’m too scared to ask either.

Staying on the edge of camp means I cannot see any of what is happening within, though I glimpse bonfires and revelry often enough to guess. It is not unlike our own celebrations, even if the music is different.

Rhysand still doesn’t speak as we pass another group of sentries and head up a well worn path in the heart of the valley. The grass is lush here, would be up to his knees were it not for the cleared stretch lined by torches. It is quieter here, the music distant.

Overhead, the stars glitter like a million little diamonds, all the constellations I have memorized a stark contrast to the dark shadows of this hidden mountain world. We’re surrounded on all sides by mountains, shielded from view and harm by stone. It is so different to the rolling hills I am used to, it is nice to know that the stars, at least, have not changed.

The path leads to a secluded circle of larger tents, still black but stitched with stars not unlike the ones on the cloak I’m still wearing.

We pass yet another group of sentries as we approach, and only once we’re face to face with the largest tent in the circle does Rhysand finally stop.

I swallow the lump in my throat.

I should have run. Should have thrown myself into the river. Should have risked a quick death trying to fight my way out of this than subjecting myself to this.

Rhysand grabs my waist again and lifts me off the horse as if I weigh nothing. Compared to his size, I’m sure I do. In the torchlight, this is the first time I’ve managed to glimpse his face. I’d been drastically wrong about his appearance. The monster that haunted my nightmares was not some old, scarred thing as I had pictured, I wasn’t sure he was even older than Tam. A young lord, his features sharp, but clean cut. Some of his raven black hair fell loose around his sun kissed face, framing a set of violet eyes so bright they practically glittered like stars in his head, the rest was braided with strands of blue and purple thread. By far the most beautiful male I’d ever seen in my life and I think I hate him a little more for it. 

“You must be tired,” he says finally.

I don’t know what to do or say, so I just nod, which I think might be a mistake because now we’re heading inside the tent and all I can hear is the pounding of my heart in my ears because I have made a terrible mistake!

By some magic trick, torches flair to life as we enter, the soft orange glow cast in eerie patterns against the sleek black leather walls. On one side of the tent is a bed large enough to accommodate someone with such massive wings, piled with furs and pelts of various animals. On the other end, a table with some chairs and various weapons and books and trinkets scattered about the top of it. There’s chests piled in the corner, locked and dusty like they haven’t been opened since they’d been moved in. The floor is covered in a dozen different rugs, all overlapping in an attempt to make the place feel cozier but the patterns and colors are all so different that it looks like a whacky patchwork quilt. Clearly a layout chosen by a male.

“I apologize for the mess,” he begins as he takes off the scarf tied around the lower half of his face and places it over the back of a chair. “I… was not expecting to come across anybody out there, let alone bringing anyone back.”

“What were you doing out there?” My voice shakes too much for my liking and I’m convinced I asked that far too quickly to not be totally obvious, but it’s too late to take it back now.

“Scouting,” he says with no further explanation as he tosses his gloves onto a heap of more gloves on the edge of the table. 

My muscles stiffen as I watch him warily. If he starts undressing I might really change my mind and try to run for it.

I am prepared to do what is necessary for my people, but that is a line I cannot cross yet. Not tonight.  

He steps closer to where I stand dumbly in the center of the room, drowning in his cloak, and he nudges the hood off my face with his knuckles. 

I have to remind myself to stop biting my lip as the fabric slides off my head. Even fully clothed, standing this close to him, with those violet eyes drinking me in like that, I feel very exposed and vulnerable. 

“You’re shaking,” he says softly, his hand drifting down the side of my cheek.

I hate that I shiver under his touch. Hate that my eyes go to his full lips and how soft they look in this torchlight. I hate that I find him beautiful, hate that I do not pull away as he cups my cheek. I hate myself for putting myself in this position in the first place. 

“I…” this is not an act, I really don’t know what to do or say here. My chest aches with the way he’s looking at me, like maybe there really is some strange, mystical thread linking us together and it’s coming awake the more he has his hands on me. Yet my mind balks and screams all the same and I cannot tell which of them is supposed to help me do this. “This is a lot.”

“There’s no need to be afraid,” he assures, his voice low and husky, a tone I think might be better suited to the bedroom. “You are safe with me.”

Safe.

As if he could ever make me feel safe.

His thumb rubs circles in my cheek, the calluses along his palm from years of sword play scratching pleasantly across my skin. Violet eyes rove over me, studying the plains of my face like he’s cataloging every detail. “I’ll get you something to eat.”

I let loose a breath as he heads back to the tent flap, where his horse is still waiting.

“For now, it would be best if you stay here. Don’t go anywhere without me. At least, not until you take my mark.”

And then he’s gone, finally leaving me alone for the first time in hours, but even if I wanted to do some snooping, I can’t. All I can do is stand there as my stomach rises in my throat. 

His mark.

How the hell was I supposed to go home bearing Rhysand’s mark? 

I rub my temples with my fingertips. I need to find something useful to take back to Tamlin and get out of here fast, because if I don’t, I may never be allowed to go home again.

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

Tag List: @judig92, @randomperson1234sblog, @nyxbranwenn, @lilah-asteria, @barb00235, @landofpetrichor

Let me know if you would also like to be added to the Tag List! I have a good couple of chapters planned :)

[deathbxnny]

So we know that Boothill had a daughter but what is he had a S/O that also was killed but their consciousness was put into a robotic body(?) and they work for the IPC. Not having any memory of what the IPC did to their family and they meet Boothill again after a long time. Maybe they didn’t even recognize Boothill. Just angst.

ʕ •̀ ω •́ ʔ congratulations on 1000!!!

Oooh, I really love this request, Anon!! I've been craving something angsty and tragic, so I hope you'll like this and thank you for the request!!<33

Content: Reader is similar to the Androids from "Detroit: Become human", spoilers to Boothills past!!, past romantic relationship, heavy angst, hurt/no comfort, swearing, reader kind of is hinted to have a southern sounding accent, sfw

Reader has no set pronouns!!

((Not proofread))

"You promised your next life to me." (Boothill x Gn!Reader)

"That was close-" "-Too close! I told ya not to shut the gates too hard! The damned hens nearly got us killed when they woke up!" A young Boothill hissed to you, although there was no malice in his voice, only a playful tune of amusement. You grinned, biting into one of the apples you had stolen. "But we're alive right now, aren't we?"

The sun was slowly peeking out from beyond the mountains, painting the skies above you in soft blues, pinks, and oranges. You leaned against the tree you were both hiding in, trying your best not to fall out of it or make too much noise, lest the swearing and enraged farmer nearby heard you. It was just supposed to be a little early morning fun, in which you both hopped your neighbors fence to get some of his freshly harvested apples.

Some may call it stealing, but you often liked to call it "borrowing". Served the old man right anyway. He always sold them for too high of a price at the market!

"God damn you, brats! Once I get my hands on you, you'll never think of crossing my damned fields again!" The farmer yelled, loading his shot gun, before he seemed to trip over the pots you had accidentally run into on your way to the tree. Both of you snorted at the cursing intensifying, your hands pressing against your mouths to weakly muffle the laughs that threaten to bubble out of you.

A door creaked open in the distance, the disgruntled old wife hobbling out in annoyance. "RANDY! WHAT ON GOD'S GREEN EARTH ARE YOU DOIN'? IT'S NEARLY 5 AM!" She yelled, the farmer quick to scramble up and pull on his hat with a gulp. "Those damned kids are back!-" "-I don't care! Get your ass back in here, or so may the Aeons help me!" The man only reluctantly did as told, trudging back inside in sizzling rage, yet decided that for today, the little rats could escape him just one more time again. He'll get them next time.

You two waited for a while after the door slammed shut before you finally let out a relieved giggle. "That's what he gets! Old man Mr. Roger had it, comin'!" You slid down the tree, skillfully landing on your feet, before you ran towards the cornfield you came from. "Let's get back to the horses!" You called out behind you, making the young boy follow after you quickly, albeit slower due to being the one carrying most of your "borrowed" goods. You had always been the braver one. The one with the most energy and the most strength to do things. He looked up to you in moments like these, nearly admiring you when you jumped over the fence with no difficulty. He struggled alot more than you did before he too finally reached your horses on the otherside.

"That was really fun..." Boothill trailed off as he helped you load up your half of the apples onto your mare, that was attempting to take one for herself. You hummed in agreement, thanking him right after whilst he helped you onto your saddle. "It's always fun when you're with me." You commented with a shrug, not understanding the weight of your kind words that made his heart beat faster. You rode next to eachother in silence for a while, your eyes glued on the sunset before you, and yet the boy found you more interesting to look at. He bit his lip nervously when the sun hit your eyes just right, making them glow.

"I'm gonna hit the bed the second I'm home... but we'll meet later today again, okay? See ya!" It wasn't a request in Boothills' mind. No, it was simply a natural demand, a requirement to be there, to see you. He watched you ride on the opposite path back to your home, wondering when he too could be braver than you and spill the words that were on his mind for his best friend.

--

That was one of the only memories of Boothills childhood with you that he could remember anymore now. It was odd to think that you two were once nothing more than little troublemakers ridding through the early morning hours together. Only years later however, you'd see eachother every day through marriage.

Your home was a small cottage near the oceanside, miles of fields and meadows surrounding it, in the distance, unexplored forests and mountains. It was your idea to move there as it was still close to his family, and he couldn't have been more grateful. Especially with the small bundle of joy he one day found whilst he was out checking on the cattle during a strong thunderstorm. You were resting at home that night, your fingers moving quickly as they crocheted a blanket you had been working on for a while, ears strained to listen to the music over the static that played through the radio. The fireplace was warm, eyes beginning to drop shut from the exhaustion of a busy day on the farm, when suddenly the front door creaked open and in came your husband, soaked to the bone.

You sat up, watching carefully as he set down his dripping hat and pulled off his boots with one hand clumsily, the other tightly wrapped around something you couldn't see from the dimness of the room. "Come here, honey. Look what a sweet little thing I've found out there." He chuckled gently, holding out the wrapped bundle to you, whilst he pulled away some of the cloth to show the face of a small, sleeping infant. You gasped in surprise, eyes widening, as you were quick to take her out of the wet cloths and wrap her into your own warm arms. "Oh she really is so little!" You whispered in awe, and Boothill could see the love you had for what would soon become your adoptive daughter from the start.

She was your everything ever since that fateful night, you two lovingly calling her "Lavender" after the fields her father had found her in. She was a lively, easy child, so loving and sweet, that your heart couldn't help but be filled with her the moment you met her. Boothill found alot of purpose in raising her with you, often times taking her on horse rides around the land he owned, or taking her out to fish, whilst you taught her how to garden and crochet things herself.

You and Lavender were his sweethearts, his everything. All that Boothill lived for... until eventually, you weren't.

--

The day came in which the devil's from above, also calling themselves members of the "IPC" came down to slaughter you all senselessly. No one survived, no one but Boothill. Your daughter was dead instantly, her small daughter hidden under the heavy rubble, never having stood a chance against the bombs.

He could never forget the relief he felt when he found you, even if it was short-lived. You were fatally injured, breath labored and short, as you tried to hold on for just a moment longer. His arms wrapped around you, tears in eyes when he saw the fear for the first time in yours. No amount of bravery could save you now. "(Y/N)... you... please, you can't die." He chocked out, unable to comprehend the agony he was in. Yet you couldn't hear him over the ringing in your ears, your hand reaching up to grasp his shirt tightly with all the strength you had left. "I'll... I'll find you. I swear I will. In my next life. I promise... I..." Your arm dropped, the fear relaxing into nothing, as your breathing came to an end, the only thing left being the crackling of flames around you.

.....

....

..

"Mr. Boothill? Are you... alright?" Dan Heng awkwardly nudged the now Cyborg man, his head tilting in confusion. Aventurine raised a brow, his arms crossing as his gaze met your rather unamused one in thought. "My... he only seemed to malfunction once you arrived, (Y/N)!" He grinned teasingly, making you roll your eyes and cross your arms. "Can we please continue? You claimed we didn't have any time to waste." The blonde raised his arms in faux surrender, knowing he shouldn't bother you any more than summoning you here has.

A high-profile IPC android like you surely had better things to do after all than to deal with a failing country, but here you were.

Boothill, meanwhile, blinked a couple of times, his head hurting and throbbing in agonizing pain. Just how was this possible? Just how were you alive?

Why did you not recognize him?

"... I... sorry, they look really familiar." He said, trying to compose himself when you gave him a sharp, uninterested look. Your eyes always held so much kindness for everyone. How could you forget even that? Pulling down his hat to cover his eyes, he sighed and shook his head. He supposed both of you had changed beyond recognition in one way or another.

"Anyways... let's get goin'... that nice, wing-headed Mister ain't gonna go down on his own..." He continued, trailing off for a moment, before he simply turned and left to fulfill his part of the plan. He heard you scoff lightly, obviously unamused by whatever seemed to have angered you so much before coming here.

His soul ached for you in ways he couldn't ever utter out loud again. And whilst you did keep your promise of seeing him again, this is not the life or the way he had preferred.

At least you weren't a liar, he supposed bitterly with a cold chuckle.

Alrightyy... I finally found the time to write this, and I'm unsure how I like it... BUT it's done, and I hope it was okay for you, Anon!! Thank you again for the request!!<33

[pretending-ican-write]

Cowboy Up - Pt.8

Enjoy, touch angsty. I'm also opening up to requests for drabbles/headcanons of moments pre-show/outside show canon for this pairing because quite frankly i'm obsessed with them (and Ian Bohen i'm in love with that man).

Pairing: Ryan (Yellowstone) x Dutton!reader

WC: 1483

Previous part - Next part

---

Y/n exited the house with coffee in hand to see the small army John had amassed to deal with the cattle.  From the porch steps, she watched as who she assumed was a new hand talked to Rip who clearly didn’t think much of him.  Poor lad clearly didn’t have a clue what he was supposed to be doing on a ranch.  Y/n decided he was going to need her help to survive at the Yellowstone.

John approached her, “you’re gonna go with Rip up the mountain.”

“The fuck I am.  I’m going to the reservation,” she argued.

He shook his head, “I’m not about to let you be that close to it all y/n.  This is the compromise.  You help with the river or you stay here.  This is one thing that isn’t up for discussion.”

“Fine.”

She turned on her heel to one of the horse trailers where she took the rope of a horse from Colby to load up.  As she turned to leave, she was faced by Ryan who had bought his horse on.  Y/n let out a deep sigh upon seeing him, the reality of the potential danger to them in front of her in the form of his ‘livestock agent’ vest.  

Y/n leant against the metal, “I fuckin’ hate this Ry.”

“I know you do sweetheart,” he whispered.

They spent a quiet moment just existing in each others’ presence.  Ryan wrapped his arms around her middle, pulling her body against hers and pressed a small kiss to the top of her head.  Y/n allowed herself to melt into his chest, and inhale the smell of his cologne mixed in with that of the horses surrounding them. 

“You gotta promise to be fuckin’ careful out there.  I need you to come back to me when today is done,” she said.

Ryan nodded, “I promise to be careful, sweetheart.  You’re all the motivation I need to be safe.”

“I love you,” y/n whispered into the trailer.

Before he got a chance to reply, Lee interrupted them, “come on lovebirds we’ve got cattle to take back and a mountain to blow up.”

“You’ve got shit timing,” she whisper-shouted at her brother as they left, “we were having a moment.”

Lee laughed, “life is full of moments y/n, if you spend too long in one another will pass you by.”

Y/n walked past the line of trucks the hands were climbing into and headed towards where Rip had Comanche waiting for her.  She took her horse and gracefully swung up into the saddle, settling in for the long ride ahead of them.  They started off down the drive and y/n observed how uncomfortable the new hand looked on his horse.  Yeah he was gonna need all the help she could give him.  The convoy departed past them and y/n waved to her brothers in the first truck.  As the last truck drove past, Ryan looked out the window to see her blow him a kiss to which he smiled back.

-/-/-

Half an hour into their trek, y/n felt like the nerves were going to eat her alive.  Rip was leading them up the trail with no indication he wanted to talk and the hand looked far too scared to say anything so she took it upon herself to fill the silence.

“What’s your name?” Y/n asked.

The hand startled at her voice, “uh it’s Jimmy.”

“Nice to meet you Jimmy.  I’m y/n and I reckon you’re gonna need my help here,” she explained, “Rip’s a stubborn son of a bitch who thinks affection’ll kill ya and most of the others stopped maturing when they were 10 so I’m your best chance.”

“Thanks I guess?” He wasn’t sure what to make of the girl behind him.

Rip stopped her from rambling on, “what she’s conveniently missing out of her introduction is that she’s a Dutton so you’d do well to keep away from her.”

“Call off the threats Rip I know you won’t do anything to him,” y/n countered, “guy that uncomfortable on a horse didn’t apply for the job.”

Jimmy turned red at her statement, “listen I ain’t proud of what I done but-”

“Relax I don’t care what you did nor do I care to understand the decisions my father makes.  I’m just here to cowboy and ensure the place doesn’t go to shit before I get a chance to inherit it,” she explained.

Silence elapsed around the group and Rip took the opportunity to check on the youngest Dutton.  He turned around to see that she was clearly off in her own world, reins loose allowing Comanche to just follow the horse in front of him.  Her fingers were tapping out a rhythm on her saddle’s horn and Rip got the feeling her leg would be bouncing if she had her feet on the ground.

When they reached the top of the mountain they got to work setting up the charges to change the course of the river and fuck over the development next door.  Rip headed over to where Lucy was busy connecting up the wires.

“They’re gonna be safe y’know,” he stated, “on both sides of the fence.”

Jimmy looked up from the river, “is this legal?”

“You’re a criminal, what do you care?” Rip questioned.

The hand sighed, “thought the Yellowstone was gonna keep me out of trouble.”

“Getting in trouble’s the only skill you got,” Rip pointed out.

Y/n added, “difference is now you ain’t gonna get caught.”

Once everything had been set, they mounted up and headed back down the mountain.  This time y/n took the lead in an attempt to keep her mind off what would be going down on the reservation at that time.  

-/-/-

Nobody on the ranch had slept since they had returned from the reservation without Lee.  Her father had turned the house into some sort of command centre trying to locate her brother and y/n was sat on the porch steps watching the commotion having lost count of the amount of coffee she’d drank since coming back.  John and Jamie were talking around her but the words weren’t sinking into her brain.  Suddenly her father took off from the house.  Y/n shot up from the step and followed Jamie’s line of sight to where Kayce was walking Lee’s horse towards the ranch with a body slung in front of the saddle.

She gasped and felt the fear that had been keeping her going leave her body.  Her legs buckled, falling to her knees next the steps.  Jamie rushed to wrap his arms around his sister, letting her cry into his chest.  They waited in silence for Kayce to dismount the horse before Jamie let go of her to launch herself into her twin’s arms.  Y/n kept herself attached at the hip with Kayce whilst Jamie tried to get out of him what had happened but he wasn’t willing to give up any information.

At some point sat on the sofa she finally spoke, “someone needs to call Monica.”

“I’ll take Kayce back in the helicopter now.  No use rehashing this on no sleep,” John explained, “stop running on coffee and sleep.”

After the helicopter had departed, y/n made her way down the drive towards the bunkhouse.  The door banged open and the hands looked up.  The place was quiet, there was no insults being thrown around, and they were all there which was unusual for that time of day meaning Rip had given them the day off.  Ryan and Colby were on one of the sofas half-heartedly playing solitaire and Lloyd was sat reading at the table.  

Wordlessly, Ryan put down his cards and opened his arms for his girlfriend.  She made a beeline for him before burying herself in the hoodie he was wearing.  He wrapped his arms tightly around her, kissing her hair safely.  

“I love you,” Ryan whispered to her.

None of the hands made comment about the situation and Lucy fell asleep like that with tears drying on her cheeks.

-/-/-

After the funeral, y/n split from the rest of the group heading to the main house and instead made her way down to the barn in need of some emotional support from Comanche.  She found her father in one of the stalls with the stallion Kayce had been working with.

“What’s he doing here?” She asked.

John looked up at her, “think it’s your brother’s way of apologising.”

“How did it all go so wrong dad?” Y/n pondered.

He sighed, “I have no idea but this isn’t the end of it.”

“I’m still not being part of some fucked up power game dad and you don’t get to use me in some twisted politics but whatever it takes to get justice for Lee I’m onboard with,” she explained, “when we’ve got that we’ll talk again.”

John smiled at his daughter, “that’s good enough for me.”

[ashleyfableblack]

Applejack wiped the sweat from her brow. She set the hammer aside and groaned. Her hooves were sore from the day's chores and adding putting up a billboard on top of the list had been a bit more tiring than the middle-aged mare had expected.

Rainbow Dash wrapped a hoof around her wife and appraised her work. With a peck on the neck and a poke in the ribs she gave up a smirk of approval. "Not bad. Not bad. Nice work, hon."

"Heh" Applejack chuckled, rising to her hooves. "Eeyep."

Rainbow Dash joined in her knowing chuckle. "So, what made you finally decide to put it up?"

Applejack gave her partner's hoof a pat, looking over the bright yellow billboard. In white letters, trimmed it black it read "No Hate In Our Holler". She had wanted to be sure it would be in a highly visible place somewhere well-trafficked so she had chosen the Northeastern trail. Dubbed "The Naughty Nor-easter" for it's reputation as a place for young lovers to take romantic walks together, it was a long, broad dirt path which bordered their family orchard closest to Ponyville and facing New Canterlot.

"You 'n me, Dashie. We're, well, celebrities. We're heroes to a whole mess of folkes."

Rainbow Dash grinned, giving AJ a squeeze. "Well, yeah." Rainbow said matter-of-factly "We are pretty awesome."

Applejack's jade eyes trailed to the nearby field. Amid the waves of short green shoots and fluffy patches of clover, their little Filly, R.J. giggled and squealed. The tiny orange pegasus awkwardly stumbled about in circles, playing with the family dog, Winona and one of their family's two on-site security-hoofs, a Changeling they called Blue. Blue usually took the form of a grey-muzzled Blue-heeler hound, as she did now and could often be found by Winona's side. Blue seemed to have a certain fondness for the old border collie which Applejack only understood well enough to understand that she didn't understand.

"We've done a lot to make this world a better place. For all the young'uns. But for her? OUR little R.J.? Is it enough?" She gave her partner's hoof a concerned squeeze. "What if she grows up and falls for one of them Changelin' gals?"

Rainbow Dash's brow furrowed. "Well, we wouldn't care."

"Well of course, we wouldn't. Most folkes wouldn't. Still, there's some ponies out there with their noses in the air and sticks up their backsides who'd be awful to them. The same ones who'd be all rude to you'n me on accounts of us bein' what we are."

"A Pegasus and an Earth Pony?"

Applejack nodded, her nostrils flared and jaw clenched. "Yeahp. And that ain't right, Dashie. That ain't right and that ain't no way to treat a body. And if THAT's the legacy we're leaving for our little R.J. then, elements or not, what kind of mamas are we?"

"Yeah. You know, that last time we all went out to The Lavendar Saddle, Chryssi was telling me that in the Stormlands, some of those creepy jerks would actually even hate on us just for us both being mares?"

Applejack jerked around to glare at her wife in wide-eyed shock. "Say what?"

Rainbow Dash raised a wing, folding a few feathers like fingers in a promisory salute. "Swear to P.W."

"You gotta be kidding me. What kinda stone-age, bass-ackwards tom-foolery is that?"

"I know, right?" The pegasus ruffled her crest of chest fluff with a snort of disdain. "I mean, it's not ALL of them but enough that it's actually a problem for the rest of their kingdom."

"Well, I'll be…" Applejack shook her had and whistled. "I know that us ponies had a problem with that nonsense WAY back in the old days but… Coo-whee."

"Yeah." Rainbow's feathers ruffled, flush with Equestrian patriotism. "But that was, like a THOUSAND years ago, maybe. And even then it was just the stuffy old-money unicorn jerks from up in the richie-rich mountains.

Applejack nodded. "Well, anyhoof, this country that Twi and that bughorse wife a'hers are building, this 'New Equestria', it's gonna be a place for all critters to live together. Ponies 'n Pegasi, Unicorns 'n Yaks, Changelings, Lovebugs, Griffins, Kirins and… well, all folkes. Just a-living and a-loving, together. Nobody fightin'. Nobody feudin'. Nobody looking down on anybody. It's gonna take a lotta work but for our little R.J.? That's a place worth fightin' for, even for old gals like us."

"Hey, don't go calling my wife old, cowgirl." Rainbow mussed her wife's mane with the feather fingers of her wings. "That's the right way to catch these hoofs, you, get me?"

Applejack gave her partner a playful punch in the shoulder and gestured towards the sign. "I recollect an old gal, some of our kin- a loooong ways back, once saying something like "Whenever one pony stands up and says 'Wait a minute, this is wrong’ it helps other ponies do the same."

Rainbow Dash nodded, proudly draping her wings around her wife in a protective embrace. The two mares looked to the horizon as the sounds of their daughter's laughter echoed on the sweet summer breeze. "And who better to stand up and say it but the Sweet Apple Acres Elements of Harmony?"

Inspired by the work of the Concerned Appalachians and everyone who came before to stand up and say "Wait a minute, this is wrong."

[rambleonwaywardson]

Clegan Olympics AU - "Find Your Line"

Chronologically, this part comes before "The Paris Date." Catch up via this Masterpost if you're new here

AU Summary: Paris 2024 Olympics. Gale is on the U.S. equestrian eventing team, Bucky is a U.S. gymnast, they meet on the plane to Paris, and a love story ensues.

Author's Note: A deep dive into Gale's past. I totally didn't almost make myself cry writing this nope nope nope. Went from having no idea what I was doing with this installment to having it get away from me a bit.

TW for some mentions of abuse in Gale's past.

---

US Equestrian has launched several initiatives going into the Paris Olympics to increase interest in the sport, especially in younger generations. So when Gale, Benny, and Marge were all selected to the eventing and jumping teams, of course they capitalized on having young, attractive, charismatic riders representing USET. Gale has slowly gotten used to the attention he’s garnered in the horse world, but it came as a shock when he found himself being shoved into major newspaper interviews and morning shows ahead of the Games. 

He never really wanted any of that. He didn’t grow up with daydreams of grandeur. Really, he grew up unsure he was ever going to make it anywhere at all. His only daydreams were about finding something better, whatever that may be. He didn’t ask to be thrust into the public eye or fawned over by young fans. He won’t complain too much, because he loves what he does and he's grateful every day for where he’s found himself. 

But if you ask him, he’d rather skip the morning interviews in favor of getting an early start at the barn. That’s when he likes it the most, when it’s quiet. No one but the earliest grooms rustling about, checking on the horses and prepping morning feed. Nothing but the birds in the rafters and a breeze coming through the doors, the new morning sun stretching lazily down the aisle way. 

The stables in the morning have always been Gale’s safe place. Ever since he was a child, it was his escape. It didn’t matter what happened within the walls of their little Wyoming farmhouse. In the morning, he could slip away into the old barn standing vigil behind their home, and he could hide among the horses, the angels watching over him. He’d talk to them like friends, run his hand down their soft noses and feel their hot breath puffing against his skin. 

He took solace in methodically checking each of them over every day. He could breathe in the sweet scent of hay and horse without feeling the need to look over his shoulder. He’d wrap his arms around their necks and bury his face in their manes. Their ears would twitch back and forth, and they’d playfully nuzzle his hands while he spilled all of his secrets and fears. They let him hug them as tight as he needed to, and they happily absorbed every tear, every muffled sob. They were his protectors, and his greatest confidants.

When he was older, the horses granted him access to the wilderness beyond their homestead, sometimes even beyond the extensive reaches of their entire ranch. He’d pack a saddle bag and choose one of them to saddle up, sometimes the moment the sun rose, and he’d spend hours out in the countryside. He would disappear from the rest of his life, letting his horse carry the weight of the tiny, fragile world bearing down on his shoulders. He’d ride until he ran out of places to go, until he couldn’t feel anything but the beautiful universe breathing life back into his tired soul. 

Even now, as an international eventer, he has days where the training isn’t speaking to him the same way. Days when he’ll revisit his childhood in the mountains, saddle up one of his horses and take them out on the trails instead of riding in the arena. Days when no one knows where Gale Cleven went, because he expressly does not want to be found. He still has days where he’d like nothing more than to gallop bareback through a field, a cowboy hat shielding his face from the hot sun. Nothing but him and his horse and the Earth beneath their feet, a breath of fresh air that reminds him of why he’s here.

Horses have always been his safety, no matter the discipline or the breed or where on this Earth he lives. The barn has always welcomed him into its arms, sheltering him when there was nowhere else. 

But growing up, it always had to start in the morning. 

Gale learned that the hard way, as he learned so many things growing up under his father’s heavy hand. He’ll never forget the day his dad stormed into the barn before sunrise, looking for his ‘disobedient son.’ Gale, half asleep, cowered in the corner of one of the stalls, hay stuck in his unruly hair and clinging to his pajamas. The previous evening had been bad, after Dad came home drunk, looking for a fight. The bruises bloomed quickly on Gale’s arms and chest, and he went to the only safe place he knew. He was eight years old. 

But his dad found him in that stall, hiding behind his favorite little quarter horse mare, and he dragged Gale out by the neck. Angry at his son for wasting a perfectly good bed, choosing instead to sleep in a barn just to avoid him, he decided the bruises he’d administered eight hours before were no longer enough. “Ungrateful little shit,” he’d snarled as he shoved Gale to the ground. Gale remembers the silent tears on his own face and how they felt sticky as they mixed with the dirt on his cheeks; he’d learned not to cry out loud. He remembers the horses kicking at the walls and shrieking in the night, unable to protect him. 

Gale’s father had always been at his most sane around the farm animals, almost a man that his son could look up to. Almost. But that night, not even the barn could keep the little boy safe. He never went out there at night again. 

The only thing Gale is grateful to have inherited from his father is a love of horses. Ironically, his dad was the one to plop him in a saddle and teach him how to hold the reins in the first place. He taught him how to take care of these beautiful animals, even if he had no idea how to take care of a son. He taught Gale how to communicate with them, how to appreciate them and respect them. He taught him how to ride, how to rope, how to get back up no matter how many times he fell. They’d work the ranch together, side by side on the good days. Up at dawn and home at dusk, their legs sore by the end of the day from too much time in the saddle, arms tired from fixing fence or roping cattle, faces bronzed from the sun. His dad never even minded when Gale took a horse and disappeared into the wilderness, because “sometimes a man just needs to be alone in the mountains.” That was the language he spoke. The only language he spoke.

Gale’s dad unwittingly gave him his only ticket out, and it was the only thing they ever shared. It was the only time Gale ever felt close to him. Until his mom introduced him to English riding when he was 13 years old, dressage and jumping both. He fell in love with it immediately. Maybe it was the challenge, the beauty, the grace. Maybe he knew his father wouldn’t like it. Maybe he just wanted to be close to his mama.

“Find your line,” she would tell him, almost every time she watched him ride. Choosing the right line for a jump is critical, both in cross country and show jumping. If you come at an obstacle or combination wrong, it can set you up wrong for the next. He was never sure, though, if she was talking about the jumps, or about life.

His dad never supported his interest in dressage. Or eventing. Or English riding in general. He thought it was soft, prissy, feminine. He never seemed to mind Gale’s mom doing it. At least, he never said anything about it. But he said he raised his boy to be tougher than that. He taught him to rope cattle and ride in the mountains of the west, like a man (all things he continued to do until he left for college, mind you). He raised him to take over the ranch, like there was no other reason to bring a son into this world. He taught him how to rough it in the country. Not to prance around a ring in a cushy saddle and show coat with braids in his horse’s mane. 

His father was ignorant. Gale knows that, now. But he long ago internalized the anger and the fear. He long ago came to terms with being a disappointment of a son. Too quiet, too shy, too smart, too stubborn. Too skinny, too sensitive, too pretty, too needy. Too much of a mama’s boy. Too little like his dad. Too ungrateful. Too opinionated. Too sassy. Too queer. 

His dad always suspected Gale was gay, and he tried to beat that out of him. He tried to beat it all out of him. 

Gale did it all, anyways. 

The beatings got worse the older he got, the more Gale’s father realized that his son would never be the man he wanted him to be. By the time he was eighteen, there was no use hiding it. His dad asked him over dinner one night, right after he graduated from high school, why he didn’t ask Marge to marry him already. That’s what everyone expected him to do, even though he and Marge had called it off nearly six months before, when Marge realized she wasn’t what Gale wanted. He tried to tell his dad that they were just friends now, but his dad just pushed and pushed and pushed.

“She’s a lovely young lady… a shame to let her go… get your head on straight, boy… why the hell not?”

The rage boiled over. Maybe it was years of trying to keep his head down, trying not to talk back, trying to save himself even though it never even mattered. Or maybe it was because Gale knew he was leaving soon anyways. Might as well get it all out there. Might as well give it one last go. Why the hell not. He slammed his fork down, rattling the whole table. His mama knew what he was gonna say before he even opened his mouth, and she shook her head. He didn’t listen. “Because I don’t like girls!” he yelled. “I’m fuckin’ gay, dad! Okay! I’m gay. I’ve always been gay.”

That night was the only time his dad ever managed to put him in the hospital. Three broken ribs, a punctured lung, and a fractured wrist.

It broke his mama’s heart, but Gale spent the rest of the summer with Marge’s family, his best friend’s family, letting himself heal. And in the fall, the two of them got the hell out of Wyoming, headed for college on the east coast. He never said goodbye to his father. 

For the first time, Gale thought he knew what Mama meant when she told him to find his line. He felt free in a way he’d only ever experienced alone in the mountains. Free to find his own path, his own life, his own self. He stumbled here and there, but he found his own stride. He worked his way through school on horse farms, rode for the university eventing team, and caught the attention of some well-known local trainers. With an unbreakable country-boy spirit and the delicate grace and patience of a well-trained dressage rider, he could do just about anything. Take on any horse they threw at him. Find the kindness in even the wildest prospects. He became known for his ability to connect with the horses, and for his natural talent in the saddle. People noticed. Neil Harding noticed, took him in, gave him a chance to thrive for the first time in his life. And Gale made damn sure he gave it his all.

Now here he is, standing in front of his horse’s stall in Paris. He wonders, if his dad were still around, if any part of him would be proud. He wonders if he’d finally understand. Gale thinks not. 

“Hey there, baby girl.”

He walks into Whiskey’s stall, and she lifts her head in greeting, dropping grain all over the front of his shirt. Another day, another stain. He laughs and strokes the side of her face as she turns her attention back to her feed bucket. Gale used to get angry at himself for allowing thoughts of his father to intrude on this safe space he’d carved for himself in the world. But he’s older now. He’ll never forgive what his dad did to him; he’ll never forgive him for any of it. Not for a single blow or a single word. But it’s still a part of the story that landed him right here, and he wouldn’t trade this for anything. 

Sometimes he still imagines his father’s voice, telling him how to pick a hoof or check for lameness or read a horse by the way they twitch their ears and angle their head. “She’ll tell you everything you need to know, if you know how to listen.” 

Sometimes he feels those broad, callused hands guiding his own to feel for swelling or heat in an injured leg. And sometimes he feels those hands grabbing him roughly by the neck or pounding bruises into his ribs. Sometimes he hears that voice telling him what a disappointment he is, growling at him to stop bein’ so stubborn, stop bein’ such a goddamn fag, stop cryin’, stop talkin’, don’t you dare give me that attitude.

Gale smiles wryly at Whiskey as he smooths his hand along her back, listening to the swish of her tail and the sounds of her munching her grain. His perfect, dedicated, sassy young mare, who Harding had given him the chance to train so many years ago. “Such disappointments,” he says sarcastically. There’s a giant Olympic ribbon on the outside of Whiskey’s stall door that says otherwise. 

Gale takes his time running his hands along Whiskey’s legs, feeling for anything abnormal. Kenny will do all of this over again when Gale leaves to walk the jump course. But personally ensuring his horse’s well-being is a habit from his childhood that he’ll never let go of. 

He steps back, taking everything in. He’s at the Olympics, competing for the United States on a beautiful mare that he trained from the ground up. He’s the new face of the US Equestrian Team, and he’s damn proud of himself. He’s found himself a new family. He’s found himself a better life. Hell, he’s even found himself… John. Whatever John is to him.

He looks at Whiskey, then up at the rafters above. Sunshine is streaming in, and the air smells like hay, just like the little barn he grew up spending his days in. All these years, and tucked away in his horse’s stall is still the greatest sanctuary he’s ever found for himself. He smiles at the same time he feels tears prick at the corners of his eyes. For once, instead of his father’s voice, he hears his mama’s: “Find your line, Gale. You can be incredible. You already are.”

–

“You’re incredible!” That’s what Bucky will exclaim when he finds Gale after his ride that afternoon, dragging him into a tight hug. The words will hit like a ton of bricks, and Gale will have to keep himself from crying tears of joy and relief, and also of grief for the little boy he’d been, who overcame so much to get here. Bucky will never know what those words mean to him, unless Gale one day chooses to tell him.

Before that, though, they have a medal to win. Gale is the rising star of US Equestrian, but seeing as he’s only in his twenties, not everyone believes he can do this. Gale Cleven and Hundred Proof are going to prove them wrong.

They’re going to prove his father wrong. 

The stands are packed, and a sea of red, white, and blue gets to their feet and cheers as they enter the arena. It’s filled with colorful jumps, all themed after France’s culture and history. A small Eiffel Tower at the side of an oxer here, a vertical made to look like the Arc de Triomphe there, countless jump poles painted in the colors of the French flag. The water jump is meant to look like the Grand Canal, with a miniature of Versailles at one end – somewhat ironic, since the arena is in front of Versailles itself. The jumps are arranged differently today than they were for the team event yesterday. Gale walked the course this morning, and he’s running through it in his head.

“For the United States, Gale Cleven and Hundred Proof.” When the announcer calls their names, Gale canters Whiskey in a small circle in the center of the arena. Time starts… now.

It takes them a moment to find their rhythm, but they manage the first few combinations without a hitch, Gale carefully counting their strides between each. They have a 90 degree turn coming up between one vertical and the water jump. During team finals, the mare didn’t get enough air time and splashed her back hoof into the water, earning them a penalty. Gale guides her through a wider turn today, even if it costs them a few tenths of a second, and he urges her to open up a couple of strides earlier. He feels her reach with everything she has, her hooves digging into the sandy footing before she takes off. She lands easily, just barely on the other side of the water, and they’re clear.

“Don’t turn her too tight. Let her have her head when she asks. Girl’s got scope, she’ll take care of you.” Harding’s words ring in his head. As one of the team USA coaches and the first big name to give Gale a chance, he’s been the greatest key player in getting them here today. He’s carefully guided Gale through the good and the bad, and he knows the habits and capabilities of horse and rider both.

Sure enough, there’s a hairpin turn from one jump to the next, and Gale takes it too tight. He can’t help but wince as Whiskey loses her rhythm just as they’re lining up for the next jump, having to slow down with a single trot step breaking their stride before he picks her back up. He’s worried he’s screwed them over, but Whiskey adjusts her stride length and pulls at the reins, asking for her head. He gives her the space and pushes her on, trusting her to get them through this. She does it, sailing over the vertical without so much as clipping the pole.

Find your line.

A triple combination is all that’s left, and they take it by storm. As they land on the other side, Gale covers his mouth with one hand, overcome with emotion, before raising his fist in the air. He looks at the time on the giant clock over the arena entrance. 81 seconds – three seconds under the optimum time – and no penalties. The roar of the crowd makes him feel like he’s going in slow motion, and he knows they know. He and Whiskey are going home with an individual medal.

You can be incredible. You already are.

–

There’s a pretty new ribbon hanging outside Whiskey’s stall, right next to the first. Nine years old, and she’s already a superstar. All she wants, though, are the treats in Gale’s pocket. He obliges happily. 

Alone in the stall save for the horse, Bucky doesn’t bother tamping down the urge to kiss Gale silly. He pulls him close, presses their lips together, and cards his fingers through sweat-drenched hair. Gale makes a huffing noise somewhere between a laugh and a moan, and Bucky can feel him smiling against his lips. The sweetness of it makes Bucky’s heart stutter all funny, makes his whole body go weak with a feeling he increasingly thinks might be akin to love, or something like it. He’s not sure he would know. 

It’s kind of funny: sometimes, over time, the words you find yourself using to describe someone pop up like clues in a treasure hunt. You don’t even notice at first, but slowly they come together, pieces of a puzzle, leading you towards one bigger picture – you love this person. You love them more than anything. 

When Bucky first met Gale, he thought he was beautiful. Hot. Attractive. Handsome.

And then there was cute, angelic, adorable.

Caring, loving, dedicated, driven, smart, ambitious, strong.

Perfect.

Today, there’s “sweet.”

The more Bucky gets to know Gale, the more he wants to know. He wants to know everything. He wants to breathe Gale in and hold him close and never let go and give him everything he’s ever wanted.

After Bucky’s sister died, he spent years pushing the idea of love away, being too scared to let someone get close to him for fear of feeling pain like that again. Now, though, he feels his resolve breaking bit by bit, cracks forming every time Gale sends a barely-there smile his way, or seeks him out in a crowd, or reaches for his hand. Bucky doesn’t know if he’s ready for it, but the world doesn’t care. The world sent Gale Cleven to him like some sort of divine prophecy telling him “it’s time to let go,” and Bucky thinks maybe, just maybe, he wants to listen. He wants to relearn what it is to love someone. He wants to feel it. He wants it so bad. 

But it scares him too much. 

So he focuses on the now, brushing the existential crisis aside in favor of what he does know: he has a beautiful man right here in his arms. Everything else can wait. He matches Gale’s smile, their noses bumping as Bucky grips Gale’s waist. “You look so good in these, you know that?” 

Gale glances down at himself. He can’t say if his cheeks are warm from the heat or from something else. He removed his coat already, leaving him, once again, in a sweat-soaked white shirt tucked neatly into white riding pants that perfectly outline his legs and ass, a black belt calling attention to his waist. “Do I?”

Bucky nods and rests his forehead against Gale’s as he tugs him even closer, if that’s possible. “So fuckin’ good, Buck.”

Yeah, Gale is definitely blushing now. Point, Bucky. 

“You’d look even better without them.”

Gale laughs awkwardly, tiredly, even as he finds his hands wandering up Bucky’s sides, coming to rest on his muscular back. “There’s nothin’ sexy about tryin’ to peel off skin tight riding pants when I’m drenched in sweat.”

“Sounds like a challenge.”

“Trust me, not one you wanna take on.”

“Try me.”

“I smell like shit.”

“I didn’t care before, I don’t care now.”

Gale bites his lip and shakes his head. He feels his general state of awareness fading in and out. One second, he’s all too conscious of the fact that they’re in a fancy-ass Parisian barn swarming with grooms and riders, nothing but a stall and a conveniently placed, very tall horse blocking anyone else’s view. The next, he’s filled with want and longing as Bucky nips playfully at his neck. And yet the next, the high of his Olympic win is giving way to exhaustion, fatigue falling over him in waves, his back aching. There’s a sharp pain every time he breathes too deeply. He feels like he can barely keep his eyes open, and Bucky feels so solid and warm, his strong hands perhaps the only thing keeping Gale on his feet. 

When Gale barely reacts to his teasing words, Bucky pulls away to look at him and tilts his head. The newest Olympic silver medalist blinks tiredly and raises an eyebrow in question. Bucky smiles, reaching a hand up to stroke the sweaty hair back away from Gale’s face. Then he puts his hand on the back of Gale’s head once again and urges him to rest against his shoulder. Gale sighs, letting himself relax, and Bucky feels that heart-stuttering, stomach-fluttering, suspiciously love-like feeling again. 

Marge told him, the other day, that Gale has never been good at letting others take care of him. Too stubborn and independent for his own good.

And yet here he is, letting his guard down. Letting Bucky take his weight. Letting Bucky take care of him. 

“Let’s get back to the village,” Bucky says, and Gale nods against his shoulder.

Back in Gale’s bedroom, Bucky waits for him to shower. Gale had been right: even not sweaty, breeches seemed like a bitch to get off, and Bucky is kind of glad Gale didn’t let him help with that. He neatly folds the discarded riding clothes, even though he’s sure they’re heading straight for one of the laundry facilities in the Village. Then finding himself with nothing to do but idly scroll his phone, he can’t help but glance around the bare-bones room. It’s just like his own, plain and minimal. But he notices a book on Gale’s bedside table, the corner of a piece of paper sticking out from the middle. After a few moments, curiosity wins out and Bucky grabs the book, flipping it open. 

Tucked between well-worn pages, he finds an old, faded photograph, the flimsy corners creased with white from a lifetime of being kept close. In the picture, there’s a young boy with shaggy blonde hair and a bright smile. He’s sitting on top of an unimpressed-looking pony, a blue ribbon hooked to the bridle. A beautiful woman stands beside them, her hand reaching up to press against the boy’s back. She’s laughing, her smile a mirror image of the one Bucky has seen on Gale’s face time and again, a mirror image of this little boy’s. Bucky flips over the picture. There’s four words scrawled across the back in loopy, feminine handwriting: “Find your line. -Mama.”

When he hears the shower stop running, he carefully replaces the picture and the book back on the nightstand. Moments later, Gale walks out of the bathroom, completely naked and rubbing a towel over his hair until he looks like a disheveled hedgehog. Bucky could grab him by the waist, make him drop that towel and put his hands on him instead, but he doesn’t. He just watches as Gale, wincing, leans over to grab some sweatpants from the drawers by his bed.

Bucky frowns as Gale pulls the pants up, letting them rest low on his hips in a way that would make Bucky’s mouth go dry if he weren’t concerned about something else. “Your back okay?”

Gale shrugs and goes about combing his fingers through his hair, trying halfheartedly to tame it.

“Buck.”

“Hurts a bit,” Gale mutters. He takes a deep breath in as he sits down on the edge of the bed, biting back a groan. “...More than a bit.”

Bucky’s frown deepens as he studies Gale closely, watching the way the other man scrunches his nose in discomfort and tries to arch his back forward in a noncommittal stretch. “Alright, lay down.” 

Gale furrows his brow, starting to shake his head, but Bucky won’t take no for an answer. He turns and motions to the rest of the bed behind them. “You heard me. On your front.”

Skeptically, Gale does as he’s told, settling on his stomach with his cheek pressed against his pillow. He tenses when he feels Bucky straddling him, knees planted firmly on either side of his waist. Then there’s warm, strong hands on his bare skin, still dotted with drops of water, and he lets himself melt into the mattress.

“Bet these beds aren’t so great for back pain, huh?” Bucky asks as he starts carefully pressing his thumbs into the absurdly tight muscles on either side of Gale’s spine.

“Mmm.” That’s all Gale can manage as he bites his lip, trying to keep from flinching when the pressure hurts so bad and yet feels so good at the same time. He moans quietly when Bucky finds that one specific knot in his mid-back, the one that twinges every single time he takes a deep breath and gets worse when he has to do too much jumping for too many days in a row.

Bucky hones in on that spot, trying to work the tension out in the most amazingly unbearable way, making Gale gasp and clench his teeth. “Told you I’d return the favor,” Bucky says.

Gale tries to nod, but he finds he can’t. He doesn’t say anything, just focuses on the way Bucky’s hands work their way up and down his back, somehow finding every troublesome spot – which is everywhere, really. Gale sometimes jokes that his back is practically made of scar tissue after everything it’s been through, and Bucky isn’t sure he’d disagree. He thought he was tight, but he wonders how Gale even functions in this condition, much less rides horses at peak performance nearly every day. Nearly every muscle from his neck to the base of his spine is laced with tension.

“Horses make you tough,” Gale mumbles, like he can read Bucky’s mind. “Don’t usually notice the pain ‘til I’m home.”

Bucky knows a little something about that. He shifts his attention to the inward curve of Gale’s lower back, where the muscles often take the most daily strain. He works his thumbs up and down, in and out, finding nothing but knots that refuse to let go without a good fight. “Have you been this tight all week?”

Gale shrugs but doesn’t say a word. He’s struggling to keep his eyes open, so he stops trying. Bucky shakes his head. “Coulda said somethin’.” If he’d known, he would’ve done this sooner. Hell, he would’ve done it every night if that’s what Gale needed. 

About a minute later, though, he notices that Gale’s breaths have become deeper and more measured, no longer hitching when Bucky hits a new sore spot. Bucky stops massaging, hoping he’s at least made a dent in the tension that Gale has been carting around, and he presses his hands flat against Gale’s back. He leans forward so he can see the other man’s face, and he finds that his eyes are peacefully closed, his lips parted with one hand curled in a fist under his chin. Blonde hair, a little dark and not quite dry, falls messily over his forehead. 

A literal fucking angel. That’s what he’d told Curt after he first met Gale on their flight into Paris, but the description has just taken on new meaning. The pure, unfiltered adoration swelling in Bucky’s chest as he watches Gale drift off will be the death of him.

“Buck?” He says softly. “You still with me?” He reaches a hand up and strokes his still-damp hair. 

Gale’s eyes flutter open at the warm cadence of Bucky’s voice. Bucky’s hand stills, but Gale tilts his head up, trying vaguely to press into the touch. Bucky obediently resumes petting his hair. 

Satisfied, the corner of Gale’s mouth curves up in a small, unguarded smile, but he hides it against his fist. 

He’s an Olympian. He’s an Olympic medalist. A beautiful, wonderful, perfectly lovely guy (who Gale is falling a little in love with) is giving him a massage in his bedroom at the Paris Olympics. If he wasn’t so worn out, he’d tell Bucky to pinch him, sure he has to be dreaming. A tired little laugh bubbles out of him before he lets his eyes close again.

Bucky chuckles, shaking his head in amusement and confusion. “What?”

Gale’s answer doesn’t really clear anything up, but it’s the only thing Bucky can get out of him before he’s sound asleep, that precious smile still teasing at his lips.

“I found my line.”

…

…

Next part

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

VII ║Fleabitten

Jack Daniels x f!reader

{ Part 6: Mustang | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist }

Rating: E

Summary: You and Jack spend your last night together in the mountains - for now.

Warnings: Mentions of food and cooking, angst, feelings, flirting, insecurities, very light soft!dom overtones, sexual innuendoes, handjob, risky unprotected sex (wrap it up, kids!), dirty talk, language, no use of Y/N

Word count: 4.2k

Notes: I know I made you guys wait for this one, I'm sorry it took so long! It's no secret that I'm dragging my feet because I don't want this packtrip to be over, but we all have to brave and face the inevitable 🥺 I hope you enjoy spending the last night in the mountains with Jack and his Darlin' ❤️

Fleabitten: A colour consisting of a white hair coat with small pigmented speckles or freckles.

You’ve never considered yourself a creature of habit. 

You have your routines, of course. But habit is more. It’s a dependency, emotional and physical. It’s something that’s hard to give up. It’s a prickle under the skin that is only soothed when said habit is fulfilled.

Surely, habit is hewn over time. A quiet, imperceptible chipping away at your bones until it becomes part of you. It must take more than a week to make a habit out of something. 

Except, it feels a lot like habit when you wake up to pink skies and take your first breath of sweet mountain air to start the day. That first mug of coffee warmed over rekindled embers from the night before. How Scotch always prances into a little canter to warm up when you hop on, but not until he knows you’re fully sat with the tips of your toes through the stirrups irons.

It’s the way you angle the brim of your hat and flip up the collar of your shirt even before the sun hits just so. It’s the all-consuming awe that pins you to the spot, wherever you are, whatever you’re in the middle of, when the sunset paints every inch of earth in rose gold.

And for the past three nights, it’s the assuring weight of strong arms around your waist that has lulled you to sleep, the kiss of warm breath on your temple - a familiarity that runs too deep in too short a time for you to comprehend.

Habit.

It’s the sixth day of the pack trip - first thing tomorrow, just after breakfast, Jack will be leading you across the mountain, back the way you came, to get back to the ranch by mid-afternoon.

Words are scarce when the two of you approach the last Statesman campsite on the trail, the neat stone pit now a familiar sight.

Even the horses are subdued. Scotch stands obediently, flicking his tail while you untack him, when he would usually be nudging at your hands with his velvety nose, snickering for a cheeky apple slice before supper.

It’s second nature to you now, hanging the sweaty saddle pad on a low-hanging branch to dry before setting the saddle and bridle on the wooden post for cleaning. Jack follows, standing on the other side, handing you a wet rag. You get to work, scrubbing out the grime and sweat from the well-worn leather.

His eyes are on you, a phantom weight on your shoulders - they’re not exactly sore, having grown used to long hours in the saddle over the week, but you are tired, albeit the good kind. One that a good, long soak in a hot bubble bath would fix, with a certain cowboy in the same tub -

‘Whatcha smilin’ ‘bout, Darlin’?’

Glancing up, you match his arched eyebrow with one of yours, planting your elbows on the spine of the saddle and standing onto your tiptoes to brush your lips against his. Well, a portable shower ain’t the same, but -

‘Shall we clean up, cowboy?’

Jack groans deep into your neck, the taste of soap thick on his tongue.

‘Is this how you jerked off thinking about me that first day?’ you tease, your grip sliding slickly along his cock.

‘Oh fuck,’ he pants, brow scrunched up in pleasure-pain, scraping his teeth on your collar bone. ‘Didn’t feel half as good, darlin’.’

A moan slips from you when one large palm finds your backside and squeezes, his fingers digging into the plump flesh as he whimpers by your ear. Bowing his head, he takes a nipple into his mouth, sucking on your sensitive skin until you arch into his mouth.

It doesn’t take long for him to come all over your hand - sticky, milky strands slipping thickly down the gaps of your fingers, stringing between them like spider webs. You’re reluctant to let go, humming soothingly into his ear as the last of his orgasm shudders through his body.

He holds you tight, his heart a sharp staccato against your chest, as the slow trickle of lukewarm water washes away all traces of him.

Once the portable shower is empty, you take your time getting dressed. Jack wipes you down with your towel while you rub his hair dry with his. Walking back to camp hand in hand, you grin when the horses come into sight, chasing and egging each other on like puppies at the dog park.

Thousand-pound puppies, more like. 

Dropping the dirty laundry by a tree to be packed later, he whistles with his fingers. ‘C’mon boys, supper time!’

The trio line up smartly by the wooden post as Jack preps the feed, measuring out the grain and hay pellets by sight, filling their buckets. Their nostrils flare and ears prick up at the sight of their dinner, but other than a stray nicker or two, they remain impressively patient.

Their buckets are dropped in front of their hooves when he’s done, and you may be imagining the sharp intake of air as the horses await the okay from their cowboy.

At his nod, all three practically lunge at their supper, munching happily. You laugh, and Jack watches on proudly.

A quiet desperation slinks in when you’re not looking, winding tighter and tighter around your ribs like a vice that leaves you short of breath as the minutes and hours slip by. You’re restless, your legs bouncing in agitation, your eyes darting about, frantically trying to commit everything to memory, yet never lingering anywhere long enough to do so.

But it’s not really about the things you can see. It’s the bitter bite of smoke in the clean mountain air. It’s the orange heat of the campfire that you wear like a favourite cardigan. It’s the simplicity of getting from point A to point B, with nothing but grassland and forest in between.

But real life isn’t simple. Things that you vowed to push to the back of your mind at the beginning of the trip bubble to the surface for an unwelcome moment. You have bills to pay. You have a deadweight of a house to sell. You have an ex not pulling his weight -

‘Darlin’?’

The white noise that you weren’t even aware had filled your ears subsides, and your gaze snaps up to Jack, blinking. The weight of the knife in your hand comes back to you, and you glance down at the bell pepper you were in the middle of dicing up.

You give him a shaky smile and carry on with your errand. ‘Sorry.’

He brushes a thumb on your cheek. ‘You were thinkin’ mighty loud.’

Not wanting to dampen your last night together, you shake your head and lean over to kiss him. You huff, ‘Just hungry. Get cooking, cowboy.’

Jack knows you’re fibbing, but he says no more. He can admit to himself that you’re not the only one struggling with loud thoughts tonight.

You’re right, he should turn his focus to making dinner instead - chili and cornbread, classic southern comfort food. Lord knows the both of you can do with some comfort tonight.

‘Want to help me with the cornbread?’ he asks, knowing you’d want to keep your hands busy.

‘Damn, I sure miss the days when you insisted that I shouldn’t help with anything at all,’ you tease, which makes him chuckle.

‘C’mere, darlin’.’

He’d measured out the dry ingredients for the cornbread back at the Halfway House and tipped it all into a mason jar - flour, cornmeal and raising agents. You whisk the batter with a fork as he cracks in three eggs and pours in the milk (he usually uses buttermilk, but it has to be shelf stable milk on the trail) until it’s smooth and thin. You carefully pour the mixture into a well-oiled cast iron skillet, which he then nestles in the heart of the fire. The batter bubbles like slow-burning lava as it cooks, the savoury sweetness filling the evening air.

‘That’ll cook in a half hour, so we should start on the chili,’ he says. ‘I normally simmer it for at least an hour, but I think we’re both hungry, right?’

‘I’m fine with express chili, cowboy.’

Jack sets a deep-set saucepan on the pit, drizzling in olive oil to preheat it. He knows the recipe by heart, but with no fresh beef mince on hand, he has his usual substitutions when cooking it on the trail. Into the pan goes finely diced cured sausage, onion, red bell peppers, peeled carrot ribbons and celery.

‘Is that Poppy’s recipe?’ you ask, tummy rumbling at the vivid scents as the pan sizzles.

‘It’s my mama’s, actually,’ he smiles, stirring with a wooden spoon. ‘It’s the one recipe Poppy allows on the trail that is not hers.’

‘If that isn’t a stamp of approval, I don’t know what is,’ you chuckle. ‘And where’s your mama?’

‘Still lives with my old man back home in Kentucky,’ he answers, scraping in minced garlic, a good squeeze of tomato paste and one big can of plum tomatoes, which he crushes one by one with the back of the spoon.

‘What do they do?’ you ask, genuinely curious. His family hasn’t come up in conversation in the past few days.

Jack is happy to indulge you. ‘Pop used to run a little corner shop in town, but he’s retired now. My ma’s an equine veterinarian, used to have a practice, but she shut that down a few years ago and is mostly a lady of leisure nowadays.’

You nudge his shoulder with yours. ‘Horses run in the family, I see.’

‘Never stood a chance,’ he jokes. ‘She still helps out on my uncle’s farm if they need an extra pair of hands. My cousins mostly run the place nowadays.’

The saucepan sputters at the generous pouring of barbeque sauce (homemade of course, Poppy’s secret recipe) that goes in next, followed by a can of beer, a beef stock cube (crumbled), Worcestershire sauce, balsamic vinegar and honey.

‘Are your parents from the same town?’

‘No, ma’s from the city, moved to the backwaters to marry my country bumpkin daddy,’ he replies, flashing you a meaningful smile. 

Your cheeks heat up unbidden, and you bite your bottom lip, the shyness that rears its head  feeling very alien after being so comfortable around this cowboy for these few days. You meet his eyes though, cocking your head to one side. ‘Is that so?’

He grins, stirring the chili as he continues. ‘My papaw Henry nearly disowned her, didn’t even go to the weddin’, but he came round when I was born. Turned out he got on with my other grandpa Noah like a house on fire. They used to come and spend a week in the mountains with Champ and I every year before Henry passed.’

You reach out and squeeze his free hand. ‘And where is Noah now?’

‘He lives in a little cabin off the main house with my uncle. Can barely walk, but he still rides every morning,’ he shakes his head fondly, tipping in the drained kidney and black beans.

He’s quiet for a moment as he studies the chili, simmering away, then gives you a sidelong glance. Despite a deliberate attempt to keep his tone light, the weight of his words cannot be erased by simple inflection. ‘I’m sure they’d love to meet you, darlin’.’

But as soon as he hears himself - the absurd wishful thinking in it - he shifts in his seat awkwardly, clearing his throat. You fuckin’ clown. How is this appropriate conversation when he’s known you for six days? Hell, you’d only just started sleeping together what, three nights ago? Fuck, has it only been three - ?

Two gentle fingers hook under his chin, turning his face towards you, cutting off the jumble of voices in his head. You shuffle closer so that you’re pressed right up against his side, warm and soft, and when you kiss him slowly and sweetly, it tastes like reassurance. 

‘I’d love that too, cowboy.’

The chili is the best you’ve ever had - smoky, spicy and balanced out with a touch of sweetness from the barbeque sauce. The cornbread fresh from the skillet is so moreish, there’s nothing but crumbs left in the skillet when the two of you are done.

You’re close to bursting, sprawled lazily on your sleeping bag, your back propped up against a log. The fire has died down to a low-burning flame, and you’re right on the brink of nodding off. 

But as it turns out, Jack still has a trick or two up his sleeves. 

He reaches over you to grab one of the saddlebags, rifling around and you laugh as he unveils, one after the other - a bag of jumbo marshmallows, Graham crackers, and a bar of dark chocolate. 

‘Can’t say I pegged you for a s’mores kinda cowboy,’ you tease as he lays out the ingredients on the ground. 

‘It’s a Statesman tradition, we always close out a pack trip with s’mores. C’mon, I’ll show you how to make a proper one.’

You huff a laugh. ‘Oh, are we really going there?’

He feigns ignorance. ‘Whatever do you mean, ma’am?’

‘The shortest way to an argument is anything to do with s’mores.’

‘Don’t worry darlin’, I’m sure we’ll kiss and make up.’

Jack gets up and steps briefly out of the orange halo of the campfire to rustle up a couple of sticks for the marshmallows. Knees creaking as he sits down next to you, he pulls out the knife from the holster he wears on the back of his jeans, sharpening the wooden ends with a telling familiarity.

The chocolate bar is wrapped in fancy, gilded packaging, the words organic and bean to bar glowing gold in the firelight as you turn it over in your hands. ‘Huh. No Hershey’s?’

The cowboy waggles one perfectly pointed end of a stick at you in warning. ‘Rule number one - do not mention the H word in front of Poppy. You will be evicted and barred from the state of Wyoming till kingdom come.’

‘Oh, I believe you,’ you chuckle, tearing into the packaging and breaking up the chocolate into tidy squares along the grooves.

Sheathing his knife, Jack reaches for the saddle bag once again. ‘Can’t forget the secret ingredient.’

You blink in incredulity at what he brandishes, the familiar whiff registering. ‘Is that - applewood?’

He winks, testing the weight of the logs in his hands. ‘The applewood infuses the marshmallows with a sweet smokiness - I’m tellin’ you, the Statesman s’mores is somethin’ else.’

With a shake of your head, you grin. ‘Alright cowboy, show me how to make some proper s’mores.’

Twenty minutes later, you wish you could take it back.

‘Scientific’ doesn’t even begin to describe Jack’s process. You’re huddled in a blanket, hugging your knees, watching as he turns over the marshmallows with methodological precision and infinite patience - neither of which you possess. He’d confiscated yours when you tried to stick them straight into the flames, declaring that you’re unfit to make your own s’mores.

The night air is singed with the delicate note of apple blossoms, while four chocolate squares slowly warm on graham crackers where they sit on stones around the campfire. 

You sit poutily, glaring at the fluffy white blobs that look just as pale as they were straight out of the bag.

‘I could’ve made about three s’mores by now,’ you gripe.

Jack doesn’t look up from the fire, but the corner of his mouth curls in amusement. ‘You’re on holiday, remember? Relax. Patience is a virtue, darlin’.’

You tilt your head in a challenge. ‘Do you really think I give a damn about virtue, cowboy?’

His grin turns brash, eyes crinkling mischievously at the corners. ‘No, ma’am, and I thank my lucky stars that you don’t.’

‘C’mon Jack,’ you whine. ‘Let's just eat the stupid s’mores and go to bed.’

‘Good things take time,’ he says simply. And then, with the minutest flex of his tone, he changes tact. ‘Will you be a good girl for me and be patient?’

You watch his smile widen as he obviously hears your breath hitch.

Biting your lip, you goad him, ‘Oh, is that how you’re going to play it, sir?

The gentleman in him recedes, and the rake glimpses through in the way he eyes you with a deliberately smarmy want. ‘I don’t hear you complainin’ when I take my time with you, darlin’.’

Your mouth hangs open in affront. ‘Are you seriously comparing me to roasted marshmallows?’

He leans over and purrs into your ear. ‘Well, your pussy is just as sweet, and soft, and warm -’

You groan and push him hard on the shoulder. ‘Thanks ruining marshmallows for me, cowboy!’

With a laugh, Jack nods towards the fire. ‘Grab the graham crackers please, darlin’. They're done.’

Sure enough, while you were distracted, the fluffy white blobs are finished with a perfect, golden crust, but have enough structural integrity to hold shape on the ends of the sticks.

‘You ready?’ he prompts.

A graham cracker in each hand, one with chocolate and the other without, you admit, ‘I hate this part, I always make such a mess.’

He smirks, ‘Didn’t think you minded makin’ a mess, darlin’.’

You roll your eyes at him, with no real annoyance. ‘You’re insufferable, cowboy.’

Cushioining one marshmallow on the chocolate side of the cracker, he instructs, ‘Now put the other one on top and grip the whole stack firmly. Got it?’

At your nod, Jack carefully extracts the stick, wriggling as he goes, one thumb against the end to keep the marshmallow from sliding out.

With a dramatic flourish, he ta-das. ‘There you go, a Statesman s’mores for my cowgirl.’

Something in your brain short-circuits at him calling you his cowgirl. 

Not just his. 

But the cowgirl to his cowboy.

Unable to conjure up any words, you fixate on the melted marshmallow on his thumb. Grabbing his hand and bringing it to your face, you wrap your lips around it, sucking the sweet smear of residue right off his smoke-tipped finger.

His gaze is dark even as the red and yellow flickers in his eyes when he swipes his thumb across your bottom lip, his voice a soft rasp. 

‘Good girl.’

‘So - what happens tomorrow?’

Your question is quiet, half murmured into the hollow of his neck in the twilight zone, on the cusp of sleep. Your head is tucked under his chin, his arms around your waist under the blanket.

‘We’ll get back to the ranch around three. The team will get the horses settled in, unpack everything, and you can have a nice hot shower. Then we’ll have sunset drinks and dinner.’

You hum noncommittally. The silence cackles for a beat, before you venture, ‘And then?’

For once, Jack doesn’t have an answer.

He doesn’t sleep that night. 

He holds you close, running a calloused palm against your back when you shift restlessly in your sleep, feeling the rise and fall of your chest against his own.

The sun rises pink and gentle. This camping spot was a deliberate choice - it hangs over a small slope, facing east with an open view of the plains below, where the horses are dozing, the Bighorn rising from the horizon straight ahead. 

He must have drifted off without him noticing, because he wakes up to your lips on his.

He blinks, lids heavy with slumber. ‘Mornin’.’

You smile through hooded eyes, cording your fingers through his hair. ‘Morning, cowboy. It’s a pretty sunrise for our last day in the mountains.’

‘Who says it’s our last, darlin’?’

His challenge lingers between you, the tension sinking its hooks into his skin and pulling - until you close the gap and kiss him. 

It’s sloppy, clumsy, teeth clunking against teeth - it’s too damn early - and he pushes you back to nip and suck his way down your neck, undoing the top three buttons on his flannel that you’ve taken to wearing to bed before pushing it over your head.

‘Jack,’ you whine as his hands push your tits together, smearing open-mouthed kisses all over them.

‘Fuck,’ he grunts, the harsh sound catching in his throat. Grinding his cock between your thighs, his big hands push your panties down in a hazy frenzy, followed by his sweats, which he kicks off blindly.

‘Please,’ you choke out, voice breaking as your soft, naked body arches into him.

He hushes you, breath hot and heavy in your ear, teasing his length slickly between the wet lips of your pussy. ‘Yeah? Desperate for this cock, are you, darlin’?’

Through a broken moan, you whimper, ‘Yes, please please please, Jack -’

‘So pretty beggin’ for me,’ he grins, but he knows it probably looks more like a pained grimace as he trembles above you. You're soaking the curls at the bottom of his cock even though he hasn’t even fucked you yet.

‘Please, want you inside me, cowboy -’

He holds out, letting the arousal swell and mount between you with a recklessness that is unlike him, demanding, ‘How, darlin’?’

‘Hard, want you to fuck me hard -’

Rolling you onto your side so that he brackets you from behind, he opens you up with one hand under your right knee, pushing it against your front so that he can see your dripping cunt. Running his thumb over it, you jerk in his hold, moaning for him. ‘Jack, please -’

‘What did I say about patience bein’ a virtue, hmm?’ he teases through gritted teeth, dipping one finger shallowly into you, which is enough to make you keen.

You’re babbling incoherently as he lines himself up against your entrance. ‘Fuck me, please, need you inside me -’

You break off into a strangled sob when he pushes the blunt tip of his cock into you, a hoarse groan in his windpipe as he feels you stretch around him. It feels different, more intense, but his sleep-clouded brain can’t grasp why. He pumps into you slowly and deliberately, eyes screwed shut as your cunt squeezes him, his fingers sure to leave marks where they hold onto the swell of your hips.

‘So - so good, Jack,’ you pant.

‘Yes, darlin’,’ he rasps into the back of your neck, fucking you in firm strokes now, palming your tits from behind. ‘This gorgeous pussy grippin’ me so tight, gettin’ so wet on my big cock.’

‘Only for you,’ you declare, rolling your hips so he hits a particularly deep spot inside you.

‘For me,’ he echoes with a groan, planting one foot on the ground to fuck into you harder.

Snaking one hand between your legs - hot and sticky - two thick fingers find your clit, drawing back the hood to rub circles where you can really feel him.

‘Fuck!’ you exclaim, almost bending backwards.

‘Good girl, takin’ me so well,’ he cooes into your ear. ‘She’s goin’ to cum on my cock, isn’t she?’

‘Yes, Jack,’ you whine, getting impossibly wet now. You leak messily down your thighs as he feels you begin to clench around him, your voice running ragged. ‘Please, sir -’

He fucks you through it, jaw clenched so hard he’s surprised it doesn’t crack under the pressure, his hands holding you down as you buck and writhe.

‘That’s it, darlin’,’ he growls into your cheek, his pace slackening to a languid rhythm. ‘Do you hear yourself? Hear that drippin’ pussy when I fuck it nice and slow?’

Turning over your shoulder, you kiss him, pupils completely blown as you slur drunkenly against his lips, ‘Yes, cowboy. S’ fucking good.’

Jack smiles and he sucks on your bottom lip, you’re so wet that he barely has to roll his hips to sink deep into you.

But even as he lets the moment consume him, something niggles at the back of his mind. It feels too good, as if there's some detail he’s missing - 

And then it strikes him, like lightning on a clear day. Every joint and muscle in his body locks up when it does, and he feels you stiffen instantly in response. His words tumble out in a panicked jumble. ‘Oh fuck, oh fuck! I forgot the condom, shit, I’m so sorry darlin’ -’

When he tries to pull out of you, you hook one foot around his shin and stop him with a hand on his hips. ‘Wait, Jack - just wait.’

He shakes his head in confusion. ‘Wait - why?’

Twisting around so that you’re looking him in the eye, you tell him quietly, ‘I got tested after my ex and I broke up, and - I haven’t been with anyone since.’

While he takes a moment to process, his cock throbs almost painfully inside you. He answers, ‘I haven’t had unprotected sex since my last girlfriend, and I got tested afterwards as well.’

You smile, one hand finding his and slipping your fingers into the gaps between his. ‘I’m just - I’m not on the pill, so we can keep going as long as you don’t cum inside me.’

‘Fuck, darlin’, it's dangerous, talkin' about me cummin’ inside you like that,’ he chides, brow creased in mock reprimand.

You wink. ‘We’ll save that for next time, cowboy.’

‘Next time,’ he promises, with a determination that soothes the anxiety in him.

And so your breaths mist and intertwine, catching the morning light as he thrusts into you, again and again. He doesn’t know where this will go, except for the vow of a next time, but he knows he has this -

The orange wash of dawn over you, his spend on the soft skin of your stomach and your beautiful tits when he cums, his heart beating - hard and sure - with what has deserted him for long years.

Notes: I didn't have as much time to edit this chapter, and I'm still trying to get more comfortable with spending less time overall on both writing and edits, and being more ok with mistakes/typos. The flip side is that what goes on the metaphorical paper is more spontaneous.

There will only be two more chapters before Palomino wraps up. Thank you for sticking around and for being so supportive despite the slow updates recently. It's strange that we're approaching the end for real now, excited isn't quite the right word, but I am looking forward to giving this story the ending Jack, Darlin' and you guys deserve ❤️

Thank you for the love. Comments, reblogs and asks are always appreciated, as always 🥰

Update: I can’t believe I forgot to mention a huge thank you to everyone who gave me all the cool tips for the s’mores and ideas for their last dinner on the trail! This one is for you guys 😘

[ananxiousgenz]

hey @percymawce-arts i wrote my thoughts for the first scene of a cowboy au out, it's short and kind of thought out, but lmk what you think lol <3

The sun rose high over the plain and the mountains at its edges, and beneath it all, John Doe was chasing his prey.

He’d been trailing them since they both left town, the Sheriff and his Deputy. According to Larson, they’d been sent out on a mission to destroy a Shoshane camp a day or two away. He hadn’t needed to elaborate. That sentence was all the convincing John needed to pack his saddlebags and ready his rifle. The Shoshane were his people, even if he couldn’t remember all of his life with them, and he would be damned if he let some more idiot white men kill any more of them. Yellow had wanted to come with, of course he had, his thirst for vengeance was nearly as strong as John’s own, but John insisted that he could handle this one on his own. After all, how much trouble could two lawmen alone in the desert be?

It had taken a bit of bribery to find out where the Sheriff and Deputy were staying, but once he found them, he’d taken care not to alert them to his presence, watching from windows and corner tables in rowdy bars. When the two left town at last, the routine continued, with John staying far behind their trail and trying his damndest to be utterly invisible. But after a day, he realized they had begun to notice his not-so-subtle tailing (not like there was anywhere for him to really hide himself and a horse on the plains), and this morning, they decided to make a break for it.

As annoying as it was to not have this be quick and easy, John had to admit that this was his favorite part of Larson’s shitty assignments: the chase. The wind in his hair, the sun on his face, his beloved mare Akke galloping beneath him, the rush of outsmarting his quarry, his movements like liquid mercury, smooth and practiced and polished to a blinding shine. It was where he was meant to be, and he knew it with every fiber of his being. 

The men turned suddenly to the right, a sharp motion that John almost wasn’t able to copy. A feral grin crept onto his face beneath his yellow kerchief. He realized they were trying to make it to the mountains, probably so they could lose him in a canyon or cave. That was a stupid choice on their part. Very easy to get backed into a corner and have no way out in there. But that didn’t matter much. They weren’t going to make it that far anyway, for two very important reasons. 

The first being that Akke was fast, one of the fastest mares in the region, and she was beginning to close in on the two men fleeing like mice before him. 

The second, that John hadn’t earned the nickname “Little Coyote” from his peers at boarding school for nothing. 

As the men continued to flee, willing their horses to run faster, John was forming a plan. Larson hadn’t cared about the Deputy, but he wanted the Sheriff alive. Or, at least, mostly alive. With a slow, wicked grin, John whispered his brutal plan into Akke’s ear. She huffed and snorted from the pace they were keeping, but knew exactly what to do and kept running like the wind. Such a clever girl. John smiled at the thought. 

John dropped her reins, swiped his rifle off his shoulder, and loaded it with one smooth motion. Holding the sight up to his left eye and closing his right, he let his upper body go still, and his hips conform to the rocking motion of Akke’s gait, moving like he’d been born in the saddle. He adjusted his aim until he caught his prey in its sights. 

John’s breathing slowed. He could hear the jackrabbit rhythm of his heart pounding in his ears as time turned thick and viscous. The world blurred and vanished beyond the outline of a man atop a horse at the end of his rifle. 

John took a breath in, and said a silent prayer.

See you in hell.

He pulled the trigger.

The gunshot echoed across the plain like a crack of summer thunder. He watched the man crumple and fall from his still-fleeing horse, hitting the ground like a sack of old potatoes. His companion let out an agonized cry, calling out a name that John couldn’t hear over the pounding of Akke’s hooves and the blood in his ears, but made the smart choice to keep running for the hills. John’s smile never moved an inch. One down, one to go.

In a perfect, practiced motion, John reloaded the rifle and raised the sight to his eye again. This time, however, he noticed something strange. The last man riding seemed to be fiddling with something in his hands. Something shiny that glinted in the high light of the sun. 

A tinge of dread snaked its way into John’s gut as he lowered the rifle ever so slightly. Some instinct deep inside said that something terrible was about to happen, but he ignored it. He was too high on adrenaline from the hunt and the near-satisfaction of a job well done to care about a bad feeling. He brought the sight back up to his eye and slowed his breathing as he prepared to pull the trigger.

His finger began to press down. Then he realized his quarry had turned around in the saddle, and was aiming a rifle right back at him. But it was already too late.

Twin gunshots rang out beneath the wide blue sky, so close in timing they could have been mistaken for one.

John watched as the Sheriff crumpled around his left shoulder and slowed his horse to a halt. A perfect shot, as always. But then there was a sharp pain in John's left side, just below his ribcage. He looked down to see poppy red blood blooming through his shirt and staining his vest. 

Well. Shit. Apparently, he had underestimated how much trouble this man would be.

He slowed Akke to a trot as the blood began to stain his hands and his ears began to ring. The mountains were spinning a dizzy dance before his black-spotted eyes and he knew he needed to get down before he fell down. Akke stopped next to the Sheriff’s horse, where the Sheriff himself sat, hissing lightly as he examined his shoulder wound. His face paled as he heard John’s approach.

“So. You’ve come here to finish the job?” he asked with gritted teeth.

His accent was surprising. Here they were in the north of Nevada, and this man sounded like he had just hopped off a boat from London and was about to ask for afternoon tea. The thought made John’s dizzy mind giggle a bit.

“I… I don’t- What does that mean?” the Sheriff asked, his eyes searching for but never seeming to settle on John.

John swallowed down the laughter. His head was beginning to hurt from how much the world was moving around him. He dimly wondered if Akke was running again.

“I need help…” he choked out.

“Help? Help with what? You just shot me!”

"You shot me too."

"Oh. Oh, Jesus Christ," the Sheriff said, eyes wide in sudden realization.

The world moved in one final, great swoop as John slid from his saddle and crashed against the hard, dry earth. Then everything went blissfully, mercifully dark.

[innerchorus]

Curiosity suddenly struck so I have to ask: do you happen to know anything about Isfan's two wolf pups from the novels? 👀🥺

Hm, let's see. They are introduced in Book 9. Isfan picks them up on a snowy trail while travelling through Turk. It seems their parents must have died and that's why they were running around. He feeds them lamb and wheat porridge (see: haleem) and if he doesn't have time to cook while on the road, he chews pieces of meat for them to eat (I assume dried meat that he's softening for them).

(I always found it interesting that this section mentions Isfan survived when he was abandoned in the mountains by relying on the milk of wild wolves. I like that detail, but this is from the Chinese version and I feel like I should check the Japanese to see whether it also specifies that the wolves actually suckled him. Both versions make earlier mention of the wolves having left a hare nearby when Shapur finds Isfan, with no mention of milk in that scene. I wonder if this is a detail that Tanaka added later?)

Anyway, back to the wolf pups.

The one with reddish fur is named Bahram (Mars) and the one with darker fur around its right eye is named Kayvan (Saturn). They ride in a sack hung from his saddle (and he even goes into battle with them there). They regard Isfan as their saviour and seem protective of him when they sense any threat. As they get older, they prove their worth in battle, too. Sadly, in Book 12 Bahram is killed by Ilterish when he jumps in front of Isfan to save his life. This part is so sad! Especially as it mirrors Isfan's loss of his own brother. Kayvan survives to the end of the series but it's not mentioned what happens to him after the final battle, and his final scene is even fucking sadder than the one I just mentioned.

They feature in a few novel illustrations so I'll include those here, too. (There may be more that I've missed or don't have access to.)

Frontispiece from Book 10, by Yamada Akihiro. The two wolves are visible on either side of Isfan as he fights bird-faced beasts.

From Book 11, illustration by Shinobu Tanno. One of the wolves taking on a four-eyed dog.

Cover of Book 12, illustration by Shinobu Tanno. Kayvan at the front and Bahram at the back, with their master.

[manias-wordcount]

Hi! I really love your writing. My request is for my favorite Genshin boy Albedo: could you write smut of him and an AFAB!Reader who's wearing cat ears and has a praise kink? Thank you if you decide to write this one, I hope you have a great day!

A Study in Insatiability (Albedo x Reader)

𝗔/𝗡: 𝗯𝗼𝗼𝗺!! 𝗶 𝗵𝗼𝗽𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝗶𝘁

𝗪𝗔𝗥𝗡𝗜𝗡𝗚!! 𝘀𝗺𝘂𝘁, 𝘃𝗮𝗴𝗶𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝘀𝗲𝘅, 𝗽𝗿𝗮𝗶𝘀𝗲 𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗸, 𝗺𝗮𝗱𝗲 𝗮𝗹𝗯𝗲𝗱𝗼 𝗮 𝗯𝗶𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝗳𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗱 (𝘄𝗵𝗼𝗼𝗽)

𝙒𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚? ⇒ 𝙈𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩

𝙟𝙤𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙮 𝙙𝙞𝙨𝙘𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙫𝙚𝙧?

𝙗𝙪𝙮 𝙢𝙚 𝙖 𝙘𝙤𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙚?

When he makes a point of calling you his assistant in front of everyone, things become easier. 

  No one seems to bat an eye when he takes you up with him to Dragonspine for a little bit of research anymore. No one even mentions any new bruises or marks on either of your bodies whenever you both come down from the mountain. Not when Albedo always manages to bring back the readings and results for a new experiment each and every time, at least. 

  Of course, that’s not what really happens. But you won’t tell. You’d never tell. You promised not to tell. After all, you’d do anything to keep these outings going. You’d do anything to make him happy.

  “Who’s my good girl?” 

  You’d do anything to hear him say those words to you. 

  “I’m…I’m your…” Your voice trails off in a soft mewl- a sound that’s not unfamiliar to yourself or your body anymore. It’s day three (or is it four?) into your latest trip with him up the mountains. The cabin he has you posted up in is small, yet cozy and warm. There’s hardly any room in here except for the tiny little bathroom, a small kitchen, his work desk, and the queen-sized bed you’re currently lying on. But such little space has only meant that emotions run high all too easily. And that nearly every spot in this cabin has been christened over and over again. Including this exact moment. “...your good girl… ‘m your good girl.”

  At the sound of your pretty voice slurring a nearly pitiful response, Albedo’s lip tug at the corners. A small, yet devious smile is growing on his face. But it’s not surprising. He told you once that he loved this side of you especially. The side of you that can’t help but let her eyelids flutter and mouth fall open as constant moans and gasps pour out from your lips. The side of you that struggles to form words when he makes you feel too good. The side of you that is just so perfect and so pliant and so easy to pleasure.

  The memory of such praise causes your already foggy brain to short-circuit. Though the particularly fast speed of his strokes as he thrusts into your pussy certainly didn’t help. He had only woken you up mere minutes ago. Judging by his eagerness and the alert look in his eyes, you realize he must have been working on his latest report for a while before he went to wake you up. But then he must have gotten bored- must have gotten hungry. Hungry for something more than the food you dutifully prepared for the two of you to enjoy while up here for the next couple of days. Why else would he wake you up to his cold hands exploring your naked body as you lay curled beneath the blankets?

  But as always, his lips were soft when he captured yours with his own. And his hands and fingers knew exactly what to do when you took his wrist in your own and led him down to your core. And before you knew it, he’s calling you all sorts of sweet names and telling you just how much he missed feeling your pretty pussy around his cock despite getting a fill of your body last night. And at that point, there wasn’t much left for you to do?

  Nothing much left for you to do except lift the blankets off your body and present your body just the way he likes it. 

  And now you’re curled up on your side at the end of the bed, legs bent and pressed together as Albedo grips your hips and fucks you side saddle like it’s the first time the two of you’d ever seen each other. Every thrust hits deep inside of you, rocking the bed and creating that familiar dull sound of skin slapping against skin. Every thrust has you whining and seeing stars as he manages to angle it perfectly so that his cock head kisses g-spot over and over again. And every thrust brings a new compliment- a new promise to your ears as buries his dick into your warm, wet insides for the umpteenth time on this trip.

  “You’re so pretty”, he’d tell you in the moments where the position has you feeling embarrassed and exposed enough to cover up what you can. Then he’d wrestle your arms away from your body and pin you down with all his strength. He’d tell you how “pretty girls should be seen just like this”, and how he couldn’t wait to paint your insides with his cum once more just to watch it drip out of you. There’s no hiding from his eyes. He’s seen every inch of you before. And he’ll look at every inch of you

  Your body is so soft, he’d tell you as his hands trail over your skin- cupping and playing with your curves. His fingers would find your nipples and tug at them gently. His hands would squeeze at what he could when grabbing your chest. And his hands would smooth over your backside and wrap themselves around your waist and your hips, just to pull you closer to him and allow him to hit those spots deeper inside of you. “Your body is all mine, right?” he would ask you while all you could do was struggle to keep your gaze on him and moan. And he’d smile and mumble something about how getting to see you so dick-drunk off of the way he takes care of you is more than enough reason to keep him grounded to this world. 

  You’re so good to me, He’d tell you when you wake up just as eager for sex as he is. All of this was his idea after all. Every single last bit. The mountain getaways disguised as research trips. The keeping you naked in his head save for the occasional accessory or two (who knew he’d be so into seeing you in nothing but knee highs and cat ears?) just so he’d have easy access to your body and the two of you could fuck all you want. The fucking you good and stupid whenever he doesn’t feel like doing any more work. And when you’ve both had your fill and you’re just about ready to pass out and go back to bed, it’s off to work with thoughts of the next time he gets to feel you milk his cock clean as his motivation to hit his milestones faster. You’re so good to me, he’d tell you because he’d never thought he'd find someone so happy to fill this role for him. And most of all? He’d never expected it to be you.

  Because you’re his pretty girl. His lovely girl. His dutiful little assistant with the gorgeous body and the perfect pussy. And if it were up to him, he’d keep you here. He’d keep you in Dragonspine where he’d be the one to keep you warm and safe and stuffed full with all the cock you’d ever need. He’d tell you everything you’d want to hear. He’d give you everything you could ever want. But that’s not how things work in the real world.

  That’s not how things work at all.

  In a couple of days, the two of you will have to make the trek down the mountain once more. And the night before, he’d spend it pounding you into the mattress and making you scream and cry his name one last time. For good measure. But at some point, your time in the cabin with him will end. At some point, the two of you will be back in Mondstadt. Where eyes are more prying. Where privacy is more of a luxury. Where the thought of turning around, waking you up, and fucking you back to sleep becomes little more than a fever dream. 

  But until then, he’ll enjoy you. He’ll enjoy all of you. His pretty girl. His good girl. His dutiful little assistant. And when it’s all over? When he has to return you to civilization? To the rest of the world? 

  He’ll just get right on planning the next trip with you, of course.

[cinnamonshay]

All The Consequences— Aemond Targaryen

aemond targaryen x f!targaryen reader, reader is Rhaenyra’s daughter

All The Wrong Reasons alternate ending

Flying to storms end after husband!Aemond sent as envoys, (Rhaenys I’s dragon never died in this, so reader rides Meraxes)

konīr iksis iā gēlȳn naejot sagon addemmagon, valītsos - there is a debt to be paid, boy

ao tepagon chase naejot iā riña rȳ iā jelmāzma!? ñuha own lēkia - you give chase to a child through a storm!? my own brother!?

Nyke mērī jeldan naejot sȳngagon zirȳla, hae penance syt ñuha laes - I only wished to scared him as penance for my eye

ñuha jorrāelagon - my love

dracarys - dragonfire

dohaeres - serve

lykirir - calm

lēkia - brother

word count: 1,178

SPOILER WARNING: Spoilers for Episode 10

TW: Angst, so much angst, character death,

taglist;    m00n5t0n3 ,  allamericanuniverse  

“Y/N, we have decided to send you after Aemond, to show our goodwill, please make haste to Storm’s End.” Alicent spoke, glancing at you as she spoke before patting your hand, and walking out of the room after you nodded.

You dressed quickly in your leather riding outfit, a servant lacing your black boots for you, as you quickly made your way to the dragon pit,

“Meraxes!” The large dragon, your ancestor Rhaenys’ had ridden the very same into battle alongside the Conqueror and her sister Visenya, whose very same dragon was ridden by your husband. You trailed your gloved hand across her scales, affectionately smiling at the dragon you had been lucky enough to claim and form a bond with.

You quickly scaled Meraxes, situating yourself in the saddle, “Soves, Meraxes!” You commanded, and the dragon acquiesced to your request.

You arrived at Storm’s End quicker than you would have expected, only to hear your husband’s maniacal laughter carrying through the stormy wind.  “konīr iksis iā gēlȳn naejot sagon addemmagon, valītsos!” Aemond’s voice carried to you before you saw him, noticing your younger brother and his dragon in distress flying away from him.

Your heart stopped in its tracks, the situation sinking in, Aemond was taunting Lucerys, chasing him through a storm with angry intent on a dragon, much larger than Luc’s own Arrax. “LUC!” You screamed, feeling your throat slightly raw from how loud you shouted, Luc looked back at you, the terror slightly lessening in his body, he knew in his bones you would protect him or die trying, as you always had.

“Vhagar! Serve me! No! Vhagar!”

You frantically bid Meraxes to fly faster, “DRACARYS!”

Meraxes exhaled a fiery burst, striking Vhagar and effectively turning the dragon’s ire to you and your dragon,

You could hear Aemond’s voice breaking, “NO! Y/N! VHAGAR! DOHAERAS VHAGAR! LYKIRI! LYKIRI! VHAGAR! PLEASE NO!” You turned back to see the dragon still coming after you, your husband frantically yanking the reins back as hard as he could, fear in his eye as you both recognized what as coming, your breath ragged as you accepted that you more than likely would not survive this.

You flew fast above two mountains, wishing in your bones that Meraxes was small enough to fit in between, cursing as tears streamed down your face, the wind whipping you as rain and tears mixed, ice cold on your cheeks, you broke through calmer clouds and Meraxes whined, before Vhagar broke the clouds, Vhagar came at Meraxes fast and the dragons danced a deadly battle, claws and teeth, as you and Aemond yelled at your dragons in horror.

“VHAGAR! STOP! DOHAERES! DOHAERES! PLEASE LYKIRI! LYKIRI! VHAGAR DON’T!” Aemond’s silvery hair was pinned to his neck from the previous downpour, his eye alight in absolute terror, and with that Vhagar managed to clip Meraxes wings, your dragon snorted in fear as she struggled to stay flying, her good wing beating furiously, blood poured from your dragon, and Vhagar’s mouth closed upon her good wing, and thus you began your downward spiral, your blood ran cold as terror-stricken screams left your lips, Aemond yelling in horror, as he finally got Vhagar under control, too late. He forced her to fly towards you and Meraxes spiral, “TAKE MY HAND!” He reached out to you, horror written across his face as you missed his hand, You managed to scream out before you and Meraxes collided with solid ground, the pain erupted through your body, coughing up blood you managed to slide off Meraxes, hitting the ground on your back as you stared at the skies, Vhagar landed with a resounding echo, the two dragons on a cliffside, as you faintly heard Aemond’s sobs as he ran to you, hitting his knees next to you and roughly pulling you to his arms as he cradled your broken body, the blood pouring from your mouth, you would die here, you realized, far from home.

“You’re going to be okay, you have to be! I’ll- I’ll fix it, I’ll fix it, please don’t leave me,   ñuha jorrāelagon.. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please don’t leave me!” Aemond was speaking frantically, his voice thick with tears as you stared at him, “It’s okay.. It’s okay, my love. Promise me-,” you paused, choking on your own blood, coughing hard, “promise me you won’t hurt my brothers. Promise me, Aemond!” you used the little strength you had left, making your voice stronger before weakening again, “Just promise me..” you whispered, Aemond’s tears hit your face, “I promise..”

“I love you, Aemond, it’s not your fault, you didn’t know..” you whispered lowly, your voice barely escaping your throat. He lowered his face, his eye was filled with devastation, he had caused your demise, and he would never forgive himself, he pressed a shaky kiss to your head, he was shaking you realized, his lips quivered, trying to choke back the sobs, with excruciating pain, you reached your arm up and touched his cheek, unknowingly smearing him with your blood, even still as it soaked into his clothes, and then touching his hair finally your hand slipped down his face to his neck and then fell limply onto yourself, your eyes closing with one last shuddering breath.

As your heart stopped beating, he threw his head back and screamed, the force of it ripping his throat raw, and he didn’t care as the heartwrenching, guttural noise left his body, along with his heart which died the same time as your last breath.

Vhagar roared with him, and Meraxes took to the skies, releasing the saddest sound Aemond had ever heard in his life. As he carried your broken body with him, somehow managing to climb Vhagar with your body over his shoulder.

When he landed in the dragon pit, nobody was there, and so he dismounted, cradling your body in his arms as he stumbled to the Red Keep, your blood smeared across his cheek and throat as he sank to his knees in the throne room, his heavy sobs echoing, as he clutched you and rocked back and forth, where his mother, brother, sister and grandfather were in deep conversation, Helaena more so sitting and inspecting a caterpillar that whispered across her finger, the sound of him hitting the ground brought their attention to him, and Alicent noticed who he held immediately, stifling tears and a gasp with her hand as she gently lowered herself next to him.

“Aemond..” Her voice was weak, she tried to reach for his hand, coated in his beloved's blood, as she stared at her devastated son, his devotion to you had been well known through the kingdoms. Even Aegon, who on his normal borderlined on uncaring, broke at the sight of his usually strong and put-together brother breaking, and tears streamed down Helaena’s face, she pulled your body from Aemond’s and Aegon pulled him to his feet, “Let’s get you cleaned up, lēkia.” Aemond resisted until he realized the delicacy in which Helaena was settling your hair about your face, the way she wiped the blood from your face with her own sleeve, as she and his mother wept over your body. And he let himself be pulled from the room by his older brother.

[jazzthatonewriterchick]

Hit ‘Em Up! (18+ Fic)

Pairing: Cowboy!Gojo Satoru x Cowboy!Geto Suguru x Black!Cowgirl!Reader (Slow Burn/Enemies to Lovers)

Synopsis: You get to meet Geto & Gojo the Gunslingers, the notorious outlaws that have every town and law enforcement in a twist, when your bum-ass BF offers you as payment to avoid going to prison. Little do they know that this is only a part of your plan to get what you desire. But when you realize that the infamous gun-slinging, smooth-talking cowboys could be everything you want and more when they offer you a deal to team up with them, will you successfully be able to go through with it? 

Warnings: Smutty Smut; 18+ (MINOS GTFO); poly!SatouSugu; Reader is Black & Fem; Mention of other JJK characters; Porn with Plot; Tragic Backstories; T/W for Childhood Trauma, Parental Death, Violence, Panic Attacks & Torture; Angst/Hurt/Comfort; Hand Kink; Masturbation; Voyeurism; Gay Sex; Polyamorous; Double Deepthroat; Mutual Oral; Fingering; CMNF; Spitroast; Riding; Unprotected PiV Sex; Creampies; Outside/Public Sex; Shotgunning; Multiple Positions; Spit Kink; Facials; MDom/fsub Undertones; Aftercare

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters mentioned in this fic. However, as this is my writing, I do not give permission for my work to be reposted on any other sites that are not from my own accounts. Thank you!

Chapters: One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen PT I & II. Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-One. Twenty-Two. Twenty-Three. Epilogue. Soundtrack.

********

TWELVE: TOXIC.

The Devil’s Trail is as hot and as ruthless as the stories say.

“We should be outta here in about a day,” Geto pants, riding his horse in front of you. 

“Okay,” you exhale, wiping sweat from your forehead. “We can stop at nightfall. The mountains look like a good place to spend the night.” 

“Sure,” Gojo replies, his toned muscles glistening in sweat. He too rides in front of you, his horse taking its sweet time to avoid overheating itself. 

That’s the end of your conversation since you left Safe County. So far, your convos have been short, sweet, and to the point. Though it makes you feel some type of way, you don’t try to push it. You don’t have the energy to. 

You and the Gunslingers immediately left Sage County after your scare on the railroad tracks. You got dressed in your boots, hat, and bandana, packed up your things, and headed North on your horses. It took about a day’s ride to finally reach the Devil’s Trail. 

All buildings and signs of civilization fell away, replaced with tumbleweeds, cacti, rocky mountains, and animals that skittered and scurried by every now and again, such as armidillos and lizards. The sun is blistering hot, poised high in the sky and creating a blinding light among the horizon. You want to pluck it out of the sky and store it away in your pocket. 

The heat is terrible. It is a dry, suffocating kind of heat that makes you want to drain your canteen. You have stripped off your jacket and tied it around your waist to avoid sweating bullets, but alas, the heat and the sun’s rays are so bad that you sweat through your riding pants, boots, and undershirt. 

Meanwhile, the Gunslingers have stripped themselves completely. Geto decided to go shirtless under his vest, exposing only his toned chest coated in fine, black chest hair that you want to stroke. You also find that his nipples are pierced as they push through the fabric. The fact that he left his riding gloves and hat on just makes him look even more (unfortunately) appetizing.

Meanwhile, Gojo is completely shirtless, his impressive physique on full display for you. He only kept on his blindfold and gloves, his hat dangling from the side of his saddle. 

You try not to look at them as you ride behind them, gripping Reneigh’s reins a little tighter than necessary. You haven’t spoken about what happened last night, not wanting to do so, but their tight-lipped, passively aggressive attitudes are starting to irk you…or maybe you just miss talking to them that much. 

“Listen, are we gonna talk?” you blurt.

Gojo barely spares you a glance as he blandly asks you, “Talk about what?”

That response pisses you off. “About why y’all are actin’ so weird. ‘Cause at this point, we may as well talk about it.” 

Geto looks at you from over his shoulder, his eyes narrowing. “Talk about what exactly?” he asks. “Talk about how you lied to us? How you nearly got yourself killed? How you deliberately when against our plan to lay low?” 

You ride your horse a little faster, having her speedwalk over to Geto until you’re side by side. 

“Our plan?” you cackle. “That wasn’t our plan, Geto. That was a plan y’all decided to make up without talkin’ to me about it ‘cause y’all were scared. I thought the plan was to get Benji which I was doin’ for all of us!” 

“Without tellin’ us,” Geto adds, giving you a sharp look. “You should’ve talked about it with us first, Y/N. We didn’t even know where you were. We thought somethin’ horrible happened to you when we saw your stuff still in your bedroom.” 

At this revelation, guilt eats you up. You imagine them in your hotel room, panicking, and the guilt gets worse. “I-I’m sorry,” you softly say, taken aback. “I didn’t–” 

“You didn’t what?” Gojo sharply asks. He is now beside you, putting you in the middle of himself and Geto. “You didn’t know, as smart as you are?” He scoffs, looking straight ahead. “Maybe I shouldn’t even say that as stupid as your plan was.” You think you’re just hallucinating the insult as first because of the heat, but no. And that angers you. “Excuse me?” you hiss. 

“How ‘bout you didn’t care, Y/N, hm?” he continues, that same bite in his tone. “Does that sound about right? You didn’t care enough about us to sit your ass put and wait?” 

“No!” you argue. “I did it because I care about…” You. But you stop yourself from saying it. 

“About our deal,” you instead say. “Our original plan. If we had a good chance to snag Benji, I wasn’t about to sit tight and let him get away.” 

“But he did get away,” Geto points out. “We had no idea where he is now, Y/N.” He heaves a large, tiring sigh, pinching his nose with his gloved fingers. “I just wish you weren’t so reckless or carless about this,” he mumbles. 

The shock of his words hit you, making you stop your horse dead in her tracks. “Reckless?!” you snap. “Careless?! Listen, I’m sorry that I upset y’all, tha doesn’t mean you get to insult me. I…” Then you stop, staring at the glares of the men in front of you, and you suddenly don’t feel any more guilt. You instead feel anger. 

How could they not understand you? How could they brush this off when you’ve told them your story? “You know what?” you bark. “I’m not sorry. I’m not sorry that I lied, I’m not sorry that I went to the opera, and I’m not sorry that I at least tried to get Benji myself. It wasn’t even my fault that I didn’t get him! It was Valentine’s!” 

Both men stop and share a look, silently concerting between each other. Geto sighs once more, running a hand over his sweaty face. “Maybe we should just drop you off in Willow Springs and look for Benji ourselves,” he says, obviously trying to let you down easy. 

But it doesn’t do that at all. Once again, you feel abandoned. Unwanted. Like a nuisance to them. “So…what?” you sharply ask, squinting at them. “You don’t think I’m capable enough to do this and keep my emotions in check so you dump me?” 

“We’re not dumpin’ you,” Gojo argues. “And no, you can’t keep your goddamn emotions in check because if you could, you would’ve listened to us when we said to lay fuckin’ low.” 

“Because I’m a woman, right?” you snap albeit irrationally. 

Gojo looks shocked at the question and then begins to laugh. “Oh, this?!” he guffaws. “You’re usin’ this sexist shit against us now?” Even Geto is pissed by that sharp turn you did, turning this into something else because of your hurt. 

“You know that’s not what we’re sayin’, Y/N,” he says through gritted teeth. “You’re too overly excited. Too hellbent. We want to get Benji just as much as you do, but imagine what could’ve happened to you last night.” 

You have imagined it. You’ve been imagining it since you left Sage County. But they don’t understand. They can’t understand. And you’re tired of trying to mak them. So you throw your hands up and give up. “You know what?” you scoff. “I don’t fuckin’ need this. Y’all aren't my dads and neither one of y’all get to tell me what to do. I decide what I want to do and what I want to do now is leave.” 

You wiggle Reneigh’s reins, coaxing her to turn around and walk the other way. “Where are you goin’?” Gojo asks. You glaringly look over your shoulder. “If we’re not gonna see eye to eye on this, then I’ll just go my own way,” you shippily reply. “Have fun findin’ Benji, assholes.” 

Then you ride your horse away, her hooves kicking up dirt. “Y/N, wait,” Geto sighs. “Don’t leave. “C’mon, you know you won’t last a day out there on ya own.”

He tries to come near you, but you slip your gun out of its holster and point it at him and Gojo. “Leave me alone!” you bark. “Don’t come near me!” 

Despite their worried expressions, they listen and don’t come near you. But moments later, you’ll wish they hadn’t listened. You’ll wish you hadn’t walked away from them, swallowed your pride, and just stayed. When you turn around to face the road, you barely make it a mile from them when a big ass snake is suddenly slithering out from behind a cactus. It is thick, black, and scaley. 

Reneigh reacts immediately, whineying in panic and coming up onto her hind legs. You scream, falling off of her back and hard onto your ass. You don’t have a moment to recover because the snake is slithering towards you and baring its teeth at your exposed skin. Its fangs, sharp and long, sink into your ankle. It is like receiving a mosquito bite and a bee sting wrapped into one times ten. 

You scream again, trying to shake the snake off of you. Taking your gun, you aim at it and shoot. Though the bullet hits the ground across from you, it scares the snake and it lets go of you before slithering off into a brush. You groan in pain, the stinging sensation crawling up your leg instantly. 

Your horse continues to freak out, shaking her mane and backing away from you. “Reneigh!” you cry. “It’s okay, it’s okay!”

You try to move towards her but your ankle hurts too much. You whimper at the pain and look down to see blood soaking your pant leg.

“Y/N,” a silky, deep voice suddenly says above you. You look up and the sun has turned into Geto’s worried, handsome face. “What happened?” he asks. “We heard you scream.” 

You shakily point at the brush the snake slithered into. “I-It was a snake,” you whimper. “It bit my ankle and I shot at it, so my horse got spooked.” 

Gojo appears and quickly moves towards Reneigh to soothe her, putting his hands up to steady her as she bucks and tries to run. “Shh, shh,” he coos. He takes a hold of her reins and firmly pulls her toward him, making her come down on her front legs. He lays a hand on her side and strokes it, pulling his blindfold up to stare deep into her eyes. Whatever your beautiful beast sees in those hypnotizing blues makes her breathing level and her body go still. 

The snow-haired outlaw then turns to you and Geto. “What the hell happened?” he demands.

Geto gently takes your leg into his hands, straightening your knee. “She got bit.” His brown eyes stare into yours, his fingers hovering over your ankle. “Lemme see it, Y/N,” he says, though it’s more of a plea than an order. 

With your bottom lip caught between your teeth, you nod and he gingerly rolls your pants leg up to reveal the bite. You cringe at the deep, punctured holes oozing with blood under your pants. What’s even worse is the burning sensation you feel on your skin, traveling down to your foot and up your leg. “Ah!” you gasp, your body tense with pain. 

Geto’s brows furrow at the wound. “Damn, honey, it got you bad,” he tuts. “But it don’t look fatale. I’ve had a bite like this before–looks like it was from a viper judgin’ by the size of the fang bites.” He doesn’t waste time taking his bag off of his shoulders and retrieving the canteen. Quickly, he pours some cold water onto the wound and you flinch. 

Suddenly, you feel a hand in yours and look up to see Gojo’s beautiful eyes. He doesn’t say anything–just presses his palms against your face, keeping your head still. You see island oceans and glaciers in his eyes, the blue of them so beautiful that a calm washes over you.

Maybe this is just what Reneigh saw. Whatever it is, its magic works on you because you don’t even move when Geto rips some fabric off of his shirt with his teeth and wraps it around your ankle.

“Good girl,” he coos as he ties a knot behind your ankle.

Once he’s done, you look down at your bandaged ankle and instantly feel Gojo’s magic wear off. “I’m not gonna die, am I?” you pant, staring into Geto’s concerned eyes. “If we don’t try to treat it now, you will,” he says somberly. He then looks at his partner. “We need to get her outta here.” 

“And go where?” Gojo scoffs. “We’re in a total wasteland and Willow Springs is a day away!” Geto runs a hand over his face, frustrated. “We have no choice,” he huffs. “We’ve gotta turn around and go back to Sage County.” 

“What?” you gasp, absolutely protesting the idea “No, no, no! We can’t go back! We’re almost there! We can’t just–” 

You’re instantly cut off by a horrible throb in your ankle and a wave of dizziness washing over you. The duo instantly notice. “Fine,” you pant. “M’fine. I…” 

But you can’t finish the sentence, the bite taking full effect on you. “C’mon, darlin’,” Geto sighs, gently taking your legs into his hands. “Help me lift her up, Satoru.”

You feel Gojo’s hands under your shoulders and are suddenly lifted into the air, your eyes fluttering closed against the sun and their silky voices. 

You don’t remember anything after that.