#( but every time I log in feels like a chore )

[0fps]

well

[itoshiidarling]

yandere x reader but darling is a loser (and maybe a touch manipulative. just a little. actually they both are, as a treat)

they profess their eternal love to you, begging you to date them, please they'll do anything, they'll make you so happy and buy you everything you want and take care of you so well !

so, obviously, you can't really say no. chances are nobody's ever going to tell you they're in love with you again (unless it's as a prank), but you're not exactly crushing on them, so you're not gonna outright accept, either.

“okay, well, if you clean my house and cook me food, i might date you.”

they're jumping at the opportunity, promising your house will never know dirt again and that they'll cook all of your favorite foods whenever you want [how exactly do they know all your favourites by heart?], but you're getting a headache and you kind of just want to go to bed already.

when you wake up, okay, yeah, maybe they do intend on keeping that promise of cleanliness... all your clothes are gone from the floor and neatly folded and hung up, your bedside table isn't a mess, your desk is clean ... and it smells strangely nice. you could've sworn it reminded you of a perfume from a year or two ago.

when they see you're awake, [what the fuck are they doing in your— oh, cleaning, right. they were sitting down, just looking at you, though...] they tell you good morning, that they've made you breakfast that's ready whenever you want it, offering to cuddle you back to sleep if you're still tired.

it's like they're living with you from that day on, always making sure you're as comfortable as possible at every moment. you're tired? please, let them carry you up the stairs and change you into some comfortable sleeping clothes [just ignore it when they stare at you like you're their universe] and put your head on their chest !

you mention a new, limited edition anime figure you realllyy want, but it's too expensive? it's just so detailed and pretty and — what do you mean the mailman just delivered it.

you're ranting about your annoying coworkers and how you wish you could just quit and not have to worry about money? oh, don't mind them while they inconspicuously log into your email to send your boss a message.... just come with them, they have a private spa appointment booked to get your mind off it, you've got the whole place to yourself ! (maybe they could bathe with you, though? just don't mind the way they press against you, they're just lightheaded, is all ! oh, but don't leave the bath, they're okay !)

you wake up late because your alarm didn't go off, but they're quick to reassure you that you don't need to worry about being on time to any job because, i mean, you don't have one! no worries, they're perfectly capable of taking care of you — if they couldn't do even that, how could they call themselves your partner? [you don't remember ever actually confirming your relationship, but at this point, you think it makes sense to assume].

you don't exactly feel great about them doing all your chores and not helping financially, now, but, on the other hand... lazing around all day, doing anything you want with an over-eager partner does sound... pretty good.

you decide to see if rewarding them works instead of actually putting in effort to building the relationship, and lo and behold... a little kiss has their efficiency increasing by a thousand percent just so they can sit on your lap and ask for another kiss, just a peck, pretty please. do you want them to buy you another figure? concert tickets? or maybe... make the reward a little better? them leading your hands to the buttons on their shirt doesn't mean anything, they swear, it's just...

maybe you would want to thank them a little more for all their hard work? ♡

[ronearoundblindly]

okey dokey, I've had *a day* and will use this glorious...🥴 idek which body part to reference 😮‍💨...and merge it with your previous ask about cooking or baking for Steve and giving him a nice, comforting, home cooked meal. And his response to that act of service and caring. Because this is me, I will obviously be starting with ::gasp:: an argument. Don't you love how predictable I am?!?!

To Tire Is Human

No warnings, uhhh, canon language (sh*t)? Written in drafts so no exact word count. It's not long (2k maybe, very much unedited)!

"The hustle? What does that even mean?" Steve gripes as he finishes up various chores around the property.

"It means I do the work."

Your boyfriend rips apart the wood log he was about to start chopping. "Do the work? Do the work? For nine hours? After leaving home early enough to be at work for an hour before the actual work starts? Then staying at least a half hour to clean?"

"Unless I also have to restock," you add quickly just to really turn the knife.

"You have got to be shitting me," he nearly snarls, eyes down toward the pile.

You don't blame him for not understanding. He's from an era where people worked to live, the point was the living. This...is not longer that era, and you are not of that generation.

Of course, it frustrates him, too, because your work makes living almost impossible. With all that he just mentioned, the commute, and attempting to offer yourself the basic self-care of eating and washing, you don't have the energy to do chores, and you've certainly struggled to find energy enough to show Steve love.

"That's the gig nowadays. That's how us super-average humans do it."

The thing is that you are also so tired of having this conversation. You are tired of the guilt for not magically considering yourself the center of your universe because, despite jokes about every kid receiving participation trophies, it is deeply engrained in you that you are replaceable.

If you don't perform above and beyond, fired. If you ask for too much and offer too little, gone. If you don't constantly learn how to outpace others, useless. It never ends.

And, finally, Steve Rogers might not get this but you age. You aren't powerful to begin with, but day after day, you get weaker and older, while someone else on Earth gets smarter and stronger.

You don't want to hear the spiel. You can see from his pinched face that Steve wants to give the spiel.

You sigh in exhaustion and prepare to hear the whole Cap speech before you two go pick up dinner in town.

One day later that week, your work schedule falls apart and lands you back at home hours before Steve is due to return. Antsy to accomplish something--and looking for a snack,--you notice the perfect combination of ingredients, something saucy and salty, hearty, just like Steve melts for, and a fruity baked good.

It's a lot of steps, there's a lot of mess to clean up as you go, and then there's still a lot left behind. You're hastily rushing around to set the oven timer and yank a skillet off the burner. Perhaps the whole endeavor has gotten you in over your head.

Steve appears out of nowhere.

Well. Not nowhere, but all the chaos in the kitchen is making enough noise, you didn't hear the door.

"I have everything under control," you automatically say.

His expression morphs from one of surprise and concern to utterly overwhelmed. His eyes look glassy as he approaches and scoops you into a quick hug, hands tucking themselves beneath the hem of your shirt so he can feel your skin as he breathes you in.

He quickly releases you at the sounds of oil popping and sniffs, reverting to Cap mode.

"What do you need? What can I do?"

All you can think is that the table hasn't been set.

Steve eats his whole meal--entree and dessert--with his non-dominant hand just so he can hold yours.

He had one of your days.

He spent the drive home listing all the things he needed to do in his head, more energy for each tick, more time for sitting still, more of him to give...

...and then he got to enjoy a lovely dinner with you.

You spent your energy on him, on you both. You spent energy specifically to spend time with him, and Steve could cry but he won't. He keeps smiling, making happy, pleased noises with each delicious bite.

An hour ago, he wasn't sure he could feed himself or wash up. He's simply too tired.

You start playing with his hand, drawing patterns in his palm, lightly dragging your nails on the sensitive inside of his wrist. It makes him shiver.

There were at least four things he was supposed to do outside before it got too dark, a load of towels and sheets needs done, a basket of clothes waits to be folded and put away. He does not want to do any of it.

His fingers close around yours.

"Thank you," he interjects softly, "I was so tired."

You lean forward and plant a sweet kiss on his cheek, whispering in his ear, "you wanna leave the dishes to soak and watch a movie instead?"

Steve chuckles, turns his head to quickly kiss your lips, and nuzzles his nose to yours.

"Oh, you're a naughty minx, aren't you?"

Playfully racing up the stairs, ignoring the plates and glasses still on the table, you call back to him.

"Show some hustle, big guy! We got a whole lot of nothing to do."

He twitches, just for an instant, before finally deciding that grabbing the spare pillows from the guest room will add more to the movie experience than doing the dishes.

You're both going to do the work tonight: the work of taking care of each other, enjoying each other, and being human together.

Thank you for asking!

[Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

[chocopriski]

JAYVIK SFW & NSFW HEADCANONS

SFW

-Who cooks?: Viktor. Their house chores are meticulously planned around Viktor's condition. Jayce does the most physically straining ones.

-Who’s the messiest? The cleanest?: Jayce is the organized out of the two. His clothes neatly folded and hung on his closet. His side of the bathroom sink grouped by product type.

Viktor though, just throws his clothes into the closet and closes the door as quickly as he can. Like when storing Tupperware. This man somehow knows where he left that tiny little thing among a pile of stuff. It might look messy but he knows exactly where he left everything.

-Who fixes the vehicle after a breakdown: Jayce. I mean, he's the engineer out of the two. Viktor just stays there with the excuse that he's there to help. He obviously just wants to see Jayce all messed up and sweaty. Jayce knows that, and he makes sure to give him a good sight then act completely oblivious to the fact.

-Living space has a leak! Who fixes it?: Same answer as before. Except Viktor will be ready to call someone to repair it for them in case Jayce has no idea what he's doing.

-Who buys the groceries?: Both, but mostly Jayce. Viktor is either working himself to an earlier death or sleeping at their place. If it's the random thing you run out of, Viktor will do it no problem. If it's all the groceries for the month, Jayce will do it. Again, to avoid straining Viktor's already fucked up body.

-Going out to eat: Who pays? Who orders the most food? And who has dessert?: Jayce pays. He never lets Viktor pay, he has the most money, I guess. "Oh, I ate more, I'll pay". Or saying he's going to the bathroom and paying so by the time Viktor asks for the bill, Jayce mutters "Who could've been the smart man that already paid?". Only Jayce orders dessert but Viktor always steals a bite or two.

-Would they go to the beach?: Jayce loves the beach. Viktor not so much. Viktor likes swimming, he enjoys the water lifting him and taking away most of the pain. But the sand, oh, he hates the sand. The times they've gone to the beach together are mostly because Viktor feels bad telling Jayce "no". Jayce is aware of this so he makes it worth it for Viktor by giving him a spectacle out of Baywatchers. Drying himself up as little as possible just to get a reaction.

-Who knows how to swim? Who doesn’t?: Both know how to swim. But Viktor enjoys just floating while Jayce goes "DIVEBOMB!" and splashes literally everyone and everything around him. Then just swimming for hours to then complain about sore muscles the day after.

-Any pets? Or plants?: Viktor has his own little garden. He treats the plants very carefully, even having a log of the changes in them and last time they've been watered. Every time Jayce even comes near them, he hisses like a cat.

-Baths or showers? Together or separate?: Jayce prefers a quick, cold shower to get off all his sweat (also I like to think that Jayce is the type to always be feeling hot while Viktor's the one that always feels cold, mostly due to his lack of body fat).

Viktor enjoys long, warm (boiling hot) baths to soothe his aching muscles. Sometimes he'll fall asleep and have Jayce walk into the bathroom all concerned about the amount of time he's been in there just to find Viktor sleeping in the bathtub with his finger pads all wrinkly.

They do their own thing separately. But sometimes doing it together doesn't sound so bad. When feeling all romantic they bathe together. However, when they're all warmed up from the inside out, shower it is.

-Can they stand silence? Who talks the most? Who talks the least?: They can stand in silence as long as Jayce doesn't start overthinking and asks Viktor if he's mad at him or if he's upset or if he's tired or... (anything). They definitely have a yapper/listener dynamic. Jayce could talk for days on end and Viktor would listen to every word.

-Who stays up late? Who sleeps the most?: Viktor is a chronic overworker. So, even at home he'll stay up late to finish up some notes he took home from the lab. Either that or the pain keeping him up. Which he never tells Jayce but he can somehow detect Viktor's in pain and happily massages whatever hurts. But whenever Viktor gets uninterrupted sleep, he hibernates. There was one time where he took a nap and woke up at the same time but the day after.

-Does the other have to force them to sleep/wake up?: Following the last point, Jayce always has to drag him out of the lab. And sometimes wake him up since there were times where Viktor was up at 5am and times where Viktor slept like a log.

-Who is the highest maintenance? Does the other mind?: Unsurprisingly, Viktor. His leg hurts, his back hurts, his wrists and fingers hurt, his neck hurts, his shoulders hurt, he has a migraine, now he has a coughing fit, now he gets a cold that somehow lasts a whole month. But Jayce doesn't care at all. He actually enjoys taking care of Viktor, a sort of intimacy that isn't matched by anything other than that.

NSFW

-How often do they have sex, if at all?: Whenever it fits into their schedule, honestly. Sometimes they get home after a long day of work and seeing the other so disheveled from work makes their gears start turning. Or sometimes when Jayce checks up on Viktor to see if he's had a break during work, they'll have some other type of break different to a cup of tea. Not in the lab, obviously. They go up to Jayce's office just for that. That desk has seen things.

-Who brings ideas? Who initiates?: Viktor doesn't care as long as it's good. And he doesn't consume adult content so he doesn't really come up with anything new. Jayce, on the other side, watches stuff while only thinking about Viktor, and when he sees something he likes, he brings it up whenever appropriate.

Jayce mostly initiates, being obnoxiously obvious about how he's feeling. And even if he tried to be smooth about it, the semi he's packing definitely tells Viktor all he needs to know. Viktor is either too tired or in too much pain for the idea of sex to come up in his head. But sometimes he'll be in the mood. Being way more subtle and smooth than Jayce, which consequently gets Jayce going.

-Oddest place they’d have sex?: The lab in the middle of research. Door unlocked too. One of the times where they couldn't wait to make it to Jayce's office. Also the time they learned that they needed to turn off the soldering iron before bending over the table. Viktor burnt his hand pretty bad.

-Favourite positions?: Anything that lets them see the other's face. Mostly Viktor on the bottom to, again, avoid physical strain.

-Dom/top? Sub/bottom? Any switches?: Jayce is a sub top. We all just know that. Don't act surprised. Viktor's a dom bottom.

-Genital headcanons?: Jayce is a bit above average girthy. Unlike Viktor, painfully average and on the thin side. Also points to the side whenever hard.

-Quickest turn ons? Immediate turn offs?: Viktor with messy clothes is one of the best things for Jayce. Or whenever he starts explaining some project that Jayce can't understand a word of.

Viktor goes feral over a sweaty Jayce. Whether it's because it's hot, he just finished working out, or anything related to the forge (including being covered in soot). Also whenever his hair is messed up. Jayce spends his sweet time every morning styling his hair, a million different products and techniques to give him his signature style. Whenever it's all undone, Viktor needs to stop himself from drooling.

-First to orgasm? Last to orgasm? Who comes the most? Does someone ever end up unfinished?: Viktor comes first, as much as he tries to hold it in to make it go for longer. Jayce needs his sweet time to come, that guy has some serious stamina.

Even though Viktor's the first, Jayce has a significant load when he finishes. Getting the most out at first and some small ones during the next few seconds. Viktor's is in small quantities but persistent.

Jayce sometimes ends up unfinished, taking way too long to orgasm but seeing how Viktor is too messed up to keep going. He finishes himself off.

-Favourite romantic gestures during sex/orgasm?: Viktor loves touching foreheads. Eyes closed as Jayce is on top of him and just enjoying the moment. Jayce will brush through Viktor's hair with his fingers and smile at him telling him how much he loves him.

-How are their afterglows?: Viktor is always disheveled by the end of it. But at least the pain went away momentarily, which adds to the pleasure. Jayce gets clingy, spooning Viktor or anything that involves continuing the physical touch.

-Who’s loud? Who’s quiet? Does one try to make the other louder/quieter? How?: Jayce is the loud one, that man grunts and moans. Viktor lets out some soft moans (which make Jayce want to somehow make a million babies) but he stays quiet for the most part unless they're talking.

Jayce pleads to hear Viktor, it gets him going and gets him closer. He literally just asks him, and if that doesn't work, begs him.

-Lights on or off? Do they look at each other? Or is someone embarrassed?: Lights on, they love each other and they love to see how the other comes apart. Eye contact is persistent all throughout.

[academicfever]

4/100 days of productivity!

I know the engine feels like it’s stalling. I know you’re tired of pit stops that feel like setbacks. But you — you are built with grit. You’ve faced illness, fatigue, doubt, and a world that doesn’t always make space for dreamers like you. And yet, you're still here. Still showing up. Still learning. That fire? It hasn’t gone out. It’s idling — waiting. Not every lap is fast. Some are just about keeping the car steady, conserving fuel, not crashing. Surviving is part of the race strategy. There will be a straight. There will be speed again. And you’ll remember why you kept driving.

log:6.4.25

Shopping

Daily housekeeping chores

study block

MH block

Reading block

🌱 "Just surviving is still living." Some days are just about making it to the next hour. And that’s okay. You don’t owe the world constant progress. Breathing is enough right now. 🌙 "Even the moon goes through phases, and it still lights up the sky." You don’t have to be full or shining all the time. You're still you, still meaningful — even in pieces. 🧱 "You’ve made it through 100% of your hardest days so far." That's not nothing. That’s resilience. Quiet strength. Survival is proof of it. 🌤️ "Feelings aren’t facts — they pass, even if slowly." It won’t always feel like this. Your brain lies to you when it's hurting. That doesn't make your pain fake, but it means you don’t have to believe every thought. 💌 "There is no shame in being tired of the fight." But you're still here. That matters. That counts. You matter. Even when you don’t feel like it. 🕊️ "There’s a version of you in the future who’s proud you stayed." Maybe they’re walking through sunlight. Maybe they’re watching an F1 race in person, smiling. You don’t know them yet, but they’re waiting.

[bluecanvasshoe]

platonic!Arthur Morgan & teen!fem!reader

reader being female is only mentioned, like, once at the very start, rest of the story has virtually nothing to do w it

based around the end of the game!!

Arthur notices you’re upset after some sulking around, so he takes you fishing.

warnings: slight rdr2 spoilers, a little smidgen of misogyny, maybe ooc? idk, no beta reader we die like MEN 🔥, little bit of angst, comfort, NO ROMANCE‼️‼️‼️, …….lazy ending, I HAVE WRITERS BLOCK OKAY

word count: 1.5k

Part 2 !!!!! (link is fixed!)

——————

For the past couple months, it’s felt as if nothing you have done has ever gone right.

When carrying hay-bales to the horses, your arms grew tired. Micah laughed as you dropped the feed and breathed heavily. A few months back, Hosea reminded you that, as a child, you weren’t expected to do any of the more challenging work. However, the urge to prove yourself triumphed over his lectures.

Then Ms. Grimshaw approached you in camp, reprimanding you for your insistence on doing the more “manly” tasks. As a girl of the camp who was yet to be an adult, you, unfortunately, were not saved from her pressing you about your future in the gang.

Afterwards, while practising your handiwork with a needle, you pierced your index finger. It drew blood, so Strauss gave you a bandage and a disapproving look.

The gang slowly dwindled in numbers, leaving your already fragile state of mind in a bit of a crisis. Small things piled on small things that piled on big things, and you soon found yourself dreading chores, which turned into dreading every day that followed. The feeling of thinking you were actively disappointing every living being ever drowned out any sense of reasoning.

On a clear morning, you woke up groggy. All seemed well until you were punched in the face with the realisation that you had to actually get up.

Instead of wasting the early morning away, wallowing in the sadness of your flimsy canvas tent, you sat at the dying campfire. Your heart felt heavy in your chest, and your mouth subconsciously pulled down into a frown.

Arthur, ever the early bird, awoke not long after you and sat down on the next log over. His worn and muddied boots crunched on the gravelly terrain, interrupting the chirping of birds. The sun hadn’t yet risen, shrouding everything in a dusky glow.

“You uh… sleep well, kid?” said Arthur, holding onto a steaming cup of coffee.

“Yeah,” you replied simply, staring at the fire. Strauss told you not to drink coffee; he said it was “bad for a child’s development.”.

Arthur sighed, turning his head over as he propped his upper body up, an arm supporting himself by pressing on his knee. “You’ve been acting’ strange,” he commented, “we’ve all noticed. Is somethin’ botherin’ you?”

Your voice caught up in your throat, the words that formed in your head fighting to escape and pathetically losing. “No…just tired.”

The man next to you coughed lightly, clearing his throat. “You…uh, you wanna go fishin’? I oughta' bring some food back to Pearson.”

Fishing? Now there’s something you haven't done in a while. Maybe you could get out of the camp.

“Okay,” you fidgeted with the fabric of your sleep bottoms, your eyes darting from Arthur and back to the fire. It seemed Arthur hadn’t expected you to agree, as he hesitated to find a response.

“Alright, then. Be ready in...about half an hour.”

As promised, you were dressed a quarter after six; at least that’s what your pocket watch you pickpocketed forever ago said. Hopping up onto the pony you used on rare outings, you waited for Arthur to saddle up too.

“You got all your stuff?” He asked, storing away his fishing rod and hoisting himself up, grabbing hold of his horse’s reins.

You look at your saddle bag one last time before turning to Arthur, nodding. “Yeah. ‘Been a while since I've gone fishin’, though.”

“Don’t worry about that; I'll give you a refresher.” Arthur shifted his weight before clicking twice, lightly jabbing his spurs into the side of his mount.

Following his movements, — except spur-less, as you don’t do nearly as much riding as the other men in the gang — you began to move, your horse huffing gently.

You caught up to him thanks to his slow trot, swatting away a couple mosquitoes in the process. “Where’re we goin’?” you asked, your voice raised.

“Well, you ain’t too familiar with his area,” he quickly wiped his nose with his free hand, sniffling. “But it ain’t far. There’s a nice little spot on a lake nearby. You oughta' get a couple bites.”

“Uh-huh,” you sighed, looking down at your hands. Arthur was holding onto his horse’s reins with one hand. You had trouble steering your horse with two.

Arthur slowed once he approached a patch of gravelly sand, getting off his horse with you following. He took out his fishing equipment and walked over to the shore.

“Here,” Arthur reached into his brown satchel, pulling out a block of cheese wrapped in brown parchment paper. “Use some a’ this.” Reaching over, you broke off a small chunk and murmured a hushed ‘thank you’ in return.

“‘M guessin’ you remember what bait is and how to use it, right?” he remarked, preparing his rod. “I think I got it,” you muttered, fumbling with the fishing pole but eventually hooking the cheese onto the sharp point.

“Careful there. Don’t wanna poke your finger.” Arthur joked snarkily, waiting for you to get into a similar position to his, his fishing rod held in front of his body. The bandaged finger he was referring to was sliding the small bit of bait onto the hook clumsily. “Shut up,” you grunted, getting a good grip on the pole and holding it out in front of yourself. The water moved lazily, quietly washing up and down on the sand. The calm surface showed the fish that swam underneath. Minnows dashed around quickly, the small groups of fish moving together.

Crickets still chirped in the distance as birds were beginning to sing, too. The air smelled fresh and felt dewy, a light breeze turning trees into calming windchimes.

“You wanna hold it like this,” he said, tapping his index finger against the line. You attempted the same hold that he had, but with the limited information given, you didn’t immediately get the hang of it.

“No, like- like this, with your index on the line. Should be pressin’ against the rod.” Arthur peered over your shoulder as you adjusted your fingers, pressing the thin string against the wood of the rod. Arthur nodded. “Yeah, that’s good. Now pull back the bail.”

Now, you hadn’t a clue what the bail was, but that hardly mattered. Matching Arthur’s movements, you pulled a semi-circle piece of metal back and over the line spool.

“Alright, now be careful here; don’t wanna take out an eye. Draw back your rod over your shoulder, but not too far. The farther you draw, the longer the cast,” he advised, drawing the pole over his shoulder. You mimicked him.

“Now, you throw it over your shoulder and straight forward,” he instructed, watching your movements. The bait landed about 3 metres away from the shoreline, splashing pathetically before bobbing up and down.

“Just like that. Now, you pull back the bail and wait.”

Silence filled the space between you two—a suffocating, invisible force.

Deer galloped across the lake and within the thick brush. One stopped, a buck, and stared at the two fishermen across from it. His ears twitched before he joined the others.

Loons sang, their eerily beautiful calls travelling across the calm waters. Frogs croaked in the distance, and clouds languidly drifted overhead.

“Look, I… I haven’t a clue what you’re feelin’. But just know that you ain’t alone. We’ve all been stressed. I can’t imagine what you must be feelin’.” said Arthur, turning briefly to face you.

The sun peeked over the distant treeline, slowly casting a calming light over everything in the vicinity.

“I feel like I can’t never do anythin’ right.” You croaked, voice catching in your throat and a painful ache creeping up to your jaw.

“Aw, kid… whad’ya mean?" Arthur had never been great at comfort. He could do it, of course, though he certainly had his favourites when it came to his affections.

You stared off into the lake, your reflection looking right back. “Everythin’ I do feels like a failure. There ain’t a single thing I’ve been able to do right recently.”

Arthur sighed, reeling his line back in and casting it again.

“That ain’t true. You’re a kid. You’re learning. You aren’t… supposed to be great at everythin’, and nothin’ you do is supposed to be right; it’s just supposed to teach you something. This’ll go away; trust me.” He chose his words carefully, coughing to the side before continuing. “Now I know this probably ain’t what you wanted to hear. Feelin’ sad feels... nice sometimes. But it’s true. Basically everyone in this gang is an adult, ‘cept for Jack, so don’t go comparin’ yourself to anyone, you hear? We’re all goin’ through hard times; none of this is your fault, and you ain’t a failure for anythin’.”

The sun steadily rose, framed perfectly by the view in front of you. Your horses huffed occasionally as geese flew above, honking distantly.

He was right; you didn’t want to hear this. You don’t know what you want to hear. Maybe something about how awful you are, or maybe something about how great and amazing you are. You felt conflicted, confused, and even a smidge defensive.

“But I-” “but nothin’, kid. Do with that what you will, but just... think about it. Maybe see things from a different perspective.” He rasped, clearing his throat. “Or don’t; it’s your choice. But just give it some thought.”

Silence settled between you two again, leaving your conflicting feelings to dissipate.

You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, watching as your bait bobbed on the water’s surface. The chill of the north was soothed by the warmth of the sun, and everything, in that moment, felt okay.

—

Part 2

[delicatebarness]

wildflower ridge ranch | prologue

Summary: Sneaking out to meet with JB, a ranch hand who works for your family, you share a quiet moment under the stars while keeping the relationship a secret from your father and brothers.

Warning: There isn't necessarily anything triggering, but just to give you a heads-up: Age Gap (18/21) | Power Dynamics

Word Count: 1174

Spotify Playlist | Support: Ko-FI

Series Masterlist | Next Chapter

A/N: I know I said I'd update Winter's Widow but I went for a creative thinking walk, and this is all I've been able to think about since. - Please feel free to leave feedback or let me know where and how you want the story to continue, this is just as much yours as mine. - B

Everything: @hallecarey1 | @pattiemac1 | @uhmellamoanna | @scraftsku35 | @ozwriterchick | @sapphirebarnes | @rach2602 | @thetorturedbuckydepartment | @lanabuckybarnes

The ranch had settled into the usual nighttime quiet, and the air was warm, still– one of those perfect summer nights. The barn doors had been closed, the horses tucked away, and the ranch hands had turned in for the night. Their snores probably fill the small, shared space. Yet, the bunkhouse lights flickered, indicating that not all were asleep.

You were also not ready to sleep. Sneaking out of the ‘Log Mansion’, you made your way down to an old oak tree just past the stables. A canopy of leaves rustled from the branches stretching high above in the soft breeze. It was a hidden corner of the ranch, your spot, where no one would come looking for you.

Well, except for him.

James ‘Bucky’ Barnes– commonly known as ‘JB’, your family’s best ranch hand and the man who somehow stole your heart. He was supposed to meet you here.

Working for your family, JB lived in the bunkhouse with the others, and he spent his days under the sun, toiling away as if he had everything to prove. He came from a few towns over, looking for work around six years ago, and he quickly became part of the ranch’s rhythm.

No one knew what you both made sure to keep a secret– that between his barn chores and the late-night campfires, you both found something else. Something more.

At the age of eighteen, you were still too young in your daddy’s eyes. And, JB, at twenty-one, was the last person he would approve of for you. He was just another ranch hand, hired to work the land for your daddy. And your brothers– Ari, Curtis, Cole, and Johnny would tear him apart if they ever were to find out.

Leaning against the tree, you gazed up at the stars and a nervous energy bubbled in your stomach. Every time you saw JB, it always felt like the first time again. You never knew if it was his quiet strength or the way his blue eyes saw right through you– but he was someone more than just the man who worked for your daddy.

You were pulled from your thoughts as the soft crunch of boots hit against the dirt. Turning just in time, you saw JB emerging from the shadows, the moonlight outlining his familiar silhouette. The old guitar that he kept stashed in the bunkhouse was being carried in one hand, and his smile was small, almost shy.

“Well, ain’t you a sight for sore eyes, darlin',” he said, coming to a stop in front of you, his frame towered over you. He leaned against the tree, never dropping your gaze.

Blushing, you looked down, kicking your boots in the dirt, trying to play it cool. “I wasn’t sure if you’d come.”

“Oh, darling, you should know by now,” he grinned, his touch was warm and tender as his hand gently cupped your cheek. “I’ll always come when you call.”

You both settled on the ground, his long legs stretching out as he rested the guitar against a thick thigh, plucking a few lazy chords. By now, you were content being near him, even when the air between you was thick with unspoken words and emotions.

There was a mischievous glint in his eyes when he glanced at you. “You wanna hear a song?”

Tucking your hair behind your ear, you nodded. “Yes please, James, but only if you want to.”

Sensing how flustered you were, the smirk on JB’s face deepened. “Oh, I wanna. I’ve got somethin’ I’ve been practicin’ for you.”

The melody was familiar and slow as he strummed a few chords, and it only took another moment for your heart to skip when you recognized the opening notes. It was one of the new songs you had been playing on repeat, one that made you want to slow dance under the stars. Your chest tightened with emotion as you listened to JB play it.

His voice was low and rough as he started singing, but it still had the teasing edge he always had. JB wasn’t just singing a song, he was singing it to you, every word meant to wrap around you and pull up closer.

You had to bite your lip to stop from smiling too wide, his voice sending a shiver down your spine as he began to come to the end of the song.

“You like it?” he asked, though from the way his eyes glanced down to your lips, causing the smirk to reappear across his own, he already knew your answer.

Nodding, you met his gaze, now unable to hide your smile. “It was perfect, James.”

“Yeah? I thought you’d like that one,” he spoke, setting the guitar aside. His knee brushed against yours as he shifted closer. More serious now, his voice lowered as he added, “You know, darlin’, I didn’t just come out here to play you a song.”

Looking up at him, there was something in his at caused your heart to race, and your stomach to flip. “What else did you come for?”

There was a softness in his eyes, one that you had rarely seen before. He reached out, brushing that damned stray lock of hair behind your ear. “I’ve been waitin’ for the right moment, and I reckon,” he paused. “I reckon this is as good as it gets.”

Before you could ask what he meant, he leaned in. His plump lips brushed against yours softly, teasingly, and your heart fluttered in your chest, leaving you wanting more.

When he pulled back, his grin was still in place. “You okay, darlin’?” he asked, eyes locked on yours.

You nodded. “Y-yeah, I’m okay,” you replied, a little dazed and breathless.

“Good,” he murmured, brushing his thumb lightly against your cheek. “I’ve been dyin' to do that.”

He never gave you time to respond, pulling you in and placing another kiss against your lips. This time, he was a little firmer, deepening the kiss. It was everything to you, slow and sweet. Yet, there was a hint of heat and desperation. His hand moved to the back of your neck, holding you closer. Your heart continued to pound in your chest as you melted into him.

You were both gasping for air as you broke apart, and JB smiled down at you, tracing lazy circles over your skin.

“Guess that’ll be added to our collection of little secrets, huh?” he teased.

Nodding, you smiled and looked at him.

Your heart filled with the warmth of your first kiss as you sat under the stars, together, settling in a comfortable silence. This was a memory you would carry with you, forever, even if it had to remain a little secret.

---

Series Masterlist | Next Chapter

[littleslaywrites]

sunday kind of love | greg montgomery x reader 

summary: chores are much easier when you do them with greg

based on this request

word count: 1.1k

cw: pure domestic fluff

Sunday was when you and Greg did chores. It was a routine you’d had since college, and Greg had adopted it when you moved in together. You’d always hated all the things you had to get done. It seemed like an endless cycle of messes. However, living with Greg made everything a little easier. You knew how to cheer each other up, somehow always ending up giggling by the end of night when all your work was done.

You’d usually wake up just before him. You weren’t necessarily an early riser, but Greg slept like a log, not waking up unless something brought him out of his sleep. One thing that always got him out of bed was the smell of breakfast, so you’d make something quick to fuel your cleaning for the rest of the day. He’d wander into the kitchen, hair messy, and you’d eat at the counter while going over your to-do list. 

This morning, you just weren’t feeling it. You were determined to stay in bed, sleeping in as long as possible. It was nearly noon when you wake to the feeling of Greg laying right on top of you.

“I think it’s time to get up, honey,” he says, peppering kisses along your cheeks. 

You just grumble, closing your eyes. This was his usual tactic, disrupting your sleep in the most affectionate way possible. It almost always worked. Almost.

“I was going to make you breakfast in bed,” he admits as he rolls off of you so he’s beside you on his back. “But I couldn’t figure out how to make the eggs taste like you make them.”

You chuckle. Greg was a notoriously awful cook. You’re not really sure how he survived before you met, but you can only assume he lived off of takeout. One time he’d attempted to make dinner on your birthday, but ended up setting off the fire alarm and getting the whole apartment evacuated. 

Luckily for him, you took pleasure in making food for the two of you. It was soothing for you, but it also made you happy to see the look in his eyes every time he woke up or came home to see you in the kitchen. He gazed at you like you were a miracle standing beside the stove. He thought your ability to not burn toast was nothing short of masterful, especially considering days like today when he settled for a slightly too toasted pop tart as breakfast. 

You roll over, covering your eyes with the blankets. Realizing he’d need to find an alternate plan of attack, he stood back up, observing your curled up form beneath the covers. As stubborn as you were, he couldn’t help but think you were adorable. 

“I’m going to win, you know,” he says.

“Win what?” 

He smirks, knowing he’s grabbed your attention. “Win the chore competition.”

“It’s not a competition,” you say, opening one eye.

“Maybe not to you,” he says, “but it is to me. And I’m in the lead.”

You sit up fully. “That’s not fair. You had a head start.” 

He just shrugs, grinning at you as he walks out of the room. 

You get up, dressing quickly. He knows you too well, fully aware that you were too competitive to ignore that kind of challenge. You find him in the laundry room, dumping out the hamper of dirty clothes. 

“You better not be starting without me,” you say as you sit down beside the pile. 

He simply smirks, already sorting the lights and darks into separate piles. 

He’s turned on the radio in the kitchen, providing background noise for the chores. Usually it’d be off, but he needed company without your usual incessant chatter.

Noticing he’s going faster than you, you pick up a sock and toss it at him. He dodges it dramatically, finding a shirt to throw. You squeal, finding a pillow to swing at him. 

Greg lets out a small yelp, gently tackling you into a hug. His arms are tight around you, keeping you from any more pillow attacks. As he pulls you both down onto the ground, you erupt into giggles. 

“You’re not playing fair,” he says as he buries his face into your neck. “You’re interfering in my sorting with your ambush.” 

You squirm, freeing yourself. “It’s only fair. You got a head start.”

“Only because you refused to get out of bed.” He crawls back to his pile, resuming sorting. 

The clothes pile shrinks slightly, but he pauses when a slow song comes on the radio. It was a cheesy one, but you always sang along when it came on in the car.

Rising to his feet, Greg holds out one of his hands. He makes a grabby motion, and you giggle as you place your hand in his. He pulls you to stand, bringing you close to him.

“You’re not too proud to dance in the laundry room, Mr. Montgomery?”

“Never. As long as it’s with you. I’d dance in a landfill if you danced with me.”

You scrunch up your nose at the image, making him giggle. Of course, it was all metaphorical, but you had a feeling he really would dance in piles of garbage of you asked him to

He sways you gently, turning you around. You hop over the piles of laundry as you move about the room. You forget about the competition, the chores, the rest of the world. All that matters is Greg’s sweet smile as he watches you clumsily step over clothes.

The song fades, and he walks over, lifting you up. You snort, feet dangling in the air. The two of you collapse once more, landing on the pile of clothes below you. He kisses your forehead once before pulling back. He stares at you for a moment, brown eyes filled with affection, before he sits back down, finishing sorting the last of the light pile. 

You toss the first load into the machine, and walk to the couch, plopping down. Greg sits beside you, and you place your feet on his lap.

“We still have more chores to do,” he says, despite making no move to get up.

“I know,” you huff, leaning your head back.

Greg smiles, pulling you by the leg to sit into his lap. He kisses you gently, nuzzling into your hair. Eventually you’ll get up, finishing everything by dinner time. Not now, though. You would savor his warmth until you two got restless from knowing there was work to do. 

The competition has been completely disregarded, but it was never really about winning. It was about the little moments the two of you share, the ordinary that becomes extraordinary when you’re together. That, you realize, is the biggest victory of all.

[nyarlathotep-thecrawlingchaos]

That Fluff Alphabet is making me melt already 🥹 Shanks is my present comfort character ❤️ (and Sanji, of course, but I'm just requesting Shanks for now), and I would love to see your headcanons for:

Domestic

Hugs

Listening

No rush! Thank you as always for sharing your talented writing with us lil' mortals. We are unworthy 🫶

First one!! And it's our silly redhead??

I am squealing.

Only internally, though. Don't want to frighten the neighbors.

Anyway. Gonna post this, then get the Fluffy Alphabet Masterlist set up.

For my other asks, I have already logged the requests for Mihawk and Sanji and edited the main Fluffy Alphabet post accordingly.

D is for Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning and other such household chores?)

“The only way this ship would feel more like home would be if you came with me.”

Settling down by definition isn’t exactly in Shanks’s nature. He has always considered himself at home on the sea—but when your relationship gets serious, he’s going to do absolutely everything in his power to convince you to come with him.

Will literally get on his knees and beg if he has to. There’s no room for shame, he wants you with him and he’ll do anything to make it happen. So in that way, he is perfectly content with "settling down."

As far as chores go, he does his best. There are a lot of things that are difficult to do with only one hand, but he’s learned to make due in most respects, and he always wants to help as much as possible. Any partnership is supposed to be fifty-fifty, and if he can help with anything in any way, he's going to.

He’s a little scatterbrained, so his cabin tends to get a little cluttered on a semi-regular basis; but if it gets to the point that it’s a problem or he notices it’s bothering you, he’ll straighten up himself without being asked.

H is for Hugs (How do they like to hug you? How often?)

“Oh, nonsense, you can stay a bit longer.”

His primary love language is physical affection, so if you happen to be near him, he’ll have his arm around you in a second.

Pulling you to his side almost absently and pressing a quick kiss to your forehead or the crown of your hair, even if he’s in the middle of talking to someone else or otherwise occupied.

Constantly sneaking up behind you to wrap his arm around your waist because he thinks it’s just adorable when you jump in alarm and scold him or elbow him in the ribs for scaring you.

Absolutely refusing to let you go until he’s done hugging you, even if you have something you need to do, and probably pouting about it a bit after he does. Mostly all in good fun...but really, the more often you have your arms around each other, the better.

L is for Listening (How are their listening skills? Do they hang on your every word, or is it sort of in-one-ear-and-out-the-other?)

“Er…what was that, doll?”

Poor, poor easily distracted baby. He tries. He really does.

A lot of times things will go in one ear and out the other, but he doesn’t mean anything by it. He really doesn’t. He’s a bit scatterbrained, he has a rather large crew to run, and things do get overlooked or forgotten from time to time.

He always feels absolutely awful about it, will apologize endlessly even if you’re understanding.

But it's only the little things. Important things, dates like your birthday or your anniversary, little seemingly insignificant details about when you first met or first kissed or anything of that sort that even you might have forgotten? Those, he doesn’t forget, and he never will.

Actively listening, though—you’re going to get quite a few vacant stares, quite a bit of “Hmm?” or “Sorry, love, I was miles away,” accompanied with a guilty grin.

[awkward-fink]

In times of sickness - Captain John Price

„John, could you lend me a hand over here? I could really use some – John?” You slowly bully your way into the house again, your arms fully laden with grocery bags. Normally your husband would have already materialized at the door at the first sounds of you coming back from the market, would have taken your bags and helped you put them away, but today he wasn’t even at the door, you couldn’t even him walking the old wooden stairs.

Furrowing your brows, you set down the first haul of bags on the kitchen table, which was halfway cleared from breakfast items and the bad feeling in your gut only intensified. Your husband had begged off your Saturday market run, against his very nature, citing tiredness and wanting to go sleep for another hour. But this had been three hours ago.

“John?” You cautiously call up the stairs, but there is no reaction. With hurried steps you go up the stairs and towards your shared bedroom, opening the door and slipping into the darkness right behind. Seems as if your husband didn’t even open the blackout-curtains. It was stifling inside the bedroom, a sweet scent lingering in the air.

And there your husband was, in bed and buried underneath his own and your blanket, forehead sweat slicked and breathing even louder than his normal relaxed snoring. Now you were worried.

“John? Love?” You whisper softly, taking a few steps closer, but your husband doesn’t even move, doesn’t even twitch as your voice reaches his ears. With nearly silent steps and only the light shining through the barely open door, you creep closer to your husband’s bedside, reaching out to put the back of your hand against his forehead. Instantly the heat hits you hard, sweat clinging to your skin as you draw your hand back again. A fever, a high one. Damn.

“Oh Honey…” You murmur under your breath, leaning down to press the gentlest of kisses onto his temple, watching his brows furrow and then relax some. Your husband isn’t sick often, but when he is, its thankfully over in a few days. But those days that he is sick, you prefer to stay in right beside him.

“Don’t worry Love, I am going to take good care of you.”

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

Captain John Price doesn’t get sick, never. He has too much to do to become sick, chores and work and house improvements for example.

So no, that man really doesn’t have the time nor the free time capacity to be sick.

But when he does, he is down for good. Thankfully only for a few days, but those days are hard. On him and you.

He won’t move much, doesn’t want to eat much. He doesn’t want to be a burden on you and just wants to sleep and sweat that sickness right out.

He doesn’t like you getting to close in that time, you could get ill and he really doesn’t want you to fall ill as well, he would feel so bad about it

Would much rather you be ill, and he can care about you every second of a day with soft cuddles and self-made soup than he be ill and you doing the same for him

Double standards all the way

Thankfully doesn’t have the man-flu and won’t be dying anytime soon.

Will be back to normal at the latest 4 days after falling into bed like a log, will take a self-indulgent shower (best is with you under the water as well) of at least 15 minutes to feel like a new man again

That man. I swear. This man will hide sickness and illness if he can get away with it.

[heart-of-gold-outlaw]

Welcome Home | Chapter 13: No Surprises

When you open your eyes the next morning, you see a butterfly.

It's a pretty little thing, all delicate wings that float gently in the early summer breeze. A monarch, you think. It sits perched on the small piece of wood that acts as your nightstand, right next to the flower in a bottle that Arthur gave you some time after you all left the Grizzlies.

You blink and rub your eyes, just to clear the sleep from them is all. But when your vision clears, the butterfly is gone.

The rest of the gang is already up and about. Camp chores don't do themselves, you suppose, and head for the chopping block to get some firewood ready. Abigail smiles at you when you pass by, and you're pleased to note that so far, she's kept her end of the bargain and hasn't said a word to Arthur about your conversation yesterday. Good. The last thing you need is a strong cowboy crushing your fragile little heart with his strong cowboy boot.

Not that you think Arthur will be mean when he rejects you (if you ever decide to tell him about your feelings, that is).

You reach the chopping block and grab the ax. The first log splits clean in two without much of a fuss, but the second one is a bit stubborn. The third is even worse, and by the time you finish the fourth, you're sweating.

"Come on, you piece of shit fucking fuck," you hiss as the ax gets stuck in fifth log. Again. "Come on!"

You're dimly aware of Kieran giving you a terrified glance as he scurries by. You can only imagine what you must look like, ax in your hand, eyes wild, cursing everything under the sun as you bang the log against the chopping block again and again and again.

"Ain't strong enough to chop a little wood?" Micah sneers as he stalks over. As usual, he doesn't look happy. As usual, you're disgusted by his very presence.

"Go fuck a brick," you snap at him as you finally, finally, succeed in splitting the log. Splinters fly every which way, but at least it's done.

Micah blinks, confused for just a moment, before your words register and he narrows his eyes.

"You think that just because you're Morgan's favorite, you can get away with talkin' to me like that?" He demands.

You open your mouth to tell him to fuck a stick this time, but abruptly shut it when you realize what he said. Favorite? Arthur's favorite? Not possible. Arthur's got plenty of other people in camp he likes more than you. Sure, you're entertaining to him, a distraction for when things get a little too boring, but you're not important.

"I think I can get away with a lot of things," you hear yourself say, sounding a lot more confident than you feel. "And that'll include your murder if you don't back the hell off."

Silence. Micah glares at you, venomous, like a rattlesnake, and you do your best to glare back. And it must look at least a little convincing, because he eventually shakes his head and stomps off.

"Goddamn waste of space," he mutters.

You're thankful he has his back to you so he doesn't see you flinch. Gritting your teeth, you set the ax aside and kick the firewood into a neater pile. And if you kick some of them a little harder than necessary, then so be it.

The rest of the camp chores are already well underway, so your plans of losing yourself in tasks immediately turn to ash. You take to wandering toward the horses without much thought. Taima whinnies softly once you're close by. It's almost enough to make you smile. Over the last few weeks, you've bonded with her more than you thought you would. She's a sweet horse, odd for a mare, and you just know she'd never try to throw you.

You give her an oatcake that was buried in your pocket. Then, after a moment's hesitation, you start brushing her. Chances are, she's already been groomed for the morning, but you don't think Charles will mind if you do a little extra.

As you brush the dirt and dust from Taima's coat, you can't help but think about what Micah said. Waste of space, he called you. There are certainly worse things to be called, that's for sure, but this hits a little too close to home. How many times have you heard people in your own time say the same thing? How many times did you have people you looked up to, people you loved, shake their heads with heavy sighs and mumble to themselves that you wouldn't do, just wouldn't do at all?

Tears well in your eyes, and you wince against the sting. Great. Now you're crying. Now you're crying because some jerk said something mean, and your skin isn't thick enough to brush it off. How are you supposed to fit in with a gang of outlaws if you cry when someone's just a little bit angry?

Engrossed in your thoughts, you don't hear the sound of footsteps from behind you, don't even realize you're not alone until a familiar drawl says: "You feelin' okay, Y/N?"

He startled you, of course he did, but you miraculously don't jump, throw the brush, or do anything that's particularly embarrassing. Somehow.

"I'm fine," you say automatically, wiping your eyes before turning to face Arthur. "Just thought I'd give Taima a brush."

Arthur frowns and slowly places a steady hand on your shoulder. His eyes are drawn to yours, taking in every detail, noticing the tears without a doubt.

"You wanna tell me what's wrong?" He asks gently, and boy, how a simple question can be so complicated, you have no idea.

You look around camp. You don't want anyone else to notice you. It's bad enough that Arthur already has to see you cry, but you don't think you can bear it if Dutch or Hosea start fussing.

As if reading your mind, Arthur gives your shoulder a warm, reassuring pat.

"Let's go for a ride into town," he says. "Charles ain't gonna mind if you borrow Taima for a bit."

The ride into Valentine is short, but does wonders to clear your head. Taima's gate is smooth, sure, and soothing as you and Arthur approach the saloon. You're proud to admit that you can actually dismount without needing help now. Looks like practice really does make perfect. And, of course, Arthur's approving smile is absolutely the best thing you've seen all day.

You both take a seat at the bar. The piano player is already hammering away on the keys, an upbeat, fun tune that almost makes you want to dance. The Maple Leaf Rag, you think. You know the song from a film class you took some years ago. Guess it never really left your head.

"So," Arthur drawls as he orders you both a couple of drinks. It's still relatively early in the morning, but hey, you're down for day drinking. "What happened this mornin?"

You fidget a little on the bar stool. "I mean, nothing really. Went to chop some firewood, had a little trouble with the ax, told Micah I'd murder him... the usual?"

The second you mention Micah, Arthur's face hardens.

"Micah say anything to you?" He asks, voice low and serious.

For a second, you think about lying. But Arthur's giving you that look, the one that says he's genuinely concerned, and any chance you would've had at fooling him is instantly crushed.

"Yeah," you mumble. "He was just being a jerk at first, but..." You bite your lip uncertainly. "But he called me a waste of space, and... I don't know why that hit me as hard as it did, but..."

You trail off, unsure of how to continue. How can you tell Arthur the truth? How can you tell him that you were just starting to feel at home here in the 1890s, and then some jerk who probably can't even spell waste of space had to go and ruin it?

Arthur sighs and shakes his head. "That goddamn animal," he hisses. "Look, Y/N, I'm gonna settle somethin' for you right here and now: you ain't a waste of space. You done more for us in the last month than Micah's done in the last six. Ain't nobody that matters gonna tell you different."

Embarrassingly, you feel your eyes start to sting again. You stubbornly blink the tears away.

"Thanks," you say in a small voice. "I guess... I guess Micah's just has shit for brains?"

Arthur laughs. "That's givin' him too much credit."

You smile at him and bump his shoulder with your own. "Thanks, Arthur. For everything."

Arthur nods, reaches out, and brushes a stray tear from your face that managed to escape.

"Ain't no trouble, Y/N," he says softly. "Ain't no trouble at all."

[yellowocaballero]

In Stars and Time AU: Sif Puts The Star In Starcraft

Wow the ISAT fandom has a lot of cool AUs. That's a lot of fun! What if my extremely good buddy @lazuliquetzal theorized while playing ISAT for the first time that Sif was a fallen star? What then? What if I have unsuccessfully tried to restrain myself from talking about it?

Anyway AU where Sif is a star and also a gamer.

Sif is a hip Gen Z star who doesn't go outside nearly enough and spends all of their time playing videogames watching Earth. Their sibling Loop is always telling them to stop touching grass and to get their head back in the clouds, but they can't help it - they might miss the newest adventures of their favorite humans! Look at them, they're questing! Aren't they so cool? Isabeau just got a rare item drop!

Mirabelle and Isabeau are cool. They're brave, strong, nice, and best friends. Sif loves watching their heroic quest and cool adventures. After a while they even feel like his real friends. Eventually they start making a wish on themself - if they could only join them on their adventure! Get out of my room Loop I don't know what a parasocial relationship is.

Mirabelle is scared. Mirabelle is worrying that she's leading Isabeau on a doomed journey, that their struggle is destined to end in their deaths. She doesn't know if she can do this at all. Why her? Why not somebody more competent, more worthy? In a moment of desperation, she clasps her hands together and makes a desperate wish upon a star from the very bottom of her heart - that her party will be protected. That the Change God will send somebody to help them and keep them safe and save the world. Somebody, anybody, a little more competent than her.

Sif logs on.

Sif is a stroke of luck. Sif is mysterious, cool, and very talented. Sif can protect the whole party with a smirk on their face and a quip on their tongue. They're cool. He cheers you up, he's reliable, they're strong, and they are a treasured member of the party. They're a treasured friend. Things might be hard and scary, but with Sif there everybody breathes a little easier.

Sif loves, loves, loves being a human! The world is so fun and exciting, nothing like the boring and dreary cosmos! They have croissants, trees, friends! Being a human is great. They have an entire life on Earth, one way nicer than in the boring old sky that never changes. Sorry, Loop, they're skipping dinner, they have a World of Warcraft guild raid adventure with Mira today!

Sif has a job to do. Sif's here to grant a wish, and Sif is going to earn his place here. They protect the spirits of their friends by joking and keeping everybody hopeful. No friends get injured on their watch! Even if Sif gets hurt, that's part of the job. Bonnie's just upset about the eye because they don't know it's Sif's job as their friend to protect them. There's no point in feeding them during snacktime, so they'll patrol while you guys relax. Sif can't tell them how lonely they are or how they don't want this adventure to end, that's burdening them. They can't know that Sif's not really their friend, that they're not human, that their only point is their job - that's not protecting them. Get out of my ROOM PLANET, Loop, I'm NOT turning off the game touching space! It's not a game to them, it's their lives. Even if it'll never be Sif's.

But this adventure is drawing to a close. Mirabelle wished upon a star, and a star fell, and the star's about to grant her wish. And the star will have to log off. Even if the star wants to a be human, even if the star wants to be together forever - the game ends. Even if this ending really freaking sucks.

Why does this have to be a JRPG? Why can't it be one of the good games, the games that you can play forever and ever - like a farming/life simulator or an MMORPG or something? Where you do the same chores every day and nothing ever changes, and you're happy and safe in this little town forever? Everybody seperating at the end isn't a happy ending. Sif hates this ending. Sif hates this genre. Sif can't log off. They can't protect their friends if they log off. It's their job to protect their friends. They have to play the game right and create an ending that makes sure everybody is safe and happy and everything's perfect.

The party - Sif's family - reaches the third floor. Sif cracks open his Star AO3 account. Mirabelle unlocks the door and swings it open to find…

What's a coffee shop doing here?

[miaomiao42]

THE BUTLER ACADEMY EVENT LOG IN STORY (ft. Haures Clifford and Flure Garcia)

Haures: At the butler training academy, butlers from other mansions gather... and apparently live together in a shared environment.

Living together with strangers, huh... Sounds like it could be a good experience.

Flure: Living with people I don't know...

M-might be a bit too much for me...

Haures: When Flure first came to the mansion... he was really nervous.

Flure: Yeah... Suddenly having to live in a mansion full of strangers... that's a lot to deal with.

As someone who's shy around strangers, my heart was pounding no matter where I was.

So I wouldn’t have to see anyone’s face… every day felt like I was playing hide-and-seek.

The first time I helped with taking everyone’s measurements as part of the wardrobe duties... I couldn’t stop shaking, and I was drenched in cold sweat.

Haures: Heh... But now, you've come so far that you can talk like this.

Even if it's difficult, continuing without giving up is probably important.

Hmm... I wonder if my ability to live on my own will improve a bit someday...

Flure: It's alright. If you keep at it, you'll be able to do it... probably.

Haures: I see. When Flure says it, it makes me feel like I can be more confident.

Flure: Before coming to the mansion, Haures-san... your sister was the one who handled the household chores, right?

Haures: Yes. Though back then, we had the help of the neighbors.

I was aware that it wasn’t something I was good at back then...

But, once I started living in the mansion with the other butlers...

I realized, for the first time, that my ability to live on my own was... not ordinary, in a bad way.

Flure: Ah... it was then, for the first time...

Haures: Well, anyway... living with strangers will give me all sorts of new experiences.

I hope the butlers gathered at the butler training academy... will also be able to learn something.

Flure: Hehe... Yes, that's right.

[dokidokisadness]

Werewolf training - log 2

summary: A werewolf hunter adopts a werewolf pup in order to make a living weapon out of him.

[btw this is losely based on WoD and werewolf the apocalypse - mostly bc I don't have any of the books yet and honestly never played it, but I really like the concepts and the world. Oh and... I guess it takes place on the early 90's]

Tw: minor wump, dehumanization, ableism, religious themes, living weapon.

prologue | log 1| Notes

There was a reason why the nuns thought this was a case of demonic possession. I thought maybe it had been an overreaction, however, I’m beginning to understand their assumptions.

Moss is already an agitated creature. It screams and flaps its arms around constantly for no real reason. It wasn’t able to stand back when I picked him up, probably because it was kept in that straight jacket all the time. But once it managed to balance itself in both feet, running was a constant. Always making some type of noise and constantly bumping into furniture. It was so careless and desperate with each move, I started to worry there was something wrong with it’s sight. Needless to say, I decide to get it to be more patient. The cage was an option, sure, but I don’t want it to think of the situation as punishment, rather correction. I need it to stay still and wait for my orders, not because there are silver bars preventing from leaving, I’ll need it to stay still in open environments. Oh and no straight jackets either, since I need it to be aware of it’s surroundings and for it to feel able to move, yet also feel the need to wait for my orders.

I checked the book for instruction on it, but it seems to have been written with a much more well-behaved subject in mind. I mean, I could try to “explain the rules and punishment for braking them”, but I don’t think Moss is the type to listen.

In the end, I decided to keep it chained outside, not too far from the house. It tried tugging on the chain occasionally, but after a week it was calmer.

Our schedule has become significantly easier.

5 AM – moss wakes up.

it sleeps very few hours and wakes up by itself. I notice It is up because it starts pacing around by this time. I leave it be for about an hour, it hits the mattress and the walls then paces around a little more for a while.

6 AM – I feed It.

Usually oatmeal or tuna paste.

6:05 AM – I leave it outside.

I usually do some house chores and fix some breakfast for myself, sometimes I train him on the basic commands before leaving to work.

7 AM – I’m usually getting to work by that time.

I think I mentioned before, but you must have gotten it wrong. I’m not an author, only an editor and occasionally translator. I don’t blame you, though. Office work just feels empty when you deal with the supernatural. I would quit, but hunting abominations doesn’t pay the bills. Also, I don’t think anyone expects an editor to double as a vigilante, so I guess it’s a good alibi.

4:30 PM – I leave work.

I usually take some stuff to finish at home later, they mostly don’t care as long as it’s ready by the deadline.

5 PM – I’m home and start training Moss.

For now, I’m focusing in having it know basic commands and basic English, for more detailed instructions.

The book mentions not following through with the second part if your goal is a more dependent wolf intended for simpler missions and tasks or if the beast doesn’t seem capable of developing a further understanding on language (apparently that is common enough to be on the guide) – stay; attack; stop; are probably the only things it should understand. However, I don’t have the budget to take moss in a cage to every mission and dragging him in chains to specific places. I need it to be able to carry itself in a “normal” way, as normal as possible. I need an intelligent weapon.

7PM – I have dinner.

If moss behaved during training, it may have food as well.

7:30 PM – I have Moss work out.

Mostly running exercises, recently I’ve been getting it to learn to fetch, bring it back or kill.

Suddenly near the woods has its perks. I’ve been working on having it sniff a dead rat, identify it and kill others alike it. I just need to get something bigger to try those fighting skills.

8:30 PM – I get Moss on the basement for sleep time.

It doesn’t usually sleep at that time, I want it to understand I’m no longer interacting with it for the day, so I just ignore it. If it is too noisy, I keep it in the cage with a muzzle.

I occasionally get him up in the middle of the night and take him outside for a running exercise, I want it to be used to the setting of a mission. At some point I’ll need it to wake up and help me hunt.

Ok so, that was a very tight version of our schedule, you see… Moss is often unpredictable and very suborn. A defiant wolf as I mentioned previously, sometimes it just wakes up and is calm, but often times it wakes up and is aggressive. It’s small and does little damage for now, but I need it to be fully under control. Because of that I end up wasting time punishing it for little things every day, especially weekends. Having said all of that, it’s been difficult, but I guarantee, you’ll like the final product.

PS: a small question: how is werewolf maturing documented? I mean, the book mentions height, weight and sizes, but rarely mentions age and , well, Moss is getting taller each week… not much, but it’s noticeable. I worry I have less time than I expected.

I managed a picture of it last night. Oh and a little sketch I made... this thing never leaves my mind, I guess.

[the-chosen-fanfiction]

Jesus | For A Greater Kingdom | Platonic [Male Reader]

Formerly known as Quintus’ personal tailor, you feel quite unimportant within the group of strong Disciples who take no issue in showing off their strength, whereas you aren’t really a fighter. Jesus reminds you that one cannot exist without the other and that you shouldn’t doubt yourself so much.

Requested by Finn

Holding your nose in one hand, feeling the warm liquid ooze from it and seep in between your fingers, you somehow manage to find your way to the outskirts of Capernaum in spite of your disorientation. Your head hammers painfully with each step you take, dizziness clouding your vision as you stumble towards the camp. It had been a long time since you had been beaten up like this, let alone by your own kin. 

“Quintus sends his warmest regards,” the soldiers patrolling the fishing village had mocked right before knocking the light out of you. You had awoken with a splitting ache inside your skull and a nose that hadn’t ceased in its bleeding as you lay unconscious, your treason towards the Roman Empire not appreciated by the men you once called brother. 

“(Y/n)!” Someone calls out to you, and you aren’t sure who the voice belongs to, until Matthew and Philip enter your field of view. Once you know you are in safe hands, your subconscious allows you to stumble into Philip, who catches you rather ungracefully. Extending a hand as well, Matthew aids him in keeping you on your feet. “What happened to you?” 

The two assist you in taking a seat next to a log so that you can rest your back against it, and you squeeze your eyes shut tightly to fight the spinning of your mind. “Ah… Quintus’ men.” You hiss as Philip guides you to tip your head backwards a little. “They didn’t exactly take kindly to my return.” 

“I wouldn’t, either.” Nathanael quips, joining the conversation unprompted. “I mean, you basically betrayed them, right?”

“Nathanael,” Philip warns with a lowering of his voice, “This is not the moment.” 

The former architect shrugs and continues whatever he had been doing, leaving Matthew and Philip to fix your bleeding nose. Their gentle dabbing at it doesn’t necessarily help your already bruised ego.

“They hit me as if I’ve had military training as well,” you complain, squinting against the bright light of the sun.

“You didn’t?” Philip asks curiously. You shake your head, wincing a little as the rag drags against your skin quite painfully.

“(Y/n) was Quintus’ tailor,” Matthew explains it for you so that you can focus on recovering from your pain instead, “He was pretty good at it, too.” 

Philip slowly nods. “Ah, so that is why you often tend to our clothes.” 

“It is at least something I can do,” you sigh, “Although I wish I had more muscle to work with. I couldn’t even defend myself against these soldiers. They landed every single punch.” You groan a little. 

“For what it’s worth,” Philip comments, “We’ve got plenty of muscles around this camp already, and we’ve rarely needed them other than for the hauling chores, so there.” 

You hum and smile a little, not entirely convinced, even though you know that the words are meant in good nature. “Ah, I suppose.” Still, it doesn’t help to mend your now-emphasised insecurity. 

The Disciples manage to lessen the bleeding of your nose to the point that it is completely gone. With a grunt, you sit up straight and feel that indeed, the steady trickle has ceased. “Thank you, guys.” 

“No problem,” Philip says, “You’d have done the same for us.” 

That makes your chest tighten a little. “Ah… I wouldn’t even know where to start. I’m not that good with blood in the first place.” 

“Oh?” 

Lowering your gaze, you sigh. “Why do you think I haven’t even looked at my own hands ever since coming here? They said my gut was too weak to handle it, hence why I was rejected at the army in the first place.” 

Matthew looks at you curiously. “You applied to become a soldier?” You nod slowly, giving Philip a grateful smile as he hands you a wet rag to clean yourself with. Without letting your gaze go to your skin, you wash off the deep crimson. 

“Mh-mm. The other reason they rejected me was because they didn’t find me assertive enough.” 

“What does that mean?” Nathanael wonders, apparently having listened in on the conversation.

Philip turns to his friend. “That he wasn’t confident enough in his decision-making.”

“Oh, I see.” Nathanael hums with another shrug. 

Your head still spins as you sit up a bit straighter. “I’m going to lay down for a while,” you announce, which your friends find a good idea. Helping you up to head over to your bedroll, they gently lay you down lest you get even more dizzy. 

“If you need anything, just say the word.” Philip tells you, causing you to nod. 

“Yes, thank you.” 

The two leave you alone and you close your eyes, eager to take a brief nap and sleep off the exhaustion from your nosebleed.

—

When you wake up, the headache hasn’t lessened in the slightest; quite the contrary. You sit up and grunt lightly, catching the attention of Jesus, Who is sitting nearby. It is already after sunset, the banter from the other men at the campfire filling the starry night sky. 

“Hello,” Jesus greets gently, “Philip and Matthew told Me what happened. How are you feeling?”

“Useless,” you admit with a huff. “I mean, I couldn’t even defend myself against them.” 

Jesus hums and gives you a look. “I believe I did have a teaching about turning the other cheek, didn’t I?” You quirk a small smile. 

“Ah… Well…” Rubbing your forehead, you sigh, “I wonder if things would have turned out differently for me if I… Well, if I had been able to finish military training without fainting every time I see blood.” 

Mulling over your words, Jesus slowly nods and hums. “I see. Hm…” It is an ambiguous sound of which you aren’t sure what the meaning behind it is, and you shift a little in your bedroll. 

“What is that look for, Rabbi?” You sense either a lesson or a joke coming and you aren’t sure which one of these you are in the mood for.

“Would it have changed things if you’d have been able to punch back?” 

You flinch at the memory of the Roman guards beating you up simply because they weren’t accepting of the fact that you were following Jesus, now. The fact that Quintus had sent you threatening letters a few times, commanding you to return to serve him, had not helped their sentiment, either.

“I’d have been able to show Quintus that I’m not someone who can easily be pushed over.” 

“Is that how you see yourself? As someone who can be pushed over?” 

You swallow hard, averting your gaze. “Well, You know me,” you mutter, “I’m not exactly… Strong. Why else do You think I chose to be a tailor instead of a soldier?” 

“Because your talents lay there rather than with fighting?” 

Pausing, you ponder over His words. Your focus is drawn to the other men of the camp, who are busying themselves with an arm wrestling match. “Look at them,” you begin, “They are all strong, and even if they aren’t, they participate regardless. It is a little what they did back at the barracks when I was training to become a solider. They… Found it strange that I rather spent time by myself. And now that I’m here, part of me still feels like an outcast. Does that make sense?” 

Jesus slowly nods. “I understand that perspective,” He tells you. “Culturally speaking, masculinity is often measured by physical strength.” 

You chew the inside of your cheek and sigh. 

“Right. And I found that I often… Lacked that. I am more of a… Fine motor skills kind of guy. One who sees the details and weak spots others tend to overlook. It is part of why Quintus hired me in the first place. He asked me to fix the flaws I found within his soldiers’ armour, and asked me to sew the most expensive tunics for himself on the side.” 

Jesus pulls a face and cannot fight a small smile, attempting to lift the mood a little by saying: “You having left his entourage or not, I believe he is still wearing everything that you’ve made to measure for him. After all, last time I had a chat with him, he was sporting his tunic rather proudly.” 

You let out a light chuckle, appreciating the way Jesus tries to make you less discouraged about yourself. “You may not realise it yourself, (Y/n), but the work you do is just as important as any other job.” 

Jesus gestures at His Disciples who are still busy bickering about who won the arm wrestling match. From the looks of it, Simon and Big James aren’t managing to see eye to eye just yet. “They each have their own job within this group. For example, what do Big James and Zee do?” 

“They protect the women. And You, too. And they do a lot of heavy lifting.” 

“Yes. And how about Matthew? Could you imagine him grabbing a knife at the first sight of potential danger?”

You cannot help but laugh a bit. “No, I saw him grab a spoon once.” 

Jesus grins. “Never let your enemy know your next move, am I right? Anyways, what does Matthew do for Me?”

“He writes lot about what You do. He’s Your scribe. The signs and wonders, and Your sermons, like the one that introduced me to You.”

Humming, Jesus shifts a bit. “And… Does that make Matthew less of a man because he lacks the muscle?” 

“No, of course not!” you instantly exclaim, “He’s got his own strengths, but rather mental instead of physical.” 

“How about Thaddeus?” 

“Thaddeus is good at keeping his head cool,” you can tell the Messiah right away, “He is talented at de-escalating certain situations, especially when the sons of Jonah or the Thunder Brothers are about to act out of instinct.” 

“Does that make Thad less of a man than them, because he’s more of a pacifist when it comes to conflict?” 

You shake your head right away and full of determination. “No, that wouldn’t make any sense.” 

Jesus gives you a look. “So why do you compare yourself to them and call your own talents unimportant, if you don’t hold others to that same standard?” 

You blink, confusion visible on your features. “I… I don’t get it… I didn’t mention that belief out loud.” 

“As the Messiah, I am quite good at picking up on subtext, (Y/n).” Jesus winks at you, reaching over to put a gentle hand on your shoulder. “But please, try to answer My question.” 

Inhaling to speak, you are about to say something, anything, but after a few long moments of silence, you begin to realise that no words are forming on your tongue. “I just… Maybe… You know?” 

The Messiah chuckles. “You are not making a lot of sense here, (Y/n). To Me, you are no less important than any one of My other followers. Each and every member of this group each has their own position to fill. If Judas didn’t keep a close eye on our finances, we’d be constantly worrying about being able to go to the market. If the women didn’t go to market, we wouldn’t have ingredients. If Thomas didn’t cook for us with these ingredients, we’d all go hungry. If we’d all go hungry, none of us could do our work. To make a long story short, there is a reason why everyone has their own task. We cannot all do the same thing, and if we all had the exact same talents, we wouldn’t need one another.” 

For a moment, Jesus pauses to help you let the words sink in.

“That doesn’t only go for this ministry, but also for society in general. We need teachers to help teach doctors, and we need bakers to feed our teachers. These doctors can help heal the teachers and bakers in their time of need. We need farmers to supply us with fresh produce and we need cooks to make it into healthy meals for all of us. If no one needed the produce, nobody would buy it from the farmer, who wouldn’t have any income. One cannot exist without the other.” 

Squeezing your shoulder once more, Jesus gives you a smile. “That goes for your position, too. We need you as much as we need Thomas or Andrew or Little James. Every single one of you has a task that I deem unmissable.” 

“Even sewing shut random holes that You could easily do Yourself if You had been on the road alone instead of with a group of—” 

“—Yes, even that,” Jesus smiles a bit, “Because if I had to fix My own tunic, I’m not sure if the stitches would hold long enough to last Me a week. And I would probably grab the wrong shade of thread ” 

The mental image of Jesus struggling to properly thread a needle or set a few simple stitches makes you laugh. “Each and every person I involve Myself with is important to Me in their own way. They may have a great talent, or great strength, or strong faith, or an open heart. There is value in every single thing that is done for Me or in My Name. Be it cooking a meal for someone who is hungry, or offering someone who is tired a place to sleep, or fixing a ripped tunic for someone who is cold. It is not about the tunics. It is about the service you offer in My Name.” 

Feeling better about yourself now, you smile at the Messiah. “Your talents as a tailor are equally as crucial as anyone else’s task around here. Don’t you ever forget that, (Y/n). No matter what the Roman Empire said about you not being up to standard according to them, what matters is who you are in Me. This is what truly matters. You fight for a greater Kingdom now.” 

It dawns on you. You had been so used to hearing that you weren’t good enough due to your lack of fighting skills that it hadn’t yet occurred to you that… This  ministry is worlds apart from your old life. A spiritual war rather than a physical one, and you didn’t need to be a fighter to be of meaning within it.

“Thank You,” you tell Jesus, a relieved smile playing over your lips, “That brings a new perspective for me.” 

“I know,” Jesus muses, “Now… I don’t know about you, but I can see from here that Andrew has done a poor job of fixing that hole in the side of his tunic. Perhaps that you could join them at the fire and teach them a lesson or two about how they can fix their own clothes, because I’m sure they can learn a lot from you.” 

Even though it is merely an offer to involve you more within the group’s dynamic, you find it no bad idea if the Disciples can make minor repairs themselves. Feeling emboldened by Jesus’ suggestion, you nod firmly and confidently walk towards the group of followers, crossing your arms over your chest when you arrive.

“Now, sit down and listen closely! I’ve got something important to teach you guys!” 

Jesus chuckles from a distance at how everyone takes a seat, curious to hear what you have to say. 

You haven’t felt so appreciated in ages.

[arcane-vagabond]

Maybe a Drabble about Jake carving the horse for Scout? Ha ha jk, unless 👀

I wanted to do this before publishing Chapter Eight 👀

Jake wasn't sure how to feel after his argument with you. On one hand, you were an excellent shot and he questioned why that didn't shock him as much as he thought it should.

On the other hand, the sight of you in the saloon had him terrified. What would have happened to you had he not shown up when he did? Isaac had been so close to...no. He couldn't think of that now. He had made it, he reminded himself. You were safe for the time being.

Jake wasn't a naive man, he knew that Isaac wouldn't lay low forever. Isaac was a calculated and cold man. He would strike when the time was right. He knew Maverick would keep an eye on you, but it was the fact that that thought didn't even bring him comfort which gave him pause.

He had always looked up to Maverick, seeing him as a father figure ever since his died in the outbreak all those years ago. Maverick was strong and dependable. But Jake knew that he would worry about you until he got back to town, that much was certain.

Jake paced along the street, debating on what to do. He needed the money that would come from this job, Sarah and Billy depended on it. But the nagging inside him said to not leave you alone. He'd never forgive himself if something were to happen to you.

He wasn't sure when his feelings for you had become so strong. Javy told him that he was smitten from first sight, and Jake supposed he was right. You were fiery, and you didn't let him get away with shit. He liked that about you.

He huffed out a sigh before plopping down on the porch in front of the saloon, grabbing one of the logs Penny kept for the fire. Jake wasn't sure when he had started whittling, but he knew he enjoyed it. It helped keep his hands and his mind busy when he was troubled. He never knew what it was he was going to carve until the figurine already sat in his hand, finished.

Jake sat there thinking about you, his pocket knife digging into the wood harshly as he thought back to the events from earlier that day. He had never seen you that vulnerable, and his hands itched to track Isaac down and put a bullet through his skull. He thought about how your eyes glistened with tears that mixed with the blood from the scratch on your cheek. Your clothes had been torn and you had looked at him with such a sense of relief that it had his heart aching in his chest.

But he had also seen the claw marks on Isaac's skin, the blood running from his mouth. You had fought him, his girl was a fighter. His chest swelled with pride at the thought of you fighting the larger man, and a smile twitched at the corner of his lips.

Yes, you were a fighter, the voice inside him preened. Maybe that was why he liked you so much.

He thought about how your eyes blazed every time he tried to flirt with you, how you scowled at almost everything he said. You were so cute when you pouted. You were even cuter when you tried to cling onto that prim and proper act, but Jake could see the wild streak in you. It was one that could never be broken, and Jake decided right then and there that he would build that streak up, wanting to see who you really were behind your fancy clothes and words.

Jake also thought about how you looked working in your garden. The dirt covering your face and dress as you toiled away, the pinch of your brows as you concentrated. The very thought brought a small smile to his lips. He kept carving.

Your skin was so soft, and where most girls would be determined to keep it that way, you had insisted on taking on as many chores as you could around the ranch. Jake remembered how exhausted you had looked when he popped by unannounced that one day, your face red from excursion, your hair plastered to your forehead from the sweat. He wanted to kiss you right then and there.

His mind raced with thoughts of you as he continued to carve, and before he knew it, the blue light of the early morning greeted him. He blinked, looking up as he finished his last cut. He grimaced at the thought of riding out today with no sleep, but one look at the figurine in his hand had him feeling at ease.

The horse stared back up at him, poised in its grace, but looking like it was ready run wild at any moment. Just like you, Jake thought. He smoothed his thumb over the back before turning it over, carving his initials into the belly.

He slowly moved from his perch, muscles aching from being in the same position for so long. He stretched before making his way back down the road to your house. The town was quiet as he made his way towards the outskirts, and your home stood proudly in all its fine glory as the sun began to peak over the horizon. Jake trotted up the steps, debating on where he should leave his gift. He settled on the railing by the steps, placing the horse so that it faced the front door.

"Watch over her for me until I get back, yeah?" He told the figurine. It stared back at him, and he let out a soft chuckle. He gave one last look at the front door before turning and walking back towards the saloon where his friends waited for him.