#I'm a sad tumbleweed

[neon-garbage-angel]

god i miss yuri on ice so much it hurts

[clover-the-awesomest]

I.

Uhm.

I guess it makes sense. Like. You have a weird shark-headed king guy who dresses like he's still in the 90's with buff Donald Trump arms. And he's up against an anime kid who's literally named Death.

It's pretty obvious this random child was gonna win but you can't blame me for being a little peeved can you??

[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!

Writer's Note: Hey, y'all! This update is extremely late & I'm so sorry for the wait (that rhymed lol don't look at me). I've been so busy preparing for my new job in August & getting ready to start school that updating this story slipped my mind lol. BUT I am still writing it! I really wanna finish this story. So to make up for the slow updates, I decided to drop three new chapters instead of two. Please enjoy! -Jazz

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. Twenty-Four. Epilogue + Soundtrack.

********

SEVEN: HIT ‘EM UP!

You arrive in the tiny, dusty, damn-near abandoned town of Bull’s Creek by the next morning. 

You three didn’t stop for a night of rest, only taking breaks to feed the horses and let them rest their hooves before continuing on your journey. Most of what you do is on Reneigh’s back: brushing your teeth; eating your snacks; power naps. You now feel sweaty and tired, but not exhausted, only happy to finally be at your destination. 

Bull’s Creek is as depressing as it is quiet. Nothing moves but a tumbleweed that noisily rolls across the dusty road among the disturbingly quiet shops and boutiques that you’re sure once were brimming with life and vibrancy, but are now dingy and sad-looking. “Beauty, ain’t it?” Gojo sniggers as he and his horse totter beside you. 

“Where is everybody?” you question, feeling eerily uncomfortable with the silence. You half expect to be ambushed because of it. “Most of ‘em moved because of Benji’s crew members takin’ over,” Geto explains. “Sad. Most of the civilians had been here for years, but couldn’t take the terror anymore.” 

“Buuut,” Gojo interrupts with a grin, “lucky for the ones who stayed, we’re here! And we’ll make sure we send the baddies on their way.” You continue to look around for someone, anyone, in this ghost town. “So how are we supposed to find these guys?” you ask. “Just ask around?” 

“Exactly that, little miss,” Geto chuckles, suddenly coming to a stop in front of you. “And we’ve found just the spot.” You and Gojo stop your horses in front of a small saloon where you can just hear the sound of music and chatter. Gojo hops off of his horse first and goes to help you down, but you ignore him, choosing to get down yourself. 

You walk by, ignoring Gojo’s pout, and look up at the bar’s sign coated in dust: “Bull’s Bar,” you read, hearing Gojo giggle. “That’s so original,” he comments as he pats the holster carrying Hollow Purple.

He goes in without even waiting for you or Geto, but his partner doesn’t seem to mind. “The woman who wrote us asked us to meet her here in her letter,” he explains as he walks you inside. “So she should be…” 

His words die when he opens the wooden doors and lets them swing shut. The sound of them creaking is the only sound among the silence in the bar. The bar is small with tables covered in cowskin, bullheads mounted behind the bar, and every eye in the place on you, Geto, and Gojo, including the piano player in the corner. 

It’s beyond uncomfortable and you feel your face prickle with nervous sweat beneath your bandana. But Gojo and Geto are immune to discomfort as they confidently walk towards the bar. “Rough crowd,” Geto mutters under his breath. You nod in agreement, keeping a close hand on your hip. 

The bartender watches you come to the bar and sit, slowly wiping off a glass. He is tall and burly with unruly, spiked brown hair and a lollipop sticking out of his mouth. “So what’s a guy gotta do to get a drink around here, mister?” Gojo kindly asks. 

The bartender doesn’t say anything at first; just continues to stare you all down. The music hasn’t resumed yet and that makes this moment even more tense. “Kusakabe,” he says, his voice smooth and rough. “What will y’all have?” 

Gojo’s smile widens, pleased. “Jack n’ Coke for me and my partner; Sherly Temple for the lady.” You shoot him a look that could kill. “All Jack n’ Cokes, please,” Geto sighs, passing Kusakabe a couple of coins. He takes them and nods, still giving you a suspicious look that has your skin crawling. 

“U-Uh…excuse me?” a small, feminine voice asks behind you. You turn, finding a young, petite girl with long, sky-blue hair cut into a bang standing there, looking nervous. “You’re Gojo Satoru and Geto Suguru, right?” The duo turns to face her now, making her face go beat red. “That, we are, ma’am,” Geto says, tipping his hat at her. “And you’re Miwa, I’m presumin’?” 

The girl damn near pops a blood vessel. “T-That’s correct, yes!” she stuttering replies. Another young girl with two blonde ponytails comes up beside her. “You ain’t ask ‘em to sign your book, Miwa?” she snorts. “That’s all you’ve been talkin’ about since we showed up here.” Miwa gapes at the girl, mortified. “Momo!” she shrieks. “That was private!” 

“Miwa!” a male voice calls suddenly from across the room. A young man comes hurrying up to the two girls, tall and handsome with a spiked, black ponytail and a scar on his right cheek. “Are you alright? Who are they?” He ticks his eyes between you three suspiciously. “Mechamaru, it’s okay,” Miwa soothes him, gently stroking his arm. “They’re here to help us.” 

“Friends of yours?” Gojo chuckles, not at all phased by this. Mecamaru glares at him. “I’m her boyfriend, actually,” he sharply corrects the gunslinger. Miwa nods at Momo who barely even smiles. “This is Momo. She’s a Bull’s Creek native, just like me. She told me not to write you guys!” 

Momo narrows her eyes at her friend. “Way to throw me under the bus,” she huffs. “It was only because I didn’t want more trouble comin’ into this town!” Geto nods understandably. “We ain’t here for trouble, little miss…well, not the kind that’ll get y’all killed. We just want the four we came here for.” 

“And who would that be?” Kusakabe asks suspiciously. “Who the fuck are y’all to come into my place of business askin’ around like y’all own the damn place?” You go to put your hand on your glock, but Gojo stops you, shaking his head at you. 

“We don’t mean no harm,” Geto gently says, “but we’ve got business in this town and with her.” He nods at Miwa. “She wrote a letter to us askin’ for help to save you from the four takin’ over this town.” 

The three younglings share a wary look with each other. “Don’t say their names,” Mechamaru warns. “They’ve got a tight hold on this town already. Last I heard about them is that they’re livin’ up in the mountains beyond the creek among the riches they snatched from the town.” 

“We’ll take you to them!” Momo excitedly announces. But Mechamaru shakes his head. “No,” he firmly says. “You two are stayin’ right here. I’ll take them.” While Momo tuts in disappointment, Miwa looks damn starstruck by her boo. 

Gojo gulps down his drink, finishing it off with a burp. “Fine with us, just as long as we get to where we need to. But before that…” He takes an ink pen from his pocket, smiling at Miwa. “Who wanted an autograph?” 

But before Miwa, who has now turned red, can hand over her book, Kusakabe stops her. “Hang on.” He leans over the bar toward the three of you, his eyes deadly and intimidating. “You get them and then you get the fuck out of my town. We don’t need no more trouble here.” 

With a silent nod, you three agree and Mechamaru guides you into the mountains.

*********

The creek is quiet when you make it up the hill. 

Too quiet. Though the soft sloshing of the water should be comforting, it’s damn disarming to you as you walk with the duo and Mechamaru along the creek yards away from Bull’s Creek (funny enough). The air is sweet, the sky is blue, and you know danger lurks. 

You finally come to a shabby-looking house up on a grassy hill yards down from you four. The roof is missing some tiles, one wall is caging in, and it looks abandoned. “They should be in there,” Mechamaru says, pointing at the house. “They stay there because there are trails in the woods to escape through if the law ever happened to sniff ‘em out. But they haven’t for months because so many people are too scared to speak up for fear of being killed.” 

The young man stares you all down as you silently examine the home. “You gonna get them out of here?” he asks, hope in his eyes. The duo doesn’t answer, so you do, putting a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Thank you, Mechamaru,” you gently say. “We’ll take it from here.” ‘Yes, we’ll get them out of here for you.’ 

Mechamaru seems to be happy with your words. Meanwhile, Geto is stringing up the horses to a nearby post while Gojo spits his cigarette out of his mouth and crushes it under his heel. This is just ordinary work for them. “Go on back to your girl,” the white-haired outlaw says with a wink. “She’s a cutie.” 

Mechamaru narrows his eyes, but doesn’t say anything back. Instead, he backpedals and hurries back the way he came towards town. Once gone, you follow the duo up the hill to the small house, the grassblades tickling your ankles as you move.

Finally, you come to the wooden front door padlocked shut. “So how are we doin’ this?” you ask. “Do we just bust in there and–” 

You’re rudely cut off by Gojo’s foot smashing into the padlock, forcing it open. The door opens with a long creaking sound like in a horror film.

The way this house looks feels like a horror film too: stained, old furniture in the living area; dishes in the kitchen sink and rotten food on the counter down the long hallway leading to the back door; ripped curtains covering the stained windows, making the entire downstairs dark and dreary. The smell in the air is rotten and rancid like something died in here. You cover your mouth despite the bandana covering your lower face. 

As you creep inside with the duo, your hand on your holster, your eyes shift from left to right, top to bottom. You look for a shadow; some slight movement from around a corner or behind something. The floorboards ominously creek under your boots, making the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. “There’s no one here,” you whisper. 

While Gojo stays behind, Geto walks ahead of you towards the circle of furniture, his gun hanging from his hand. He places a hand on one of the leather armchairs and shakes his head. “No,” he protests. “There is. Feel the chair.” You carefully walk over and place a hand on the seat, your hear thumping wildly. “It’s warm,” you gasp. “Someone is–” 

“Y/N, look out!” Geto shouts from behind you, but it’s too late. Your words are cut off when you suddenly feel something snatching you by the ankle, causing you to fall onto your back. The noose tightens and begins to pull you throughout the house on your back despite your screams. You try to grab the knife in your pocket, but you can’t. You’re moving too fast. 

Finally, you stop and face two men with very bad intentions in their eyes. One of them is nothing short of a pretty boy: beautiful bone structure in his face with high cheekbones, dimples, blue eyes, and a Colgate smile. If it isn’t for the gun in your face, you’d think he was a model. This is ‘Angelface’.

“Well, well, look what we’ve got here, Zankoku: the prettiest little trespassor we’ve gotten.” He smirks at his partner. “What do you reckon we should do with her?” 

His partner, Zankoku, looks like he’s all types of crazy: unruly curls that fall in his face; a bumpy nose like he was punched too many times in his lifetime; a scar running from his left ear down to the corner of his mouth; wide, wild eyes that frighten you more than the gun pressing against your noggin.

“I’ve got one idea that would make her sorry,” he growls, his voice like jagged glass to you. “Do you know what we do to trespassin’ bitches like you?” Angelface shakes his head at Zankoku. “Now, now, that’s no way to talk to a lady!” he mockingly tuts. 

“Y/N!” Geto shouts from beyond. You manage to twist around to look behind you and find the duo running to save you. However, they are stopped by a woman who pops up from under the staircase, pointing a gun at Geto’s head and a man jumping out from behind a wall to pull Gojo back and put a knife at his throat. 

The only woman in this crew, Makima, is tall and slender with long red hair and cold eyes. “Don’t move,” she warns. “You move and either I put this bullet in you or Arata puts that knife in your partner’s throat.” Arata is mute as you’ve been told, his tongue cut out long ago. But what he lacks in words he makes up for with his knives that are as long as his hair that cascades down to his hips. 

“Or we fuck up this cutie’s face,” Angelface growls, pushing the gun into your cheek. “Never thought I’d meet the famous Fatale Femme in the flesh.” He uses the barrel to pull your bandana down, revealing your nose and mouth to him. “And see her gorgeous face,” he cackles. “You’re almost prettier than me.” You could spit at him. 

“You motherfuckers got a lot of nerve comin’ here,” Zankoku snarls. “First you leave like y’all are better than us and then you start workin’ for the fuck ass law?” 

Gojo smiles despite nearly grazing the knife at his neck. “Good to see you again too, Zankoku,” he titters. “I guess this is our welcome wagon?” Makima rolls her eyes, annoyed. “God, you always talked too much,” she huffs. “I should put some lead in that throat right now just to shut you up.” 

She cocks her gun, moving it away to point at Gojo while she slips another out of her holster and points it at Geto. The entire room has turned into a warzone. One wrong step and you’re dead. “Listen,” Geto says, raising his voice. “We don’t want no trouble.” 

“Oh, shut up!” Makima spits. “Why else would y’all be here? You’re obviously here to wrangle us up like cattle and bring us into the sheriff.” 

“Y’all tryna get in a good place with the law?” Angelface scoffs, grinning at the gunslingers. “Tryin’ to become good guys ‘cause prison scared y’all? So sad to see what happened with that train.” You can almost feel the rage radiating off of Geto and Gojo in waves. “We don’t want to put y’all in prison,” Geto says, his voice roiling with simmering anger. “We just want information on Benji. We need to find him.” 

The bandit crew share a brief look. “Why would we tell you?” Angelface scoffs, eyes narrowed. “We don’t know where he is anyway. We were in Cherrywood before he fucked outta town months ago. We haven’t seen him since.” As soon as he says it, his partners look at him like he just sealed their fate. And he did. 

“You dumbass!” Makima hisses. The gears in your head are turning and you share a look with Geto and Gojo. “Benji was in Cherrywood?” you ask, finally speaking. “When? Why?”

But the cold barrels of the guns pressing into your head and chin stop you. “Enough,” Makima growls. “We don’t have to tell you fuck shit. Now hold still so we don’t fuck up our home.” 

She points her guns at Geto while Arata pushes the knife further into Gojo’s throat. You stare at the guns in your face, shaking. “Sorry we couldn’t have any fun, darlin,” Angelface sighs. “You’ll make the most beautiful corpse though.” Staring into the barrels is like staring into death and suddenly, you see a flash of your mother’s face. 

You don’t think. You just do. Quickly, you wedge your hand under your ass and pull a knife out. In a flash, you stick the knife into Angelface’s side, making him scream in pain. Immediately, Makima shoots but Geto ducks and swings his leg to trip her. Gojo elbows Arata in the face and rolls away just as Arata cups his nose to stop the blood flow. Makima, who fell, quickly rises and pulls the trigger on both guns. 

Bullets immediately start flying from Zankoku and Makima aimed for Geto and Gojo who you’re sure are hiding. You have no time to see where though, too focused on your attacker. Angelface staggers back and drops the gun, holding his wounded side. “You fuckin’ bitch!” he bellows. “You’ll pay for that! Kill her, Zankoku!” 

Zankoku is momentarily distracted, too busy popping shells. You take that loophole to cut yourself free with the bloody knife and kick him in the back. He staggers, but not enough. He turns around, baring his dirty teeth at you. “You,” he growls and raises his gun. He suddenly falls onto his knees, revealing Gojo standing behind him with a gun that whacked him in the back of the head. 

A bullet zooms over his head and Gojo quickly covers you. “Over here!” he yells as he drags you into the kitchen as quickly as possible.

Geto quickly crawls in behind you and rips the table up to turn it over to serve as a shield from the bullets. Gojo pulls you behind the overturned table. You sit there, the three of you, as bullets whiz past you, breaking windows and putting holes in the walls. “She’s still shooting!” you announce among the flying bullets. “This bitch is crazy!” 

Geto busies himself firing back at Makima from behind the table while Gojo points at the back door. “You go out there,” he tells you. “We’ll take care of her in here.”

He slides his gun out of his holster and cocks it. “Just wait for us with the horses,” he whispers. “We’ll find you.” So you go, hurrying over to the backdoor as fast as you can on your hands and knees. 

You turn for a second to see Arata stabbing through the table right above Gojo’s head. You itch to help him and Geto both, but you know they’d tell you to get out and save yourself. So you keep going. When you finally make it, you shove the door open with your shoulder and roll out into the open, landing on your back in some grass. Quickly, you look up, squinting in the sun. 

The backyard is nothing but an empty pig pen and a stretch of forest. Down below the slope of the hill the house is on is the creek and beyond that, your horses. On wobbly legs, you get up and try to run, but two arms wrapping around you stop you. One tightens around your midsection while the other wraps around your neck, nearly choking you.

“Hel–!” Your scream is cut off by a choke as you struggle to breathe with the arms squeezing you tight than a vice. 

“Gotcha,” Zankoku chuckles. “Stupid bitch, thinkin’ you could run from me…but I’m not goin’ to prison. So I’ll let nature take ya.” He begins to walk with you as you struggle helplessly in his arms, not even able to reach your weapons. 

When you realize where he’s taking you, it’s too late: you’re suddenly being dangled over the side of the rushing water of the creek. Without a warning, Zankoku drops you in. 

Your body plunges into the icy depths of the water, shocking you to the core. You immediately swim to the surface and gulp down the air. The waves are rough and wild, splashing you repeatedly in the face as you struggle to reach for a rock, a tree branch, anything to stop you from going downstream.

Zankoku stands at the bank and pats his knee once. A horse comes running from out of the forest, stopping at his feet and allowing him to climb on. “Have fun with the fishes, bitch!” he cackles before galloping off on his horse upstream. 

“Wait!” you scream, so loud that your throat goes raw. You watch helplessly as Zankoku disappears, growing smaller the farther the water takes you. You try to pedal to stay afloat, but the current is too rough and the water too deep. You can’t feel the bottom. “Gojo!” you wail out. “Geto, help!” 

All that answers you is the water flooding your ears and mouth, salty and overbearing. All of your senses are taken over by it as the current swallows you up. Tears of desperation begin to slip down your cheeks, sobs leaving your mouth. You once again feel alone. Abandoned. Just like all those years ago. And you’re tired. So, so tired. 

Finally giving in to the creek and the ache in your muscles, you let the current take you and find yourself going beneath the ice-cold, salty depths of water. But you don’t sink. Just as quickly as you went under, you’re suddenly pulled back up by some invisible force yanking on your arm. You look up into the sun’s rays, wondering if it’s God. 

But when you turn to look, you realize that it’s Geto. He is hanging off the side of the bank, boots and pants muddy, grunting as he struggles to pull you out. He finally slips in and yanks you to his body, both of you floating in the water together. “Keep your eyes open, Y/N!” he yells among the rush. “Geto,” you try to say, but your voice is so weak that it gets carried away by the water. 

Geto swims to the side of the creek with one arm and quickly grabs an upturned tree root to pull you both up and out of the water. “I’ve gotcha,” he huffs, dragging you into the mud once he’s on the surface. He then pulls you into the grass and finally releases you. 

When he does, the shakes start. And the shivers. Your body convulses as if it’s back in the water and not in the warm sun on dry land. You can’t stop. It’s as if your body has kicked itself into fight or flight. Your fingers tremble and your heart pounds, causing your breath to become labored. “Y/N?” Geto questions. You don’t see him. All you see is the blue sky above you. 

“C-C-C…” You don’t know what you’re trying to say. You don’t know what’s wrong with you. Geto’s handsome face appears above you and his expression softens when he realizes what’s happening. “Y/N, you’re havin’ a panic attack,” he says. He slowly picks you up and places his hands on your forearms. 

“Breathe,” he demands, his voice and eyes firm. “I need you to breathe, Y/N, okay?” You shake your head, still trembling like a leaf. “I-I can’t,” you gasp. “C-Can’t…” It’s a struggle to form a coherent sentence. Your brain can’t keep up, sending warning signals to your body when there isn’t even any danger anymore. 

“Look at me, darlin’,” Geto coos. His big, calloused hands hold your cheeks, willing you to look at him. “Watch me, okay?”

You do, hypnotized by his warm, soulful eyes. “Do what I do, slowly,” he instructs. “In.” His chest expands.

“And out.” His chest falls. He does it again and you mirror to the best of your ability. It’s shaky and choppy at first, but soon, your breathing is less labored. 

Then your heartbeat slows and your body relaxes in his touch. All the while, he is gentle and patient. “That’s it,” he says, nodding. “It’s alright now. I’ve got you now.” And you believe it. You believe that you are safe. How the fuck did he do that? 

A whistle pierces the air from down below the hill. You look to see Gojo jogging uphill with the horses. His smile fades when he sees you and Geto, soaking wet and coated in mud. “What happened?” he demands. Quickly, you stand without Geto’s help and wipe at your snotty nose. “It’s not important,” you sniffle. “Did you get her?” 

Though Gojo still looks concerned, he doesn’t push it. “We got them,” he corrects you. “Angelface is knocked out cold ‘cause of blood loss thanks to your knife, but the other three are conscience so we should be able to talk ‘em.” You sigh, relived. 

You hop on your horses and ride back up to the house where, sure enough, the four bandits are bound tight in a rope tied to the pig pen, back to back. Angelface is slumped over, his side stained in blood. Meanwhile, his partners look downright scared, no longer having their weapons to help them. 

You and the duo stomp over to them, relishing the way they shiver at the sight of you. “Please don’t kill us,” Makima whimpers. Geto kneels before her, his expression like steel. “Then tell us what we want to know: Benji the Bandit. Where is he?” 

Gojo kneels beside his partner and pulls down his blindfold to reveal his piercing, blue eyes. It’s enough to make the bandits cowar. No weapons or force needed. It makes you wonder just what the duo did to them while you were in that creek. “The last time we saw him was in Cherrywood,” Zankoku admits. “He was conspirin’ with the outlaw Valentine to rob a train.” 

“Valentine?” you gasp. “He works for Benji?” You look at Geto and Gojo as realization hits you. Could it be that Benji was behind that train masscre? Could it be that he framed his two former employees? “After the train massacre, Benji cut us some money and said he was headin’ to Sage County to hide out,” Makima adds. “That’s all we know, we swear!” 

Gojo smiles, happy with this turnout. “Thank you for your participation,” he sweetly says as he stands up. He reties his blindfold before letting out a whistle that echos across the land. 

You hear the sound of horse hooves and thudding footsteps, each sound mingling into one loud heartbeat. You turn, findinding law enforcement and other townsmen following close behind running out of the brush of trees and nature towards you. Among them is Kusakabe sporting a golden star on his shirt as the sheriff of Bull’s Creek (who also so happens to be a bartender). 

“They’re all yours, fellas!” Gojo yells, moving away so Kusakabe and his posse can swarm the bandits like flies. Other townspeople follow shortly after and with them, they bring rewards for you and the gunslinging duo: money; food and spices for cooking; whiskey and ale; and more importantly, thanks. 

Despite your reputation and appearance, the people stare you in your face and pour their hearts out to you. They shower you with gratitude, give you warm smiles, and shake your hand. It is overwhelming, but at the same time, it makes you feel good. It gives you a better feeling than how you feel after smoking a gunslinger and taking off down the road: cold and vengeful. Now, to see the very people you’ve helped with your own eyes, it makes you rethink your career path. 

Nearly an hour later after collecting your rewards and goods to place in a sack for the road, Gojo comes up to you with a big, fluffy towel while Geto chats with some of the victims. “Gotcha somethin’,” he says, wrapping you up in the fluffy thing. 

You don’t look into his eyes, still feeling weird from earlier. Once you’re wrapped up tight, he gives you space and chomps down on a sugar cookie given to him by a sweet old lady earlier as her thanks. “So where to now?” you ask, glancing at him. He just smirks at you. 

Sage County it is, then. 

**********

The night is still and so is the steely, cold, unforgiving prison cell Valentine sleeps in that night. 

He’s been in the Black Water County prison for days now, eating their terrible food and facing terrible mistreatment at the hands of the guards. He is housed in a private cell, isolated from other prisoners. Being a wanted criminal outlaw means that you have many enemies, so the sheriff thought it was best to keep Valentine isolated to avoid Valenine being attacked….not because he cares, but because he wants Valentine alive for his trial. 

Valentine hasn’t tried to escape, waiting for the right time to do so. He has decided to lay low for now and play nice, keeping to himself and doing what the guards tell him to do. Meanwhile, in his head, he fantasizes about the moment he can put some bullets in those damn gunslingers and wrap his hands around your lying, backstabbing throat. 

Right now, as he lies asleep on his pad, he can almost see your face turning purple as he wrings your neck. He can almost feel the way your hands claw pathetically at his, your body slowly going limp like a rag doll as he– 

Clang. 

Valentine immediately opens his eyes and sits up in his cell, looking towards the strange sound of metal banging against something solid. He squints into the dark hallway outside of his barred cell door. “H-Hello?” he stutteringly whispers in the darkness. “Is someone there?” 

There isn’t an answer for a while, making him feel as if he imagined it. But then he hears footsteps and the young guard usually posted at his cell appears, staggering slightly as he does so. In his hand, he carries a tray of sloppy Joe and beer, possibly for himself, but Valentine makes a joke anyway.

“What’s that?” he scoffs. “You finally bringin’ me some decent dinner, boy? Do you even know what time of night it is?!” The young guard doesn’t answer. Instead, he teeters forward and falls onto his face like a tree that was just axed, falling at Valentine’s feet. 

“Shit!” Valentine gasps, jumping and backing up against the cold cell wall. The food and beer spill along the floor, just like the blood pooling from the back wound the guard is sporting. That’s when he sees it: the knife in the guard’s back. 

More footsteps follow and Valentine shakily looks up at the shadow figure entering the hallway, dressed in black clothes with a bandana covering his mouth. As he gets closer, Valentine cowares against the wall, shivering. “W-What did you–” 

“Shh!” the stranger shushes him. He bends down near the guard’s body and takes off his black glove. There, Valentine recognizes the black rose tattoo on his knuckles. The flower of death. Benji the Bandit’s signature symbol. “The boss sent me here to get you outta here,” he whispers. He begins to dig into the guard’s back pocket and retrieves a ring of keys which he uses to unlock Valentine’s cell. 

The door opens with a click and the stranger slides it open, narrowing his eyes at the outlaw. “If you don’t wanna spend the rest of your sorry-ass life in here, follow me and keep quiet.” It doesn’t take Valentine long to make up his mind. He would take anything over wearing an ugly black and white jumpsuit and eating God-awful slop. 

Quietly, he follows close behind the stranger down the hallway and around a corner between two other wards of cells. Commotion begins to arise from each ward, prisoners awakening and realizing that someone is escaping. The stranger bends down to move a tile from the floor out of its place, revealing a deep hole that must have taken days to dig. “Down here!” he hisses before ducking down into the manmade hole. 

The prisoners begin to knock against their cell doors and walls, yelling and hollering. Quickly, Valentine gets down onto his stomach and slides himself down into the tight, dark hole. He has never escaped in this manner before and he can’t see why any criminal does it.

It’s dank, dark, and dirt keeps getting in his mouth and nose. Not to mention how physically taxing it is. He grunts and struggles to get through certain spaces that are too tight, shimmying along in his elbows and stomach. 

But finally, he sees an opening and the stranger pull himself up out of the hole. Valentine follows close after, pushing himself through the opening by his hands. With a gasp, he rises from the hole, breathing in the open air and the night sky above. He’s never been so happy to be above ground before. 

But he isn’t at all happy to see who is waiting for him. Other than the stranger, Valentine’s eyes trail up the strong legs of a black Bronco before settling on the man sitting on its back.

He is a big man––at least six feet––and the size of a bear with long hair, a salt-n-pepper beard, an eyepatch, and a gold tooth that glints at him in the moonlight. He wears black everything: a black hat; black slacks; black boots; a black jacket adorned with fringe. He is the most terrifying man to exist in the Wild West. “Benji,” he gasps. 

Benji’s smile grows, laugh lines and wrinkles appearing by his eyes. “Nice to see you too, Valentine,” he says in his deep, gruff voice that could make any man tremble. “How was prison for you?”

He doesn’t answer. He rises from his knees and dusts himself off, looking towards the prison. They are right outside of its wired fence, deep in the woods that surround it. “Ya know, crawlin’ through dirt as an escape route ain’t really my style,” he grumbles. 

Benji keeps smiling, menacingly so. “You’re lucky I even sent someone to get your ass bein’ that you fucked up and got yourself caught.” He nods at his goon who has settled onto his own horse. 

“It wasn’t my fault!” Valentine protests. “That damn idiot duo came after me and threatened to toss me in prison!” He seethes, thinking about you. “And now the bitch that they’re with is against me. She turned out to be the Fatale Femme.”

He has no problem throwing you under the bus. You ruined his entire operation! He was so sure Geto and Gojo would take his offer and let him go free. He was going to leave the county, maybe go overseas, and make his life from there. 

It’s bad enough to let Benji once again rope him into another one of his schemes. He just knew that robbing that Cherrywood train would bring him bad luck, but he listened to his boss anyway. “All ya need to do is grab the money with my men and kill the witnesses. You’ll get your cut and I’ll get mine.” 

Down on his luck and in need of some quick cash, Valentine agreed, but also had questions: “What about Geto and Gojo? Why are they apart of this? You haven’t worked with them in years.” 

Benji just smiled, puffing on his cigar. “Because they need to be reminded that they can’t run from me,” he answered, sending chills down Valentine’s spine. “They’ll never know that I was behind this, but that won’t matter. They think they can suddenly become these saviors, but when the law find them on that train with a bunch of dead bodies, they’ll finally understand that they can’t run from their sins.” 

It was punishment for leaving Benji. He wanted the Gunslingers to suffer. Valentine just wanted the money, so he went with it and ran. Now, he not only wants revenge on the duo but on you too. 

Benji’s brows rise at the mention of you. “The Fatale Femme teamin’ up with my old gunslingers, eh?” He ponders this, stroking his beard. “Then that means they’re a threat to me, but not for long. That means we’ll have to take them all out of the equation.” 

He looks down at Valentine like he’s no more than a bug, those dark eyes like a shark’s. “Listen to me very carefully,” he whispers and Valentine roughly swallows his spit. “I only got ya out of here because I’ve got another job for ya.” 

Valentine nods, hanging onto every word: I got word that those two gunslingin’ maggots are headin’ out of the West toward North,” Benji explains. “They’ll be passin’ through Sage County. I need you to follow ‘em with my crew and meet me in Sage County. Attack ‘em on the road if you need to.” 

Valentine nods, placing all of these instructions in the back of his mind. “But why are you goin’ to Sage County?” he asks. 

Benji pulls a cigarette out of his pocket and holds it between his teeth. “I got a call from four of my old workers earlier after they got arrested in Bull’s Creek. I know Geto and Gojo, so I know that they ask around and obviously know where I’m headed.” He pulls out a match box and lights a match in one strike. 

He then lights his cig and takes a puff, holding it between his ringed, inked fingers. “If they show up, I wanna kill them myself–especially that nosey bitch they’ve got with ‘em,” he spits. “I can’t have no one lookin’ for me.” 

The severity and seriousness of his words are set by the silence that looms over them along with the ice in Benji’s eyes. Finally, he glares at Valentine. “What are ya waitin’ on, idiot?” he huffs. “Get goin’ and don’t disappoint me.” 

He snaps the reins on his horse and takes off into the woods, leaving his goon and Valentine alone.

[tomatoswup]

good night ☾ 2

summary: having the Vash plushie as a companion is a big help but sometimes you can't help but think about the past. Vash plushie to the rescue!

the plushie series: 1 , 2 , 3

warnings/tags: hurt/comfort, fluff? vash plushie is such a sweetheart :'),

A/N: i can't help but bring my angst urges into things okay im sORRY LMAOOKDNSLKNF but fr i 100% believe the plushie is gonna try to cheer you up when you're sad like ugh u lil cute thing plz. Hope yall enjoy this lil thing! am waiting for june to come

To be honest, the cute little guy really helped you a lot mentally, stopping those depressing filled nights and nightmares that you’ve had after that event from engulfing your conscious.

Has it been 2 years already? Time flies doesn't it? You never really noticed how aware the plushie was until he asked you if you were alright one night.

Sometimes he’d cuddle against your cheek to, in his words, "help" you sleep, and other times he’d sleep under your blanket, but the poor thing had nightmares of its own too.

Often times you’d catch him whimper and curl into a small ball in his sleep, to which you couldnt help but put your hand out and softly rub the top of his head with your finger to soothe the poor plushie.

But the lil’ thing was a trooper! He’s up the next morning urging you to get some donuts for breakfast and man.

You've never seen the plushie so happy that he almost popped a stitch! He ran around in circles, jumping up and down around your feet so much when you came back to your camp with a box of them that you kinda got scared you were gonna step on him.

"The pink one!" He screeched out, elated as you picked out a pink sprinkled donut and handed it to him. The damn donut was the same size as himself!

"Hey! Be careful!" You shouted out, watching as the small figure tumbled down a small sand hill with the donut, causing you to sweatdrop.

Why'd he kinda look like a tumbleweed....

You heard him squeak out from below, before seeing him cutely hop up to your temporary camp, a big bite already visible on the donut as the nibs of his arms held it up above his head "I-Im okay!"

“Good! I don’t think I have any sewing supplies to fix you bud.” You grinned as he waddled over to where you sat at the fire.

"What'cha making?" He curiously asked as he peeked around your ankle. Poking at the cooking fire, you looked down at him, the blue beady eyes of his staring into the fire "Well, I'm cooking some chicken I had left-over from the other day." You smiled down at him as he jumped up and down "FOOD!"

You couldn't help but giggle at the excitement the plushie gave out, how did he even digest things? You haven't really seen him eat anything during his time traveling with you but maybe that was a question for another time.

"Ya know," You couldn't help but say "I think my friend would've liked you.." You softly smiled, turning to the fire as you turned the roasting chicken.

"Friend?" He tilted his head "What friend?" You stared on into the fire, the wind blowing the heat mildly into your face "You haven't met him, but it was a friend I deeply loved."

"You loved him?"

"..." You couldn't help but put your knee up to rest your head on "Yeah, I did. But they passed a few years ago." You heard the plushie take another bite of his donut before coming up and plopping down to sit beside you "Never got to tell him I did though.." You quietly chuckled as the plushie looked up at you, a dead stare had been painted on your face as if it were a past that hurt to touch.

The Vash plushie stayed quiet before taking another bite of his donut "Well, I think you're a very pleasant person to be with! I mean, you've taken care of me pretty well!" He squeaked out "You treat others with the respect they give back! You're a kind person!" His feet started moving up and down.

"I think he would've loved you too."

AWWWWWWWALSFfknsk

You couldn't help but let out tears at the comforting words the plushie provided you as he patted your leg, telling you it was okay and that you weren't a bad person for having continued with your life without him. To which he proceeded to trying to do cartwheels to cheer you up you didn't want to admit it kind worked. But at some point you asked him to stop because the poor thing had been on its 5th failed attempt, every time belly-flopping onto the ground.

"Okay okay, I'm okay now Vash!" Trying to get the lil' guy to stop, you took a whiff of the air before freezing "I-Is the chicken burning?"

"Yup!"

GODDAMN IT-

You owed this plushie another donut.

And the night passed, you having slept better than most other nights. But the two of you had to hit the road again, getting packed up and ready to go by the morning.

Back in his usual place in the pocket of your shirt, he put up an arm nib and pointed it forwards "LET'S GOOO!" Snorting at his burst of energy, you began your stride in the sand once again with the map in hand.

"We're not far from getting to the city, I'm estimating one more day before we arrive." You said, fixing the hat on your head from the glaring sun before squinting ahead at something that caught your eye "You see that too right?"

The plushie's eyebrows furrowed as he copied you, squinting and physically pushing himself forwards to see if he could see closer "A man?"

The sight of a man in black stuck out like a sore thumb in the tanned desert just a few feet away from the two of you. A grey motorcycle propped up next to him as the man tuned and did something to the metal's gears.

He looked a bit familiar, too familiar.

"I think I know hi-" You wondered out before the plushies' loud and high pitched scream interrupted you.

"HELLOOOOOO!!!!"

The man turned and there you were met with a pair of sunglasses and the mischievous grin of someone whos' gospels often had you wanting to beat him half to death.

"Well well! Fancy meeting you here!"

oh god....

[imnotsimpingyouare]

ENAMORED

Modern Hatengu clones X Reader

Featuring:

"Pissed Cubicle Worker" Sekido

"Depressed Programmer" Aizetsu

"That Guy in the Alley" Karaku

"Unfunny Youtube Prankster" Urogi

"Disappointed Grandpa" Hantengu

"Delinquent Middle Schooler" Zohakuten

"Possibly a Criminal" Akaza

●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●

You will NOT be shipped with Zohakuten or Hantengu because

A.) One is an old man

B.) One is a young boy

Ty for your time 😌

Basically fem!Y/N gets employed as a maid for this house of actual lunatics and one normal but depressed guy. I have no clue what I'm doing, no clue when this will end, NO CLUE IF THERE WILL BE NSFW? Idk. Goodbye.

●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●

On this fine morning, the sun is rising, the birds are chirping, and all throughout the neighborhood, the peaceful blanket of sleep covers every resident.

Except for Aizetsu.

Yes, this lovely boy relishes in the cold, calm mornings... he can stroll about freely with his cup of coffee, take a warm shower, and get himself ready for the day. He can enjoy the peace and quiet (he's gained immunity to Urogi's snoring) that he only gets once in a blue moon. For around thirty minutes each morning, this is Aizetsu's life...

...until the clock strikes 7:00.

How sad is it that in one moment, this boy's contentedness can be ruined?

Here are the stats for 7:00 each morning:

4 alarms go off.

2 groans are heard.

1 fit of maniacal laughter is heard.

1 alarm clock violently hits the wall.

1 old man tosses in his covers and puts his earplugs in.

1 Aizetsu's happiness is ruined.

And just like that, the morning had begun.

Zohakuten darts out of his room like a madman, running to the pantry.

"WHERE. IS. THE CEREAL." He snarls like some kind of vicious beast, pointing a scrawny finger at Aizetsu.

"...I–"

"I BET YOU ATE IT ALL, DIDN'T YOU?" The boy once again accused.

"...I–"

Angry stomping was coming from the other direction. Turning his head, Aizetsu came face to face with his brother, whose hair resembled a tumbleweed, stomping barefooted towards them. "Shut the fuck up and GET READY FOR SCHOOL! YOU'RE GONNA LEARN SOME SHIT TODAY!"

Zohakuten ran off to his room, but not before grabbing the cereal bars out of the pantry. Yes, the whole box. A trail of crumbs were left behind him as he barreled towards his room. Did he take off the wrapper? No one knows. Did he even take the cereal bars out of the box? Don't ask me.

Sekido huffed, slipping his house shoes on and plopping down on the sofa. "Little tyke takes too damn long in the morning. What's he making himself presentable for, huh?"

"...I–"

Dark-toned hands dug into the arms of the sofa. "I swear, if that kid comes home one day with a little girlfriend, I'm gonna rip someone's head off."

Aizetsu only sighed in response. What's the point of trying to get a word in?

Suddenly laughing was heard in Urogi's room. Not a moment later there he was, already dressed for his day of "production" holding his camera in the air. Urogi slinked in Aizetsu's direction, giving the camera all the worst possible angles of his poor brother. "Say hi to the vlog, 'Zetsu!"

"Zetsu" could only sip his coffee, hoping that if he ignores his brother, he'll despawn or something. That was not the case.

"Hey 'Zetsu? Did you know that if your hand is bigger than your face, your IQ is lower than room temperature?"

Now... when Aizetsu wakes up in the morning, he's not... as clever as he usually is.

Actually, maybe he is after his coffee, but I don't think he has the energy yet to stop what's about to happen.

"No Urogi, I didn't know that." He deadpans, raising his hand up to his face... all the while Urogi's smile is transforming from cute and bubbly to that of Satan himself.

As soon as his hand is lined up with his nose..

WHAP

CRASH

Aizetsu's coffee is on the floor, as is the mug which once contained it. His nose hurts, he feels like an idiot, he wants to die. Urogi cackles and runs away like a 3 year old.

Somewhere on the other side of the house, Karaku is doing his "skincare routine" with 30 different products and his hair twisted up in hair curlers.

This is life in the Hantengu Household.

○○○○○

On the other side of town, you're already wide awake, as your job starts at the crack of dawn.

What do you do? You clean!

You work for Murata's Service Emporium, a company that hires people to do all kinds of things for clients, from mowing lawns to sweeping chimneys. Why is this important?

It's not. You hate your job.

Clean clean clean clean clean. You hate cleaning. It's a chore to clean your own tiny apartment because it's like you have PTSD from cleaning. The callouses on your hands are to show for that.

Day to night, that's all you do, and you don't even get to see the client's reaction to your amazing work.

You. Hate. Your. Job.

But you're still one of the best maids the company has hired. Why? You're a perfectionist. You're not going to leave spots of dirt and dust. You work hard to earn your tips.

Well, the ones you do get. No one tips maids anyway.

Soon to start another day at work, you put on your clothes and grab your keys. 2 cups of coffee is enough for you to feel okay this morning, but you could have used another one.

Maybe if you'd had another one, you wouldn't have tripped and fallen down the stairs. Maybe a few more after that, and you wouldn't have picked yourself up only to fall down the second flight of stairs.

God, how bad can this day get?

At least, that's what you were thinking, when a hand was extended to you. Looking up, there was a man with short black hair and rather prominent eyelashes standing infront of you. You took his hand. He pulled you up to his height.

"I saw you take both those sets of stairs. Are you... okay?" He spoke, not yet letting go of your hand, but it didn't bother you that much.

"Ummmmmm... I only had 2 cups of coffee this morning. 3 is the bare minimum for me."

Getting a closer look at him, you could see he had some tattoos around his forearms. In fact, they reminded you of criminal tattoos. Are you holding the hand of a criminal?

No, no way! This guy couldn't be some kind of evil, bloodthirsty, evil, donut-making..

He cleared his throat, interrupting your thoughts. "Well, I hope you have a good day, Ma'am. I'm leaving for work now, so I'll see you later?" He says, smiling at you and releasing your hand.

"..yeah. That sounds good."

He laughs before walking away, presumably to his car.

Are you stupid? What are you doing? You're gonna be late!

You rush to your car, hoping you're fast enough. It'll be your third offense, and you can't get fired from this job. How else will you pay the bills? How will you buy groceries? Clothes? You slam the gas and go over the limit until you see your arch nemesis ahead, blocking your path like a giant wall.

A red light.

God dammit.

○○○○○

"Y/N!" A deep voice yells from across the hall. You look over, just a few steps into the building, and see your boss, fuming.

He stops over to you, crossing his arms. "Why are you late again? The first client you're assigned to has a big task! What are you doing dilly-dallying?"

"I–"

He puts a hand up to hush you.

"Y/N.. this is not your first time doing this! How can you expect anyone to view you as reliable when this is how you do your job. Ugh." He scowls. "Listen, we don't have anyone to cover you. Just.. do the job, and go home. Got it?"

Your heart stopped. "...go home?"

His eyes burned into yours, threatening to swallow you hole. "As in no more Y/N. As in turn in your uniform. How else do you want me to say it?"

You were stunned. He only scoffed, prancing away from you like some kind of doe.

Oh God.

You just got fired.

What are you supposed to do?

Who's gonna take you?

How are you gonna find work in a town like this?

The thoughts zooming through your head stop only when you view the client's last name on your written schedule, posted on the wall infront of you.

Hantengu.

[frikatilhi]

Saw your tag "feels like bojere bitches are in the minority" and I wonder if BoJere era is ... over?

I've been having some sort of feelings since reading the transcript of the Urheilucast podcast yesterday. Jere said that last year was hard because he had to be Käärijä all the time and no one was interested in Jere /or something like that.

I always felt like Bojan was his safe place where he could be Jere. Be himself. But he didn't even acknowledge that or mention Bojan. I'm happy for Jere to have new boyfriends and to get spanked to his heart's content but...

I feel like a traitor for saying this: is this the BoJere divorce?

What can we BoJere girlies (gn) hope for on 3rd March now?

Oh dear, this feels a bit above my pay grade maybe but I guess I have brought this on myself?

First of all, that was not my tag but someone's reblog, but sure, bojere girlies are probably the minority nowadays, but also, isn't that pretty natural? And also probably not a big deal? And does it matter? The whole point of the support group is that there are few of us left, our crops are dying, we are in a desert watching some sad tumbleweeds rolling around and clinging to each other, endlessly rehashing past events... *cue single tear*

I didn't think anything of Jere not mentioning Bojan in the podcast? That was really not the topic? Both of them have said multiple times that Bojan really helped Jere out in Liverpool. Also Jere probably has many people he can be just Jere around, and he didn't mention any of them either, not his family or closest friends, so I'm not sure why he would have gone out of his way to mention Bojan here.

It is very natural that we are not getting much content nowadays, nor do I think we are entitled to it. They have stated that they keep in touch and are important to each other. It doesn't mean that they are going to showcase their every interaction for our entertainment? It doesn't mean "divorce", it means... nothing at all? Because we can't really make any assumptions about them? They might even have talked about not making a big deal out of themselves publicly anymore, who knows?

As for March, it might very well be that we don't get any content then. But that was what I said before Nordic Tour as well, so we'll see, maybe it'll be another insane three days that sustains us for months to come? Point is, it's up to them and not seeing anything publicly doesn't really mean that they are not friends.

I don't know if I make any sense, and I don't mean to dunk on you, but I don't think it's that deep? We're all just trying to have a little fun and maybe make some friends in the process.

[i-am-totally-not-a-lizard]

*looks at you like a kid in bed awaiting a bedtime story* what was reddit like…?

Ahh my old home... It was beautiful... Well actually not really it kinda sucked but it was home. After a long day of hard work I would kick back and relax by immediately getting into arguments with conservatives about whether or not I deserve to exist, spending all night moderating every new post made to r/familyguyporn (erm... You broke rule #274, how dare you, permabanned for life), and visiting 30 different subreddits only to see the same unfunny joke recycled and reposted for the thousandth time!

Haha but seriously though it wasn't all bad I actually really enjoyed my time there. If Reddit ever becomes not stupid again there's really great communities on there and it provides a much more structured and useful method of interacting with interests you like. There are some great communities that I honestly can't find comparable groups to on Tumblr that I wish I didn't have to continue using Reddit or a discord server to keep in touch with.

If you guys ever want to see what's up with Reddit I'd highly recommend r/196 (currently not allowing posts but maybe someday, also it's just fun to look through the old posts) and its little sister subreddits r/691 and r/19684 because they have a similar Tumblr (queer, lefty, shitposty) vibe, it's where most of the Reddit refugees on here came from initially. Also r/Tumblr and r/curatedTumblr (both private right now), because it's just reposts of Tumblr screenshots so the people there would probably be more accepting of you little tumbleweeds. r/wunkus (silly cats and stuff, I love that sub so much, criminally underrated). r/vexillologycirclejerk and r/mapporncirclejerk (private) are some of my favorite communities and I'm sad there's not a similar big community here. They're pretty left wing and focus on shitposting and jokes about flags and maps, they're very funny but some of the jokes get old quick. As well as literally any community you can think of! I swear, no matter how niche your interest is, there's probably a subreddit for it. And if there isn't, you can make it!

I'd avoid major shitposting subs, as that seems to be where the 'edgy teenage suburban white boy with unlimited internet access' archetype tends to congregate. I'd also avoid sorting by controversial in the comments when LGBT people get brought up on mainstream subs. Reddit takes itself a lot more seriously than Tumblr does and people will not be afraid to argue with you. A lot. Also you get punished with downvotes if people don't like what you say.

Anyways that was a lot. I hope Reddit stops being dumb because it's honestly hard to replace and it's such a great place to find things and people that you're interested in. Not to mention if you have a very specific question about basically anything, Reddit will literally save your life. I like Tumblr a lot, but Reddit will always be near and dear to my heart.

[duskandstarlight]

Embers & Light (Chapter 54)

A very long wait for this next chapter, but it's here! And it's long! Big love to @noirshadow who listened to me moan about depression ruining my ability to write, how I might have to stop writing this fic, how I can't write Nessian anymore. BUT here we are and @noirshadow not only didn't kill me for my whining, but she also beta'd this fic for me so I could bring you a chapter before the new year :)

If anyone is still reading this fic, thank you for your patience! And drop in and say hello below so I know I'm not posting to tumbleweed, haha.

And for anybody who celebrates this time of year, I hope it's been a merry one <3

PS If, like me, you haven't read this fic recently, I'd recommend rereading chapter 53 as a refresher - I had to do it, too *face palm*

Chapter 54 Cassian

“And the Seer of the Sage was certain of Kallon’s intention?” 

Beside him, Nesta didn’t bristle at Rhys’ line of questioning, she merely raised her chin, commanding the space. If Cassian wasn’t so tense he would have been brimming with pride, but instead he remained seated on the U-shaped couch back in Windhaven and tucked in his wings a little tighter.

From where she stood behind him, Nesta’s hand came to rest lightly on his shoulder. The gesture was like a language in itself, albeit a voiceless one. 

Cassian tried to relax, to loosen his shoulders and let out a slow, measured breath. 

It didn’t help.

It had been like this since he and Nesta had planned their next steps in the forest. With the threat of the Blood Rite looming over them, there was no dispute that it was imperative that they move quickly. The information Nesta had learnt beneath the Lake needed to be shared. Their family and friends needed to know about Kallon and Cassian—about Cassian’s mother—so they could stop the death of more females and the bonding of a Enalius’ sword to someone truly terrible.

And whilst common sense and years of formulating strategy told Cassian that the truth needed out, his whole chest ached at the thought of parting with information that felt sacred to him.

When Nesta had unfolded Cassian’s history before him, an uncomfortable mixture or emotions had coursed through Cassian: adrenaline and wonder - and an intense sadness that had both brought him to tears and made him angry at his mother’s fate. He longed for the time to truly process it all, for it all to truly sink in. And whilst Cassian was no fool—whilst the general inside of him couldn’t help but barrage him with the hard facts—it felt as if the choice was being ripped from him

Despite Cassian’s best efforts, the Rebellion was strengthening day-by-day amongst the savager clans. And just last week, Azriel’s spies had reported that Kallon’s Killing Power in the sparring ring continued to grow.

That in itself was of great concern. If the Prince managed to bond the sword to him at the top of Ramiel, there was no telling what power Kallon could wield against the Night Court. With the supposed support of Enalius behind him combined with the swelling anger of his Illyrian supporters, Kallon might finally be able to take that mighty, arrogant step forward and invoke a civil war. 

So, even though there was so much swilling around inside of Cassian’s head and inside of his gut, Cassian had done what any general would do. He’d opened his mind, reached out into the ether for his brother and called for an informal council back in Windhaven. And then, despite the elusive and ever-moving tangle of emotions, Cassian winnowed himself, Nesta and Sala back to the camp he’d grown up in.

They’d landed clumsily, stumbling and righting themselves atop the main dirt path that ran through the camp.

Illyrians whisked past them, giving them a wide birth when they realised exactly who they intended to mow over. It took Cassian a few seconds for his instincts to reestablish themselves, and then he was tugging Nesta off of the road and out of harm’s way.

Windhaven looked as it always did, both beautiful and harsh. The usual clash of steel rang around them, partnered with the clang of cast iron pots over campfires and the beating of wings. On both sides, past the war tents and the scarce wooden houses, were the walls of the craggy mountains. They staggered upwards, past the needles of the pine trees until they met the sky. 

To their right, against the rare clear blue, the tombstone rock that marked the old widows camp was a harsh foreboding of grey.

Cassian wondered how the weather dared to be so cheerful when he felt like the world had been ripped out from beneath his feet. 

“I’m not used to winnowing,” Cassian apologised, his words hoarse against the dryness in his throat. His head felt light-headed, as if he’d left some of the weight of it behind.

Nesta didn’t lift her eyes to him. Instead, she straightened, the column of her spine climbing, her shoulder rounding back until she was set in her usual formidable posture. Then, she tracked her gaze around the camp, cataloguing every movement despite the bright sunshine threatening to blind her vision.  

“We’re here,” Nesta replied simply. Her voice also sounded diaphanous, but whilst Cassian felt as if a part of him was still in the forest, he knew that Nesta was caught somewhere in the future. 

It had been that way since she’d arrived back from the Lake. There was a determination that had set inside of her, a clear direction in which she was resolutely headed.

But whilst Cassian could sense the drive inside of her, outwardly Nesta merely lifted a hand to create a makeshift canopy across her brow, blocking out the sunlight. “Go on ahead, Sala,” she commanded. “Let Mas know we’re coming.”

The manticore didn’t need telling twice. Sala vaulted into movement, the fire from her tail blazing silver, a disappearing beacon that Nesta and Cassian didn’t hesitate to track. 

They set a punishing pace. Clouds of steam billowed in front of them. The morning frost had long since thawed from the hardened earth and mud slicked and squelched at their boots. But finally the bungalow took shape against the mud and the rocks.

Home. They were home. And it looked so perfectly picturesque that Cassian’s throat burned. Because everything that was happening threatened to destroy it. His life, finally right, stacked as precariously as a house of cards. One breath of wind, one wrong turn, and it could all collapse in on itself.

That, Cassian supposed, was the problem with happiness. Ever fragile and transient. Slivers of time, fragments of moments, rather than something permanent and steady.

Cassian hadn’t realised he’d come to a standstill until Nesta said his name. “Look,” she said, but there was something imploring about the way she ordered him, as if she knew the direction of his thoughts and wanted to divert him from the truth of it.

And, because Cassian needed to be distracted, he looked.

Mas stood on the stone step at the front door. Her wings were held proudly behind her back, her thick, dark hair ruffled by the wind. Her grin was toothy and wide, her expression pleased. And at her feet, clinging to her legs, was Roksana. 

“Sinta,” Mas said in greeting as they climbed the few steps that staggered to the door. She clapped Cassian’s face between with her palms and peered into his face in a way that made his chest tighten, as if someone was fisting his heart. Hazel eyes skated over him and what Mas read in his expression had her recoiling slightly. Cassian could have sworn a light winked out in the depths of her irises. 

He knew he must look a state. Whilst his body had healed from his fall from the sky, he was still covered in mud and pine needles and only the Old Gods knew what else.  

For a few heartbeats, Mas just studied him. The concern on her face was indisputable, but in the end, all she said was the blatant truth. “You are tired.”

For a second—just a second—Cassian allowed his eyes to close. He leant into Mas’ touch. She had been his mother in so many ways, had loved him irrevocably, filling the empty space in his heart that longed to have someone care for him in the way mothers did. “Just a little,” he admitted, even if it was a lie. Now he’d had a moment to stop, his exhaustion was so weighted his limbs felt like lead. 

Understanding deepened in Mas’ expression. She stepped back slightly, giving him space. Her head tilted slightly to the side. She glanced sideways at Nesta and then back to him. “You have had bad news?”

“Some,” Cassian admitted, because he couldn’t begin to explain, not even to her. Not even to his brothers. 

But Mas didn’t push him to explain. She only patted his forearm before she rested a hand on Nesta’s arm. “Come inside and sit by the fire, both of you. Roksana and I will bring you chai.” 

Now, Cassian sat with a drained mug cupped in his hands that Roksana had masterfully skimmed over the floor to hand it to him - the obvious skill a credit to Lorrian’s regular flying lessons — and waited for Nesta to reply to his brother. 

“My trip beneath the Lake was enlightening,” Nesta told Rhys in that way that was so Nesta—so artfully worded. “From what I’ve learnt, it’s clear that Kallon has been planning this long before he called to vote the suspension of the Rite. Ramiel has always been his back up plan, when all else failed.”

Nesta paused, her fingers closing around Cassian’s shoulder, asking his permission. So far, Nesta had purposely evaded Rhys’s assumption that she had met with the Seer of the Sage below the Lake of Souls. But now there was no avoiding it, the truth had to come out, and Nesta knew that Cassian couldn’t look his family in the eyes and tell them about his mother. 

Cassian did not turn his head. He didn’t nod or say anything. But something unravelled slightly in his chest, the barest of movements, like gears slipping before they locked back into place. 

Nesta took a measured breath. 

“There’s more,” she announced to the room. 

Cassian felt the peak in interest, the weight of everyone’s attention but he fixated his gaze on the threads of the carpet, on the individual fibres and didn’t look up. He couldn’t.

And then Nesta told them.

She explained how she’d not met the Seer of the Sage, but the real Maya—the twin and mother who had fled to Spearhead pregnant in the face of a Prophecy. The twin who had raised her youngling away from prying eyes, hoping that he could be better than other Illyrian males. 

When Nesta’s voice fell away, a stung silence followed.  

“So, Maya is not Maya,” Feyre said, eventually. Cassian imagined her eyes darting to him, but he remained hunched over on the couch, his elbows propped up on his knees.

The words fell into the quiet, sinking like a stone plummeting through water. 

It took Cassian too long to understand that they were respectfully waiting to see if he might speak. 

Cassian clasped his hands together, watching the way the tendons at his knuckles strained, the blood squeezed out until they were bone white. His siphons caught the light from the movement, the log burner blazing in the gems’ reflection, creating the illusion of a wet well of blood.

His lips flattened, the muscle in his cheek ticked before it disappeared completely. Cassian knew he was taking too long to answer, but he felt as if he were mute. “No,” he said eventually, his tongue thick, his speech slow even though he’d only spoken one word.

And that was all he said. His throat clogged up again, his ability to speak locked away, the key tucked into some secret pocket inside of himself that even Cassian wasn’t aware of.  

He hadn’t known he’d be like this—so silent. His body had decided for him, his slowly processing mind shutting everything down. Perhaps it was trauma of some kind, a delayed reaction that had everything in him grinding to a halt. His past had been cracked open and laid bare for everyone to pick at and Cassian wanted to hoard the truth of his mother, of his lineage, as fiercely as Amren guarded her jewellery.

Cassian had still not reconciled that the female living in his countryside cottage on the outskirts of Velaris was not just someone they had rescued from Ironcrest. She was his aunt, his mother’s twin, and her real name was not Maya, but Lyanne. 

As if sensing the knot of his thoughts, Roksana crawled across the carpet from where she’d been sitting close to Lorrian and Frawley and came to sit at his feet. 

“Lyanne was protecting her sister,” Nesta announced in wake of Cassian’s silence. “She can’t be blamed for keeping the oath to her twin.”

“Of course not,” Rhys cut in smoothly and Cassian felt his brothers violet eyes searing into his skin, felt the lightest touch of a claw raking down his mental shields. “I would do the same for my brothers—for anyone I consider to be family.” 

Cassian knew that was true. He, himself, would do the same for Azriel and Rhys. For Mor and Amren. For Feyre—for any members of his family—without a second thought. 

And Lyanne had sacrificed so much to ensure that everyone believed her twin to be dead. She had faked her own death and taken on the identity of her sister so convincingly that nobody suspected that she was not Maya. She had watched the male she had loved grieve for her even though she’d been right in front of him all along. And it was Marsh’s grief which had been the greatest distraction of all. It had stopped him looking too closely, had stopped him from realising that the wife he’d loved had not been unfaithful and burnt to death but had been living alongside him masked as someone else.

It was that mask which had acted as a constant reminder to Marsh of the wife he had lost. To Marsh, Maya had become an object of hate. She was the wrong twin: his brother’s widow had lived and she was the spitting image of the wife Marsh believed he had lost.

But he’d bedded her anyway. And in all that time, he’d never grasped that the wool had been pulled over his eyes. 

It made Cassian question how deeply Marsh’s love had really run.

If Nesta had an identical twin, Cassian could never mistake the two. He knew Nesta, down to his bones. Down to the cavern within himself where even now, her name still whispered like a secret that only he and Nesta understood. Nesta, Nesta, Nesta—

As if his innermost thoughts called to her, Nesta’s fingers fastened even tighter on Cassian’s shoulder.

“It makes sense.” Azriel’s voice cut through the sigh of Nesta’s name. As always, the Shadowsinger’s voice was chilling—not awful but the soft caress of midnight clouds passing over stars, the coolness of shadows seeping into your skin, dew on the grass sinking through your boots. “We’ve been wondering why Kallon hasn’t been acting, why no more females have been sacrificed in his attempt to bond the blade. Illyrian magic is amplified over the Rite.”

Cassian knew Azriel had directed the conversation purposefully, shifting the focus away from Cassian’s family history. His mother.

He and Rhys knew better than anyone that Cassian had mourned his mother. Since the moment he’d been torn from her and thrown into the Windhaven camp, Cassian had grieved for a female that memory had finally eaten away at, until she was nothing but the barest of fragments.

“It’s a sacred time,” Rhys admitted slowly—carefully. Cassian could still feel Rhys’ gaze on him, but he didn’t look up. Instead, he rested a scarred hand on the tangle of Roksana’s wind-tossed hair. The youngling didn’t shrug him off, she only nestled closer until she was tucked in the valley between his legs, her wings resting against the sofa. 

“And Ramiel can only be accessed tomorrow?” Feyre interjected. “If Kallon wanted to attempt to bond the blade by dark magic, then he’d have the best luck there?”

“It was Maya’s belief that the immense power found on Ramiel could be used to amplify the magic Kallon would need to bond the sword to him,” Nesta confirmed. “And Cassian and I have discussed it at length. Everything adds up. We believe that Kallon visited the Seer of the Sage to try and confirm his belief that he could bond the blade at Ramiel. And whilst we don’t know what the Seer of the Sage told him, we know for a fact that the Blood Rite isn’t just a time for Illyrians to gain status, it’s the anniversary of the thirty-third day of the battle against Vanth. Oya and Enalius defeated Vanth atop Ramiel’s summit and if the sword originally belonged to Enalius, where better to sacrifice the females than—”

“—atop Gods-blessed ground,” Rhys finished, the cadence of his words slow and stretched out as the realisation hit him. “And Kallon has sole access to it.”

There was a breath of silence, short and fleeting, and then Rhys was interrupting it with an abruptness that mimicked the change in his entire countenance. No longer was he their brother, he was the High Lord of the Night Court ready to defend his territory and brimming with power. 

It made Cassian look up.

“How successful will Kallon be if he attempts to use dark magic, complete the sacrifice and bond himself to the sword?”

Rhys’s gaze had pinned itself on the pale witch sitting in the corner of the couch, a blanket draped over her knees. 

As petite as she was, Frawley’s very existence had a way of commanding a room. It was like a tug at the periphery of your senses, like prey sensing something other.

Frawley didn’t so much as move but Cassian felt her authoritative presence expand into the room, until she was larger than life, even whilst she sat small in frame in the corner of the couch.

It was a while until the witch spoke up, her voice scratchy and beat up in a way that told Cassian that she hadn’t yet recovered from her trip to the Lake with Nesta. It gave Frawley’s voice an eerie, prophetic quality.

“Dark magic exists to attempt the unnatural, Rhysand, you know that.” Frawley laid out her palms, as if there was a story unfolding in the centre of them. The rest of her body was so still it was almost as if she had been frozen in place. Only her lips moved and whilst her eyes remained directed at Rhys, they blazed with focus, one burning hot, the other cold. 

“In the past,” Frawley began, “dark magic has been used to bend original intention and force the intended direction of power against its will. And sometimes it has worked, whilst other times it has caused great devastation in its failure. Dark magic is rarely ever permanent.” Now Frawley’s frosty blue eye snapped in Cassian’s direction, to the female standing guard at his shoulder. “As I’ve taught Nesta, magic feeds off sacrifice and eventually, it will get hungry.”

The static quality to Frawley disintegrated as she leant forward, her focus back on Rhys. “So, Kallon might be successful in bonding the blade to him but it will only be for a time. And when the blade begins to fade again, when its magic starts to flicker like a dying star, what will he sacrifice then? How will he maintain his facade?”

Nesta’s voice cut in without hesitation. “A sacrifice will become a ritual.”

“Yes,” Frawley agreed, her voice dropping out of its rasp to something hushed and undulating. A teacher praising their student, not in a condescending way, but in the way of two people being on the same wavelength. The witch and the Made.

For a short time, Nesta and Frawley looked at one another, but then Frawley’s hazel eye slid to Cassian. It felt like a touch, like something burning, and Cassian knew that Frawley would dare to tread where noone else would. “Yet whilst that is a problem in itself, we also need to consider that Kallon might want to keep the sword bonded to him not only for the sake of status and the support of the Rebellion, but due to his increased strength.” Frawley’s brown eye swivelled to Azriel, whilst the blue remained on Cassian. “You noted at Ironcrest that the Princeling’s power had grown to earn him a fourth siphon in the training ring—weeks after he’d acquired the sword—did you not, Shadowsinger?”

Azriel’s cold hazel eyes barely moved yet somehow they met Frawley’s. “I have it from multiple sources.”

And, as Frawley knew it would, it was the new direction of conversation which instinctively loosened the noose around Cassian’s throat, the one trapping his speech. Because just like Rhys had slipped from brother to High Lord, when it came to a question of power - of strength on the battlefield - Cassian couldn’t help but fall into his role of general of the Night Court’s armies.

Cassian’s voice was terse. “Kallon comes from a lord’s bloodline. His Killing Power is still reaching maturity. The growth in his power could be entirely unconnected to the sword, especially given that the blade disappears when he tries to wield it.”

“But what if it’s a byproduct of both?” Feyre asked quietly, tentatively treading down the path they all knew they needed to head down. 

Unsurprisingly, Rhys agreed. “That’s a good question, Feyre darling.” 

Rhys leant casually against the mantlepiece but Cassian was not fooled by the illusion of calm. Cassian knew that despite his best efforts, Rhys had read Cassian’s body language down to a tee. And whilst Rhys knew how close Cassian was to snapping, he still asked, “Remind me, brother. How many training siphons were you using at the age of twenty-four?” 

A growl coalesced in Cassian’s throat. Six. He’d had six siphons at the age of twenty-four and Rhys damn well knew that. “Don’t ask questions you know the answer to,” he replied shortly.

Seemingly unfazed, Rhys merely shrugged. “If Maya is your mother, then you and Kallon share the same blood. If, like you, his genetics have provided him with a large amount of Killing Power and Enalius’s sword grants him even more, he could potentially harness magic that makes him the most powerful full-blooded Illyrian in history.”

“If you combine a Prince’s status with an impressive amount of Killing Power and a fully-bonded sword, you’ll have a hard time convincing the Illyrians that Kallon isn’t God-given flesh,” Azriel added. And if Cassian hadn’t been bristling at how blasé everyone was being with his heritage, he would have been surprised to detect something dark in his brother’s voice, as pitch as the shadows curling around his ears. 

“And that there is both the key and the danger,” Frawley announced, lifting a finger before Cassian could even open his mouth to interject. The witch settled back into the cushions, as if their understanding meant that she could now rest. “Cassian and Kallon share the same blood. They are cousins. It is possible that the reason that the sword showed itself to Kallon is because the sword recognised the bloodline.”

“But,” Frawley continued with an abrupt finger, ignoring the way Cassian had finally straightened up, his expression black, “I’d wager that Kallon’s blood isn’t quite right. It’s not the blood the prophecy foresaw, so the blade disappears when he tries to use it.”

Feyre straightened up from where she was sitting across from Cassian, her palms pressed together between her knees. “If the blood isn’t quite right, how will Kallon successfully bond it to him?”

Frawley observed Feyre unflinchingly. “Dark magic twists and turns the intention of normal magic. That shared blood connection could be the very thing that allows Kallon to bend the sword to his will.”

Then, her eye swivelled to Nesta before she even spoke. “Maya thought that the sword might be using Kallon as an avenue.”

Cassian stopped feeling affronted about the way everyone was talking about him with a suddenness that was jarring. His heart had given an awful, adrenaline-fuelled thump.

“Smart female,” Frawley remarked with a dip of her chin.

“So you think she’s right?”

“Do you?”

Cassian didn’t need to look at Nesta to know that she was raising her chin. “I think that Kallon was never the intended end recipient of the sword.”

Rhys nodded. “I think we all hope that to be the case.”

Quiet hung around them for a pause, suspended like stars in a night sky. And Cassian couldn’t bear the pregnancy of it. He knew where the conversation was leading, what everyone around him had likely come to the conclusion of given his heritage. 

Even he and Nesta hadn’t touched upon it. But just as he opened his mouth to say something,  anything to break the awful suspense-filled silence, Nesta was speaking again. “Even so, Maya warned me that prophecy is not guaranteed truth, but an alignment in the stars that can rearrange themselves into a new orbit at any time. Allegiances can change.”

Feyre was following along, her chin bobbing, her eyes knowing and… old, somehow. It was something Cassian hadn’t seen in Feyre for a long while, but when he did, it was usually at times like this — when they all came together to discuss politics and enemies.“If that’s true, then we have to consider the possibility that the sacrifice might result in the sword acknowledging Kallon as its master?”

For a few breaths, Feyre’s question hung above them like a canopy of stars.

Slowly, all eyes turned to Frawley.

“It’s possible,” Frawley contemplated slowly. She lay out her palms again but the gesture was not unsure. Instead, it was as if the lines and creases on her palms were a map of constellations. A foretelling of what was to come. 

When Frawley looked up, both irises were glowing. And Cassian knew from the moment that her eyes hooked on his what the witch was going to say and that he wasn’t going to like it. “Kallon is not the only one who has the bloodline.”

The heat of everyone else’s attention was scorching, but Cassian didn’t back down from Frawley’s challenge. Even if under the surface he was thrashing like an animal caught in a trap.

Star-born. They thought he was star-born. 

The statement was so direct and so blunt that it would have pierced like an arrow if Cassian hadn’t mustered every ounce of warrior training into deflecting it. 

Cassian imagined Frawley’s words skittering off of him, the metal of the arrow head crumpling rather than piercing as Frawley leant forward and asked, “When you were in Ironcrest, did you touch the blade?”

Internally, deep down inside the impenetrable fort Cassian had built for himself, he bristled. But outwardly he didn’t allow himself to so much as blink. Even his wings remained motionless and expressionless, tucked in tight. 

Nesta’s hands tightened on his shoulder, just a fraction, and the movement felt as if she’d taken the brunt of the attack for him. 

Cassian fought the instinct to clench his jaw. “You know I didn’t.”

“But you felt its aura, didn’t you?” Frawley probed. 

“It would have been hard not to,” Cassian replied curtly, because it was true. 

“Your siphons winked,” Lorrian remarked. He’d remained quiet until now, his mouth set in a grim line, but now he spoke up, voicing what Cassian had already admitted to himself but had not spoken aloud. “And the gem at your chest. It lit up like a beating heart. I didn’t think think much of it at the time, I assumed it was because you have more siphons than the lot of us, but perhaps the sword was calling to you.”

Cassian thought of that moment. Everyone had felt the power of the sword in that room. They’d all known, undoubtedly, that it had been Enalius’. Nobody had disputed it, even before Frawley had confirmed what they all knew. 

He forced his voice to come out calm and steady. He knew where this conversation was leading and he wished they’d all just say it, speak their conclusion out loud so they could put a damn plan in place. “The sword called to all of us. Power thrummed off of it in waves. It was indisputable."

That, at least, was true. At the time, Cassian’s blood had howled, battering against his skin as it tried to beat its way out of him.

But had Cassian truly felt the sword’s power more keenly than the others? He’d not thought anything of it at the time. Lorrian had described the sensation as odd, but to Cassian it had felt like a rush of adrenaline, a calling. It had felt, Cassian realised, the exact same way as when he’d first met Nesta. As if something had turned over inside of him, flipping to the other side of a coin. 

His skin had itched for hours afterwards. His magic had moved inside of him like a restless tide, his power desperate to surge, on edge and ready to expel itself in a way that Cassian knew would have been relentless.

Cassian had attributed that to his proximity to Nesta, to the stress of their situation as they walked the precarious tightrope during their time in Ironcrest. They’d shared a room that night. They’d exchanged heated and angry words. They’d argued about Mor, about the war. About the bond between them, even though they hadn’t addressed it directly.

And all of that seemed so long ago. So much had passed since then. A bond had been accepted. 

And it had been broken. 

“My mother,” Cassian announced slowly, “told Nesta what we already know. The prophecy is a prediction, not a clear glimpse at destiny. We can’t fly headfirst into a plan that relies on me being—“

“—Starborn?” Frawley finished.

The word made Cassian’s stomach knot. And it almost bordered on humorous that Cassian had spent his entire life searching for answers about his mother, about where he came from, only to discover that he was linked to an ancestry that he despised. 

For years, Cassian had searched Illyria. He’d destroyed Spearhead camp and the males who were complicit in his mother’s death looking for answers. But now he was confronted with the truth of his past, he found that it was not how he’d imagined. 

All Cassian had ever wanted growing up were people that he could call his own and who would accept him for him. People who would recognise his worth not for the siphons on his hands, chest, knees and arms, but for who he was inside.

It turned out that Cassian had living cousins, an aunt, maybe even a father. He’d spent the first half of his life abandoned and so lonely it had ached inside of him, weaving into his blood until it became a part of his identity as a bastard. He’d never been able to shake off that feeling.

It was only Nesta who had eased that ache, like a palm smoothing over a brow. When her arms were banded around his neck, her nose in his hair, nothing else seemed to matter.

A sword would do nothing for Cassian. He had long learned that his race’s begrudging acceptance of him was due to the Killing Power in his veins and his ability on the battlefield. And it had never made it easier to bear the sneers and the derisive comments. Because at the crux of it, Cassian would always be one thing to them: a bastard.

Yet, Cassian knew that his mother had taken a great risk when she had fled from Ironcrest. But she had done it because if the prophecy had turned out to be true then the child growing inside of her was destined to be star-born. And Cassian’s mother had wanted her child to grow up fighting for what was right. If her child was destined for the sword, she wanted it to be wielded by someone good.

But Cassian couldn’t help but wish that there didn’t need to be a sword at all. 

“We are going to stop Kallon,” Cassian announced, grim resolution in his voice as he redirected the conversation where it needed to be—to the issue at hand. “Before he even gets to the top of Ramiel, we’re going to stop him. We are going to confiscate the damn sword and then we’re going to decide what to do with it. Wield impenetrable wards around it, just like we’ve done for the Cauldron.”

“And what if you have to intercept it?” Frawley pushed. 

“I am a warrior,” Cassian replied tersely. His jaw felt tight, his wings were tucked in so tightly his muscles ached with the effort of restraint. “I will always do my duty.”

“Do you know how it works?” Nesta asked from behind him. “If someone worthy was to touch the sword, would it immediately bond to them?”

Frawley’s head tilted to the side, her hair moving with the gesture. “If legend is to be believed, then yes. For the true intended recipient, there will be no need for dark magic. But we must also consider that the sword may be broken.”

“Broken?”

“The gem is missing on the guard,” Frawley reminded them. “Enalius might have wielded the blade to defeat Vanth, but it was Oya who forged the sword from her own blood and bone. Without that gem, we must consider that the reason that sword might not be bonding to Kallon isn’t because he’s not worthy, but because the sword is damaged.”

“And from her chest she drew a blade / Bloodied steel and amplified rage / Bone of a prison,

the scarlet of sacrifice / A sword to banish immoral greed,” Nesta whispered. “Heroicis.”

“Yes,” Frawley confirmed sinisterly. “Roksana, can you fetch us the book?”

Thrilled to be useful, Roksana scooted over to the shelves and then made in Frawley’s direction, the brown leather-bound book too big her small hands. But Frawley shook her head. “Give it to Cassian, please Roksana. It’s his, after all.”

The leather was soft and supple as it always was—worn from hours and hours of perusal. 

His mother had touched this book, Cassian thought, as he stared at the cover. He’d known that all along, but to have a piece of her now, after Nesta had so recently met with her, had a lump forming in his throat. 

He opened the front cover, his eyes trying not to fall upon her writing inscribed on the inside of it, even though he knew the words by heart—warrior heart, never forget that you are loved—and turned to the drawing that he’d stared at countless times. He knew it like the back of his hand. When he couldn’t read, this is what he’d stared at. This line drawing with the arced blade and the curved pommel which he knew to be bone, not just because of the Heroicis’ stanza, but because he’d seen it in real life. 

“The gem was definitely missing from the sword in Ironcrest,” Cassian confirmed. He held the book up and tapped at the drawing so everyone could see it. “The handle was cracked, too.”

“Expected from centuries of existence,” Frawley replied matter-of-factly.

“But does Kallon know the jewel is missing?” Nesta asked. “And is the sword not bonding to him because the jewel is missing or because he’s not the intended wielder?”

“If we don’t stop the sacrifice we’ll find out,” Frawley said gravely.

Cassian’s jaw tensed as his brain worked overtime and came to the conclusion that he was sure Frawley had already drawn. “Blood. You think the females’ blood might restore the jewel, just as Oya used her blood and bone to create the sword.”

“What I think,” Frawley replied sternly, “is that dark magic might have the capability of manipulating the girls’ blood so the blade accepts it as a substitute of Oya’s.”

“We can’t let that happen,” Nesta said shortly. She looked to Azriel. “What do your shadows whisper to you? Have your spies tracked Kallon’s movements?”

“We believe that he remains at Ironcrest.”

Cassian knew what that meant. “What you mean is that nobody has seen him leave,” he said grimly.

Because Kallon could winnow - any Illyrian could the day before the Rite. 

Azriel remained still as always, his expression unreadable. But his shadows coiled around his ears. “Yes.”

Lorrian’s eyes darkened. “How many people have you got watching him at his residence?”

“Enough,” Azriel replied. “But he could winnow from within his rooms. My spies are excellent, but they can’t follow him there.”

Cassian heard the urgent bite in Nesta’s tone. “He could winnow himself to the base of Ramiel and your spies could be none the wiser for hours.”

Longer than that, Cassian thought. But he didn’t see the point in highlighting the obvious. 

“So, what do we do?” Feyre said. 

“We need warriors patrolling the skies and on the ground around Ramiel,” Cassian said brusquely.“Kallon can’t winnow directly to the summit until tomorrow. If we can pin down his location now then we can catch him before he has the opportunity to act.”

“I can look to deploy some Windhaven warriors that I believe we can trust,” Cassian continued, falling back into the role of general. Already his mind was sifting through the male faces that he ordered about during training, remembering which males stood out from the crowd. Loyal males that he knew didn’t follow the Rebellion and would have his back in battle. 

“How many?” Lorrian asked. “Mallory, Andreas and Protheus stand out from the aerial unit,” Lorrian said. “They’re quiet flyers, excellent at keeping out of sight, but I don’t know where their loyalties lie.”

“We can’t take risks,” Rhys said. “If any of those males are loyal to Kallon then we risk everything—”

“The widows will fight.”

Everyone turned.

Mas stood in the left-hand archway that led to the kitchen, a dishtowel in her hands. She was only looking at Cassian, as if to her, there was noone else. “We are not much, but we are loyal. And we will fight for you.”

***

The soapy water in the sink was so hot it was scalding, but the scream of Cassian’s nerve endings felt like a balm somehow - a silent expression of something that he could not express outwardly but wanted his body to scream all the same.

“That is not your job.”

A voice came from behind him. A familiar one. A motherly one. It held the sort of understanding that came from someone who knew him very well. From someone who saw it as their duty to analyse someone in the way that only family could. When they knew his every tick, the thoughts running through his head, without even glimpsing his face.

Mas drew up beside him, a tea towel in hand. “And by the looks of it, it’s not one that you’re good at either."

She ushered him aside to the draining board, until he had switched places with her and her hands were submerged in the suds. Silently, she handed him the cloth and he took it, because whilst he might lead the Night Court’s armies, he’d handed over the duties of the bungalow to her.

“You are angry with me,” Mas observed after a silence that stretched out taut and thin. She handed him one of the mugs the colour of Nesta’s eyes and Cassian took it, stuffing it with the cloth and twisting the fabric to dry the inside.

He did not look at her. “I’m concerned for your safety.”

The clink of porcelain promptly stopped and Cassian knew that if he cut his gaze to the housekeeper he’d not find Mas glaring at him, just simply watching him.

It took him too many heartbeats to summon the courage, but when he did turn his head to meet her eyes, she was waiting for him. Her expression was one of steady earnest, burnished with silent understanding.

But she did not back down. Instead, she gripped the top of his hand. Her skin was chapped and rough, forever weathered from her years as a laundress, but her grip was strong. Insistent. Her voice soft. “This is what the training has been for, has it not? We are learning to protect ourselves, to stand up when a threat rises against us. We might not be much, but we will fight for you.”

With slow deliberation, Cassian set down the mug onto the draining board. Then he closed his palm over the top of hers and let the barricades he’d constructed fall away so she could see his true expression.

All the worry. For her. For Nesta. For all of the Illyrians who would be harmed as a result of Kallon—his cousin.

When Cassian spoke, he heard the crack in his voice, the roughness around the edges before he exposed the soft and vulnerable middle. “You are much,” Cassian told her with quiet vehemence, “but nothing prepares you for using the sword. For battle. You saw Nesta. She’s the strongest fae I’ve ever met and Hybern haunts her even now.”

A shadow passed over Mas’s irises, but she straightened, an invisible hand of courage supporting her. And Cassian supposed he’d nurtured that hand. Since the moment he’d met her, he’d wanted to teach Mas to defend herself so she could walk with confidence. And now here she was, small yet tall before him.

“You forget I have seen battle fatigue, sinta,” Mas told him. “I have seen battlegrounds—I’ve been a part of them.” 

The skin around Cassian’s mouth tightened, bracketing his mouth like a grim smile. Because Mas was wrong on that count. He would never forget the day of the kerit attacks. He would never forget Mas’s body on the ground, her blood. He would never forget Nesta kneeling beside her, wreathed in the purest of light as she knitted the torn flesh back together. As she healed long brutalised wings. 

“Nesta saved me,” Mas continued, her voice resolutely soft in its purpose but determined all the same. “She brought me back for another life and I intend to fight for that life. For you. For Nesta. For everyone who has ever suffered under our own people. For a better life.”

Her words fell away and into more silence. Mas retracted her hands and reached back into the suds, her fingers slipping against cutlery which clattered against the sink. Eventually, she drew out a teaspoon and began to methodically clean it before she extended it out to him without glancing away from her task. 

Cassian found that he was relieved. To look at Mas now would mean to memorise every inch of her face, terrified that he’d not have the chance to study it again. He’d already begun to do it with Nesta without meaning to, his mind whispering its own cruel prophecy. 

“You saved me, too,” Mas continued into the grim yet resigned silence Cassian had woven himself into. “When we met, I was beaten down. I was so small and insubstantial, the wind could have just tossed me away. Do you remember?”

Now, Cassian forced himself to look at her. He felt his brow collapse in on itself, his eyes felt as if they might melt with the emotion—with the memory. “Of course I do,” he rasped through the chokehold in his throat. 

Because of course he did.

It had been a particularly icy day in November that Cassian had flown to Empyr’s monthly market. He’d braved the trip in frozen temperatures to order some specialised steel with a travelling Illyrian blacksmith and afterwards, he’d stopped at one of the many stalls to buy some food before he hit the skies back to Windhaven.

Cassian had been leaning against his chosen food stall polishing off a pastry when he’d noticed a small female in the long queue. Her clothes were clean but, like most Illyrians, they’d seen better days. Yet, it had been the black eye that had snagged Cassian’s attention. Hunched over and hobbling, Cassian guessed that the female was suffering from cracked ribs that had yet to heal properly. 

And from the look of her cracked and bleeding hands? Laundress. Definitely a laundress.

As it always did when Cassian forced himself to truly look at the Illyrian females around him, Cassian’s heart panged, as if someone had plucked a sad and melancholy string inside of him. The female had looked so small—not just in height, but in presence. She was a ghost, wraithlike, folding herself up, allowing the males to go ahead of her, head bent, timid and forgettable.

By most Illyrian standards, she was the perfect female.

It had taken her a while to make some headway in the line. And the entire time, Cassian had watched her, unsure why he was so transfixed by her progress—until it happened. 

Throughout Cassian’s life, he had learnt that good things happened because you brought them about yourself. Through blood, sweat and tears. Through fighting tooth and nail to survive and then to thrive. But sometimes, on a rare occasion, Cassian believed in destiny. He believed people could step right out in front of you, people who would change your life because the Gods had destined it so, if only you’d seize the reigns. 

Cassian had sensed it when Rhys had found him in his draughty and battered tent in the middle of the night. He’d felt it the moment he’d lain eyes on Azriel, even if he and Rhys had made it as hard as possible for the Shadowsinger at first. Later, he would believe it of himself and Nesta. From the very moment he’d set eyes on her in the human realm, he’d felt that flutter in his gut, some magnetism pulling them together. 

And Cassian had felt it then in Empyr as he watched a female that he’d later learn went by the name of Masak give her meagre coin away just so a little girl could eat. 

The little girl had snatched up the pastry as if she couldn’t believe what was happening to her. And then, fearful that it was too good to be true, had taken off, half-flying half-running across the frozen ground, across the bridges, until she disappeared into the woodland and was gone. 

Mas had watched the girl disappear with a look that was both heartbroken and rueful. But before she could turn away from the line, Cassian had found himself moving. 

A heavy, deliberate clunk had sounded as Cassian placed two small coins on the wooden counter. “Four more pastries, please.”

The Illyrian male behind the counter froze. Cassian had watched him sneer down at the youngling, ready to snap at her to scarper. And when he’d not been able to emit his anger, Cassian had known it was coming for the Illyrian female next in line. 

But Cassian’s face was known all over Illyria. Even if he hadn’t been sporting his siphons that adorned the backs of his hands, his knees, his shoulders, his chest… the Illyrian community knew the face of the General of the Night Court’s armies.

“And some chai,” Cassian added firmly, as he remembered how the female had eyed the cauldron bubbling gently away behind the counter. “Two cups.”

The male’s lips drew back for a second, as if he couldn’t stamp out the instinct to show his disgust at the female before him, before his expression was wrangled under control. “Anything else, General?”

“Not from you,” Cassian rebuffed coldly, the instruction in his voice the sort he used on the battlefield rather than with friends. Then, he’d turned to Mas. 

When his eyes had met hers, she had taken a small step back. Then another. 

When he held up the pastries and the cup of chai, she actually flinched. Stepped even farther away from him, jostling accidentally into some a male who sneered in disgust—as if she was dirty.

And in that moment, Cassian chose to do what he did best. He read his opponent.

The female before him knew who he was. Knew the control he had in Illyria. She was a low-born female who had been brought into the world to serve the male species. She would not dare disobey him and he… wanted to speak to her. Needed to.

The tug in his gut instructed him to.

So, he kept his voice deep and commanding. “Come with me.”

For a moment, he thought he’d read Mas wrong. That she might bolt. Her eyes darted around her but when she remained on the spot, when she fleetingly dared to meet his eyes, Cassian knew that her hunger was great enough that it won over her fear of him. And he could scent the latter on her, the tang of it so sharp, it could cut. It didn’t matter that he wouldn’t use the weapon on him—none of the males who came to Empyr would use their weapons out of respect for the sacred site—every Illyrian female was raised to fear the fist just as much as the edge of a blade. 

Cassian had walked over bridges with water running steadfast beneath him. The air at Empyr was always heavy with the tantalising scent of food, the finest sort of mist, and the slap and roar of cascading water against rock. 

When he reached a wide clearing in the woodland that closed around the lip of the valley, Cassian stopped. 

There, he set down the food and drinks on a rock and took a few steps back. His senses told him that Mas had kept to the trees that hugged the open space, but he gestured to the pastries anyway. 

“Please,” he said. “Eat. Drink.”

Mas remained silent. She didn’t move, but her eyes darted to the food before they snapped back to him. The bruise around her eye socket was still black and purple—fresh, rather than old. A fae body should have healed her by now. And if she wasn’t healing? She hadn’t eaten for a long while.

So, Cassian told her straight. “Those injuries won’t heal if you don’t eat.” Pine needles crunched under his weight as he sat down on the cool earth and began to eat one of the pastries he’d kept in hand.

Slowly, he ate. Slowly, he drank his chai. 

Patiently, he waited. 

Eventually, Mas crept over to the food. Snatched at a pastry before she backed away to the trees again, far away from him. As if the pines would grant her safety. 

Finally, she ate. Small bites at first. Then huge ones, as if she hadn’t had a meal in days. In moments, the pastry was gone. 

Slowly, so as not to startle her, Cassian stood. Entreatingly, he held out a cup of chai to her. He did not dare her to look her in the eye. It was an olive branch—a sign of respect, a choice not to dominate and Cassian was certain Mas had never been granted that courtesy in her entire life. 

In fact, Cassian looked purposefully at his leather boots as he placed the cup on the ground between them, before he backed away. 

The winter wind ribboned around the clearing and Cassian scented roasted chestnuts and wood shavings beneath the dirt and grime of a fae body, heard the crunch of pine needles break as Mas chose to take the cup.

He felt her eyes on him the entire time she drank.

When she finished, Cassian gestured to the remaining pastries as he took another bite of his own. “Don’t let them waste.”

She didn’t.

When Mas was done, Cassian had formulated a plan. He knew what he was going to do and how he was going to go about it.

Gaze still averted, Cassian took a drag from his cup. The chai was too sweet and already lukewarm thanks to the punishing Illyrian weather, but he swallowed before he asked, “Where are you from?”

Mas stiffened, her fear spiking sharp. Yet, when she didn’t turn on her heel Cassian lifted his eyes.

It struck him that she was a small female by Illyrian standards, her dark hair thick yet cropped short, the ends hastily and unevenly cut in a way that made Cassian suspect it had, until very recently, been long. But it was her hazel eyes that haunted Cassian. They were dark in the only way someone’s irises could be when they’d witnessed too much.

When their eyes connected, Cassian found that there was something steadfast in Mas’ expression. It was not hope, more of bleak resolution. A female who had no choice but to run away from everything she’d known. 

Mas’s voice was scratchy, as if she hadn’t used it for days. Broken, as she spoke the dire truth Cassian had suspected, “I can’t go back.”

“I don’t imagine you should,” Cassian commented with a forced lightness that didn’t quite hit home. There was a grave quality frosting his voice that Cassian hadn’t managed to thaw out. And to be honest, he hadn’t wanted to. The way females were treated in Illyria? It was a crime. “I certainly won’t be taking you,” he added.

Mas’s lips parted. The bottom one was still red and swollen, but she managed to jam her mouth shut without a hitch of breath. It told Cassian that she was not unfamiliar with pain. 

A few beats passed before she spoke again. 

“Spearhead,” she admitted in a whisper. And Cassian knew that the fault in his voice had convinced her that he would not take her back there, because she affirmed more loudly, “That’s where I’ve come from.”

Just the mention of the camp had Cassian’s expression tightening. Yet, he made a show of brushing his hands together, ridding himself of the wayward flakes of pastry as he nodded slowly, processing the information. 

Then, he looked up at her. The bruises and scrapes were starting to heal, her body no doubt able to begin repairing itself now it had the energy to do so, but her wings—her clipped and brutalised wings—remained mangled. “And how did you get here?”

Clearly having noticed Cassian’s gaze, Mas tucked her wings in tight, away from view. “I paid someone to fly me.”

Cassian nodded again. The gesture seemed stupid and meaningless, but it gave him something to do. He knew better than anyone that paying someone to bite their tongue didn’t mean anything in Illyria. And the males at Spearhead? They gave Ironcrest a good run for their money when it came to cruelty. “And now? Where do you plan to travel to next?”

Mas didn’t say anything, but he could see behind her eyes that her thoughts had began to stampede. Cassian might have extended a kindness to her so far, but if she betrayed her next location—if she even had the money to move on—he could track her. He could report to whoever was looking for her where she planned to fly to. 

But, even so, Cassian could tell Mas had more pressing issues. If she had decided to leave her camp, she was running from something—or Cassian would guess, someone. And Illyrian males did not take the possession of their females lightly. They would hunt for eternity for something they believed to be theirs.

So, to go on the run? Mas either had no choice or she was formidably brave. 

And Cassian respected bravery, both on the battlefield and off of it.

“I’d hazard a guess that you’re out of funds,” Cassian commented, nodding to the empty wrappers and cups. “I’m in need of a housekeeper back in Windhaven. I travel often for work and I need someone to take care of the day-to-day running of the home: overseeing laundry, cooking, cleaning, tending to the fires. I can offer free accommodation and a good wage, but more importantly, I can offer you safety.”

For a long while, Mas remained in shocked silence. Her hazel eyes—which over time would shape into something soft and motherly when she looked at him—had been wary and confused.

“Why are you helping me?”

“Because you had barely any coin to your name but you gave your last pennies to a little girl who could not afford to eat,” Cassian told her. “Because this,” he gestured to her black eye and took a step closer to her, “is everything that is wrong with Illyria and you do not deserve it. Because you look like someone who has been beaten down and needs a new start. I can give that to you.”

“I might have deserved it.”

The words were so unexpected that Cassian wanted to blink. But he just stared her down, telling her with every second that passed that he didn’t believe her. Even if Mas had hurt someone, it was most likely in defence. If she’d made someone bleed, if she’d lashed out, Cassian was sure whoever who had received it had deserved it.

He raised an eyebrow. “That’s not true though, is it?”

“No,” Mas admitted after a moment. She had grown brave enough to study him a little and he knew she was attempting to read him, to catalogue his face. It seemed to be something instinctual that she’d been tamping down—a warrior instinct suppressed from birth but clawing to get out. “Don’t you want to know what I’m running from?”

Cassian lifted a shoulder. “Not if you don’t want to tell me.” He didn’t really need her to. He could hazard a pretty accurate guess: her husband. Not mate—a mate would never harm the one they were bonded with.

“You’ll be safe in my residence,” Cassian told her. “If you work for me, I can promise you protection. And I can absolutely promise that I’ll never lay a finger on you. What do you say—”

A hand fell on Cassian’s shoulder. The sensation jolted him back to his place in the kitchen and away from the past.

Beside him, Mas was shooting him a knowing look. Her face was so different from when they’d first met. It was clean and free of bruises. Her eyes rippled as if she’d too just come out of the memory of that winter day. 

“I’d lost all hope when we met,” Mas reminded him, even though it wasn’t needed. Cassian had just relived it, after all. “I had no faith in anyone around me. But you saw me, bruised and dirty, and you bought me food anyway. You offered me an honest job, the chance to live a different life. And I took a leap of faith and decided to trust you—”

“Because you were out of options,” Cassian interrupted in reminder. 

He handed her the towel he’d been using and offered it to her so she could dry her hands.

But Mas ignored it, focussed instead on their conversation. She tapped a wet finger over his heart and leant towards him. “Not because I was out of options. Because you were different from the other males. And in time, as I came to trust you, I learnt that you were simply kind and good.” Mas punctuated her next words with a pointed tap against his chest. “You. Saved. Me. And I will never forget that. I don’t want to.”

A thick hand seemed to clutch at Cassian’s throat. Suddenly, it was hard to speak, but somehow he managed. “It was my pleasure.”

Mas dried her hands on the towel before she patted his cheek to show she understood. But she wasn’t done. “You freed me from my husband, a life of abuse, sinta. And now I owe you. Let me do this. Let me fight for you.”

The words unravelled something bound tight within Cassian, unfurling faster and faster until his emotions were unbound and swimming.

“What I did is not something you are meant to repay,” he started, but he had to stop to swallow. To gather himself, to speak the truth that needed to get out. Because he knew that Mas had heard them talking earlier—about his past and his ancestry. Knew she finally understood. And he needed her to know. Wanted her to, despite the fact that his voice dropped into something both hushed and cracked—exposed. “But if that’s what you’re worried about. You already have. You’re the mother I never had.”

Mas smiled sadly. Her eyes had grown soft and shining. In that moment, they looked like butter melting in sunlight. It was a vast contrast to her eyes when they’d first met. Lost and scared. Now, there was nothing but truth reflected in her irises. Something simple and uncomplicated and true. “And you are my son, stella,” Mas said simply, as if it was obvious. “And Nesta, my daughter. I like to think that we have given each other family.”

Cassian had to blink to stop the burning in his eyes. When he looked to Mas again, he saw that a tear of her own was rolling down her face. He caught it. As always, the skin of Mas’ face was soft and thin with age, but so lovely. “Does this mean you’ll finally move into this outhouse when it’s all over?”

Mas’s expression shifting into something earnest. “I like to stay with the other widows, the orphans. But when this is all over, when we’ve beaten Kallon, we will build houses in the camps together. We’ll give other females a home—anyone who wants a roof over their heads. How about that?”

One corner of Cassian’s mouth ticked. His heart was so warm and so painful. Like it was bleeding. 

But he just said, “That sounds like a deal.”

Mas straightened. “So you’ll let us come? Whoever wants to?”

“We’ll need to be selective,” Cassian told her. “Only the most competent and only if they want to come. I trust your judgement, but know that we’ll brief them in an hour and that they can’t breathe a word about it to anyone.”

Mas dipped her chin to let him know that she understood. “They won’t, not when it comes to you,” she told him. Then, she gave him a toothy grin. Ruffled her wings with mock-pride. “And not when it comes to me.”

Cassian couldn’t help it. He conceded a laugh. 

***

Nesta found Cassian in their bedroom. He’d left on the pretense of readying himself for battle, but really his intention had been to stand by the window and watch Mas leave. The housekeeper’s wings were held high and proud behind her and she held Roksana’s small hand in hers as they walked in the direction of the widows’ camp. 

The youngling fluttered alongside, fluctuating between walking, hopping and skating over the mud.

If Cassian could paint, this would be the image that he’d choose to brush against canvas. An endearing portrait of two seemingly happy figures retreating into the distance—a distance which meant that they were out of reach and safe. Unharmed.

The sensation of Nesta’s fingers sliding through Cassian’s snagged at the periphery of his attention. As always, his body sung at the proximity of her and he let that feeling vibrate through him until their fingers were interlocked.

“You agreed?” 

Nesta’s voice was muffled by the scales of his leathers. She’d pressed her chin into his bicep as she looked up at him. Affection was something that Cassian had been yearning for without realising it, but now Nesta was leaning into him, the warmth of her soaking into him, Cassian sensed the desire for it etched deep into his bones. It was like an unbearable ache, a building pressure that layered upon itself. And Nesta pressing against him, holding him to her? It made that pressure deflate a little.

If Nesta’s hair wasn’t woven back tightly for battle, Cassian would have threaded his free hand through her hair in thanks. Instead, he pushed back the sigh that coalesced in his throat. “They’re not as battle ready as the males.”

“They won’t be for a long time,” Nesta supplied simply. “Someone once told me it takes years to become a warrior. That it’s constantly a work in progress.”

“And you listened?”

Nesta’s snort was a wave of air, but she didn’t admonish him. She just clutched at his arm a little tighter, the silent gesture his admonishment. “I did.”

Usually, Cassian would have smirked—anything to rile her. But now, in their shared bedroom, Cassian couldn’t summon it. Not when he knew what they were about to walk into. “It’s going to be dangerous.”

Nesta straightened at his words and the scent of her, the jasmine and vanilla, finally tugged his focus away from Mas’ retreating back to the female beside him. 

Nesta had changed out of her everyday leathers and into the ones Rhys had gifted her. The smoky silver scales rippled in an exact replica of the flames at her fingertips, but Cassian couldn’t marvel at the magic of it, not when the female in question was pinning him down with her formidable eyes. “Isn’t battle always dangerous?”

“It is,” Cassian agreed lowly. “But I’m already worried about your wellbeing. And now Mas? The other females?” He swallowed, and his words caught in the clog at his throat. “There’s so much at stake—”

“You are not responsible for our lives, Cassian.”

Cassian’s voice became sharp without his command. “I am always responsible for those that step onto a battlefield for the Night Court, whatever shape that might take.”

“You are forgetting,” Nesta told him calmly, unperturbed by his whipped reply, “that those who step onto the battlefield do so out of their free will. Tonight, when we make our way to Ramiel, none of us will be coerced. But we are all driven by the same motive: to stop Kallon gaining power and starting a Civil War. The females are taking a stand because they have been oppressed for too long. They are finally standing up for themselves, showing their allegiance despite the fact that they could suffer the consequences. And I am doing the same. You can only respect that. You can’t take responsibility, Cassian, it’s not your right.”

There was no response to that, so Cassian just stood still, fighting the temptation to rub his tired eyes. 

Together, they had a rough plan in place but they didn’t know how it would all go. And if Cassian had learnt anything in his long years as a warrior, it was that no battle was a sure thing. There was no guarantee that everyone entering the battle would emerge breathing and whole. The battlefield was swathed in the promise of glory, but when you were in the thick of it, when you were knee deep in guts and shit and blood, it was nothing but horrifying.

And whilst they might not be entering a true battlefield, none of them expected to emerge from their conflict with Kallon unharmed.

None of them were that deluded. It wasn’t a pessimism, just a hard truth. A possibility. 

Cassian turned his body fully to face Nesta, his hand slipping from hers only for both of them to find purchase on her arms. 

“Don’t say it,” Nesta interrupted him, reading the grim look in his eyes. 

It took everything in Cassian to arch an eyebrow. To play. “Some might accuse you of being superstitious, sweetheart.”

Nesta let out a huffed breath. “Why tempt fate?”

“You are my fate,” Cassian told her quietly. He tracked her face, cataloguing it all—his Nesta. Again, that thought hit him: he wanted Nesta to be his wife. He wanted them to be joined in that way. She’d given him everything when she’d accepted the mating bond, and now he wanted to give her something human, something that she had always thought had been in her future. 

If she wanted it, that was.

Nesta’s hand tightened on his just as her mouth flattened. The movement was so brief Cassian would have missed it if he hadn’t been watching her so closely.

“And you’re mine,” she assured him slowly, and even though her face was near unreadable, Cassian felt the spark of embers in his chest as they glowed. Knew that she was telling him the truth.

For a brief instance, Nesta observed him. And Cassian let her, unstacking every guard he held around himself, as tight as a burning ring of flames until there was nothing left behind but ash and the heart of him.

What Nesta saw pulled a faint smile onto her face, but it was too brief and it was not wielded out of happiness. It was too sad. And when Nesta confirmed it by drawing his knuckles to her mouth and pressing her lips there, he knew that every worry he had for how tomorrow would play out… it festered inside of Nesta, too.

They both had a feeling. An ominous sense of something dark and lurking. 

Cassian watched Nesta drop his hand and turned towards the door. 

But when she reached the entryway, she paused. Her slim fingers wrapped around the frame and held on tight. 

Seconds passed as Nesta hesitated. Then, without turning to face him, she told him, “Ask me when we’re on the other side.”

The ensuing pause ate up her words, until nothing but a ringing silence hovered between them.

If they were in different circumstances, Cassian would have closed the distance between them and wrapped her hair around his palm. He would have looked down at her, revelling in the way her chin would tilt stubbornly up to meet him, that regal air wreathed around her like its very own crown.

But instead, Cassian just stared steadily at Nesta, waiting for her to turn. But she didn’t.

Cassian fought the temptation to curl his hands shut in a bid to distract the quickening tempo of his heartbeat. His siphons pulsed in anticipation. A whisper of something wound through him. A sighed name. “And what will I be asking, Nesta?”

He couldn’t see her but he knew Nesta had raised an eyebrow, the execution as perfect as the arch of it.

Her fingers tightened around the door frame, but still she did not turn. “Ask me when it’s over. And I’ll say yes.”

And it was in that pause, as her words stretched out between them, that the screaming started. 

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[chronotopes]

mini journal entry before i lock in (allegedly)

i miss jenny's family :( while i was sleeping off my trademark blink-and-you'll-miss-it shitty seasonal change-induced cold on saturday her siblings called her to talk shit about rings of power and i realized i MISSED THEM!!! we won't be seeing the whole gang assembled for thanksgiving this year because my brother and his gf will be away for new years this year visiting her extended family on the other side of the world (!!) which makes SENSE but it does make me sad. christmas it is. sorry to yap about this every month but every time i remember how at home i feel around these people i'm like wow :) wow :)) wow :)))

the teacher crush poll made me scroll back through my tag for my methods of lit studies tag and i once again miss fall in my college town even though every time it's been fall in my college town i've also been engaging in some kind of bad idea behavior or in the middle of a mental health crisis or doing pandemic shit. that said scrolling through that tag really made me codify my sexual identity in a more coherent way than i ever have before, which is 'sure i like men every once in a blue moon but every time i do it's a sure sign of deep instability'

stoked as FUCK for the first college improv show of the season, need ricky to get his shit together so that jenny and e (and the other usual suspects) are back on the improv scene

hanging out with my parents in a couple of weeks (yay!) but my grandma will be there (sigh). sorry for being a heartless bitch about my objectively harmless-ish grandparents it's not my fault (i guess it is)

i NEED to just write in my journal already instead of you know the classic tumblr oversharing move but idk. whatever. whatever. whatever.

i have felt kind of numb/distanced from the world/brain-full-of-goop lately in part because of the ~transitional state~ jenny and i are in jobswise and in part because i'm officially not applying to any graduate schools or whatever and am out of my preliminary wedding planning phase for now (lol) so now my extremely future events driven brain is all tumbleweeds and '....christmas? you could plan for christmas?' BUT THE GOOD NEWS IS i think this is an inherently temporary stage of being and if i need something external to fix it then i can take a creative writing class or apply for better jobs or take pto and drive down to my college town for a day and invent ways and reasons to talk to professors. it is so easy to get back into a 'googling stuff that exists in your city' mood but i think it's also okay to first dissolve into goop and survive the aftershocks of Moving. Eventually I will even apply to better and more Here jobs, just.... idk. not right now.

When we would move as kids I used to think that year-long moving aftershocks were only a thing for Me, A Teenager and not for my parents because I never had any agency about where we went or where we lived or what timeline we traveled on or what friends I made before school started. Now that I am an adult with finances of my own I realize this was a really silly thing to think.

i have had a list of christmas present ideas going since like july but i have not yet figured out what to get my dad or jenny's mom aka the two hardest people in my life to shop for. Or my brother's girlfriend which is also kind of urgent considering I'll probably end up giving her and my brother christmas presents over thanksgiving (?? citation needed)

I miss jane!

[bee-dot-exe]

Hey @totallynotbat, happy gift exchange day, I know we haven't talked much, but thanks for letting me write for you, I don't know this is exactly what you had in mind, but I hope you like it! And thank you @technoblade-gift-exchange for putting this together, also haven't talked a whole lot, but I appreciate you, I had fun! I hope you all enjoy!

Emerald

1,933

It's kinda sad, but it's also kinda sweet, no major warnings otherwise

A thin quilt covered the earth. Sections of saffron like the edges around a bruise, and burgundy trying to compete with a glass of wine, and sepia as the chlorophyll bled out with the final remnants of summer. A patchwork blanket of color like a kaleidoscope around and beneath me.

The occasional sector of basil melting into olive grass playing a game of peek-a-boo in the areas of earth where the blanket felt shy. Stray sticks of paper that lollipops once clung to and wrappers that once surrounded a piece of chocolate taking turns with the leaves in leading a waltz as the breeze lead its orchestra.

Dia de los Muertos.

Flyers with information on the day of celebration or stories made in spirit of the holiday were taped by the corners onto the sides of buildings or tacked onto signs made of oak or cork still hung from yesterday.

Posters with each island residents' face made with white paint to look like skeletons rested on pastel backgrounds, and were hung by two pieces of wood held together by a spring on rows of thick spiderweb and string, both of their ideal intended use was for holding clothes to keep dry, connected between two trees.

I let my feet guide me through the nearly ankle deep river of color, a series of rather satisfying crunches emitting from my path, which gradually changed to slabs of pastel blocks, which lead me to an archway that looked to be made of quartz.

Lanterns with flames dyed scarlet and lemon and cerulean hung on silver chains and rested overhead.

More banners made of spiderweb, with sections of cloth or perhaps tissue paper hung in the colors of the rainbow and then some, and supported by two thin stalks of wood which were placed on either side of the archway.

I walked through. There was a decoration every time I shifted my eyes or turned my head.

Lanterns, pots with flowers planted in them, flyers with short stories, a giant rainbow papier mâché amalgamation of animals.

I heard footsteps fade from crunching leaves beneath them to tapping as they reached the smooth surface of the pastel path. The person they belonged to coming up behind me and then standing at my side.

"Oy."

"How's it going, Fit?"

"Not bad, not bad."

"Heard I missed out yesterday, sorry about that."

"No worries, but yeah, hell of a day. Come on, I'll show you around."

Bits of tissue paper streamers were strewn about on the ground, some still dancing as they fell from the trees around us, occasionally getting caught in the branches on their journey.

A stray candy wrapper sometimes blew by like a tumbleweed, a few getting stuck in a group of leaves that had gathered in places around where the event was held.

"So I'm sure you heard about the eggs that stopped by."

"I did. Real shame I missed them."

"It is, and I know it's not the same, but you can visit their offrenda's over here, say hello, tell them you miss them, whatever."

"Lead the way, mate."

First we visited Juanaflippa.

Her alter had rows of potted lilacs and pink alliums lined up at the sides, and a few more pots scattered around the center.

A dozen or so pink candles were settled on the steps, some inside of skulls as a holder, most by themselves.

There was a shield, a few different swords, a couple of green apples, and some empty pink signs.

In the center of the alter was a painting of her wearing her glasses sitting in a gold frame.

I took a piece of flint and steel and relit the candles that had become flickering sparks of orange and thin plumes of smoke.

"Hey Juanaflippa.

Hope you're doing well. I don't know if that was really you that came back to visit us, I think maybe this means probably not, but I don't know.

Your dad really misses you, we all do, but your dad's a bit of a mess right now, more so than usual. Things are a bit off for him, physically and emotionally, not gonna lie.

We all miss you so much. We miss your little glasses and your backflips.

I hope you're doing alright, wherever you are."

Next was Bobby.

His alter had rows of potted turquoise flowers along the sides, along with a few violet and red ones, and a handful of the aquamarine ones in pots scattered around the center.

A dozen or so royal blue candles sat on the steps, some in skulls as a holder, most by themselves.

There were a couple of tridents, a gun, and some empty blue signs.

In the center of the alter was a painting of him wearing his denim overalls sitting in a gold frame.

I took a piece of flint and steel and relit the candles that had become flickering sparks of orange and thin plumes of smoke.

"Hey there Bobby.

Sorry I missed you yesterday. I hope you're doing alright.

Your parents miss you so much. I can tell your apa is sad sometimes, but he doesn't really show it, he doesn't show that side of him with anyone though, you're probably not all that surprised. He seems happy when he's with Cellbit though, you're probably not super surprised about that either. Your mom also gets kinda sad, but she's doing okay otherwise I think. Did you know she had wings? You'd like them.

We miss you, buddy. Your little dungarees and you giving us those blue flowers.

I hope you're doing good out there."

Then Tilín.

Her alter had rows of potted lilacs and some other red flowers along the sides, and some of the red ones in pots around the center.

A dozen or so crimson candles were settled on the steps, some in skulls as a holder, most by themselves.

There were some feathers, a piece of cake, a block of dynamite, and some empty red signs.

In the center of the alter was a painting of them with that little red bow on top of her head sitting in a gold frame.

I took a piece of flint and steel and relit the candles that had become flickering sparks of orange and thin plumes of smoke.

"Hi Tilín.

Hope you're alright.

Your dad doesn't talk about you a lot, I'll be honest, but it's not because he doesn't care about or miss you, he just doesn't know how to show or talk about things sometimes.

But he misses you so much, we all do. Your little ribbon and giving us red flowers.

I hope you're okay out there."

And finally Trumpet.

His alter had rows of potted daffodils and some other red and yellow flowers, some of both kinds were also scattered in the center.

A dozen or so yellow candles were settled on the steps, some in skulls as a holder, most by themselves.

There were some books, a few spiderwebs, and some empty yellow signs.

In the center of the alters was a painting of him with his propeller hat sitting in a gold frame.

I took a piece of flint and steel and relit the candles that had become flickering sparks of orange and thin plumes of smoke.

"Hey Trump.

I'm really sorry I missed you yesterday. But you weren't alone. There were so many people here for you.

I heard that even your dad was here. I'm sorry not everyone was there for you before and if you felt alone, no one deserves that, no matter their age. You didn't deserve what happened to you.

We all miss you and your little rainbow propeller hat so much.

I hope you're alright wherever you are. I hope you're happy. I hope you never feel alone again."

"Oh, sorry Fit, to be honest, kinda forgot you were here for a minute there."

I said as I heard a throat clear behind me.

"No worries, no worries, didn't wanna interrupt anything, thank you for saying those things though, I think they needed it, I think you kinda needed it too."

"Yeah, that felt kinda nice, thanks for bringing me by."

"I uh, I actually have one more thing to show you, if you'll follow me."

"Yeah, I'm really glad I uh, oh---"

We walked up to a set of red wooden stairs. An alter. An offrenda.

And in the center was a painting in a gold frame of a person wearing a skull with tusks, had long pink hair, a fuzzy red cape with white at the neck, and a crown.

Technoblade.

"Oh my God, dude, really?"

Fit just slowly nodded.

We stood and stared for a minute.

"Hey Fit, could you do me a favor?"

I reached for the camera in its bag around my neck.

"Yeah I gotcha."

There were rows of different leaves and potted flowers in blue and red along the side, and a few red and pink flowers in the center.

There were about a dozen white candles, all of them were lit.

There was a diamond sword, an emerald, a totem, a skull, an ender pearl, a crown, and a potato around the painting.

"I gotta leave something, hold on, do you have an anvil by chance?"

"I gotcha covered."

Both of our voices shook slightly.

Fit put down the anvil and I made a name tag, Toothpick, which I put on a diamond pickaxe, and placed that on the step between the totem and sword.

"This was really nice."

"It was really thoughtful."

"They really didn't have to do this."

"Yeah."

"Can I ask you for one more thing?"

"Of course."

"Can I have a second alone with him?"

"Take all the time you want, buddy."

I heard the leaves crunch as Fit's footsteps retreated and sat down on the ground in front of the alter. I brushed my fingers along blades of grass and the petals of one of the pink flowers in a pot beside me. I finally let the tears stuck to my waterline fall.

"Hey mate.

Has it really been almost a year and a half? That feels impossible.

There isn't a moment where you aren't on my mind. You're on a lot of people's minds. You'd probably be flattered though, make some kind of probably sarcastic comment, prick.

Wish you came by yesterday, maybe you did, who knows. Wish I was there to see if you did or not. Wish you could hear me telling you this right now, maybe you can, it's probably not impossible.

Chayanne, that egg kid of mine you maybe have heard me talk about, your nephew. You're his hero. And he's so much like you. I wish you could meet him.

I honestly don't know which of you is better at pvp, you both can put up a fight until the last second, you're both stubborn as all get out, and you both could win.

And Tallulah, Wilbur's egg, she's been staying with me since he had to go do his music and things, she knows about and admires you too.

You'd go kinda soft on her, guaranteed, she'd win you over. She'd give you poppies and play you music and make you laugh.

We all miss you, so goddamn much, take care wherever you are, okay Tech?"

After the tears on my face had dried and it felt like it had been quiet for long enough, I put my hand on the bottom step next to the pick one last time as a send off, then went through the archway to find Fit.

[okaybooner]

[Leigh is thrilled by the thoughtful gesture and how intimate it feels; although it occurs to her she could be reading a lot more into it than necessary. The two of them have always been rather comfortable with each other. Still, now that their relationship has been affected by their mutual romantic feelings for each other, it's as if they've been made aware of another layer of devotion and closeness in every interaction they have and every moment they share.]

[And now here she is, ruminating—is it to rationalize away the fact that she simply likes it very much when Boone fusses over her? Maybe she should just tell her that…]

Thank you, honey. I appreciate.

[Leigh gently catches Boone's hand in her own and holds onto it, for no particular reason other than she felt like doing so.]

So, what should we do while we wait? I'm assuming nothing that would fluster the tumbleweed too badly, but I'm open to suggestions.

[When she calls her honey, it's so... it's hard to explain. Seems like that sort of kindness, that familiarity, shouldn't belong to Boone. But with how hard Boone has fought against herself to have even this scrap of happiness, to allow herself to live for this one thing instead of dying for everything...]

[She's a little more somber than might be expected as she brushes a stray curl away from Leigh's forehead and sighs. Oh how she hates to be the one always souring the mood, but she can't help it. She looses a long, sad sigh as she sits down beside Leigh.]

I'm still curious about you, you know. You seem to be able to weasel all this info out of me somehow... but I still don't know much about where you came from, what brought you here.... [here to me.]

[What made Leigh the way she is? What made her so persistent that she stuck by Boone when all Boone did was push and push and push her away? She thinks back to a conversation that, in the grand scheme of things, really didn't happen that long ago. If it wasn't Carla, it'd be something else... I shouldn't have let her close. You should keep your distance, too.]

[Yet here they are. Boone looks at her like she's a great natural mystery.]

...Maybe I need to know. Maybe I need to make sure you're real.

[rainbowskittle]

@speaknowbuckley 💜🎶Thank youuu!✨

Rules: Put your music on shuffle and list the first 10 songs + tag 10 people.

Tag: @coldbrewqueer @aribeexx @awholelottabi @walking-anomaly @re-bec-ca-ann @imadreamysoul @haceleyes @fyideanisbi @fuckinnproblems @livin-everyday @making-the-most-0f-it @girlswithguns22magnum @diaries-of-a-gay-girl @vainillabean

It’s sad I won’t get to all the music being good music is just out there forever. Love that about music too though. So happy this was shuffle since if I had to pick??? Haha nope I wouldn’t be able to.

[monstersinthecosmos]

Apart from metal, are there any other music genres you like to listen to, even just occasionally?

dgksldg no tbh I'm like one of those ~ everything but country ~ kinda people. BUT ACTUALLY I LIKE SOME DARK COUNTRY STUFF TOO I GUESS. Is it still country if it's like cowboy goth or graveyard Americana? idk. Really above any genre I just always want music that's kinda dark and gloomy or weird and erotic.

I consider myself a goth as much as I consider myself a metalhead, though! (Don't make me start a lecture about how goth subctulre is about music above aesthetic but...) So goth music is the other heavy hitter. I think I listen to them in equal parts! And when I say GOTH I mean like, trad goth but also the industrial umbrella. I think synthwave/darksynth belongs in here, too, because it's kinda spooky LOL and I MEAN METALHEADS LOVE PERTURBATOR dsahgk but I think you'll find that live shows definitely have goth scene overlap. On my quest to find like beautifully layered writing in goth/industrial music I also wound up getting into some psytrance like Infected Mushroom and others like them, so that's a fav area too.

And I listen to a lot of classical/neoclassical and film scores. And I listen to a lot of neofolk ! (Neofolk also has a huge metalhead overlap because of the black metal influence like Gaahl being a forming member of Wardruna, etc.)

I also really like jazz but I'm not very articulate about it! I like listening to a lot if it's gloomy enough but I sometimes just throw Spotify mixes on and I don't know a lot of the artists very well. I got really into Esperanza Spalding last year after seeing a live jazz group that did a cover of her!

I've had a last.fm account since 2005 LMAO and it's funny because my yearly top artists always kinda reflect what type of fics I've been writing. But this is my top artists of the last year. Opeth is the only one that's metal! It's spooky folk & sad piano stuff that I listen to when I write. 🥹🥹🥹🥹

this is my all time though since 2005 THAT'S ALMSOT 20 YEARS HAHA 🥰🥰🥰🥰

anyway I'm listening to my Tumbleweed playlist right now, which is for Keith Voltron; lyrics don't matter but it's all music I can daydream an AMV to where he's grieving by himself in the desert and this extremely gloomy song is on at the moment 🥰🥰

[magnetictapedatastorage]

nsfw

i regret that attempted bush fade so much. it's going to take MONTHS to grow back. i'm thankful its no longer prickly at least, but it was over a week until that stopped driving me up a wall every time i shifted in any way. swear to god i've never been so aware of the entire area in my LIFE.

as is, it just looks sad. no longer a happy tumbleweed...

[futurewife]

i keep wanting to reach out and say hi and check in but i completely forgot that our last dm conversation (however long ago it was, it was pre the new blog i think) ended on a weird place to pick back up again bc i was venting. so this is me saying hi i hope you're well in a way that avoids looking at that again SHGAAGHHA also i think your hypothetical(? i believe you haven't f/o'd a character like this yet) british puppyboy should have a playdate with *my* british puppyboy <3 - all the best, clownie

Hiiiii @circusgoth-dotcom <33

I hope things are going okay for you too. 💌 I wouldn't worry about when and what to message i actually am very lonely and appreciate any kind of interaction though I need to work on conversation skills lol I often say I'm re-inventing letter writing (may take a while to get back to you). I apologise too cause sometimes i feel at fault for drifting off and my convos kinda get *tumbleweed*

OHHHH HAHAHAHAH Yes I suppose it's more of a celebrity crush thing at the moment than a fictional other thing cause none of the characters thus far are actually british- just the actor, freddie stroma. I think this attraction to a made up imaginary romanticised sweet 'british boyfriend' concept is quite common for people outside of the country and is mostly fueled by celebrities, tv/movies and period dramas right? Clearly I'm not immune 😔 hahaha

I guess I could be doing worse in my offline life and idk I try not to bring it to here too much cause it's kinda sad and pathetic (kind of a shut-in with no bitches etc /lh) HAHA and this is my happy love and romance filled space!! where I get my unmet needs met and have fun with my understanding pals. but I am very glad to have a new actor/characters I can explore and get to know right now :) this is stating the obvious I love adrian/vigilante so so so much and even though this does not count as two british puppyboys I think he would speculatively find some common ground with wade if they ever met, so that would definitely be an interesting playdate :D

[gamma-gal-24]

for the ask game ive got 2 options for johnny and emma

🐎 - Cowboy AU or

🩸 - Vampire AU

pick ur posion👀

OUGH WHAT A CHOICE THIS IS!! How to choose, how to choose!😭

You know what, I'm goung with the cowboys simply because I feel like Johnny would enjoy western movies!😂

So without further ado, here's Johnny Bravo and Emma Encore in a Cowboy AU!✨

🐴🐴🐴🐴🐴🐴🐴🐴🐴🐴🐴🐴🐴

Okay, picture this- It's almost high-noon, the desert sun is high in the sky and tumbleweeds cartwheel across the dusty town streets. All seems to be calm and peaceful when the sheriff rides in towards the saloon.

Parling her black stallion at the trough, she hops off the saddle, spurs jingling at her heels. Sheriff Encore strides in with a bandanna over her face and makes her way across the saloon over to the bar.

She takes a seat leans against the counter, uncovering her face to shoot the barkeep a bright smile. His big, blonde pompadour makes him hard to miss. He's so big and dramatic compared to everyone else in town; it makes her laugh.

"Afternoon, Bravo! Pour me whatever you recommend, I can't decide today." Emma says with a grin and a laugh. Johnny turns abruptly, glass in one hand and a rah in the other. "HUH-YUH-!" He exclaims, almost dropping everything he holds. "Miss Emma, you say that every time you come in! How come you never know what you want? Is that a woman thing?"

The sheriff just laughs, the upbeat music playing from the piano doing nothing to drown her out. She takes off her hat and sets it on the counter. She comes in every day at thw same time and has Johnny make her two of whatever he likes, one for her, and the other she leaves for him with a wink. It's the same every day.

"You should know better than to ask questions by now, Mister Bravo." She chuckles, watching him pour something into thw glass he had just "cleaned." Johnny was never very tidy. The neatest thing about him was his hair, which he refused to put a hat over. He spills half the drink on the counter every time.

Johnny shoots her one if his smoking, boyish smirks and a wave of his brows. That barkeep is just such a flirt. "Now why would I wprry about knowin' better when I could just get to knkw you instead?"

*end scene😚*

Anyhoo, in case none of that made a lick of sense, in a Cowboy AU Emma would be a sherrif and Johnny the barkeep(who low-key doesn't know what he's doing.)

The dusty little town of Aron is a peaceful one- there aren't hardly any bandits or fights, no, the lady sheriff keeps them all away... Until one day she can't.

A pack of wanted bandits ride in long after sunset and gang up on Emma five to one... And I'm sad to say it doesn't turn out well for her.😓

Johnny and the bar oatrons can hear the commotion outside, but it's only after Emma stumbles in badly wounded that anyone understands what's happened! Of course Johnny is mortified, he's never seen his sheriff hurt before!

He practically plows through half the tables in the saloon to get to her before she falls.

He and his Momma sneak her out to back to see the doctor, but Johnny is far from satisfied. Nobidy lays a hand on *his* sheriff and gets away with it, or his name isn't Johnny Bravo!

And so, with a flip of his hair and a flex or three, he stomps out into the night to deal with those thugs himself!

Now, does.he get his butt kicked? Most assuredly. But does he manage to win anyways and sent those varmints running for the hills? Absolutely!

Come sunrise everybody's having a ball, celebrating in Johnny's honor!

And once Emma, (all banged up but still a kickin') pulls him aside, she gives him two things...

A badge.... And a kiss.

And so the Sheriff and her new deputy ride off into the sunset and live happily ever after. The end.🤠💕💓💕