#Saddle Pads for kids

[shortstirrupequestrian]

Elevate your equestrian experience with Short Stirrup Equestrian's Blueberry Luxe Saddlepad. Designed for kids, it combines vibrant style with premium comfort. Perfect for young riders aiming to shine in the saddle! Shop now!

[rileyslibrary]

Ghost finds out that you never learned how to ride a bike.

A/N: Thank you for suggesting this, anon. I hope your mother-in-law bought you a bomb-ass bike with a basket at the front and everything.

———————————————————————

“No way.”

“Yes.”

“Not even once?”

“What do you mean ‘not even once’?”

The conversation started when the lieutenant entered your shared office with two fingers bandaged together. Before you could ask what happened, his eyes caught yours, and he instinctively raised his hand, displaying the injury.

He explained that it happened while he and a group of soldiers were repairing one of the barracks. His pinky got caught in a plumping pipe, and because of the noise, they couldn’t hear him yelling at them to stop pushing. So the medic immobilised the fractured pinky by securing it to the ring finger to restrict its range of motion and let it heal.

He reassured you that the damage was minor and nothing to be concerned about, but he appeared defeated by having to bear this for the time being. You wished him a speedy recovery and then addressed the elephant in the room—how would he be able to carry the drill exercise scheduled for tomorrow?

He shrugged and admitted that the exercise had to be cancelled for now. Still, that wouldn’t pose a problem since military procedures are deeply ingrained and not easily forgotten.

“It’s like riding a bike.” He said.

And that’s what struck your current discussion—when you sneered at his analogy and admitted that you wouldn’t know since you never learned how to ride one.

He now stands there, speechless, and looks at you like you’re an alien that just landed on his back porch.

“Did you try and give up, or no one taught you how?”

“Do I look like I give up easily, Lt.?” You ask and shrug with your right shoulder. “No one taught me how to ride one.”

His eyes soften, and he looks out the window.

“Jesus Christ, kid.” He mutters, “Guess we found something else to do for tomorrow.”

“No way.” You state, shaking your head.

“Yes.” He replies and nods.

—————————— >> ———————————

Ghost left you a note on your desk this morning.

It said “warehouse, 10 a.m.” which was both weird and funny, considering how cryptic that message was for the purpose of the meeting.

You approach the warehouse and attempt to open the door, only to find that it’s locked. Suddenly, a sharp “pst!” grabs your attention from nearby, prompting you to follow the voice that’s guiding you behind the building.

There stands Ghost, with a worn-out bike next to him. He’s hugging a helmet with his injured hand and holding pairs of knee, elbow, and wrist pads with the other.

“Where did you find that?” You ask, pointing to the bike.

“In this warehouse; I found it a couple of years ago,” he replies. “I didn’t want to throw it away, so I fixed it and left it there.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You call this ‘fixed’?”

“It may not be a fucking Bianchi, kid, but it gets the job done,” he says and extends the gear towards you. “Put these on,” he orders, “I’ll help you with the knee pads.”

He kneels down, gently tapping your leg, indicating you to lift it.

“Isn’t that a little excessive?” You ask, “All that safety gear?”

He huffs and looks up at you. “Do you want to end up with a fractured pinky like me?”

“No, sir.”

“Lift your leg then.”

He adjusts your helmet and secures the knee pads, ensuring they’re correctly positioned. Then, he inspects the elbow and wrist pads to ensure they’re in the right place. Finally, he gives the saddle a firm slap, indicating you to hop on the bike.

You do as instructed, and he checks the bike, adjusting the seat height, handlebars, and brakes to fit your size. With you gripping the handlebars, he begins the lesson.

“Two things,” he says, raising the corresponding fingers on his uninjured hand. “Balance and coordination.”

“Balance and coordination.” You echo.

He nods, puts his hands behind his back, and paces around the bike.

“We’ll begin with the first one, which happens to be the most challenging, I must warn you,” he explains, “and then progress to the rest.”

“Balance is the hardest one.” You repeat.

“Yes, indeed. First, you’ll have to learn how to balance on that bike. Once you succeed, we’ll synchronise your turning, pedalling, and braking movements. Ready?”

“Not really.”

“Let’s get started then.”

—————————— >> ———————————

He’s right. Balancing that thing is difficult. At first, he instructs you to use your feet to push yourself forward while seated on the bike, gradually progressing to longer strides.

Then he commands you to pedal. He walks next to you, holding one of the handlebars with his uninjured hand and guiding the bike to help with balance. Occasionally, when he feels you have control, he lets go of the handlebar. But every now and then, you waver. And when that happens, he intervenes and puts his hand back on the handlebar.

And this continued until he felt confident that you were ready to give it your first try.

“What if I fall?”

“You will fall.”

“But I don’t want to.”

“You have to,” he insists, “that’s the only way you’ll learn.”

He stands behind you, holding the back of the saddle. He maintains his grip as you pedal, stabilising and guiding the bike. He jogs beside you, encouraging you.

And yes, there were countless falls. But each time, Ghost was there, lifting you up, brushing off the dirt, and urging you to give it another try.

The lesson began at 10 a.m. You have no idea what time it is now. Ghost has been so persistent that he must have also lost track of time.

“Lt,” you call out as you pedal for the hundredth time, “I think it’s time for a break; you must be tired as well.”

No response.

“Lt.?” You repeat.

Silence.

You turn halfway to address him, but he’s nowhere to be found.

Panic sets in, throwing off your balance, and you tumble to the ground once again. This time, he’s no longer there to catch you.

You look back at your starting point—Ghost is standing there with his arms crossed in front of his chest.

You look at the bike and then back at him. Your eyes widen. You point your finger at the bike, then at yourself.

He nods and lifts his hand in the air, giving a thumbs up.

“I did it!” You shout and run towards him, guiding the bike next to you.

“I saw,” he replies, and his eyes crease in joy, “but why didn’t you ride it back?”

“I think I need more practice.” You explain.

“We can continue practising after our break,” he suggests. “Good job, kid; I’m proud of you.”

“It’s all because of you, Lieutenant,” you say, “thank you for everything.”

He chuckles and tilts his head.

“Look,” he says, lifting his injured pinky. “This one needs support from this one to heal,” he explains, pointing to his ring finger.

“So I’m the pinky,” you say, “because you, the ring finger, taught me how to ride a bike.”

He lets out a sigh, shifting his gaze to the ground.

“Depends on who you ask,” he murmurs, “maybe I’m the broken one, and you’re helping me heal.”

———————————————————————

[ceeplays]

Favorite Mods for Better Pets:

...aaand I'm back! ☀︎ It's been such a busy summer for me, but I've been wanting to post this list for several weeks now. So happy I'm finally getting the chance to sit down and put this together for y'all. One aspect of the game I'm always looking to improve with mods and cc is our sims pets, and now with the addition of horses, even more so. So, here's a list of my favorite mods and cc for all animals in the game (there's even a mod for your bees!). As always, thanks to all the creators and I hope you all enjoy.

More info and download links below the cut.

Gameplay Mods:

Selectable Pets by CharityCodes

Bathe Pets in Sink by Szemoka

Pet Care Activities by @adeepindigo

My Pets by @littlemssam

Anti-Fear Training for Pets by @littlemssam

Better Farm Animals by @littlemssam

Better Saddle Control by @littlemssam

Calm Bees by @littlemssam

Check Horse Skills by @littlemssam

Check Pets Needs by @littlemssam

Dog Walking Service by @littlemssam

Go For A Walk With Cats by @littlemssam

Go For A Walk With More Pets by @littlemssam

Kids Go For A Walk With Dogs by @littlemssam

Lead Horse by @littlemssam

Longer Pet Naps by @littlemssam

No Spoiling Dried Animal Food by @littlemssam

Special Paddock Gate by @littlemssam

Boarding Stable Lot Trait by Flauschtrud

Animal Shelter Lot Trait by KiaraSims4Mods

Default Replacements/Overrides:

Pequichor Horse Eyes by @rheallsim

Mirror Mirror Horse Eyes by @doptera-ts4

Dolce Eyes for All Animals by @wrixie

Under Your Spell Horse Ranch Animal Eyes by @incandescentsims

Daydreamin' Horse Ranch Animal Eyes by @nolan-sims

Smaller Eyes + Eye Geom Fix for Horses by @objuct

Goat Retexture by @blue-ancolia

Rabbit Retexture by @blue-ancolia

Horse Skin by @minervamagicka

Horse Skin by @nesurii

Adoption Pet Carrier Override by @largetaytertots

Pet Leash Override by @largetaytertots

Pet Leash Override by @diabolicalsims

Pet Treats Override by @diabolicalsims

Pet Brush Override by @diabolicalsims

Horse Trailer Made Functional by SassandFreckles

BUILD/BUY Favorites:

Animal Shed Recolors by @beansbuilds

Horse Food Bags by @cath-cc

Horse Countdown Set by @objuct

Cottage Dreams Collection by @miikocc

Toddler Pillow Pet Beds by @diabolicalsims

Pet Toys by @diabolicalsims

Vet Waiting Room Magazines by @diabolicalsims

The Petit Cheval Set by @syboubou

Veterinary Clinic Set by @syboubou

Ultimutt Indoor Potty Pad by @ravasheencc

Muttropolitan Pet Clutter by @ravasheencc

Purrfect Pet Clutter by @ravasheencc

Meowdern Pet Clutter by @ravasheencc

Carousel Cat Bed by @pixelvibes

Chicken Cat Bed by @pixelvibes

Paw Love by @leosims4cc

Western Set by @leosims4cc

Natural Colored Horse Balls by SassandFreckles

CAS Favorites:

Stuff for Dapper Dogs by @sforzcc

Stuff for Cranky Cats by @sforzcc

Service Cat Vest by Sturmfalke

Service Dog Vest by Sturmfalke

--

The end! ♡

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

VII ║Fleabitten

Jack Daniels x f!reader

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

Rating: E

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

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

Word count: 4.2k

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

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

You’ve never considered yourself a creature of habit. 

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

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

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

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

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

Habit.

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

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

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

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

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

‘Whatcha smilin’ ‘bout, Darlin’?’

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

‘Shall we clean up, cowboy?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thousand-pound puppies, more like. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Darlin’?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘C’mere, darlin’.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Are your parents from the same town?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I’d love that too, cowboy.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘You ready?’ he prompts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not just his. 

But the cowgirl to his cowboy.

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

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

‘Good girl.’

‘So - what happens tomorrow?’

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

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

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

For once, Jack doesn’t have an answer.

He doesn’t sleep that night. 

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

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

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

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

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

‘Who says it’s our last, darlin’?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Please, want you inside me, cowboy -’

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

‘Hard, want you to fuck me hard -’

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

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

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

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

‘So - so good, Jack,’ you pant.

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

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

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

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

‘Fuck!’ you exclaim, almost bending backwards.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[sixhours]

happy birthday, baby girl - pretend

Ellie has never had a birthday. Joel can fix that.

Series masterlist | Read on AO3 | In progress

Rating: Teen Series tags: The Last of Us, The Last of Us (HBO), Joel and Ellie, Ellie Williams, Joel Miller, birthdays, swearing, fluffy fluff, canon-compliant Words: 2.5k

“May 15th.”

Joel looks up from his place at the kitchen table, his latest project spread across the work surface. It looks like a lamp. “What?”

“You said I could pick a birthday, so I did. It’s May 15th.”

He considers this, then nods. “Alright then.”

Later, she walks into the kitchen and sees the date circled in red pen on the calendar, already two weeks gone by, Joel’s printing in block letters.

ELLIE B-DAY

And that was that.

She turned 15 on May 15th, the day she and Joel walked back into Jackson and started a new life. A clean slate, Joel said at the time, although that’s proving easier said than done. Ellie’s slate seems to be written in permanent ink.

Jackson is weird. They’re assigned to the same house as before and given a few weeks to settle in and “acclimate”, which just means a lot of sitting around. Or in Joel’s case, fixing things. He stomps around the house frowning at squeaky hinges and tinkering with pipes and she rasps The Contractor under her breath whenever he’s in earshot.

Jackson Joel is different from regular Joel. Jackson Joel says things like “mind your manners” and “eat your vegetables first” and glares daggers when she swears in front of people. Jackson Joel walks around the house in socks and sweatpants and a t-shirt. Jackson Joel doesn’t carry a rifle or even his hunting knife.

Jackson Joel is a stranger, but he’s the only stranger Ellie knows, so she guesses she’s stuck with him.

Their new life feels like pretend, like when she was a little and the kids in FEDRA school played Soldiers and Fireflies in the rec yard. She’d get so into it, her imagination so carried away with whatever part she was playing that when she inevitably got captured or shot, her heart would be pounding in her throat.

Now she pretends she belongs in Jackson. She pretends she lives in this strange house with Joel and pretends they’re a family. She pretends Joel actually cares about her (not my daughter sure as hell ain’t your dad) and that she’s not just some freak kid (cargo) he’s been saddled with. She pretends it’s fine that the Fireflies couldn’t make a cure. She pretends Joel isn’t lying to her about whatever happened at the hospital when she was asleep. 

She pretends it’s normal for a 14-year-old (no it’s 15 now, even your stupid birthday is just a random day you made up, it’s all pretend) 15-year-old to crawl into bed with her pretend dad when the bad dreams won’t stop. She pretends it’s normal to wake up screaming every night.

But the thing about pretend is that none of it is real, and she’s still waiting for the game to be called off.

Like everything else in her life, it can’t possibly last.

That first night, she’d stood in the middle of her pretend room smelling of lavender soap and wearing new pajamas that were not hers. I’m right across the hall if you need me, he’d said, but the ten-foot gap between their closed doors might as well have been a thousand miles.

She went to bed, tucked her knife under her pillow, stared at the ceiling of her pretend bedroom in her pretend house, and listened to…nothing. There was no Joel breathing at her side, no crackling campfire, no crickets chirping or spring frogs croaking–nothing but her too-loud thoughts and a racing pulse in her ears.

Finally, when her heart threatened to beat out of her ribs and her palms were sweaty and her skin practically burned with the quiet, she’d padded into the hallway with her blanket and pillow clutched to her chest. Joel was already standing outside his room in his T-shirt and sweats (it’s so weird, where was his leather jacket and jeans and flannel and boots, how was he supposed to protect them wearing fucking socks) looking as lost and tired as she felt.

“I can’t–“ she began.

“Are you–“ he began.

They’d stared at each other in the dim light, neither knowing what the next step should be.

Finally, she’d huffed a sigh and stomped past him into his bedroom. She tossed her pillow on the unrumpled side of his bed and climbed in, pointedly facing away from him. She stayed like that for a minute or two, waiting for him to grumble at her, to send her back to her room. Eventually, she’d heard the creak of the hardwood behind her and felt the bed shift and jostle slightly as he got in.

“Wake me up if I snore,” is all he’d said.

She didn’t sleep for shit that night, and she’s pretty sure he didn’t, either…but at least it wasn’t so fucking quiet.

And the days pass, and it’s all so fucking weird, and still, they pretend.

Two weeks later, she wakes gasping for breath, clawing her way back from a cold, burning shack in Colorado, shivering and sweating through her nightshirt. Joel is there. She sleeps curled up against his back, so all he has to do is roll over and wrap one strong arm around her, the movement so natural and practiced that most of the time he barely wakes up.

“S’alright. You’re safe now. You’re in Jackson. You’re with me.”

It’s the same words whispered in the same way to her temple every time, like a mantra or a prayer. It may be pretend, but it works. She settles back to sleep with her head tucked under his chin, nose pressed to his chest.

Later she wakes again, not from a dream this time, but because the other side of the bed is cold.

Joel is gone.

Her heart clogs her throat and she throws the quilt off her body and scrambles out of bed.

Faint light from the stairwell. She creeps down the stairs, knife clutched in her hand. What if someone broke in? What if they got Joel? Jackson was supposed to be safe, but what if–

But it’s just Joel, standing in the kitchen holding a spatula. He looks up when she wanders over.

“Hey, kiddo–what’re you doin’ up?”

She squints and rubs at her eyes, a flash of anger nipping at the heels of relief.

Why did you leave me?

“Why is it so dark?” is all she can think to say, throat tight.

“It’s three-thirty,” he says, glancing at the clock on the wall. “Couldn’t sleep. Thought maybe I’d work on the house, but I didn’t want to wake you, so I uh…”

He looks down at the counter in front of him. A big mixing bowl surrounded by boxes and tins and cracked eggshells, all of it covered with a dusting of flour.

Playing pretend, she thinks blearily.

“So…you thought you’d cook?”

“It’s baking, actually, but…yeah.”

“What are you making?”

“Cake…I hope,” he says, gesturing to an open cookbook off to the side.

“Have you done that before?”

“Nah…but can’t be that hard. Just eggs, flour, sugar–we don’t have sugar, but we have honey and syrup, and then the flour is, uh…oat somethin’, I think…”

He looks at the book again, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You can just swap things around like that?”

“Uh…think we’re gonna find out.”

She comes over to peer into the bowl, wrinkling her nose.

“Looks like diarrhea.”

“Yeah, well, hopefully it don’t taste like it,” he mutters, kneeling to open the corner cabinet, peering inside, looking for something.

Feeling brave, Ellie sticks her finger in the gooey mixture and gives it a sniff; it might look like shit, but it smells good. She takes a tentative lick.

“Not bad,” she says. 

Joel looks up from his perch on the floor. “Hey, don’t–don’t eat that–s’got raw egg in it. It’ll make you sick.”

“Dude, we’ve been eating twenty-year-old canned stew for, like, weeks.”

He opens his mouth to protest, but then thinks better of it, shaking his head and going back to the cupboard.

“Was tryin’ to find a pan in here,” he says. He has to reach deep into the back corner until the upper half of his body practically disappears into its depths, grumbling something about shoddy kitchen cabinetry over the clang of pots and pans that haven’t seen daylight in two decades. Eventually, he emerges holding a dusty silver pan in the shape of a donut.

“Think this is a bundt pan,” he says, taking it to the sink and washing it out. “But it’ll have to do.”

“Now what?” she asks, feeling more awake. 

“We…pour the batter into the pan,” he says, reading directly from the book.

“Can I?”

“Sure,” he shrugs, wiping his hands on a towel. “Have at it.”

She tips the mixing bowl into the pan, spilling a little in the process. It oozes onto the counter.

“Now what? We put it in the oven?”

“Uh…yep.”

She slides the pan into the hot oven, carefully pushing it to the middle of the rack, then closes the door. Joel turns the little kitchen timer and it starts clicking away the seconds. It reminds her of a tiny, tomato-shaped bomb.

“Did you do stuff like this before?” she says, sliding onto one of the stools at the counter, watching as Joel grabs a towel and begins wiping up the spilled batter and flour. She tries to picture him in his shoddy apartment kitchen in the QZ wearing one of those stupid aprons that says “Kiss the cook”, tries to imagine him and Tess in that dark, sad little corner of Boston whipping up a batch of muffins or cookies, the two of them acting all domestic and shit. The image is so weird, so out of place and wrong and not-Joel, she blushes.

“Uh…no. Not really. Used to buy cakes, usually. The grocery stores sold ‘em, all pre-frosted and decorated and the like. Fancy…flowers n’ shit.”

“So…no diarrhea cakes?”

He huffs a soft laugh. “No.”

“What about Sarah? Did she like to bake?”

“Mmm, yeah, I guess she did. She’d make cookies with the neighbors sometimes. But she liked the grocery store cakes fine, too,” he says. “Always insisted we get a cake for my birthday. Don’t care much for sweets, but…was more about the tradition, I s’pose.”

His eyes have gone soft the way they always do when he talks about her, his voice rough around the edges. He sighs, clearing his throat.

“It’s gonna be a while. Why don’t you go on back to bed, kiddo?”

“Don’t want to,” she yawns. “I’m invested now. Gotta know how this weird cake thing ends.”

He gives her a tired smirk. “How ‘bout a movie, then?”

Soon she’s curled up on the couch with Armageddon in the VCR. Joel tucks an afghan around her, leaves her with a pat on the head. From anyone else, the gesture would be patronizing, but from Joel, it’s nice. Comforting.

“I’ll be in the kitchen.”

She drifts in that half-space between wakefulness and sleep while the movie plays, something Joel picked out about asteroids and meteors and oil drilling. She pretends she lives in a house where she watches movies and bakes cakes with her pretend dad at 3 a.m.

When the timer’s mechanical ding sounds, she scrubs at her eyes and pauses the movie. She follows the scents of warm vanilla and honey to find Joel dozing at the kitchen table, arms folded with his chin tucked to his chest.

“Hey dude, your diarrhea cake’s gonna burn.”

He rouses and blinks at her, eyes widening as he fumbles for the hot pads on the counter and moves to open the oven. A fragrant heat wafts out as he takes out the pan. Ellie isn’t sure what the cake is supposed to look like, but it smells amazing.

“Now we gotta make the icin’.”

“The icin’,” Ellie says, mimicking his drawl. “Gotta make the icin’.”

He side-eyes her, then goes back to frowning at his cookbook. 

“I reckon we don’t have any ‘icin’ sugar’, whatever the hell that is…but…we got syrup.”

Joel puts a generous dollop of syrup into a clean bowl and Ellie pours in some cream and a splash of vanilla extract at his instruction. She sticks her finger in and tastes it, pronounces it good enough. Joel doesn’t scold her this time, even hands her the spoon to lick clean when he’s done.

“Moment of truth,” he mutters to himself as he turns the pan over on a plate and pulls it up to release the cake. No luck. Grimacing, he smacks the thing a few times, runs a knife around the edges and upturns it again. The cake finally comes out, but the top half stays firmly stuck inside the pan.

“Guess I was s’posed to flour that,” he sighs.

The result is a raggedy donut-shaped ring. It looks like a mess, but Ellie digs out a chunk of the cake’s stuck top and pops it into her mouth. It’s sweet and fluffy and warm, way better than a twenty-year-old chocolate bar.

“Dude…that’s fucking awesome.”

“Yeah?”

“Uh-huh. Not bad for diarrhea cake.”

With that, she digs out another crumbly-soft piece from the pan and stuffs it into her mouth.

“Hold on now, still gotta add the icin’.”

They drizzle the sticky-sweet icing over the ragged bottom half of the cake. Ellie sneaks another fingerful or two from the bowl and Joel pretends not to notice. Then they stand back to examine their work.

“Well, it ain’t gonna win any prizes, but…”

“Can we eat it already?”

“Sure, kid.”

He opens a drawer and finds two forks, giving one to her. But just as she’s about to dig in, he puts up a hand.

“Hold up. We should do this proper.”

He goes to the mantle in the living room and returns with a candlestick. The base fits neatly in the center hole of the cake like it was meant to be there. Joel lights a match and sets it to the wick, and the faint smell of the burning candle makes Ellie think of a campfire under the stars, sheep ranches on the moon.

“Make a wish,” he murmurs, shaking out the match.

She arches an eyebrow in a silent question.

“It’s, uh, a birthday thing,” he says. He’s getting better at hiding that “sad little orphan girl doesn’t know what a birthday is” look, at least. “You make a wish before you blow out the candle.”

“Then…I wish for infinite wishes,” she grins.

Joel chuckles. “It don’t work like that. Gotta keep it to yourself or it won’t come true.”

“That sounds like bullshit.”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “Yeah, it does, come to think of it. But that’s how it’s done, anyway.”

She watches the candle flicker, the white wax dripping down.

“You wish, too,” she says, suddenly self-conscious.

“Alright. On three?”

“On three,” she agrees. “One…two…three!”

He doesn’t even try to blow out the candle. He’s too busy watching her, that same soft look in his eyes. The flame flickers out with one strong breath, and she wishes to keep pretending for a little longer.

[from-the-wyldness]

Ninjago Headcanons - [Dragon] Riding Habits

Kai, Nya, Jay and Morro bareback ride their dragons.

Jay and Nya use pads tho.

Kai and Morro don't give a shit, nor do their dragons.

Chime [Morro's dragon] Particularly isn't fond of having anything on him, it's just uncomfortable.

Wu tried to stop them but since he wasn't really with them when they fly nor he could really stop them (technically he could cause like, god's son) they just… ride like that.

Cole loves Rocky but he's not about to attempt that [He actually did try to ride bareback, it didn't end well]. He might be a bit scared of falling or something-

Zane of course wouldn't ever do that, thank you.

Lloyd tried; he wanted to be like "the cool kids".

Absolutely everyone forbade him from doing that so he also rides with the equipment.

He did try anyways, in secret, the amounts of times he and Ultra crashed isn't even funny, he definitely prefers to ride with saddle and bridle.

[3liza]

I think the thing with the horse poll is if you a re at a level of bike riding where you will fall off and hurt yourself regularly if you don't have training wheels and someone helping you then you know you do not yet know how to ride a bike but since we (horse people) are absolutely terrified of letting tourists and summer camp kids fall off a horse everyone who has sat on a school pony and walked down a trail is not aware that they would just tip over and land directly on their head if someone wasn't babysitting them in the worlds largest western saddle with a padded horn on the world's fattest sleepiest 20 year old gelding. so the first time you, the 8 year old at your first actual riding lesson, find out the stern lesbian who runs the place is expecting you to climb a vertical wall of moving megafauna and get into a saddle by yourself somehow, you either immediately give up or just as immediately develop a weird personality that enables you to not only climb onto a horse from the ground but also nudge the world's second-fattest and sleepiest gelding into a series of different gaits and patient little tricks using just your legs and mouth noises. this process takes years and you constantly fall off and hurt yourself the whole time

I just realized that a certain amount of head trauma is usually involved at some stage which kind of underscores the weird personality part of the process

[delopsia]

We were so robbed of Rhett and Perry just being brothers.

I want Rhett and Perry buying stupid shit and terrorizing their folks with it. Royal eating breakfast and looking out the kitchen window just in time to see Rhett gliding by on a neon yellow hoverboard, taking one of the horses out to the barn. Going out to scold him for playing with toys while at work, only to look over and see Perry on a purple one, trying to separate two cattle.

I want to see them getting into petty arguments and then banding together right after because Royal said something that neither of them liked.

Perry waking up early to steal Rhett's horse and trying to run when Rhett comes chasing them down because that's his mare, goddammit! "Look, you ripped my damn saddle pad!" "That was there before!" "No, it wasn't!"

Waiting until Cecelia looks away and exchanging food off their plates. Rhett isn't fond of steamed carrots and Perry doesn't mind exchanging his mashed potatoes if that means his little brother will clean his plate.

Them going out for drinks and winding up in a 2 v 3 with the Tillerson brothers because Trevor mouthed off about Rhett's most recent ride. They're outnumbered, but Rhett is quick on his feet, and Perry hits harder than a freight train. Ending the fight and then overhearing an older man chuckling about how they're definitely Royal's sons.

I want Rhett and Perry frantically cleaning themselves up so that their folks won't clock them for getting into another fight. Buying a case of cheap beer and drinking in the back of Rhett's truck until the sun rises or they run out. Whichever happens first.

Them realizing that they've got near identical birthmarks; Rhett has one on his left hip and Perry on his right. Getting annoyed when their momma says she knows. Because why did she never tell them?? It shouldn't have taken twenty-three years for them to realize this!

I want both of them red in the face as Cecelia tells stories about the things they got up to when they were kids. The time Perry tied a string to Rhett's loose tooth and yanked it out. How they got busted eating their Easter candy when they were supposed to be in bed. When they figured out how to drive the four-wheeler by themselves and got grounded for three weeks.

Family dinners where distant relatives come together, bringing up all the old times. And oh god, Dad is talking about politics again. "Perry, you trip me, and I'll do the rest." There's nothing worse than Thanksgiving turkey being ruined by an argument between Royal and cousin Steve.

There's so much that we could have had from these two!😭

[ornion]

dungeon horsie

Detailed version under the cut

Senshi: a Clydesdale mare he named Anne (as a memorial). He rides bareback and tackless because of course he does. Anne’s mane and tail are allowed to grow naturally with minimal interference because he insists brushing damages them and dislikes trimming/braiding for being superfluous.

Chilchuck: an Irish cob with a roached mane for convenience. His tack is also functional (large saddlebags, a breastplate for security, simple headstall) but doesn’t include stirrups. His balance is good enough and he’s not exactly jumping over stuff.

Marcille: A fancy champagne Arabian with fancy tack. All Marcille’s stuff is lined with sheepskin, the curb bit suits her precise hand movements, and the saddle pad and bridle decor are frilly. She also sits very properly and pays as much attention to her horse’s mane and tail as her own hair.

Laois: a Percheron mule with a lightly trimmed mane. Laois sits somewhat poorly and prefers simple tack. The western bridle with tooling was a gift from Marcille since his old bridle was plain/NOT well maintained and she thought he should have something nice looking. The mule’s strength and build suits his heavier armor, though its stubbornness occasionally causes hiccups.

Izutsumi: Izutsumi

Just kidding, she’s got a dapple grey thoroughbred and they don’t get along very well.

[blueiscoool]

Lost and Found: Bottle Hunter Digs Extraordinary Farmland Treasures

Tom Askjem is a time traveler. Every May to November, he disappears into the bowels of the earth, descends to depths of 13’-plus, and returns to the surface with treasure—bottles and glassware from farming’s past.

After 1,800 pits and hundreds of thousands of relics, Askjem is equal parts archeologist, thrill seeker, and mole. Muscle on dirt, the North Dakota farm boy has turned an addiction into a career, multiple books, and a captivating YouTube channel with millions of views. However, Askjem seeks more than glass.

“I’m digging for adventure, history, and love,” he says. The past is in these holes and there are countless numbers of them across farmland.”

Time to hunt with a master.

The Infection

On the flats of extreme eastern North Dakota’s Traill County, Askjem, 32, prepares for a dig trip. “No mountains and no hills in the Red River Valley,” he describes. “You can see your dog run away for days. The land is mostly featureless, other than a few big cottonwoods and shelter belts where farms used to be.”

A mop of blonde hair sits atop a 6’-tall, lanky frame as Askjem saddles his pony—a Honda Civic. At the current mileage rate, the Civic will be junkyard fodder before it has a scratch: 60,000 backroad miles added to the odometer in the past six months.

Askjem piles layers of gear into the trunk, including three of each tool for insurance: shovels, pronged garden forks, trampoline pads, probe rods, buckets, plastic scoopers, trowels, tents, sleeping bags, blankets, pillows, air mattresses, clothes, and waterproof, Redwing leather work boots.

“It never gets old,” he says, wearing a wide grin. “I caught the infection when I was a kid.”

Digging Bodies

Pushed from the Grand Forks area by the historic Red River flood of 1997, Askjem moved to a farm outside Buxton at six years young. The main property was an 1878 homestead—a progression from sod house to log cabin to the present standing 1898 farmhouse decked in Victorian-era woodwork and hardware.

Surrounded by history, including the skeletons of old wagons and rusting machinery, Askjem explored a 5-acre patch of woods on the property, and chanced on a garbage dump: pop bottles and trash.

Askjem dug.

“I went deep and found stuff going back to 1898. When you’re a kid living in the country, there’s no going down the street and there’s no hanging with friends to play video games—you make your own adventure. I started hitting up all the farmers I could find for leads.”

Behind the wheel of a rattling go-cart, Askjem sought Buxton old-timers and collected tips on abandoned houses. “They all helped me,” he says. “Nobody cared where I hunted because I was just a little kid exploring for all the right reasons.”

“I’ve still got an elementary school journal with an assignment describing my weekend,” he adds. “I wrote, ‘Me and Mom dug up old bodies.’ The teacher marked my paper out of concern,” Askjem describes, with an easy, deep chuckle. “I meant to spell bottles, not bodies. But it shows I was truly hooked.”

Indeed. Wonderfully hooked.

Soft Landing

Why are bottles buried under farmland and old house sites?

Prior to plastic and synthetics, glassware held everything: medicine, hygiene products, alcohol, soda, and beyond. Glass was it.

Additionally, prior to waste disposal services, homeowners discarded trash on-site—in back yard outhouses, trash depressions, burn pits, and wells or cisterns. In short time, the various ground receptacle spots were filled and forgotten.

“Let’s say, for example, a family moved in around 1880,” Askjem explains. “That site likely has two or three outhouse locations prior to World War l. The outhouse spots filled up at a rate according to family size. I dug one farmhouse site that had six outhouses in a 10-year span. Folks went into the outhouses and threw away bottles: medicine, opiates, beer, whiskey. It was convenient and private, and had a soft landing, and got covered quickly. Even now, the bottles often are still preserved.”

“Generally, these houses also had a burn pit and/or dump pit. In the early days, they burned all trash in the stove for heat. Also, homestead bucket wells were filled up with trash and bottles once they were replaced by pump wells. Cisterns also were eventually filled up, but most of those are associated with houses in town.”

And the sites remain, he emphasizes, hiding intact relics beyond the reach of farm machinery or tillage equipment.

X Marks the Spot

Location. Location. Location. Other than a tip or invitation, how does Askjem find dig sites?

X marks the spot, at least in the county courthouse or public library. He spends winters poring over early property transaction documents. “I look at lot sales. If several lots sold for $100 each in 1880, but one sold for $1,000 in 1885, the price climb tells the story and likely represents a building location.”

“I also read old newspaper archives, looking for hotel or business advertisements,” Askjem continues. “Then I can look up the proprietor’s name and keep tightening the scope, narrowing down the exact building location.”

“Every single house is different, but generally, in the countryside, outhouses were 30 paces out the back door. In the city, where most lots were 140’ long, outhouses could be as close as 5-10 paces.”

Confident of a site’s potential, Askjem first asks for permission to dig from the landowner. “Property owners are always so kind to me and I don’t hide anything I find. They’re curious about what is in the ground, just like anybody else.”

Second, he grids out the site. “I put down markers 2 paces apart, maybe 20 paces long. I push probe rods into ground and feel for compaction differences. Depending on the location, I’ll call in and have utility lines marked out for power and gas.”

Decked in Levi’s and a tank-top, it’s time to tunnel.

Claustrophobic Comfort

Shovel in hand, Askjem descends into a layer cake of dirt: black topsoil to brown-colored clay to telltale ash to a use layer containing treasure.

“Generally, I go deep to find old items in quantity. The earliest bottles were used to the last drop by farmers and thrown out empty. Therefore, when they froze in brutal Dakota winters, the glass didn’t break from liquid expansion.”

As Askjem extracts glass vessels from the dirt and grime, his encyclopedic knowledge registers with each find. He recognizes the type, manufacturer, and age. Ink bottles, hygiene bottles, medicine bottles, beer bottles, soda bottles—and far more spill from the holes.

“I find patented medicine bottles across the country, but my favorite are soda bottles because they are unique to their locale and have character. The old soda bottles are usually marked with the bottler and town name because they were returnable.”

The outhouse pits are typically 6’-deep at home sites, with an average size of 6’-by-4’-by-3’. “I’ve dug ghost towns, dug saloons, train depots, and pool halls that were 12’ long, 4’ wide, and 8’ deep. I remember a hotel pit that was 20’-by-20’ and 8’ deep. There was a military fort with pits behind the barracks that was 12’ long, 4’ wide, and 13.5’ deep: That was a week’s worth of digging.”

Askjem’s subterranean realm provides no comfort to the claustrophobic. At 8’-9’, he braces the holes with woodwork. “I’m in a solid clay base that doesn’t cave, but I have a healthy respect for the ground’s limitation. Sometimes, it looks like I’m digging a rabbit hole.”

Preserved in nature’s freezer, the artifacts unearthed by Askjem often are in phenomenal condition.

“Pieces of newspaper can still be read; bottle labels are legible; white lime used in decomposition is visible; and undigested seeds are everywhere. Even 120-year-old human waste sometimes is perfectly preserved and still smells like hell. I wear a hydrogen sulfide respirator in those cases.”

“It’s all there; almost like it was dropped yesterday.”

Ghosts in the Ground

In 2022, Askjem began chronicling his digs via a YouTube channel, Below the Plains, and soon captured millions of views. At two posts per week, he gins footage at a steady rate to feed the algorithm, a tough task considering the ground in his geography is frozen from mid-November to mid-May.

Additionally, Askjem has written two in-depth books (Nebraska Soda Bottles 1865-1930 and A History of North Dakota Bottling Operations 1879-1930) and has more on the way. “I put the bottle prices in the books because they can sell for a whole lot and I always tell the landowners. Listing prices draw criticism, but that’s important to me because it helps preserve the item, and preservation of history is what drives me.”

Covered in dust or mud at the end of each day in digging season, Askjem is highly respectful of what he finds—almost reverent after 1,800 digs. “I appreciate everything I uncover because it represents a part of someone’s daily life and existence. There’s nothing wrong with coveting bottles, but I’m really in those holes for the moment of discovery.”

Even when not digging, Askjem is on the move, surfing on the coasts or river diving for lost cargo. In the decades to come, will he continue burrowing into the past? “Twenty years from now, I hope I’m still digging and there’s nothing I’d rather be doing right now.”

“There’s not an infinite amount of lost bottle sites, but there’s certainly an incredibly high number,” he continues. “There were 300,000 homestead farms in North Dakota with a minimum of one well, one outhouse, and one trash dump. And that doesn’t include towns where most of the population lived. There are millions of these sites in North Dakota and far more in other states.”

Respect to a freewheeling hunter like no other. Bottles draw the eye, but ghosts draw the heart: “The moment never gets old when you uncover a bottle and find that history,” Askjem adds. “Never.”

By CHRIS BENNETT.

[shortstirrupequestrian]

Discover ultimate style and comfort with our Plum Luxe Saddlepads! Designed for young equestrians, these saddlepads combine premium quality and stunning aesthetics. Shop now and give your little rider a look they’ll adore!

[yolosimcc]

Kids Saddle And Pads

Today, I was still stuck in this rabbit hole of giving us more stuff for kids. I felt like making more swatches for the EA kids saddle and turning the pad into a separate CAS part.

Based on my testing, the children's riding outfit needs to be the first outfit equipped, otherwise the default saddle will pop up to replace the adult saddle. And if you want an adult sim to ride the same horse, you should equip the adult tack as the second riding outfit and ensure you change the horse's outfit before mounting.

You can find pictures of all swatches and the download link under the cut.

Kids Saddle

A standalone CAS part available in the athletic category

4 swatches (EA default + 3 others)

Kids Saddle Pad

A standalone CAS part available in the athletic category

17 swatches (beige swatch is the EA default, other swatches adjusted to resemble the English saddle swatches)

Feel free to create more swatches!

Download here: http://simfileshare.net/folder/195145/

[transguydragon]

I am a boy. A guy. A dude. Sometimes I even feel like I am a man.

And I think I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t wanna be neutral about it. I don’t wanna be a they/them transmasc, or even a he/they transmasc. No, I’m a man.

And maybe it’s just cause I’m a still a fuckin’ baby when it comes to being trans, but I don’t think I wanna reconnect with femininity, and I don’t think I ever will.

I always hated makeup, I hate the feeling of stuff on my face and my fidgeting from ADHD causes me to touch my face a lot so I was always worried I’d absentmindedly smudged it and just didn’t remember cause I zoned out. The only time I really liked my nails painted was when I got acrylics done like short claws for a Halloween costume and then kept doing them like that for a while until Covid started and I stress fidgeted and tore them right off.

Certain skirts and dresses make me feel very uncomfortable and vulnerable. Some of them are ok but very few. My occasional enjoyment of dresses was almost entirely based on the fact that they were objectively flattering for my figure and I could see/understand that (The Doll In The Mirror, as I call it) but I never actually liked them for the internal me.

I like jewelry I guess, but I keep it pretty minimalist or neutral. I’m pretty content to keep wearing the same stuff I’ve been wearing every day for years now. The only new thing I desire jewelry-wise is sword/dagger earrings.

I like sewing as a practical and useful skill. I don’t want to make pretty things. I’d only ever touch lace if it was something I was doing for my roommate. I want to fix holes, clean up seams, and replace buttons.

I liked horses growing up, went to some summer camps, but I was never once a horse girl. That’s something else. I liked horseback riding for the outdoors, for the connection with such a unique animal, for the unmatched feeling of competency and strength derived from being a 5’0” kid hauling a full saddle+blanket+pad set that‘s probably about 1/3 your weight all the way from the barn to your horse and successfully slinging it onto its back, which is several inches above your shoulder, all by yourself. The feeling of ruggedness from learning how to pick a horse’s hooves in the hot summer sun.

And sure I was there with a bunch of other girls, and all the leaders who looked after the stables were women, but I felt different from most of them. With some of the leaders I got a sense that we were more similar, I would later realize that they were giving dyke vibes, and more explicitly, on my last time at that camp learned that our slightly more broody counsellor and the head of the stable staff were lesbians and dating. Even before I knew that, I had wanted to connect with them both more but didn’t know how to approach them. But I was drawn to them. Thinking back on it, I even wonder if maybe our counsellor might’ve ended up being trans? They hated their last name because it sounded really girly/cutesy, and it seemed to me like a lot was going on in their head…

I got off track. What are some other feminine things I either don’t like or have big stipulations on my feeling about them?…

[puppetmaster13u]

HTTYD Batfam Part 1

So slowly rotating their dragon partners, with the first ones being Bruce's (Batman's) five dragons.

Night Fury “Zorro” [Male] His main partner in battle, with supplies and armor stained black to meld with his scales. The saddle is designed for both standing and laying down, along with carrying multiple people should Bruce need to carry his kids or friends to safety. 

Titanwing Night Terror “Myotis” [Female] This tiny dragon was like an oversized comfort plush when he was a child, and he carried her everywhere, especially after his parents’ death. This has changed to her perching on his shoulder, usually with some of the newer members of the flock to introduce them to him. They’ve crashed things many times to rescue their two-leg friend. 

Stormcutter “Ghost” [Male] A pale white drake with hints of fleshy pink and pitch black eyes, presumably leucistic in nature. He lacks the armor of the rest of the flock, but has a pair of saddlebags on the back of the shoulders along with a band on the neck for a rider to hold onto during flight. 

Stinger “Shard” [Male] Due to being mostly flightless, he is usually used for carrying supplies, including extra blankets and snacks. There’s light armor over his chest and head, mostly to assist in padding when charging or breaking through things. 

Smothering Smokebreath “Freetail” [Female] The leader of the family’s flock of smokebreaths, who usually help act as cover, especially at night. She has a couple of scars, the most noticeable one over her eye, but most are covered by bits of armor. She also has a small bag on her back to put metal snacks or emergency messages in. 

[jasper-dracona]

I went to a summer camp that was focused on horseback riding through the mountains of kananaskis when I was younger.

And what a beautiful experience that was. Gorgeous mountains and calming lakes, splashing around the base of a small waterfall with new friends. Sitting by that lake and having my mind go quiet all on it’s own for the first time in my life as I focus on the sound of the birds around me.

Clear skies and trail songs and simple but satisfying meals after long days in the sun. Even in the cold rain it’s incredible.

And the horses, incredible animals. So full of personality, and many of them so sweetly patient with us kids. Patient as we learned to get them to lift their hooves for picking, as we struggled to get their buckets of grain feed hooked up for them to eat before a ride. Patient as we learned how to hoist their big heavy saddles onto their backs, blankets and pads and all, when their shoulders lied above our own. I always revelled in that feeling of sheer strength and competence, to get that big construction of leather and metal all the way up there.

And I loved the smell of the barn, with all the saddles on their posts, the blankets placed on top to air out between rides. It smelled like effort and wood and leather and I loved it. When I couldn’t go take out the hay to the feeders with the others because I started to get hives from it, I volunteered to sweep the barn. I was in there for what felt like eternity, practically meditating. Quietly getting to know every odd nook and crevice of this rugged place, surrounded by that handsome air.

And the next day I went back into that barn with satisfaction, proudly hoisted up my horse’s saddle and marched over to his post, ready for another day on trail. But instead we did some movement exercises before we left, to work on control and critique the way we hold our reins.

They had us walk our horse forward into a small circle of pylons, turn them around in a tight circle and then walk back out and stop. This was harder than it sounds based on the other campers’ attempts, though all of them did really well on their second go around. But I calmly got up in the saddle, took the reins, and guided my horse in a tight circle without bumping a single pylon or having him step outside them. We nailed it. I kept it cool, but I was soooo… I was so proud of myself and my horse. I felt so skilled and confident in a way I never had before.

And the rugged jeans I wore and all the plaid I brought along. I was not the only one in plaid by far, but I did not wear as many tights as everyone else. And I loved to put on my boots, the ones with just enough heel for the stirrups. And I loved doing up the straps of the saddle as carefully but efficiently as I could.

I loved the mountain views and the beauty and joy of the freshwater, I loved feeling rugged, I loved feeling competent and worked, I loved the smell of the summer air and the sweat and leather and wood of the barn. I loved to get the dust out of my horse’s coat in the morning with that big thick brush with hard smooth strokes and a flick.

That camp made me feel more like a man than I knew. I wish I could’ve revelled in it the way I would now. I wish I had volunteered to chop the wood like I had wanted. But I did always carry the most logs back to our campfire, and filled with pride when I looked at the light red marks on my forearms from the scraping bark.

Now, if only I liked hats.

[redrydersrequiem]

Reunited Chapter 9

Hey guys im back sorry this is short an it took so long I haven’t been inspired fora bit plus ive been moving and alot of stuff in my life is going crazy but im back at it love everyone who’s reading this i thank you.

Its been two days since the soul transfer. Right after the ceremony Spider was whisked away to the labs, much to his dismay, the boy only complying once he saw how worried I still was. A handful of checkups a bunch of drills and a night of observation spider was released with a clean bill of health. It’s not till the next morning that the ceremony would be complete, and I couldn't say I was looking forward to it.

Saying goodbye to his human body

The ceremony is just as beautiful as the one before it. Spider's former body lays in the same position it was yesterday, simply looking as though he's asleep, but now glowing flowers are placed gently beside him. I can't help but gently cry as I clutch spiders hand in mine the entire time. Needing the reassurance he's still here with me and his father. Everyone silently sets up, taking turns saying their goodbyes and laying down flowers. Atokirina grace us with their calming presence as they gently float around us to the sound of everyone gently singing. Neytiri explains to miles and i that the Navi believe all energy is borrowed, and eventually it must be returned.

“Eywa has guided you all to this point, and will now accept Spiders human form back into her loving embrace, watching as he now walks the path of the clans.”

Her words soothe me as I approach and lay my flower down. Miles beside me before we return and bask in our son's presence. Happy to start the next chapter of our family's life.

The rest of the day is filled with merriment. The clan celebrates Spiders rebirth as well as the return of their former clan chief and his family, even if they are only visiting. Spider goes around still testing out his new body and saying hello to the people he used to know, accepting the small trinkets they give him. Miles and I simply watch on happily.

After the morning and an afternoon of celebration we all decided to have a more intimate dinner. All the people close to Spider now take up residency in the Sullys old home. Norm, Max and Abby sit beside Jake and Neytiri, Miles and I on the other side of them, all of us gently talking,eating and drinking, while the kids all take residence on the other side of the fire giggling and goofing off as they do. It’s not till tuk insists Spider has to open her present that we move and put everything off to the side.

Spider now sits in the middle as tuk tuk goes first, presenting a small pouch, a leather armband inside. It’s simple in its design but thoughtful and lovingly crafted but eh younger girl. Decorated with sea rocks from the Metikiyana and a feather from the Omaticaya,

“so you can wear it at both places.” She says gleefully.

Kiri was next, gifting spider some beautiful beads of all colors she had been saving

“Here I carved these myself. They'll bring you luck, monkey boy.”

“Thank you kiri” The duo sport similar blushes, but no one says anything, all just simply filling the information away for later.

Neteyam and Lo’ak gift him a new knife sheath and a new ikran saddle. Telling him by the end of the week they’ll all be able to race around. Norm and the others gifted him a waterproof camera hoping he’ll send them some photos of the ocean and its environment, to which he readily agrees, just as curious as they are. They also gifted him a new halo pad now, Navi sized, all so he could keep in contact with everyone. The kids all cooed over the tech while Jake and Neytiri step forward to give their gift.

“This might not be as cool as your new tech but it is to commemorate your new life.”

They hand him a long cord, a new Navi sized songcord to be exact. Miles and I had agreed to giving the honor to them, having been there his whole life. A new dark leather and twine band sits with all the previous gems and trinkets. The only difference is that at the end a beautiful blue bead sits proudly. Symbolizing his transfer.

“Thank you.” Spider says gratefully, taking the cord and retying it to his hip.

“Your welcome kid. We’ve seen you work hard your whole life, learning the navis ways and respecting the world around you, we’re honored to do this for to watch how much you continue to grow.”

Spider goes and hugs the sully matriarchs, his eyes slightly watery.

“It’s our turn now sully” Miles states with a teasing smile on his face.

Miles moves over to spider a large long bundle in hand neatly tied at both ends. Spider takes it untying the top knot to reveal the end of a new bow. His face lights up at it, it's a beautiful dark wood that miles had been carving the better part of the month. Ever since he was told about spider's avatar. The bow is expertly carved, the man having spent the better part of his life carving little trinkets as a stress outlet. After getting jakes expertise (really neytiris) the bow was ready to accompany spider the rest of his days

“Wow this is incredible, thanks dad”

“Your welcome kid”

“Hey, maybe now I can teach you how to actually use one.” Spider jokes causing miles to put the boy in a head lock both now wrestling around as everyone laughs.

“Ok boys settle down its my turn.”

Spider and miles separate as I bring forward my small present and place it in spider's lap. Opening it a necklace sits, a true warriors necklace beaded and braided, the only difference is that the focal point of spiders sits shining metal dog tags. His full name, nickname and d.o.b, engraved on them, matching the ones miles, I and the rest of the blue team all sport.

“I wanted you to have something to remind you of both sides of your family.”

“Mom it's perfect thank you,” he quickly placed the sack it was in down before coming over to me gesturing for me to help him put it on.

I do so and he turns smiling at me before enveloping me in a giant hug.

“I'll never take it off sa’nu.” I just hugged my baby back just a tight happy that he's here with me now.

*Think this. But instead of th bigger tooth its dog tags *

The party continued well into the night. Norm and the others calling it an evening and returning to the labs while they still could, light conversation flowing between the sullys and us until light snores catch our attention. All the kids now asleep piled together, I took a quick photo on spiders camera and we tuck the kids all in, putting the fire out into light embers that will keep the tent nice and warm. Good nights are said as I curl up in miles arms burying my head in his chest as he squeezes me closer, a gentle smile on his face as he kiss my forehead

“How you doing now darlin?”

“Im good love, i'm so happy, i don't even have word’s”

“Me to darlin me to.

We sit in silence listening to the quiet snores around us as we drift of into sleep. But a dread lies just beneath the surface of this happiness, waiting just beyond the horizon to try and cripple our new lives.

We decided to stay with the omatikaya for two weeks. Give the sullys time to be with their old clan and loved ones, give spider time to acclimate to being Navi and be able to pass all the challenges a young warrior his age would have completed by now. He makes amazing progress, a true natural according to neytiri, much better than Jake when he first entered into the clan she says all the time, But it's not all fun and games while we were here.

Under the cover of dusk before the sun rises Jake, miles and i along with some other scouts wait in the trees watching the hustle and bustle of Bridgehead.

“It doesn’t look like they are up to anything huge but they could easily Hide any new gear with how much the base has grown”

“Yeah if anything. It would be in those hangers If they were building a new battlecraft, but they have tightened security,”

“Or At least doubled it by the look of all the skeletal suits walking around the perimeter there.”

“We’ll have to keep an eye on them, help the forest clans come up with back up plans, I don't trust Ardmore to just sit patiently.

“Agreed

“If anything we need to take the RDA out in the ocean. While they do have crafts they can’t fight everyone in those. Heavy suits like they use would be at a disadvantage there.”

“Your Right Dove as always.”

“Thank you, love.”

“Ok ok, i'll ask Tarsem to set up some patrols, report anything they see, for now let's get back, the sun should be rising soon and the kids are ready for spiders iknimaya.

The better part of the week the kids spent training Spider. The boy already knew everything already, having been training since he could walk, but was more than happy to redone everything now that's he's able to fully experience it. We painted him up in the traditional paints like the other warriors and created a group to go up the sacred mountains once more.

“Bro lets do this” Lo’ak says excitedly, reaching the top of the cliff face a second before spider, Neteyam and kiri not far behind them. Miles and I sat next to our ikrans having just landed after watching the teens finish climbing up

“Thank god we don't have to climb that again.”

“Oh hush you big baby”, i say playfully smacking miles chuckling form. Now that the kids are all up and in one piece jake steps forward.

“Ok kids, let's get this done.” Jake says gesturing for spider to step up, he and miles not far behind (both being the over protective dads they are)

“You can do this Spider” kiri tells him gently all of us watching, our breaths held as Spider steps into the clearing. Despite our worries the young man steps into the clearing with confidence, challenging the ikrans like he was taught, waiting for one to challenge back. Eventually a darker blue one does, not quite the color of his fathers or the sully families, but somewhere in between.

With incredible speed, and grace, Spider was on the back of the banshee before we knew it. We all watched with joy miles calling cupcake and quickly climbing on, ready to follow his son over the cliff edge for his first flight.Everyone flies together, whooping and hollering being heard as the kids all race, miles and Jake joining as well as neytiri and I just watch with smiles on our faces. A rare peaceful moment for our families before the war comes back into focus.

The time with the omaticaya comes to a close, and back to the rest of our family.

The ocean is as beautiful as always, even more so looking at it from above the clouds. We see the clan coming towards us on the sand a couple of dark blue bodies blending in with the see of turquoise waiting for us to land, cheers being heard throughoutWe all quickly hop off letting the ikrans rest a moment before unpacking. Eager to reintroduce spider to the metkayina

“About time you all returned we were thinking of coming to rescue you by the end of the week” wainfleet says joyfully.

“Well we had a lot happen Lyle it all took time beside. Come see your godson's new look miles says pushing spider out from behind him towards the group”

They all look at him in awe,

“Hey uncle Lyle.”

“Wow kid is that really you”

“Yeah it's me. Im finally blue

“You look good kid”, z says next to him checking out his new necklace, and ruffling his braided hair. The rest of the team comes up saying their hellos, welcome backs and congrats to spider while miles and i unload the ikrans. Ronal and Tonowari step up from the crowd, all of us turning to them as he appraises our group once more but I can see in his eyes the differences he’s seeing from us before and the us now.

“I see you’ve all returned to us” Tonowari asks

“Yes sir” miles responds for us all

“And I see you have brought back another forest clan member”

“Yes and no sir” I speak up quickly, placing my hand on spider's upper upper back and motioning him forward.

“This is actually our son spider”

I say presenting my son to the clan heads once more, except this time he has his head held high shoulders squared back and jaw set, no longer trying to hide behind his father and I. He greets the olo’ekytan formally. Tonowari responds, a smirk on his face at the boy's cheekiness, he goes to speak but Ronal however beats him in saying anything.

“Eywa has transferred his soul?”

“Yes ma’am I passed through her eye and returned to be with my family”.

Ronal eyes circling. Him and taking in his new form, her keen eyes assessing him.

“Eywa has trully blessed your family, to not only allow you both a second life but to also allow your child to pass through her eye and return a member of the clan, it will be interesting to watch the journey the great mother has planned for you all.” With that she walks back beside her mate the couple sharing a look before Tonowari smiles back at us

“Welcome back to our clan, Spiders, may you walk in the ways of water.”

Everyone cheers as the heads walk away, the clan welcoming us all back. Some of the kids spider. Meet before running up to him all saying hellos including Aunong, Tsireya and Roxto. All tracing him with their eyes in shock to see the boy they knew now a young Navi man all i can do is smile knowing my boy now can have a better life.miles placing his arm around me as we both stare determination to keep this peace running through our bodies.

Tag list

@headsincloud9 @dyingofcookies @totesnothere04 @ratchetprime211 @myh3artttt @ducks118 @navs-bhat @im-in-a-pansexual-panik

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