#ain’t no valley low enough

[callmeend]

yeah, I’m actually going through with the blog

sighhhh

[starrbuggie]

so I brought myself a Ninjago magazine, as a little treat,

So here, have some things I found silly:

small spoiler warning for dr s2 p1!!

Like father like daughter

Ain’t no valley low enough/ref

Whoa guys, can’t you donate some bones to the cause?

His face here makes me crack up-

Wuuuu, Zane’s trying to kill himself again-

[ohhimjustagirl]

one day i’ll attain a bullets cd. no matter what. ain’t no mountain high enough ain’t no valley low enough ain’t no river wide enough to keep me from coming to you. i got the eye of the tiger. i will have my vengeance in this life or the next. i am not afraid to keep on living. i am the master of my fate, i am the captain of my soul.

[strawhbrrries]

I was thinking more about domestic Frank and dancing with you in the kitchen. Fuck when’s the last time, between the murder and all the blood and the shit, that somebody asked Frank Castle to dance? And you’re just there mixing blueberry muffin batter on a lazy Sunday afternoon, the soft crooning over the radio of “ain’t no mountain high enough, ain’t no valley low enough” and suddenly he’s spinning you around in the kitchen, both of you laughing and singing

yes yes yes!!!

frank had spent sooo much of his life fighting that when a sweet little thing like you came into his life and he just didn’t know what to do! he was so hesitant to let you in because what if you just don’t understand what he went through, or you get hurt because of him. but you didnt care!!!

after awhile you finally convinced him to move in with you, under the guise he would be able to keep an eye on you at all times, and he started to feel way more comfortable in his newly found domestic lifestyle!!!

every sunday afternoon you’d do a sort of meal prepping, just small things to help make packing your breakfast and lunch throughout the week just a little easier, music from every genre and era playing over the radio. at first, he wasn’t a fan of the music, but he dealt with it because it made you happy. slowly he came around and occasionally he helped you with whatever you were doing, transitioning to this new life was hard for him.

teaching him how to dance was like teaching a dog to talk, he had two left feet, but you were patient and took all the time you had to show him. so then, while food was cooking, the two of you would dance around the kitchen and sing the music over the radio!!! (obviously slightly covered in the ingredients of your food)

[direwombat]

tagged by so many people over the past few weeks, but most recently @simplegenius042 on this fine wip wednesday (thank youuuu~). been a while, but here are some sneak peeks at katc ch 7 that's fairly hot off the presses (ie, i wrote them today, they're super rough, and will see the red ink of an editing pen at some point in the near future). syb finally made it to the ranger station in the whitetails, only to find that there's no sign of her brother to be found. just a chatty jacob calling in via radio, and some consequences of the van crash that saved her from john in ch 5. Also tw for passing references to childhood abuse

“Trying to call someone, Deputy?” 

She scowls, glancing around for the source of his voice, if only to disable it. 

“Gotta say, watching you clear out an outpost on your own was impressive. Waltzed into a den of wolves like it was nothing.”

Her blood runs cold. He was watching her the whole damn time? Her eyes dart up to the ceiling, scanning for security cameras. There are none inside, but as she carefully moves to the door, she spots one on the porch outside. According to Augustine, the rangers had security and trail cams set up all over the Whitetails. The cult must have co-opted those for themselves. She grits her teeth. Moving outside, her hand curls around the handle of a baseball bat left leaning against the exterior wall and smashes the camera. 

The pinch in her gut sharpens, white hot and piercing through her like she’s been stabbed. The skin of her abdomen pulls taut and tight as she lifts her arms to swing. 

When she returns inside, low, sinister laughter fills the room. “Clever little jackrabbit, ain’t ya?” 

A growl slips from between gritted teeth and with one hand pressed to her side, she lurches behind the reception desk. Resting on one of the shelves underneath the tabletop, is a HAM radio. She makes note of the frequency it's attuned to, jotting it down in the margins of her map before picking up the transceiver. “The fuck you want?” 

“Got someone who wants to say hi to you.” For a brief, fleeting moment, hope kindles in her ribcage -- Augustine -- only to be snuffed out when Jacob continues, “Ain’t that right, Peaches.” 

Her brow pinches together in confusion, mouth open, ready to ask what the fuck he’s talking about when Staci’s voice comes through. 

“Syb?” His voice is rough. Raw. As if he’d spent the past God knows how long either screaming or crying. He sounds scared. 

All of a sudden her aches and pains and fears are pushed aside in favor of trying to soothe his. “Yeah, I’m here, Stace. You alright?”

She hears his breath hitch and grow shallow, as if he’s hyperventilating. “Don’t listen to him. Whatever he tells you, whatever he says, it’s a --” He’s cut off by the sharp sound of a hand striking skin and he cries out in pain. She gasps, flinching as if she had also been struck. The phantom burn of her Daddy’s hand on her cheek makes the fine hairs on her neck stand on end.  

When Jacob speaks next, his voice is low and threatening. “Alright, that’s enough.” 

“I’m gonna kill you,” Sybille growls.  

“I’m sure you will, sweetheart,” he says condescendingly. “But until then, here’s what’s gonna happen: you’re going to surrender. You’re going to do exactly what I say. And if you behave, maybe I let you see your friend here.” 

“Kiss my ass.” 

“I’m being gracious here, Deputy. The rangers at the station didn’t get as generous an offer.” 

Her lips curl back, exposing all her teeth in a predatory snarl. “You sunnovabitch, I’m gonna --”

But, before she can finish her threat, he’s talking over her. “You’re not feeling well, are you, Deputy? I see the way you’re moving. Slow. Clutching your stomach. Abdominal pain?” He clicks his tongue and she can practically hear him shaking his head. “Nasty things can happen if you let that go unchecked. Do your little buddies in the Valley know? Can’t imagine they do if they let you come up here all on your own.”

Her silence must speak volumes, because after a moment’s pause, he begins to laugh. 

“They don’t know you’re here, do they?”

Her molars grind together so hard her jaw creaks. The pain in her abdomen is getting worse. A pressure builds  Her heart is racing so fast she can barely hear him over it rushing in her ears. Through heavy, labored breaths, she grits out, “You listen to me --”

“No. You listen to me. My Chosen will come get you. You’ll play nice. And maybe -- if i’m in a good mood -- maybe, I’ll humor you with a negotiation. How does that sound?”

“Sounds like you can take my boot and shove it -- ah!” Another sharp stab of pain lances through her stomach, and her shaking knees buckle, sending her to the ground. Her vision tunnels, darkness rapidly closing in from the corners of her eyes. Her body lands on the hardwood floor with a solid thud. Boomer is rushing to her side just as she hears the motor of an ATV approaching from a distance. He whimpers, nosing at her and trying to nudge her back to her feet, but her weak and trembling limbs won’t let her. “Go,” she hisses at the same time Jacob’s voice calls to her from transceiver now dangling by its cord. “Go!” 

Boomer whines again, but follows her command, and slips through the door she’d left slightly ajar. 

She groans, clutching her stomach and curling her knees close to her chest. The roar of the ATV grows louder and louder as it approaches. She rests her sweaty forehead against the cool floor and waits. Waits for Jacob’s Chosen. Waits for the dark embrace of unconsciousness to finally deliver her from her pain. Waits for God to show her the Pearly Gates where Mamma and Augustine are waiting for her before the Devil grabs her ankle and drags her down the Hell.

And for funsies, here's the snippet from a sequence featuring syb's recurring guilt dream

Gravel crunches under heavy boots. Each shuffling step kicks up dust behind her. Sweat clings to her skin, beading at her brow and slipping down her neck to soak into the collar of her shirt. The humidity is suffocating, heavy and oppressive as the Louisiana heat beats down on her. She lurches forward with slow, shambling steps, her head light and nodding back and forth as her exhausted and aching body soldiers on.  

One foot. 

Then the other. 

Again, and again, and again, and again. 

A chorus of cicadas screech -- or maybe that’s just the ringing in her ears -- as she’s pulled like a dog on a leash towards the grave she helped dig. 

A lazy breeze cuts through the stagnant air, but it does little to wick the sweat from her brow. Blades of tall grass in the fields around her bend and sway, whispering softly and echoing the words that pour out of her mouth. 

“O Lord, I beg Thy forgiveness for havin’ offended Thee, and I detest all my sins…”

The moon hangs low, fat and full, on the horizon, illuminating her way with silver beams of light. Every breath she takes is a struggle, every step she takes causes an ache so deep she feels it in the marrow of her creaking bones. Her hair clings to her forehead and the back of her neck. Blisters have formed and popped several times over, the soles of her feet squishing out blood that pools in the dusty footprints she leaves behind. 

She’s walked this lonely dirt road more times than she cares to count, nothing more than a shambling corpse, making a pilgrimage to the same Unholy spot every time she goes to sleep. 

Wiping the sweat from her brow, she adjusts her grip on the shovel slung over her shoulder. Its wooden handle warped and stained with the blood and sweat of her calloused palms. She swears that each time she returns to this road, that stain gets a little bit bigger. 

As she passes a pond, a creeping bit of the bayou that threatens to overtake the road with each passing summer, the back of her neck prickles as a pair of unseen eyes lock onto her. Clouds drift overhead, blotting out the moonlight and she’s cast into darkness. A shadowy figure swoops past her with a heavy beat of its wings and fluttering of feathers. She gasps and her gaze snaps skyward, some wild prey instinct sends her heart racing, urging her to run. 

An owl glides through the air, following the path of the road towards the weeping willow that towers on the horizon. It’s the only tree for miles, standing sentinel at the crossroads where she helped bury a man. 

Underneath its swaying boughs stands a single grave marker, one that her Daddy hadn’t bothered to make. She comes to a stop in front of it. It’s an old thing, nothing more than two planks of wood bound together by rope. Its white paint is chipped and weathered. It bears no name, no dates -- nothing to indicate who has been laid to rest here. 

With a heavy sigh, she turns her shovel around to sink the blade into the soft, sandy soil and begins to dig. Time slows, the only sign of it marching ever onward is the pile of dirt that grows larger with every shovelful. The owl watches her work, offering a scornful hoot whenever she stops to catch her breath. 

It’s only when the tip of the spade makes contact with something solid -- a hollow thunk reverberating through the air -- that she tosses the shovel to the side. She falls to her knees and begins to rip into the earth by hand. Her nails chip. Her fingers bleed. She catches sight of curved pieces of keratin caught in the churning soil. Her hands are caked in dirt and blood. 

But still, she digs. 

Off in the distance, a coyote chitters -- a sound that morphs into the rough and rasping cackle of a heavy smoker as another breeze rolls through, hot and humid like breath on her neck. The smell of tobacco is carried on it. “Gotta move faster than that, Billie,” her Daddy barks. 

And still, she digs. 

But she isn’t digging fast enough. 

The angry wind whips and curls around her. The exposed skin of her arms alight in burning pricks of pain. The faded circular scars pockmarking the underside of her forearms burn, throbbing in pain as the familiar sting of ashes rains down her neck. “Y’ain’t got all night, girl,” Daddy snarls. “C’mon, move it!” 

Panic sets in. 

Nonetheless, she digs. 

taglist (opt in/out)

@josephseedismyfather, @la-grosse-patate, @tommyarashikage, @florbelles, @statichvm,

@fourlittleseedlings, @wrathfulrook, @harmonyowl, @ivymarquis, @carlosoliveiraa

@cassietrn, @confidentandgood, @strafethesesinners, @trench-rot, @g0dspeeed,

@miyabilicious, @inafieldofdaisies, @josephslittledeputy, @aceghosts, @adelaidedrubman,

@finding-comfort-in-rain, @socially-awkward-skeleton, @voidika, @strangefable, and anyone else with a wip to share this wednesday (or any other day <3)

[pynkhues]

https://www.tumblr.com/pynkhues/770330080935346176/httpswwwtumblrcomloustat-0770311728091299840?source=share

That is something I love about your fics, how viscerally you convey their need to touch each other, not just sexually, but all touch.

Anon, 😭😭 you're very lovely, thank you. This is still a little sexy, but have a domestic snippet from the Cruising fic:

-

Bzzt.

Bzzzzzzzzttttt.

Louis feels his face pinch as he’s roused from his slumber by the sound of the loud vibration, glass ricocheting off glazed wood, echoing through the quiet sanctuary of his bedroom. It’s enough to pull him into the moment, into this new night, to this bed, to this city, to this entanglement, for he feels the knobs of Lestat’s bony spine against his chest before he feels anything else. Before he feels the numbness of his left arm, caught between Lestat’s side and the mattress, before he feels the curve of his perfect ass, cradled between Louis’ hips, and he works his mouth. Tastes the stale remnants of last night – of sleep and blood and Lestat – and he pushes his nose into the valley Lestat’s neck makes with his shoulder, inhales deeply, lets Lestat, however briefly, fill his senses as the blood drips south, and he drops his free hand to Lestat’s hip. Tilts it ever so slightly back against him, the blissful pressure, weight, seam of him there in his lap and- -

Bzzzzzzzzzttttttt.

And - -

Right.

With a low groan, Louis leans back just enough to fumble a hand out behind him in the dark, reaching for where his cell phone sits on his bedside table, blinks bleary eyes up at it as he turns the screen on, but despite a flurry of messages from a flurry of people, his phone’s not the one that’s ringing. He glances across the bed at where Lestat’s phone is glowing bright on top of the other table, and rolls over again to pull his left arm out from beneath Lestat, draping himself over him as he starts to stir, pressing a quick kiss to his shoulder and giving his bare ass a quick, light good-evening slap.

“Phone, baby.”

And Lestat practically growls at that, yanking himself out of sleep only to flop pathetically over in the sheets, grabbing his cell off the bedside table and letting loose a string of cusses in French when he recognises the contact. Still, he promptly answers, even if he does hook it between his head and shoulder so that he can reach a hand back behind him to fondle Louis’ cock briefly as he does it.

Despite himself, Louis can’t quite bite back the grin, half-hard but also awake enough now to know that this ain’t gonna happen on what seems like a work call, so he detaches Lestat’s hand from his (hot, already pulsing - - fuck, no one gets him going like Lestat) member, entwines their fingers briefly with an affectionate squeeze that has Lestat staring back at him unblinking over his shoulder, and sits up in bed, giving them a little distance. He rolls his shoulders back, wills his arousal away, shakes out his left arm to try and get some circulation back into it from where it was pinned beneath Lestat’s body for likely the entire day, before grabbing his phone again to actually read through his messages. There are a few from his assistant, passed on follow-up from the Whitechapel Gallery and meeting requests from property developers back in Dubai, a few from Margot, and one from Rashid about a potential buyer for another Klimt coming through a contact at Sotheby’s.

Enough to get to work, he thinks, slipping out of bed, feeling Lestat’s too hot gaze on the line of his nude body as he tosses on a slate grey cotton t-shirt and a pair of deep, autumnal red silk lounge pants, grabs his laptop from atop the dresser and pads downstairs towards the kitchen.

[onetimetwotimesthreetimess]

If you still want prompts, I need more drunk Alec in my life

I’m always up for malec prompts babygirl. Especially drunk Alec is a babe. I haven’t written canon malec in a while so here’s them being dorks as always.

_______________________________________________

“No matter how far, don't worry, baby.

“Just call my name, I'll be there in a hurry

“You don't have to worry,” The voice yells through the loud pub as Magnus steps through the portal.

His eyes glances through the crowd to find his idiots but it doesn’t take him long, takes him barely a single second because said idiots are on the stage, yelling on the karaoke.

Magnus cuts through the crowd to reach at the centre when he hears his name called.

“Magnus!!” He turns to see Jace waving towards him excitedly, Isabelle standing next to him, jumping and shouting at the stage.

He reaches the two of them and asks, “On a scale of 0 to what happened on 15th May; how drunk are these three?”

Jace chortles, smacking at his shoulder and Magnus punches him back.

He’s not drunk enough to take up with Jace’s incessant habit of treating him like a ‘bro’ when he’s drunk.

“Clary is a solid 15. Simon already puked seven times. And Alec, Raziel, Alec is worse than Izzy on 15th May.”

Magnus turns towards the stage, where the three idiots, with his main idiot in between stand, yelling and singing loudly.

Alec‘s unbuttoned his top two buttons, his hair is a mess—the sexy, hot kind, and he has an arm loosely around Clary, who looks as drunk as him. Simon is also there, with his hot nerd face that’s getting hotter ever since he got engaged with Izzy but Magnus for the life of him cannot care—even if he tries to look at anything but his Alec.

There’s just something about him right now, the carelessness that he’s been missing for a while, since he’s become to Consul and their world has gone to shit.

Right now, the man looks like he doesn’t have a care in this world and while Magnus loves Alec in his serious consul mode, this, this is how he wants his Alec to always look like.

With his cheeks flushed and a million dollar smile on his face.

Like always, the same way it’s been happening for a decade now, Alec feels his presence in the room before he even sees him and he tracks how his husband’s eyes wander across the room, searching for him.

And then they land on him and, somehow, Magnus isn’t sure how, doesn’t think it should be legal but the smile and happiness on Alec’s face increase tenfold. It cracks his chest and threatens to burn him.

“Magnus is here!!!” Alec yells, excitedly.

Clary and Simon look in his direction and wave at him too.

Alec pulls away to get to him but Clary stops him, eyes all fiery as she speaks, “Finish the song first.”

Magnus chuckles at the small pout that Alec makes before his husband launches back into the song, only this time, he’s staring directly into his eyes as he sings.

“Cause, baby, there ain't no mountain high enough.

“Ain't no valley low enough

“Ain't no river wide enough

“To keep me from getting to you, babe,” Alec sings with a stupid smile and Magnus’s face softens at him, his cheeks widening.

The shadowhunter finally escapes Clary’s grasp and jumps off the stage; infront of him and Magnus thinks Alec’s going to kiss him now, with the proximity as he comes closer but the man shouts in his ears, “Cause baby, there ain’t no mountain high enough.”

Magnus laughs loudly, before winding his arms around Alec’s waist who in turn places his arms around Magnus’s neck.

“Hi.”

“Hi, my darling.”

Alec’s hair is all wet and Magnus runs a hand through them, pushing them in place but they fall on his face again. The man is skipping on his feet happily.

“Alec, brother. That was fucking amazing,” Jace wipes fake tears, or wait—Jace wipes actual tears off his face as he pulls his parabatai in a hug.

His husband hugs his parabatai back as tightly as he can and the two have a moment in the middle of the pub for no bloody reason.

He shakes his head in affection at the two idiots, but he’s glad Alec has that, he’s always admired the relationship the two shared.

Alec Lightwood will always love Jace Herondale more than his own life.

“Why are you two morons hugging like you were separated in a war,” Magnus comments because he can. Alec turns towards him and jumps in his arms again.

“Hi.”

Magnus chuckles. “Hi again.”

Alec lays his head on Magnus’s shoulder, nuzzling in a way very familiar to Chairman Meow.

“Magnus.”

“Hmmm.”

“I have to tell you…tell you something.”

Magnus runs his fingers through Alec’s hair. “What is it?”

Alec pulls back, and peers at him. “I’m very drunk.”

A breathless peal of laughter leaves his body and he kisses Alec’s forehead. “Oh, honey. I know.”

He grabs Alec’s face in his face, his gorgeous gorgeous face, free of any troubles and caresses his cheeks. “You look very happy, my love.”

Alec beams at the words.

“I am happy.”

“I like you when you’re this happy,” he whispers against his mouth and thumbs over his eyebrows, over the frown lines that are usually there.

“I like you all the time.”

Magnus rolls his eyes.

Asshole.

“Don’t try to one-up me while I’m being sappy, Alexander.”

Alec giggles and Magnus wonders why and how on earth has he not kissed Alec yet. So, he leans in to kiss his husband. He brings their mouths together slowly, exploring like he can’t create an exact replica of Alec’s mouth if he wanted to.

“Oh fuck!” Alec explains suddenly, pulling back.

“What?” He whines.

“We forgot Max and Rafe.”

“We did not forget. More important, you did not forget,” Magnus assures him. “They’re with Cat.”

“Oh,” Alec says, then beams. “Okay.”

“What do you want to do tonight?” He asks.

Magnus wishes he can give Alec more nights like this—more nights when he can just ask Alec what he wants and Alec has the freedom to say yes. When the burden of saving an entire race isn’t on his broad, and sexy shoulders.

“Marry you.”

He snorts.

“What?” Alec pouts. “Will you marry me?”

“No.”

Alec puts a hand on his chest. “Wow.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Is that why you won’t marry me? Because I’m an idiot.”

“Yes.”

Alec pauses for a second, thoughtfully.

“If I say ‘I’ll try not to be an idiot’ in my vows, will you marry me then?”

“Nope,” he grins.

“Pretty please?” Alec flutters his lashes and Magnus feels his heart in his mouth.

He recalls a time when Alec was shy, when every single smile was rare, when the shadowhunter boy with the sure and steady heart didn’t understand the effect he had on Magnus. When he was careful in every step he took.

When he didn’t know how much Magnus’s ass was obsessed with him.

It’s not the case now.

Now Alec knows.

Alec knows how every breath he takes, every action, every gesture, how it makes Magnus fall in love with him even more. He knows how to capitalise on that now.

“Please, baby.”

“Have you forgotten that we’re already married?”

Alec rolls his eyes, the first of his night surprisingly. “Of course I remember.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“You want to do it again?”

“Yep.”

“You’re a dork.”

“Is that a yes?”

“No.”

“MAGNUS!!!!!!.”

[melit0n]

The Fire doth Sing of Iron and Devotion.

- Synopsis: Swathed in the cold draperies of night, hunkered down with their herd of cattle, two land-locked cowpokes rest their weary heads. As stars glimmer in silver and merigold, far, far above them, the fire crackles with that which goes unspoken, and that which sleeps under wit and the strum of a guitar.

- Oneshot for @moonchild-in-blue and I.

- Word Count: 6.4k

- Warnings: None.

Above the sun-stunned, rusty land, raw from the trebling hooves of amblers, sprouting with pale greens that scale towering rock faces, the moon shines. Shines like a silver button punched into velvet, like those on the shawls passing genteel ladies wear. It peaks from behind clambering trees–branches bent on puncturing the great darkness above–and grins in a luminescent crescent at the sight before it. 

Echoing on the plains, coddled bells clank and jingle with the heavy steps of creatures weary from wandering. In the dark of the night, they have nothing to guide them other than the soft clop of hooves and the low whistle of voices that they’ve come to know means safety. But, for now, they rest their hides on the warm ground below: the same land their strong shouldered, distantly dying cousins once did. 

Closely, they huddle, minds eased by the knowledge of familiar hands and voices nearby. Sleep would find them quickly–glossy eyes drooping and muscles easing–if not for the constant sound of a flint. 

Footsteps, light with the familiar clink of metal, approach the noise. “You got that fire started yet, or are we sleepin’ with the shadows tonight?”

Small sparks, the promise of something bright and warm, light up Mel’s face like the glow of fireflies, glinting in her murky blue eyes. Her brows are taught with focus, and there’s the beginning of an annoyed frown making its way across her slightly tanned skin. “...Almost.”

“Not to be crude, pardner, but,” Darya crouches, loose threads of soft, inky hair–pulled up underneath her hat–tickling Mel’s face. She places a hand on her shoulder for balance, leaning over the somewhat pathetic attempt to create light. “You said ‘almost’ ‘bout half an hour ago.”

Mel blows a strand of dirty blonde hair from her face–of which dutifully floats back down to its exact position moments later–and grumbles, “Ain’t my fault I’m used to the oil lamps Mr Langley gives us now.”

Darya adjusts her feet under her, engraved boots–a tapestry of foreign fruits and stars–scuffing up dirt and dust. “Well, ya’ know how to strike a match to light the lamps: surely this ain’t harder than that.” She says it with a grin: graced with pearly whites that light up any dimly lit room she’s in. Too bad it isn’t enough to light up the whole valley–would certainly save the two some trouble. 

“‘Course I know how to strike a match,” A puff of dust erupts from the ground as Darya lowers herself to the ground, the brim of her slate grey, tinged blue, hat grazing over Mel’s. “If we had the matches, I wouldn’t have to be doin’ this.” 

“Shoulda’ bought some when we were in Boulderstead.” Darya laments, crossing her legs and trying to ignore the dull, irritating press of tiny rocks through her chaps. 

They’d only passed by two towns on their way home, Boulderstead and something with ‘creek’ in it–tumbleweed towns that were easily forgotten–and missed the opportunity to buy some both times. After their forgetfulness, Darya had expected to be able to visit an old friend’s homestead for supplies–and maybe a soft bed to sleep in for the night–only to find nothing but arid dirt and the remains of what once was. 

Nowadays, nothing seems set in stone nor lead: half their maps and memories are wrong–farmsteads and friendly faces replaced by iron and fields of juniper green turned to paper mache towns that look like they’d blow over when the first snow comes. 

So, for miles, it has only been the wayward pair, their horses, and their employer’s–one Mr Langley’s–prized herd of cattle. 

And, for miles–for each night they spend out here–one is quietly pleased at the prospect of their partner getting roughed up and needing a hand to hold. 

Iris–Darya’s well loved mare–softly neighs from behind the pair, the metal of her bridle clinking along with the steady shink of the flint. In the quick blink of light, Mel shrugs. “Shoulda’, woulda’, coulda’.”

Darya’s hand reaches upwards and sends a pat to Iris’ white and chestnut shoulder. Though, she’s sure most of the white has tinted a dull red–stained by loose soil and sand. “Would ya’ like me to have a knack?” 

In the corner of her eye, Mel watches as Darya leans forward–hands open in offering. She attempts a few more times but, with hands sore, she happily hands them over, the valley finally falling quiet. “Go right ahead.” The noise quickly begins again, bouncing off of the trees and towering rocks. “I think we collected damp wood–somehow–so I doubt it’ll li-”

The dry moss sparks with life, taking mere seconds to begin smouldering with smoke. Habitually, Darya cups her hands around her mouth, and leans further forwards to give the budding flame a helping hand. 

Comically, Mel’s eye twitches. “You’re kiddin’.”

“Well, what can I say?” A proud grin, accented by beauty marks, stretches across Darya’s face as she leans back, amber and morning-sun-yellow dancing in her deep, umber eyes. “Got a way with words, a paintbrush and fire.”

Mel shifts, nudging Darya in the side playfully. “You talk any longer,” she drags her numbed legs from under her and leans back on her hands. “And you’ll be gettin’ too big for your britches.”

Darya shows her palms, as if placating a skittish horse. “Only speakin’ the truth, pardner.”

After so long in the dark, it takes a few moments for their eyes to adjust to the growing light. The fire scrambles up the wood with semi-controlled hunger, marigold fingers sliding across the collapsing bark, kept away from the dry grass by hastily gathered stones that surround the growing embers. 

With the stygian draperies of the night already lain across the land, the warmth is a welcome one across their faces–the frigid fingers of the midnight hour kept at bay, relinquishing their hold and peeking from behind the tree line in front of them.

The shadows are the same wherever they go, though, Mel still finds herself off-put by the wisps as they waver with each crack and pop of the wood. The other farmhands back home always make stories of them–outlaws possessed by the Devil and turned to something further than man–and both would be liars if they said they weren’t somewhat unnerved by their creeping forms.  

Intently, from between the flickers of the flame, Darya eyes them, wary of outlaws and bandits, but simply finds herself–elongated and transparent–pressed against the trees. 

Fatigued sigh escaping her mouth, Mel grasps for her hat–a light tan embroidered with fading flowers, battered by use and playful cows–and wipes over her face. As she peels damp wisps of hair from her forehead, Darya chuckles.

“‘N that,” Darya follows along, beginning lifting her own, feather inlaid in the band, off of her head. “Is why you should put your hair up.” As she does, she reveals the small braid tucked inside it. Looped and weaved in the twist, small flowers lie: soft, small stars carefully stitched in the silken fabric of her hair.

Mel pauses for a moment, eyes meandering over her, before flicking back to the fire and attempting to comb out her hair. “Naw, I always feel exposed with it up.”

“Exposed?” Darya turns to Mel, an amused smile spreading across her face. “What are you, a deer?” Both huff out a laugh as Darya tilts her head. “Why though? You always look real pretty when I braid it. Mrs Langley says so, too.”

Mel drops her hat to her lap, deciding to make the other hand another makeshift comb. “‘Cause I’ve a forehead the size o’ Europe.”

Darya attempts to stifle another laugh. Key word: attempts. “Naw,” 

Mel keeps a blank, unamused expression. “You’re laughin’.”

Another puff of air that sounds suspiciously like a laugh escapes Darya, before she raises a hand to wipe at an imaginary stain near her mouth. “I ain’t. You- you don’t.”

“Don’t lie to yourself- look at it!” She draws her hair back–strands as taught as a rope. “You could write half the Good Book on this thing.”

Suddenly, Darya’s face drops: frown highlighted by the flickering shadows of the fire. She reaches forth and speaks in a tone like she might just start praying. “Mel, hold- hold on.” She squints, bringing her hand to Mel’s chin. “Stay right there. I think I see sum’…”

As her head is twisted and turned like a sickly child’s, a feeling of worry builds in Mel’s chest. “What?” To the left, “What is it?” To the right, “I get nicked by sum’?” And left again.

Darya leans closer, squinting, and Mel becomes painfully aware of how warm her fingers are on her face. “Hold on…in the beginnin’, God created-”

Apprehension gone, Mel’s shoulders fall and all anxiety seeps out of her just as quickly as it built up. “Quit it.”

Darya’s laugh echoes and bounces against the creaking trees, and it doesn’t take long for Mel to join her. They stay that way, sure they sound like a pair of cackling coyotes, but they know no care for it. 

When their laughter finally ceases, both of them mutely realise how close they are. 

It isn’t an uncommon thing–they can’t count on two hands how often their hands have found each other as they traverse the streets–but, even so, a warmth, almost scalding, floods their faces.

Mel can feel the twitch of Darya’s fingers against her face, and a small part of her begs her to lean in. 

She doesn’t. 

Instead, she grins, something halfway between sly and knowing–teasing–and apprehension as she removes her hands. 

Wanting to relieve the tension, Mel coughs into her hand. “How, uhm, how are the cows? We still got all twenty of em’?”

Darya hums, smiling and returning to fiddling with the feather on her cap. She’s adamant it’s some type of Hawk’s wing feather, though, it’s a long running joke that she picked it up from a chicken. “All swell. They’re tired, I don’t blame them, but well. Mr Langley insists we usually have the dogs to keep ‘em in check, so I’m surprised they’ve stuck to us without ‘em.”

“I guess after a while they realised we’re their only way back home.” Mel shifts again, swiping a few stones from under. Naturally, it does barely anything. “And Miss Langley’s acorn calf? She still swell?”

“I’ve been checkin’ on her the whole ride. If I’m honest, I’m mightily surprised she’s made it this far: strong heart, that one. Though, I might tie her and her ma’ up to Iris,” Mel sets her hat beside her, “so they keep up for the last quarter-” and pulls herself up and off the ground. “-where you off to?”

Mel twists, loud cracks emitting from her tired bones, mumbling, “Jeeze, m’ gettin’ old.” She shakes her legs, ridding herself of the numbness, and turns to Darya, a grin spreading across her face. “Gettin’ sleepin’ stuff.” 

Darya begins to drag herself back up. “Fair enough. Where is Pip, anyways? You let her wander?”

“Mhm. Hope she ain’t gone too far.” After a few dry, sad attempts, a lifting whistle echoes out across the plains, quickly followed by the slow, repetitive thumps of hooves. 

A while back, a group of cows would’ve probably been following her, but, after a year or two with the pair, they began to recognise the different calls used.

Unfortunately, it also means they recognise when the horses are being called over for food, as well. 

But, before long, Mel’s horse–Pip–appears from the shroud of night like an aimless ghost; dapple grey coat, mane plaited with flowers, highlighted in the firelight.

With a whinny, Iris walks over to greet, dust being kicked into Darya and Mel’s eyes in her wake. 

Both of their saddles are heavy with supplies: a change of clothes, each of their respective rifles and lassos, as well as tinned food and canisters of water. Normally, they wouldn’t be so stuffed, but their usual pack horse–a well loved mule named Red–decided to go lame a day before the pair headed out. 

Yet another inconvenience that has dug into them during their long trip. 

Metal jingles as each unties their respective gear, both careful not to undo any knots that would send their carefully arranged items tumbling to the ground. Bit by bit, they’re placed down on the dusty, rock ridden ground–a place sometimes as uncomfortable as sleeping on a bed of nails. Even after so many days spending more time on it than not, it still made them yearn for the hammocks in the yard back home more than anything. 

Still, it was the best they had.

“Hey, Melie?” Darya unties her base–a thinning bedroll that has a hole too many in it. 

“Yeah?” 

“You,” Easily, she places it onto the ground, looking between her saddle and a compressed knitted blanket. “You got dinner?” Eventually, she chooses the blanket, keeping it folded to work as a makeshift pillow. 

At the word ‘dinner’, Mel pauses her attempt to rid her bed of any small rocks, brows twitching in confusion. “We already had dinner?”

Iris and Pip huff what is almost a laugh from behind the pair. Darya looks to her, incredulous. “When?”

Mel jerks a thumb back, “Back up on the South ridge when it was startin’ to get dark! We wanted to watch the sunset, so we took a break, remember?”

Darya’s eyes search the darkness for a moment, like her pupils will pull a memory out of it.

Mel chuckles, beginning to smooth out her makeshift bed, placed close to Darya’s. “I think you gotta get your memory checked, Moony.”

“I think you gotta get your fire makin’ skills checked.” Darya scoffs, shifting her feet out of her boots.

“You won’t be sayin’ that when I put a sidewinder in your sleepin’ bag.” 

Darya flops down, craning her head and watching Mel work. “You wouldn’t.” She speaks, comically aghast and playful, like a wife learning her savings have gone to whiskey and bargaining chips. 

Mel hums, “I would.” As she smooths out her crinkled sheets. 

Darya smiles, laughing. “You love me too much.”

Mel stays quiet, lips pursed, a silent sign of some sort of unspoken agreement, and Darya feels the itch of a ‘told you so’ on the tip of her tongue. But, as both smooth out their beds for the night, she decides to keep it hidden beneath another smile. 

With ease, Mel slips her own boots off and watches the fire intently. Sleep tugs at both of their eyes–heavy as lead and light as rain–but both know neither will be welcomed into her arms tonight. 

At least, not for long enough.

They need to take shifts for the cows, anyways. 

Both stare, silent, at the flickering fingers of the fire, bodies dreading the inevitable five step trek to find more fuel from it. They’d both gathered some and placed it in a pile a little more than an arm's reach away, but after sitting down–even if that’s all they’d done all day–it feels painfully distant.  

Rocks dig into their skin through the thin excuses for beds.

Quietly, Darya listens as Mel shifts back and forth, probably attempting to dislodge the small things like she does every night. 

“You alright there?” Darya hums, hat back on her head–tilted over her eyes–and a tired lilt in her voice. 

Mel sighs, annoyed but not willing to put in any more effort. “I’ve got rocks under me.”

Darya scoffs, a smile on her lips, “What a surprise that is.”

The conversation falls comfortably flat afterwards. As Mel picks at the embroidery in her hat, something she’d need to re-stitch soon–a long put off task–the stars twinkle quietly above. With no other noise than soft breathing, both think the other has managed to fall asleep.

That is, until Darya whispers, “Mel?”

She mumbles back, “Still here.”

“Do ya’ know how close we are to home?”

Mel’s eyes inch from her hat and towards Darya’s form. She’s taken her hat from her face and rested it against her chest; Iris sniffing at the feather. 

“Don’t tell me you lost the compass.”

She scoffs, “How would a compass tell us how far out we are?”

Contemplative, Mel takes a few moments to respond before sighing despondently–a noise that easily makes Darya laugh. “Sorry. Just tired.”

“Been a long ride; don’t fret.”

Their eyes stay glued to each other’s, and Darya yearns to fill the silence. With what exactly, she’s unsure, but she takes a breath to speak it. Fortunately–or unfortunately–Mel beats her to it.

“‘M surprised.”

Darya’s brows furrow, craning her neck to get a better look at Mel. “Why?”

“You’re usually the one with a sense of direction.”

The memories of countless hours lost to Mel’s horrible mental compass brings a grin to Darya’s face. “Well, you’re the one who likes stars.”

Happily, Mel continues the back and forth. “You’re the one always lookin’ up at the night sky.”

Darya twists, moving to her stomach. “Can you blame me?” Distantly, they hear the sound of approaching hooves. “The moons’ as pretty as a peach.”

“Prettier than me?” Pip nips at Mel’s hat, playfully attempting to tug it away, before walking towards the treeline again, probably for a second dinner.

They’d tie the two horses up, but, after years of trekking so many miles with them, both have proven to be pleasingly loyal. Again, spending more time with them than not, a mutual trust had been formed, and they’d both decided to let them have free rein, without fretting over losing their ride far from home.

“That’s still up for debate.”

There’d been an occasion, maybe a year ago, when they’d been watching another local farmer’s cows–one Mr Rawlings–because his hands had refused to work. Said they saw a Ghost rider, no skin left on his face and a voice calling across the plains like the Devil Himself, and didn’t dare step back on the land until the Priest blessed it. So, with only a mild fear of that which goes bump in the night, they were happy to take up the additional job for some extra cash. 

Iris nudges Darya’s head. Humorously, Darya looks up to her. “Whadya’ want?”

So, in unfamiliar fields under an ever watchful sky, the pair certainly had a fright waking up to seeing both their horses gone. In a panic, they ran like bats out of Hell back to Mr Rawlings to report their stolen animals. Two hours or so later, the pair came trotting back home, an unconscious outlaw tangled in one of their stirrups and reins. 

Again, she prods Darya until she finally moves herself upright. “What are ya’ up to, hm?” 

Having seen them find their way back home with no issue, dragging a bandit behind them, both decided to give them a little more freedom. 

Happily, she settles down behind Darya, her usual spot–flask of water sloshing as she tucks her legs in. With a resounding sigh, she places her heavy head down on Darya’s pillow.

As the mare gets herself comfortable, both can’t help but laugh. “I don’t think you’re gettin’ that back tonight.”

Darya huffs, her hand beginning to paw blindly for something. “At least my horse doesn’t try to sleep on me every night.” She frowns, clearly not finding what she was looking for, and leans over Iris. For a few seconds, she almost seems to hesitate as her next words stumble out of her mouth. “I’d be a real shame if we had to share a sleeping bag, ey?”

Mel’s eyes stick to Darya’s form before letting them wander her surroundings in search of something else to fiddle with. “Oh, truly.”

The hollow knock of wood, followed by a soft, ‘aha’, tells Mel that Daryas’ found what she’s looking for.

She lifts the battered instrument over Iris, body knocking on the horn of her saddle. Somewhat more confident, she speaks, “Y’know what I heard?”

Mel’s eyes focus on a brittle-looking branch. She stretches out her arm, “What’d you hear?” before grasping onto it, and dragging it over the dry ground. 

A very out of tune chord resounds in their ears. “That you get warmer faster with less clothes.”

Mel twirls the stick around in her hand, unknowing as Darya watches for her reaction. “Oh, yeah?”

Another pluck of a string–more harmonious than the last. “Ey. You, uhm, you gotta be huddled up with someone, though.” She strums a somewhat familiar chord; one of late nights together on a porch with the burn of whiskey on their tongues. 

She hums. “I’ll keep that in mind for later.”

Darya grins to herself at the prospect. Even though she knows it's only sarcasm, she can’t help but sense a drop of sincerity. 

As Mel draws patterns in the dry dirt, somewhere across the plains, a bird calls out. Maybe the Hawk, scouring each blade of grass and hare’s burrow for its missing flight feather. 

“So…” Darya draws the ‘o’ out. “Where are we at?”

“Let’s see,” Mel shifts her eyes up from her swirling shapes and towards the clear sky, darting between the hundreds of silver eyes that stare down at them from the great darkness above. “That big bright one is Mars- uhm, y’know the twins? Gemini?” 

She turns to find Darya’s eyes, finding them already fixed on the velvet expanse above them.

“The two stick-figure lookin’ ones? Holdin’ hands?”

“Aye.”

“Lookin’ right at ��em.”

“Okay, um,” Mel squints at the sky, attempting to discern the different shapes and patterns–different stories woven with helium and spur silver–that cover the night sky. “Cancer? Right to the left of it.” Darya nods, “Look between the two for a big bright one; can’t miss it.”

Darya grins as she picks them out. “I see ‘im.” she giggles to herself. “Y’know, I really don’t know how people get a crab outta that.”

“You ain’t never even seen a crab.”

Darya whips her head around, a grin on her face as she bends her torso over Iris, careful not to hit her head with the neck. “Have too! Mr and Mrs Langley were given sum’ for their anniversary.” Iris flicks her ears against Darya’s face as she leans back. “‘N ain’t no way does that,” she plucks a harsh string. “Look like a crab.”

Mel peers back up at the sky, contemplative as she tries to imagine the animal in place of the glimmering stars. “...Looks more like a lobster to me.”

“Don’t you tell me you’ve seen a lobster.”

Mel crosses her arms, smug. “Maybe I have, maybe I haven’t.”

“Just tell me how much longer we gotta be out here for.”

Mel looks back, humming, “We follow Mr Ares straight to get back home. Maybe…another day or two's ride?”

“Thank God.” Darya’s shoulder fell in relief, a sigh escaping her. Although they had both diligently attempted to keep track of the time, after so long surrounded by sand, pillars of binding red rock, and half-built rail-tracks, the days felt as if they melded—hot and red with a halcyon sky above—together.

“What,” Mel throws her stick into the fire, listening as the dry wood crackles and pops. “Am I really that bad company?” She asks in mock offense. 

“Naw,” finally, her guitar seems to be tuned. Both are sure it won’t stay that way for long. “Just missin’ my bed.”

“You n’ me both.”

Bit by bit, Darya begins to string together a song, fingers moving back and forth between different chords before settling with a sequence she likes. She’s been playing it for a long while–as long as the two have known each other–along with her violin. Although, that one stays tucked up at home, far away from bucking horses, bullets, and pawing bandits. 

Mel places her elbow on her knee, resting her head on her hand. “I like that one.”

Darya scoffs, smiling. “You like all my tunes.”

Mel imitates the sound, mocking her. “Because they’re all nice. I keep tellin’ you to ask the keeper if you can play them at his saloon. Everyone’d love it.”

She begins a more complicated plucking pattern, fingers dancing across the fingerboard. “One day.”

“Is that gonna be one day in this life or the next?”

“Perhaps the next. For now, I think they’ll stay for our ears.”

There it is again; that warm feeling. Quiet as the wind and as warm as whiskey. One that isn’t the amber arms of the firelight, or the food sitting at the bottom of her stomach. As Darya hums, Mel can’t help but think she’s never seen someone as lovely. 

Suddenly, the pacing changes, her humming becoming as smooth as fresh butter. “New one I’ve been cookin’ up. Thoughts?”

“Sounds like you.”

Darya raises her dark eyes for a moment from the strings, iris’ flickering with the firelight. “And what would that be?”

Mel doesn’t hesitate. “Ocean waves crashing against a limestone shore.”

“Right, well, I know for a fact that you ain’t never seen the sea, same as I.” A cow moos from far off. “How could I create a sound about somethin’ I’ve never heard of?”

“You can still imagine it, no?” She shrugs.

Darya hums; soft, like the wind chimes their employers have in their orchard. “True, true.” A pause. Maybe another hesitant statement that lingers on her tongue long enough to turn the words sour to her mind. “We should go someday.”

“To the sea?” Even focused on her music, Darya can hear the grin on Mel’s face. Subtle, and half-hidden by her hand, but still there. 

“Mhm. Mrs Langley has one of those big shells–a conch–on a shelf in their livin’ room. I’d like to find one for myself.”

Quiet, Mel nods in wordless agreement. They’d heard that Mrs Langley was born by the ocean, and keeps the sea foam and sand close to her heart. In the orchards, filled with white blossoms and apples, come summer, the branches are littered with wind chimes; woven with seashells and string. Both swear it’s the second prettiest sound they’ve ever known.

Darya takes in a breath, “Did ya’ know, you can hear the sea in em’? Like how people say they hear voices in the wind. Real neat how they carry a piece of their home with em’.”

“Doesn’t everything?”

Darya raises her eyes from her guitar for a moment. “True that, true that.” Before glancing back down.

Before long, the two fall into another comfortable quiet, lulled by the pop of wood, the twang of Darya’s guitar, and the far off moos of sleepy cows. 

“Hey, Melie?”

“Mhm?” Mel’s eyes have drooped closed, hopeful to grasp at sleep that seems to never come. 

The guitar’s wood hums when she places it down. “You got a story for us?”

She cracks an eye open, Darya’s form a blur for a few moments. “Depends on if you wanna sleep tonight.”

Darya huffs. “Oh, come on, your stories ain’t that scary.”

She peels the other eye open, once again wide awake. “Only because I keep all the good ones to myself! You scare like an afeared chicken to a loud noise, anyways.”

“Says you.” She begins putting her guitar to the side, strapping it back to Iris.

“Aye, says me.”

“Well?” She looks to Mel. “Go on.”

Mel straightens herself, clearing the remnants of drowsiness from her eyes as she dramatically clears her throat. “Alright…they say,” she begins, hoarse and preacher like. “Far out where-”

Darya tucks herself behind Iris’ head. “-Nevermind, I’m goin’ to sleep.”

It takes mere seconds for the short charade to break, both, somewhat sleep deprived, laughing at each other.

 “Alright, alright.” Again, she clears her throat. “They say, far out where the sky ends and there’s nothin’ but burnin’ blue, is a town of tumbleweed and cow bones.”

Darya shifts back up, sitting cross-legged and leaning over Iris. “So, our town?”

“Ain’t that bad.” Mel stretches, attempting to get comfortable again.

“Debatable.”

She raises an eyebrow. “How so?”

Darya shrugs. “Because you’re there.”

Mel waits a few seconds, turning the words around in her mind. “That a compliment or an insult?”

Darya grins, sly and joking. “Well…”

“Y’know,” Mel begins, toneless, “I ain’t really in the mood for storytellin’ no more-”

“-No, no,” Darya chuckles. “Carry on.”

Mel raises her eyebrows again, seemingly waiting for another interruption, before a pleased smile stretches across her face. “Now, nobody knows its name no more. Long lost to the dust and the tramplin’ hooves of those which have gone early. But, even ghost towns were once livin’.”

Darya knows the type of town she speaks of well. Places of rotting timber and fading paint, with inhabitants who’d rather pretend to be dead than confront the odd passerby. Places where the grass grows as tall as a man, and homes are more bones than flesh.

“This town is just like any that have come before it. The drunkards still holler nonsense at God’s hour,” A laugh gets caught in Darya’s throat. “The banker still shifts shadily in the alleys, and the farm hands still drink their whiskey on the porch.”

“You sure this ain’t about our town?” 

Pip shakes her head, rattling her bridle as Mel brings a hand to soothe her. “Sure hope it ain’t.” Darya listens as she chews on her bit, a noise somewhere between the shink of a reloading shotgun and the grinding of brittle teeth. “Anyway, in this town, a young woman lives.”

She brings a hand to her own horse’s head, threading through her tousled mane. “What she like?”

“She’s as pale as a Charolais, sings like a bird up on a vine, and lives with her husband, a cow wrangler, up on a hill.”

Distantly, one of the cows lets out a low bellow, one that sets off some of the others in the herd. It’s something between another snore and a tired sigh, but it still makes their ears perk. Makes their eyes squint into the darkness beyond. Makes their fingers twitch for their rifles. 

All remains still. 

Both let their eyes wander back to their fire. It’ll need some more wood soon. 

“So, one of these days, she’s out in the market, buyin’ flowers for her husband and bartering for a nice chicken; it’s his birthday the day after tomorrow, and she wants to treat ‘im.” Mel brings her hands up close to the fire, Darya watching as she creates shadow puppets. “After she’s all set, she sneakily walks back home–didn’t tell her husband what she was buyin’, and prepares to creep her way to the pantry to hide her spoils. But, when she rounds the corner to her kitchen, she spies another woman.” Darya gasps dramatically. “Another woman and her man.”

She rolls her eyes, “Typical.”

“Mhm. Now, in a fit o’ rage, ‘fore her husband can even catch a glimpse o’ her, she rushes inna fit through town, and no matter what nobody does, they can’t stop her from runnin’. She runs, and she runs, and she runs, until the night swallows her whole.”

“Let me guess:” Darya cracks her back. “She ain’t never seen again?”

“Stop tryna’ spoil yourself–we’re gettin’ to the good bit.” she shushes. “Eventually, after months o’ searchin’, after sendin’ every other able bodied man out to look for her, they deem her dead. And, of course, with his God given wife now gone, the husband decides to remarry. With this woman-”

“-The same he was cheatin’ with?”

Mel nods. “Aye.”

“Go on.”

“With this woman, he has a child. He grows tall n’ strong, n’ fights any ailment and Devil and his black hat throw at him. He helps his pa’ out in the fields–cattle wranglin’–” 

“Are we gonna make an appearance in this story?”

“If you let me finish, then maybe.” Mel jokes. “N’, on a lush Spring day, a herd of mustangs are passin’ by.” She shifts her hands over each other, creating a horse within the fading flame of the fire. “And he spots the prettiest mare he’s ever seen: pure white, aside from a pitch black star in the centre o’ her chest.” Behind her, Pip finally decides it's time to lie down, and falls ungracefully into Mel’s lap. Gently, she threads her hands through the loose strands of her plait. “After spendin’ so long seein’ his pa’ wrangle cattle and horses, he sets his eyes on her, waitin’ until she’s away from the herd. She’s real calm, calmest Mustang he’s ever known, and lets him wrap a lead round her neck. He decides to push it, and gets on her back.”

Darya glances to the fire, blindly searching with her hand for something to fuel it. Eventually she finds another branch, and carefully places it in. 

“He calls to his dad, wantin’ him to see his achievement. But, spooked, the mare begins trottin’ away. Then she canters. Then she gallops, and she don’t stop.” Mel pauses, hoping to attain some dramatic effect like the drunkards telling any other drinker of all the men they’ve shot. 

“They ever find him?”

“His pa’ searched for him for hours, but, just like his wife, they found not a thing: no clothes, no blood, no bones. They say,” she exhales, a cold puff of mist fading into the darkness. “He found a way to where the sky ends.”

Another pause. This time, Darya can’t tell if it’s for effect or not. “That it?” Darya scoffs a laugh. 

Mel raises a hand in placation. “Naw, there’s more, there’s more. After the disappearance, death, of their son, the couple is distraught. His pa’ spends more time with his cows and horses than he does with his own wife. So, in order to try to reconnect with him, when the sun is high in the sky, and the weeds walk in packs in the winds, she goes to the market to find one.”

“Oh, here we go.”

“She’s wandering the stalls, looking over each creature, and she eyes one she likes. White as the moon above with a-”

The two speak in tandem. “-black star on her breast.”

Mel nods, laughing lightly. “She’s cheap, marked down because of her temperament, but when the lady approaches her, she’s as calm as a Spring breeze. So, she buys her, and takes her home, makin’ sure she’s broken in before riding her out to show her husband. Of course, he’s as angry as a fresh wound when he sees her, and tries to take her back to the seller. But, he refuses to take her–’a deal is a deal’. On the few times she’s being ridden, he’s always with her wife, mumblin’ the Devil’s talk to her, and sure that she can understand. However, one day, his wife goes out on her own.”

Across the plain, a jackal howls. 

“How they find her?”

“Like usual: they don’t. The horse comes back, still with her saddle and bridle, and they joke that the money spent on that horse was well: she’s as loyal as a Church wife.” She makes a little halo with her hands. “Done with this horse, a demon he’s sure has come to taunt him for not lookin’ after his wife, he takes his shotgun, goes to her paddock, and gives her lead.”

“Then?”

Mel leans back, smiling to herself. “Calmed at the prospect of that thing finally being dead, he gets his cart ready to throw her out to the tumbleweeds–let the scavengers have at her. But, when he goes to get his horse, there she is: standing in the paddock where he’s sure he left her to bleed out. So, he shoots her again.” Mel rustles something metal–maybe her canister–on Pip’s saddle. “And again.” Another tink of the metal. “And again. No matter what he does, she’s always there. The townspeople call him raving mad, and ignore the gunshots that go off each night. When they finally stop, they hope he’s finally come to his senses. He came to them alright. Spilled them in red over dust and dried hay.” She lets go of the saddle. 

“And the horse?”

“Found a way to break out of her stable. ‘Always temperamental, that one’, they had said. ‘Don’t know why he ever kept her.’ Some travelers say, far out, where night meets the land, a white mare roams with a wild herd. Stare into her eyes, and you might just see somethin’ human.”

Mel exhales, hands unfolding and brought to her knees as she watches Darya’s face for approval. 

She stays blank. “You gon’ give me one of those ‘good ones’ you’ve been storin’ up or what?”

“Oh, come on!” She throws her hands up. “Needs a bit more tinkerin’, but it ain’t horrible.”

“Jokes,” Darya leans to her right, grabbing something. “Just jokes, pardner.” The fire crackles as a new log is fed to it. The embers dance in the air for a moment, sunset stars burning up before their very eyes, before disappearing back into the flame. 

Mel shakes her head, leaning back and attempting to shuffle into her bedroll. “So, if you get a bedtime story,” even half asleep, knowingly, Pip shifts herself, laying her head on Mel’s chest. She heaves at the sudden weight. “Do I- Do I get a bedtime lullaby?”

Rolling her eyes, Darya leans back over Iris, unhooking the guitar once again. “Hold your horses.”

The metal of Pip’s bridle clinks and Mel grasps it. “Holdin’ ‘em.”

Guitar back in her lap, Darya begins strumming again. It’s a soft tune, strummed gently with the occasional, high pitched twang of one of the strings. “What’s this one sound like, then?”

Mel’s eyes droop close. She can already feel herself overheating. “Like home.”

“Really?”

“Mhm. Like waves crashing against limestone, too.” Mel grunts, attempting to get comfortable as Pip subconsciously shifts more of her weight onto her. She sighs as she finally finds a comfortable position. “N’ that’s close enough to Heaven for me, too.”

From over Iris’ head, Darya’s eyes wander to what she can see of Mel’s form, another sentence–maybe a final comeback–pushing against the back of her teeth. She lets it fizzle out like the embers of the fire, and hopes the warmth in her chest will do the same. 

She knows she isn’t asleep yet–her breathing hasn’t yet gone soft–but her fingers grow idle on the frets. With dust climbing up her chaps, she places her guitar aside with a low thump. With one last glance at the fire, she gathers some dust to put it out before unhooking her rifle, and leaning against her horse. 

Grinning, she wonders to herself that perhaps, in another life, they too are the lovers the constellations speak of. 

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

Writing this made me realise I need to practice third person a bit more. Usually, when I do, I focus on one main character and their thoughts, perceptions and actions in the scene (e.g., in WDJ) but, doing it here made things feel one-sided, so I ended up with a slightly odd narration style which I'm not really use to.

Minor frustrations aside, this was stupidly fun to write! I've never done anything Western based, so it was really cool to do some extra research on Western Jargon, clothing, speech patterns and history. It may not be entirely accurate, but I loved working on it, so I don't mind all too much.

[twola]

Seven Deadly Sins - VI

PAIRING: low to mid honor Arthur Morgan x Fem!reader

Because if one thing is true, it is that Arthur Morgan is a sinner. Pure, organic, non-GMO smut. A continuing series.

Warnings: Smut, Violence, Low to Medium Honor Arthur (and all that entails)

Sloth: disinclination to action or labor.

➵ AO3 Link

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A rooster crows distantly, its call reverberating through the valley as the sun rises in pink-purple hues.

Strawberry is a sleepy town, quiet in its solitude and tranquility in the mountains. The Welcome Center looms large in the center of town, providing rooms to weary travelers and vacationers alike.

Or recovering outlaws.

In a room upstairs, dirty boots are scattered on the wooden floorboards, mud caked on their soles near the door.

A shotgun lies propped against the fireplace, which has long gone cold from the night.

A gun belt is slung over a nightstand, gleaming revolvers tucked into the leather holsters.

Various items of clothing are scattered throughout the room, a bloodstained shirt hung over the mirror, a pair of pants in a pile on the floor. A blouse, also covered in blood, strewn haphazardly over a chair.

A chemise on the floor.

Arthur Morgan awakens with the morning light, blinking as his eyes get used to the room. For the first time in a very long time, he wakes up rested in a large bed.

He wipes down his face with his free hand, working his jaw slightly as he stares at the ceiling, mind at work already on the job he had been putting off.

A soft sound draws him back. The warmth of skin on skin lulls him into a sense of security. You’re tucked into his embrace, possessive in your sleep, not allowing him to get up.

Arthur draws lazy circles on your lower back, barely touching your skin, as you continue to doze against him. Curled against his body, your head is pillowed on his chest, your hand resting gently on his ribcage. 

He could stay here forever. You’re both stripped of everything, skin salty with dried sweat from overnight. Laying tangled up in each other in a bed, nude and satiated, a luxury that you hadn’t been able to have yet.

The sheet is balled up by his feet, but he’s warm enough in the room with you pressed against him, his arm wrapped around your frame. 

Arthur peers down at your temple, shrouded by your loose hair, and very softly moves his hand up to tuck your hair behind your ears, inspecting the wound he cleaned last night. The skin is red and irritated, but dry. His hand moves down again to rest on the curve of your hip, as he closes his eyes to sleep again.

-

Arthur tosses an extra coin at the bewildered attendant as the young man looks the two of you up and down.

You could hardly blame his shock, this poor boy, the overnight attendant in the sleepy Welcome Center.

You’re both covered in blood.

His shirt, normally blue and usually dirty, is stained nearly black up the sleeves as if he were skinning a wolf. Dried blood cakes the side of your face, dripping down from the wound on your temple. Arthur snatches the key from the desk and mutters a quick thanks before placing his hand on your lower back and urging you up the stairs. His brown leather jacket is pulled over your shoulders, and you grasp it tighter to yourself as you slowly make your way up the stairs. 

He unlocks the door and pushes into the room, letting you step in before closing it behind him. You let the jacket fall from your shoulders and toss it over a side table, stepping toward the large mirror to inspect the damage to your person.

“Lemme see your head.” 

You scowl into the reflection, making eye contact with Arthur behind you as he pulls his hat from his head, tossing it over his jacket on the table.

“ ‘M fine.” Your eyes return to the reflection, your fingers moving toward the gash at your hairline. You wince as you touch it gingerly.

“Come here, woman.” Arthur’s voice is low, and you can tell, he’s not politely asking.

“Ain’t yours to order around, Arthur.” You snidely retort, still aggravated from earlier in the night.

His eyebrows furrow, nostrils flaring as he turns around, walking with heavy steps toward a side table where a pitcher and bowl of water rest. He dips one of the white cloths folded on the table into the water and wrings it out gently before stepping back toward you.

"Knock it off.” You push his hand away as he reaches toward your head, and he returns your scowl.

“Stop fussin’. Let me clean y’ up.” Arthur pushes his hand back toward your head, and again, you bat it away.

“Don’t-”

“Look, if y’ want to fight me, fine, but I’m warnin’ you, pretty sure I can hold you down just fine.” Arthur overrules you, grabbing your hand with his free one, holding it down as he presses the damp cloth to your cheek.

You simmer, chastened, and allow him to gently wipe the crusted blood from the side of your face.

“No, you ain’t mine to order around. Knowing you, you’ll never be anyone’s to order around.”

His other hand lets your wrist go and moves up, up to gently tug at your chin, forcing you to look at him, “But I do want y’ to be mine.”

Your eyes dart downward as he presses the cloth to your cheek again. “My cunt’s already yours.” You mumble.

His finger nudges under your chin, making you catch his eyes again.

“That ain’t what I want.”

You raise your eyebrow, he gently pulls your hair back to look at the cut that produced all of the blood. Pressing the damp cloth to it, he pulls it back and inspects it, pleased when it does not come back bloodstained.

“Well,” he coughs lightly, clearing his throat, “That ain’t all I want.”

“Then what do you want?” You ask, voice low enough that it’s nearly a whisper.

He presses his lips, rough and chapped, against your forehead. 

“Wanna sit ‘round the fire with you on my knee.”

His lips move to your brow bone. One of his hands grasps your skirt at your waist and the fabric bunches between his fingers.

“Wanna be able to kiss you whenever the hell I want.”

He leans down and presses his lips to yours, hard, and needy, and his beard scratches against the skin of your chin. Arthur’s hands move lower, lower, and clenches on your rear roughly. You yelp as your hands fly to his chest to steady yourself.

“Wanna be able to touch you whenever the hell I want.”

His hands move up your back, and he’s unlacing the ties of your skirt at your waist. The heavy cotton falls to the floor. You can’t do anything but stare into the deep blue of his eyes, ensnared by the rough timbre of his voice.

“Don’t want to hide you anymore.”

You let him unbutton your blouse, and shrug your shoulders to help him peel it down your arms, and it too joins your skirt piled on the floor. Callused fingers dust up your arms to the straps of your chemise, all that hides you from him.

“Want you in my bed every night.”

Your chemise flutters to the floor. You are bare in the dim light of the room. Your breath hitches as he moves his lips to yours, and he nips at your bottom one.

“ ‘Nd I wanna wake up with you naked in my arms every mornin’.”

You moan, unabashedly, and throw your arms around his neck, pressing your mouth to his and your tongue presses against the seam of his lips.

“Arthur,” you gasp into his mouth as his arms wrap around your back, “Take me to bed.”

He grunts in approval, his large hands move over your hips and rear to the backs of your thighs, and he heaves you up. Your legs immediately wrap around his waist as you whine into the warm skin of his neck. It feels so unlike your first impassioned rendezvous, outside of Clemens Point weeks and weeks ago.

He carries you, sure-footed and strong, to the bed, and gently lies you down on the soft mattress, your arms and legs unwind from him and he presses his mouth to yours again as he leans over you.

Arthur’s hands move back to his body, and he’s furiously pushing the buttons of his shirt through their eyelets. He pulls his suspenders down and they swing loosely near his hips as he unbuttons his pants. He shucks the clothes from his body and lets them crumple on the floor as he climbs on top of you in the bed.

You open your legs as he slots his hips between them, pressing against you as he places his elbows on either side of your head, bracketing you securely beneath him.

His cock parts your folds, and with a roll of hips, his shaft fits snugly along the length of the seam of your body. He kisses you, tongue dancing in your mouth against your own, and gently thrusts his hips back and forth, his cockhead rubbing against your clit. 

You moan into his mouth, your arms slung round his neck, and meet his thrusts with the rolling of your hips. After several moments, his shaft is coated in your slick, and he moans back at you before drawing himself up on his knees.

With one hand, he grasps the base of his cock, stroking it a few times before he looks back at you, spread beneath him, open and wet and waiting to be filled.

“Do you wanna be mine, sweet girl?”

You sit up to lean on your elbows, and he leans over you, one hand back to the bed to keep him upright. 

“I’m already yours, Arthur,” you smile before reaching up to kiss him, “Just was hopin’ you’d ask.”

Arthur rolls his hips once more, catching your entrance with the weeping head of his cock, he slowly, gently presses inside.

He keeps his eyes trained on yours, and his mouth falls open with each passing inch of himself that he slides into your warmth. A flighty moan escapes your mouth as he seats himself fully within you, and he has to close his eyes to the feeling.

“God, woman, I always wanna be inside you.” He grits out, lowering himself to his elbows as you wrap your open legs around his hips.

“Good thing ‘m yours then, 'cause you can be inside me whenever you want.” You smile as you catch his jaw with an open-mouthed kiss.

“Shouldn’t say that, how am I gonna get any work done if I’m always in ya?” He rolls his hips slowly, and gently, and you murmur a soft sound of delight.

“Mm- Arthur-” You moan out as he presses slowly back into you, and you can feel the ghost of his smile against your temple.

“Always wanna hear you say my name like that.” He whispers, and when he draws his cock back, he presses forward faster, harder, and you’re beyond the point of continuing the conversation.

Frankly, he is past that point as well, and the room is filled with the cacophony of sex - the slap of skin on skin, the whine of the bed frame as he presses you into the mattress. The high mewls from your throat and the low groans from his.

The careening of the human body toward its ultimate pleasure: La petit mort, the French call it. Or whatever the hell Chatenay said in Saint Denis.

Hands everywhere, hips rolling against each other. Sweet nothings whispered in ears and names gasped in cloying breaths. 

It’s different, this time, he knows. You know. It’s not the frantic, hurried dalliances you usually share. It’s a slower, fuller rhythm that he grinds you into the mattress. Your hips rock against his every stroke, and he pulls his cock nearly out of you before pushing all the way back in.

Your orgasm surprises you, cresting the wave as Arthur continues to thrust slowly into you, his rasping voice in your ear as you whine out your pleasure.

He stills, sliding his hips against yours as far as they can go. His breath hitches as you feel his cock twitch, and he floods your cunt with his warm spend. The feeling sends you over the edge as well, and your nails dig lines into his back as your hips seize in pleasure.

You both come down from your highs, entangled in limbs and skin and refusing to break the connection between you. Arthur is draped over you, his elbows and knees keeping the bulk of his weight off of you.

His lips touch your forehead gently as you unwind your legs from crossing over his hips, letting them fall open on either side of him.

One of your hands moves to cup his cheek, and with that crooked smile you find yourself falling in love with, he leans down and opens his lips to yours. For a moment- actually- many moments, you kiss, safe and secure underneath him, in this bed in a low-lit room in the middle of the night.

His cock remains buried within you, and neither one of you is eager to lose that connection.

-

Sunlight pours in through the linen curtains, the morning light finally causes you to wake. You stretch, arching your back as you awaken, pushing your front against the solid form of Arthur next to you.

“Mmph.” You moan into his skin, waking yourself up little by little.

Arthur presses his lips against the crown of your head as your fingers press against his sternum, “Mornin’ there, sunshine.”

“Mornin’ cowboy.” You lean into him happily.

“Whatcha doin’ there?” Arthur says with a sly drawl as your fingers dust through the wiry hair of his chest.

“Just admiring the scenery.” You reply, as your hand moves down over his belly, down the hard line of his muscles toward where his hips narrow.

Your fingers weave through the coarse curls above his pelvis, pressing against the skin underneath, not moving any further downwards, not touching his straining cock as it hardens, so close, but yet so far away for him.

“Look at you, gettin’ so excited and I’m not even touching your cock.”

He grunts in response, his hips flexing upward as he squeezes his eyes shut tightly. His right hand clenches the sheet of the bed for dear life, his left grasping the globe of your rear hard enough to leave a mark.

“Mm, what do you want, sweetheart?” You purr, enjoying thoroughly the control you have over this situation, “You want my little fingers around all of this?”

“Darlin’- please-” he groans, a look of pure desperation on his face.

You continue to card through his pubic hair, but press your whole body against him, your lips hovering next to his ear.

“Say it again,” you whisper.

“ Mmph-” he grunts, his hips straining upward, “Say what-”

“Call me darlin’.”

He turns his head towards you and presses his lips against yours as he groans. As he pulls back slightly, his eyes flutter open. 

“ Darlin’ ,” he breathes, “ My darlin’ girl-”

His words melt into a needy sound as your fingers finally wrap around his cock. 

“That’s it, c’mon sweetheart…” you whisper in his ear as you twist your hand slightly as you pump his considerable length. Your hips rock in a little bucking movement against him, and each sound you’re able to wrench from the mountain of this man going straight to your core.

“Lemme… lemme-” he reaches his free hand toward your hip, your aching cunt his obvious destination.

“Nu-uh.” You whisper, stroking him faster, and a grunt tumbles out of his mouth when he can’t finish his sentence.

You lean over him, slotting one of your legs over his thigh, and gently press your lips to his cheek before moving down toward his ear.

“I want you to come for me.” You whisper as you roll your hips against his thigh, and squeeze tighter around his straining cock.

His eyes shut tightly as his hips buck into your touch, “Darl- fuck - I’m comin’, I’m comin’ ”, he grits into your ear and your fingers are covered in thick spend as he does just that.

Arthur is gasping, breathless, as you slowly stroke his cock through the end of his orgasm. It takes him a moment to open his eyes again, but he slowly does, turning his head toward you as his breathing slows.

“Jesus, sweet thing. You’re gonna kill me one of these days.”

You smile, tucking your hair behind your ear as you sit up, taking in his sated form, reclined on the bed. He looks happy. He looks calm. The workhorse of this gang, always moving, always working, always stealing and robbing and shooting. For once, he looks like the weight of the world was not on his shoulders.  The crow’s feet at the edges of his eyes seem not to look as severe.

He runs his hands through his hair, pushing the ends of it from his forehead. His eyes trail from your hand, covered in his milky spend, back down to his cock, softening and also covered in his spend. He frowns and scrunches his nose as you laugh, moving off the bed and over toward the pitcher of water. You pour water into the bowl, and take a fresh towel, wetting it before wiping your hand clean. Dipping the cloth back into the bowl and wringing it out, you toss it at Arthur, who catches it to start cleaning himself.

“We should probably get up and back to camp.” You start to gather your unbound hair over your shoulder, trying to tame it from the muss of sex and sleep.

“Paid for the room another day.”

“Oh really? That’s pretty convenient..”

“You ain’t gettin’ out this bed, woman. Get back o’er here.”

-

Hours pass. Maybe. Time is of no meaning locked away in this room, where Arthur keeps to his word, you do not get out of bed. The morning bleeds into the afternoon and into the golden-hued beckoning of the evening. 

Time is punctuated by hours of sleep and wakefulness.

And sex, of course.

“Mm- keep goin’.”

You whine softly into the crown of his head, your fingers digging into his back as he grunts into your skin, closing his lips over one of your hardened nipples, sucking on it gently. His hand kneads your other breast slowly, rolling your nipple between his fingers.

You feel him harden against your thigh, his torso splayed over you as he suckles at your breasts, his mouth moving around your pale skin and leaving red-purple marks upon your chest.

His fingers splay over your belly as his hand moves lower, lower, and you recognize the game he’s playing as his hand stops over your mound, fingers running through the thatch of dark hair there.

“Maybe a little payback, you little minx.” He chuckles as his fingers weave through your pubic hair, not moving any closer to where you throb.

All you can do is whine as he kisses up your chest and your neck.

“Oh, my girl, I ain’t a cruel man. Not nearly as cruel as you.”

He slides his pointer finger between your folds, brushing up against the little nub of your pleasure before pressing into your weeping cunt, and your hips buck up to chase the feeling further.

“A-Arthur, please- please-”  your begging is cut off as he starts to thrust that finger back and forth, leaving you mewling into the skin of his shoulder.

“I’ll give ya everythin’ you want, darlin’.” He grunts into your ear as you can feel him press his hardening cock against your thigh. His middle finger slips inside your cunt as his thumb presses on your clit, and your head falls back against the pillow as you keen.

Arthur presses his cock against the side of your hip, “ Fuck , ‘nd everything I want too.”

“H-how do you want me?” You sigh breathily, as he removes his glistening fingers from your body.

He sucks your slick off of his fingers before returning to lean over you. You moan as you watch him.

“On yer hands and knees, beautiful.”

You scramble up to your knees in front of him, and with a sly, seductive smile, you turn around and shimmy your hips as you lean down on your hands, your rear on display for his greedy eyes.

“That’s it.”

His palms fan out on your lower back as he pulls you closer gently. You press up on the bed, steadying your hands and knees. You feel one of Arthur’s hands leave your back as the other one rounds your hip.

He grunts softly as he pumps his cock several times before he aligns his hips with yours and presses the head of his cock into your folds. You mewl piteously as he slides in, slowly, until his pelvis is pressed against your rear.

He starts to move, his hands guiding your hips back to meet his thrusts. Arthur finds a punishing rhythm and you bury your face in the pillow as he fucks you into a moaning mess.

One of his large arms settles next to your shoulder, and he’s leaning over your back, covering you with himself, his head turned in toward yours as he nips at your ear. The other hand swings beneath both of your hips to press against that spot of your pleasure while his cock is pressed into you as far as he can go. 

He gently pinches your nub between his fingers and your arms fail you, you sink into the pillow with your hips raised, legs spread on either side of him. You groan loudly into the cotton.

“Oh, my girl-”

You can do nothing but whine in response as he starts to rub at your clit as he gently presses his hips back and forth into you, remaining spread out on top of you.

Oh god, it’s so much. You’re going to die, you’re going to have a heart attack, every muscle in your body is going to wring inside out. You’re gasping like a fish out of water, whining high-pitched, needy sounds against the cotton of the pillowcase.

“Oh god-” you’re able to gasp out, begging for mercy because your body is clenching and you’re definitely coming and he’s not stopping. You're stretched taut around his length, buried deep in your core, as he rubs roughly at your clit, “Stop, stop, I’m gonna-”

“Gimme more, c’mon-” he rumbles, his breath hot in your ear, “I know you got more-”

You cry out, loudly , and it feels like your body is bursting at the seams. A gushing wetness covers his cock within you and he grunts happily as it seeps out, covering his balls and thighs and your rear in your slick.

“Tha’s it, oh darlin’-”

You’re crying, the overstimulation is too much . Arthur blessedly pulls his hand away from your clit, pushing himself up and grasping your hips again. He starts thrusting into you, his cock steel-hard. 

You whine, “G-give it to me-”

A grunt of satisfaction spills from his throat, as he grips your hips hard, a wild pace that is obviously close to a stuttering end.

“Yer so good- Christ , god- you’re so good, my darlin’, my girl-”, his thrusts punctuate the words spilling from his mouth, “Gonna give you everythin’, gonna give you all of m-me.”

Everything is so wet, so slick and his glides so smooth as he pounds into you. After your blinding orgasm, your body feels boneless, and you’re helpless to do anything but let him use you for his own satisfaction. The outlaw groans his stuttering end with a final thrust into your hips, his fingers digging into your skin.

You collapse onto the bed, laying on your stomach as he gently extricates himself from your hips, leaning back on his knees as he catches his breath.

You vaguely feel the bed creak under shifting weight and hear his footsteps pad toward the side table with the pitcher and bowl of water. You murmur softly as you feel the cool brush of linen on your back. He gently wipes the washcloth over your thighs, cleaning it of your slick as he leans over and kisses your shoulder blade. Arthur steps back, moving back toward the side table, and cleaning himself with the washcloth.

You stretch your legs out in the bed a bit while you watch him, unabashed in his nakedness, as he squeezes out the cloth into the bowl before draping it over the side to dry out. 

You smile to yourself as your gaze scans his skin, his back pale where the collar of his shirt begins. Red-pink lines sweep across his freckled skin, and a wave of joyful possessiveness flows through you as you recognize those lines coming from your blunt nails in the throes of passion.

Arthur turns back toward you, and the crooked smile he gives makes your heart flutter.

“Are we heading back?” You ask, arching your back slightly as you continue to stretch your body out. Laying on your belly, you prop your chin up on your forearms.

“Tomorrow,” Arthur replies as he gets back into the bed, pulling you into his embrace again.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow sounds good.

[harrys-toothpaste]

RANKING INVINCIBLE!!!!

16. invincible— ironic how the title track is actually my least fave off the album. i dunno. it lacks a lotta substance. that 🤌🏻michael🤌🏻 substance. if ya know what i mean. “why ain’t ya feelin’ me?” sorry love, i ain’t feelin’ ya. OOOHHH BURNNNN

15. privacy— the only thing i like about this song is the message. that’s basically it. oh, and slash. yeah. slash and the message. the message and slash.

14. two (two) thousand (thousand) watts (watts)— the voice ain’t that distinctive mj falsetto i’m used to… sorry. but the beat is sick, i must say.

13. threatened— YOU SHOULD BE. WATCHIN’ ME. YOU SHOULD FEEL. THREATENED. ahem. yeah, this song’s alright! i gotta give it to sony for pissing mj off enough to write a whole diss track about ‘em! this song kinda also sounds like if unbreakable had a b side!

12. butterflies— don’t hate me for such a low ranking! compared to all the other slow, melodic tracks on the album, this one just kinda sounds like a lullaby. okay, well, they all do, but this one would put me to sleep the fastest. but i absolutely love the vocals in this one. superb and supreme mj right there!

11. cry— invincible’s man in the mirror. great empowering track! though if i had to choose between this, heal the world, MiTM, and, well, all the empowering tracks on HIStory… all the others would win, hands down.

10. you rock my world— only because i’ve heard it so much, so it’s a smidge overplayed in my book. kudos to my local roller rink for playing it! they’re cultured folk i fear 👀

9. don’t walk away— this is where it got SUPER freaking hard for me to rank. i absolutely adore this song with all due respect, but out of all my top faves on this album, this one didn’t quite have enough substance to it as the others further up on the list, such as…

8. speechless— speechless, that’s how you make me feel, though i’m with you, i feel far away, and nothing is for real… ahem sorry! holy cow talk about melodic and YES THIS IS A TOTAL LULLABY FOR ME!!!! i love how half the tracks on this album could double as lullabies for kids, it’s super kid friendly, and i felt like michael took that into account when making the album, did he actually, i dunno. just my perspective!!

7. you are my life— what did i tell you? michael literally wrote this ABOUT his kids, FOR his kids (to have and to look back on when they got older, cause y’know, they were only three or four back then). i absolutely adore every single aspect of this song.

6. heaven can wait— right away, with that opening couple of notes, it sucks me riiiight in. and then it hits you with those melodic AF backings. and then michael’s voice comes in being all romantic and shit AH got me blushing like the HELL and then his voice coupled WITH the backing esp in the bridge got me like… DA. FUCKIN. HELL. NAH. this song has no right to be THAT good like BRUH. okay i’ll stop before the cringe meter flies off the handles.

5. the lost children— holy CRAP i close my eyes and listen to this one, and it almost feels like i’m being whisked off to a magical fairyland, one where nothing or nobody could ever hurt me. that’s the type of sensation i always wanna feel! and the children’s chorus at the end… gives me chillsss… michael wrote this with children in mind, and he once said this was one of his faves off the album (god i love that man). and i can totally see why!

4. break of dawn— oh my god. every time i listen to this one, i close my eyes and imagine michael and i on the most PERFECT PERFECT PERFECT romantic date like EVAAA!!! he’s such a romantic ham and this song clearly displays all his TRUE intentions! and people labeled him like they did… the fuck bro?!?! he just wanted to be a decent dude and take his love out on a picnic!!! he certainly had the money to travel all across the world and picnic on every hill and valley across timbuktu! idk if i even spelled that right but you get my point! bottom line, can michael please please please be my husband/lifelong partner please and thank you. it’s a simple request!!!

3. heartbreaker— hot take: michael walked so skrillex could run. don’t come @ me!!! fr tho, this song straight up SLAPETHS harder than… harder than… well y’all get what i’m tryna say here! holy fuckballs. holy shit. why is michael’s whole album so bleeding dope? and for what? what did we do to deserve this ??? straight up MASTERPIECE. of an album?!?!?! *takes deep breath in* and seriously, i don’t think a better track exists on this album.

1. unbreakable— oh wait, it’s the first one, SILLY! michael really started this album out with a BANGAROO, i love how four of my favorite tracks on the album are part of the first five songs you hear… and then the rest of the album straight up bangs! (like i wish mikezilla would do to me some day) AH WELL A GIRL CAN DREAM…

i hope you appreciated my chaotic review of invincible @someone-put-your-hand-out @applehead1988 @histendercaress LOLOLOL…

lmk if you want me to review more albums!!!

[waltongoggos]

Ain’t no mountain high enough… ain’t no valley low enough…🤍🪷waltongogginsbonafide

[picturesofthegoneworlds]

Intertwined - Chapter 13 - Sure

It’s not long after setting off that the sun is rising over the other side of the valley. It heats and highlights the low-hanging mist that hugs to the tops of the forest canopy populating the bottom of the canyon, the last few days of heavy rainfall transmuting into a shimmering fog, branches breaking the blanket in places and parrots and flying lizards gliding in and out of it, catching the early morning insects.

“That was alotta stew to finish off, can feel it sloshin’ round in ma belly each time I have to make a little leap.” a large horned beetle scurries out of Imogen's path of descent as her boots ricochet her approach with each landing of sole onto natural stone step.

She ignores it, instead looks back on her previous tracks, at Laudna crawling on her hands and knees and on her back, her ass finding rock-edge and legs dangling over before she lightly eases down onto the next small area of level ground.

“I may have gotten a little carried away; I wasn’t sure of how long we would have to keep still whilst you healed.”

“Ain’t a complaint, I appreciate it - careful, this rock’s a little loose-” Imogen holds out her hand to Laudna from a few paces further down the cliff side, Laudna taking it before she lands almost nose-to-nose with Imogen.

“Thank you.”

“Thank you, honestly.” Imogen emphasises “I know – I bet that musta been stressful. Lookin’ after me, not the jump, although maybe that was stressful too, I wasn’t-” listening in.

“It was what I wanted to do. I do wish you would take this descent a little more gingerly though…”

Laudna's hand still in hers, awkward now, all she can focus on. Imogen lets go.

“Ya worried about me openin’ the floodgates again?” blood spurting from the sieve that is her torso.

They’re stood so close that Imogen can’t fit Laudna's whole face into view; her focus darting back and forth between each of her eyes and the movement of her brow, the quirk of her mouth-

“We have quite a climb until there is enough ground to lie your body down. You’d be starting a new cascade, a little red waterfall. I’m not sure how much the flora will appreciate that, all those centuries dedicated to finding a colour palette of their own.” A smile, subtle but certain. Imogen wishes she had kept hold of her hand.

“I’ll be careful.”

Imogen pivots and carries on, now with a bit of pause before each move.

(thank you as always to @distant--shadow for the illustrations)

[wordspinning]

Chapter 50: Un Día a la Vez

“Joel.” There’s a warning in Tommy’s voice, a sort of desperate, empty threat that only a man who sees the end from the beginning and knows he has no way out is willing to make. The echo of decades of broken promises crescendos in the still air, roaring like a cataract, sweeping through the canyon, and Joel feels the bank start to crumble, widening the gulf between them– He forges out into the surge, standing against the current. “They’re ours, Tommy. All three of ‘em. I swear.” “You promise me you’ll take ‘em somewhere safe?” Tommy presses, voice wavering, and Joel drags air into his lungs, thick as mud. “You raise him, Joel, he’ll need somebody lookin’ after him– And you make sure Maria–” “Tommy, enough—“ Joel softens in earnest now, dropping his voice low. “I will, if it comes to that–  What is this? You got somethin’ you ain’t telling me?” Tommy scoffs, wounded and hollow. “No. I just— I don’t really see myself coming back from the next fight.”

header creds:

@lauramakabresku | @omenalehto | @lauramakabresku river view valley ranch hbo | seeking our someday | @perennialdoll247

[lovesongbracket]

Reminder: Vote based on the song, not the artist or specific recording! The tracks referenced are the original artist, aside from a few rare cases where a cover is the most widely known.

Lyrics, videos, and info under the cut. (Spotify playlist available in pinned post)

Ain't No Mountain High Enough

Written By: Valerie Simpson & Nickolas Ashford

Artist: Marvin Gaye & Tammi Terrell

Released: 1967

“Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” marked the first collaboration between soul artists Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell in terms of releases. It was the first single from their debut album United where it also appeared as the opening track on the record. Although they kept their relationship as professional as could be, the two were practically inseparable with most describing them as “brother and sister.” At Terrell’s funeral after her tragic death at the mere age of 24, her mother barred everyone at Motown from attending except Gaye (who also delivered the eulogy) as she felt he was her only friend there. Perhaps there really was no mountain, valley or river that could ever come between them. The song was listed by writers of the UK publication NME as one of the Top 150 Singles of All Time, and the song was inducted into the Grammy Hall of Fame in 1999. The song would go on to be covered by dozens of artists, including Diana Ross, The Supremes and The Temptations, as well as the songwriters Ashford & Simpson among others.

[Verse 1] Listen, baby Ain't no mountain high Ain't no valley low Ain't no river wide enough, baby If you need me, call me No matter where you are No matter how far Don't worry, baby Just call my name I'll be there in a hurry You don't have to worry 'Cause, baby, there [Chorus] Ain't no mountain high enough Ain't no valley low enough Ain't no river wide enough To keep me from getting to you, babe [Verse 2] Remember the day I set you free I told you you could always count on me, darling From that day on, I made a vow I'll be there when you want me, someway, somehow Oh, baby, there [Chorus] Ain't no mountain high enough Ain't no valley low enough Ain't no river wide enough To keep me from getting to you, babe [Bridge] Oh no, darling No wind, no rain Or winter's cold Can stop me, baby (No, no, baby) 'Cause you are my goal If you're ever in trouble I'll be there on the double Just send for me, oh, baby, ha [Verse 3] My love is alive (Woo) Way down in my heart Although we are miles apart If you ever need a helping hand I'll be there on the double Just as fast as I can Don't you know that there [Chorus] Ain't no mountain high enough Ain't no valley low enough Ain't no river wide enough To keep me from getting to you, baby Don't you know that there Ain't no mountain high enough Ain't no valley low enough Ain't no river wide enough Ain't no mountain high enough Ain't no valley low enough

Accidentally in Love

Written By: Adam Duritz, Dan Vickrey, David Bryson, David Immergluck & Matthew Malley

Artist: Counting Crows

Released: 2004

“I was really struggling with it. I generally don’t write songs on demand, and I almost got to the point where I thought I wasn’t going to do it. They just told me that the song had to be uplifting. They actually said, ‘Don’t write a song about Shrek. Write a song that’s about you.’ The funny thing is, the song ended up reflecting a lot of what was going on in my life at the time: falling in love with someone you’re not supposed to fall in love with because it’s inconvenient. My songs for Counting Crows are mature and generally don’t get a chance to reach kids. To be part of something like that is pretty cool.” – Adam Duritz via Billboard

[Verse 1] So, she said, "What's the problem, baby?" What's the problem? I don't know Well, maybe I'm in love (Love) Think about it Every time I think about it Can't stop thinking 'bout it How much longer will it take to cure this? Just to cure it, 'cause I can't ignore it if it's love (Love) Makes me wanna turn around and face me But I don't know nothin' 'bout love, uh [Chorus] Come on, come on Turn a little faster Come on, come on The world will follow after Come on, come on Because everybody's after love [Verse 2] So I said, I'm a snowball runnin' Runnin' down into the spring that's comin' All this love meltin' under blue skies Belting out sunlight, shimmering love Well, baby, I surrender To this strawberry ice cream Never-ever-ender All this love Well, I didn't mean to do it But there's no escaping your love, oh [Bridge] These lines of lightnin' mean we're never alone Never alone No, no [Chorus] Come on, come on Move a little closer Come on, come on I wanna hear you whisper Come on, come on Settle down inside my love, ohh Come on, come on Jump a little higher Come on, come on If you feel a little lighter Come on, come on We were once upon a time in love [Post-Chorus] We're accidentally in love, accidentally in love Accidentally in love, accidentally in love Accidentally in love, accidentally in love Accidentally in love, accidentally in love Accidentally, I'm in love, I'm in love [Refrain] I'm in love, I'm in love I'm in love, I'm in love Accidentally, I'm in love, I'm in love I'm in love, I'm in love I'm in love, I'm in love Accidentally [Chorus] Come on, come on (Come on) Spin a little tighter Come on, come on (Come on) And the world's a little brighter Come on, come on (Come on) Just get yourself inside her love I'm in love

[billyjoelmutt]

United Universes Tour 2024! Aint no Mountain High Enough! Boiling Isles Edition!

Just like last year!! After that large flat bed Trucks came out!! The other characters again ran to different spots!! Dancing to the beat!!!!The first one had two wolves on it! This was unexpected!!! But it was Kate and Humphrey!!!!! :3 It went right into the song!

Humphrey-Listen baby, ain’t no mountain high Ain’t no valley low, ain’t no river wide enough, baby

If you need me call me, no matter where you are No matter how far, don’t worry, baby Just call my name, I’ll be there in a hurry You don’t have to worry

Both-‘Cause, baby, there ain’t no mountain high enough Ain’t no valley low enough Ain’t no river wide enough To keep me from getting to you, babe

Humphrey- Remember the day I set you free I told you you could always count on me, darling From that day on, I made a vow I’ll be there when you want me Some way, somehow

Both- 'Cause, baby, there ain’t no mountain high enough Ain’t no valley low enough Ain’t no river wide enough To keep me from getting to you, babe

Humphrey- Oh no, darling!

No wind, no rain Kate- Or winter’s cold can stop me, baby, na na, baby

'Cause you are my goal Both- If you’re ever in trouble I’ll be there on the double Just send for me, oh, baby, ha

My love is alive (woo) Way down in my heart Although we are miles apart!!

If you ever need a helping hand I’ll be there on the double Just as fast as I can Don’t you know that there!

Both- Ain’t no mountain high enough Ain’t no valley low enough Ain’t no river wide enough To keep me from getting to you, babe

Both- Don'tcha know that there Ain’t no mountain high enough Ain’t no valley low enough Ain’t no river wide enough Ain’t no mountain high enough Ain’t no valley low enough!

Everyone was going nuts this was unexpected but still awesome!!!

Humphrey- "FOR YOU BOILING ISLES 2024!!!!!! :3"

Everyone cheered as he said that!!! "Alright get ready a demon on wheels is coming!!!!

@thelittlemermaidfan1989

@mellowwpopper

@mellowwpuphub

@teen-lyoko-fan7777

@goldmudder

@andy-squirrel-and-friends

@askdj-timelord2

@keirastarlightdraconequus

(Credits to Alpha and Omega, all image makers and video makers, and  Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell)

[violetthistle1]

Excerpt 13 from Singing in the Dead of Night by Violet_Thistle on Ao3.

“Alright, that’s enough attention on me, it’s your turn, Tonks.” Charlie was the one chasing Tonks up to the stage, though they seemed to be much more willing to sing than Charlie was. 

Eventually, the song selection was made, but Tonks didn’t immediately go on stage, instead making a pit stop at the loo. 

“Nerves?” Sirius asked Charlie when he was back at the booth. 

Charlie scoffed. “Tonks? Never. They like to get into character for these kinds of things, and they can’t exactly change their appearance in front of all these muggles.” 

Just as he finished his explanation, Tonks reappeared in a green and white mod dress straight from the late sixties with their hair blonde now, but still in a short pixie and parted on the side. They hopped up on stage (nearly tripping on the steps) just as the iconic intro started. “Listen, baby! Ain’t no mountain high, ain’t no valley low!” 

Sirius slapped Charlie on the back and shoved him out of the booth. “It’s a duet, it’s a duet! You gotta go sing the duet with them!” 

“What? No, this is their song. I already sang my song.” 

“Don’t care, you gotta go, you already missed your first intro. Go, go, go!” Sirius shoved him towards the stage just as Tonks started their next stanza. 

https://archiveofourown.org/works/60195556