#all of this is to say i was just horsing around

[marvelwitchergilmore]

Third Time's A Charm

Summary: Bucky Barnes x fe!Reader -> You and your husband are trying for a baby.

Disclaimer: Mentions and descriptions of potential infertility, slight smut, brief mentions of dangerous missions, fluff, Bucky being a caring husband who can cook, angst, hurt/comfort vibes, happy ending.

“What if it’s negative?” You turned around to face your husband, nervous as hell to even look at the test. 

“Then we’ll keep trying.”

“But what if it is?” You pressed, too afraid to look. 

Bucky took you by the shoulders, leaning down to keep his eye level with yours. “Then we’ll keep trying. Not a lot of couples have success the first time.”

You nodded. “Okay. Yeah, okay. We can keep trying.”

Bucky nodded before pulling you in and kissing your head. 

You’d been married just over two years, and had been trying for a baby for around three months. Each time, you’d gotten your period so there had been no point in testing. Until now. 

The timer rang from Bucky’s phone. “Do you want me to look?”

You stayed still for a moment, debating it. “No, I’ll look.”

It took you a minute, but Bucky remained patient. For a moment, he leaned against the bathtub as you walked closer to the counter. 

One line.

Negative.

You shook your head and turned around with the test in your hand. “Negative.”

There was a punch to his heart, but he stood nonetheless. “We’ll keep trying.”

You nodded before swallowing the sadness and looking at your husband. “Yeah.”

“Hey, I love you.”

You smiled. “I love you, too.” 

Pressing three kisses to your lips, he wrapped you in his arms and lifted you from the ground for a moment. 

It was another two months before you tested again. 

You used to be thankful to see your period. Now it just felt like it was Mother Nature’s way of mocking you. 

Bucky was in the kitchen cooking dinner when you came in from work. “Hey! Just in time,” Bucky said. “Sam finally gave me the recipe for his-”

“I think I need to do another test.” 

The sentence just fell out of your mouth. It had been on your mind all day and you’d stopped off at the drugstore on your way home. 

Your period was two weeks late. You’d never exactly been spot-on when it came to your cycle, but it had been getting better. So fourteen days overdue had to be a sign, right?

Bucky tried not to seem too excited since he could read the fear across your face. “Oh, okay.”

“I just- it’s been on my mind all day and I’m late and…I don’t know.”

Folding the heat-proof pan squares away, Bucky turned to you. “Do you want me to run down to the store-”

You held up the box from your bag. 

Bucky nodded. “Let’s go and see.”

Bucky watched as you paced up and down the bathroom as the timer ticked away. “We’ll be okay.”

You chewed on your nail, keeping the test in the corner of your eyes. “Yeah.”

Your mind was somewhere else. 

Standing in front of you before you sent both yourself and him dizzy, he held you close to him. “It’s gonna be okay.”

You looked at your husband, a little dejected. “We’ve been trying for almost six months and it’s not…what if something is wrong with me?”

Bucky felt like he’d been stabbed in the heart. He’d rather take all of Hydra’s torture again than see you feeling hurt. 

Bucky shook his head. “There’s nothing-”

“But what if there is?” You stepped out from your husband’s arms for a moment, trying your best to keep your tears at bay. “What if I can’t have children?”

Bucky didn’t fully know what to say. “We don’t know that. If there is something wrong, and that is a big ‘if’,” Bucky stepped closer to you and you held onto him. “Then there’s a chance it could be me.”

“Shuri did your labs. You’re as healthy as a horse.”

Bucky shook his head. “It’s not like they tested me for fertility issues.”

You closed your eyes for a moment. “What if this doesn’t happen for us, Bucky?”

Your husband hugged you and you wrapped your arms around him, holding on for dear life. “Then we’ll look into it. And, you know, there’s always IVF and adoption. Something this century grants us is more options. You know, back in the 40s, it was sex or going down to the docks.”

You chuckled, hitting him on the arm. “Stop trying to make me laugh.”

Bucky smiled, leaning back to look at you. “Can’t help it. I love your laugh.”

You smiled before he wiped away your tears. 

“I love you.”

You smiled, kissing him. “I love you, too.”

The kiss broke when the timer went off. “You look this time. I don’t think I can.” 

You moved away from the counter and stood away from your husband before he reached out for the pregnancy test. 

One line. 

Negative.

He held it up to show you. “Negative.”

You knew. You’d had the feeling in the back of your head. “Okay.”

Bucky looked at you, giving a little sigh for both of your frustrations. “Come here.”

He pulled you in, holding you tight. 

You’d both keep trying. And if that didn’t work, there were always other options. 

Three weeks later whilst you were at work, Bucky made a call. 

“White wolf,” Shuri said as she answered. “In need of a new suit? I’ve just made a discovery that if I-”

“I-I need you to run some tests.”

Shuri’s voice dropped a little as she turned at her desk. “Is everything okay?”

Bucky sighed. Shuri had been the first person he’d properly talked to about this. “Y/n and I…we’ve been trying for a baby.”

Shuri sounded excited. “Really? I expect to be Godmother. You know, I could make it a suit for it’s first-”

Bucky chuckled. “Might be getting a little ahead. Uh, we…we’ve been trying for a while and I just…I want to make sure there isn’t an issue with…me. Us, even. Y/n’s really worried and if it is me, I just…I want to know…”

Shuri nodded. “I’ve got you. I’ve still got some of your DNA samples in my lab. I’ll start running the tests now. It’ll be okay, Bucky.”

“Thanks, Shuri.”

“How many people know?”

Bucky scratched his head. “Uh, Sam…kinda. He knows we’ve been talking about having kids soon. But no-one knows we’re trying yet.”

“Well, your secret is safe with me. You know, maybe you and Y/n could come to visit soon. I can run more developed tests for both of you and, you know, a bit of relaxation has never killed anyone.”

Bucky nodded. “That…that actually sounds great. I’ll talk to Y/n when she gets home.”

“It’ll be okay, Bucky.”

“Thanks.”

He hung up the phone not too long after and by the time you got home from work, you’d agreed before he could even finish telling you. 

Bucky was on annual leave anyway since his last mission had taken up more case hours than anyone had been expecting. And you needed a break from work. 

Yourself and Bucky ended up spending three months in Wakanda. Shuri ran every test she could think of. 

“You’re both incredibly healthy. I can’t find anything.”

You and Bucky had looked at each other, shocked more than anything. “So, what? It’s just the universe’s way of saying, ‘no, you can’t have a child’?”

Shuri kept her eyes on the medical tablet. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

“But…we can have children?” Bucky asked. 

Shuri looked up and nodded. “Yes. By all means, your egg shouldn’t reject the sperm.”

“Even with the serum?”

Shuri nodded again. “Have you ever been pregnant before?”

You shook your head. “Never.”

Shuri hummed and started walking around her lab. “It’s just a theory, but it could be that your body has to get used to the chemical difference. As everything is being done, I assume, naturally.”

Both yourself and Bucky felt a little embarrassed but nodded anyway. 

“It could possibly be down to something such as that-”

“Or it could just be down to timing.”

“Mother.”

Yourself and Bucky bowed. “Your highness.”

“Having children is a wonderful thing, but often, it can simply be down to timing. The universe will let you know when you’re ready.”

Yourself and Bucky kept trying. And trying. And trying. And trying. 

“Have you been testing?” Yelena asked you one girl’s night. 

You shook your head as you stirred the cookie dough and she snacked on it. “I think I’m just gonna wait until one pops out of me. I just feel like my period is mocking me. And everytime I see that one line…it hurts too much.”

“Well, whenever it does happen, you and Bucky will make great parents.”

You smiled at her. “Thanks, Lena’.”

A week later, you were standing in your bathroom looking at the opened box of pregnancy tests. From where you were standing, you could see Bucky. He was fast asleep on his front, his arms wrapped around his pillow. 

But as you pulled one test from the box, your phone started to ring. And so did Bucky’s. 

Haphazardly, you threw the box and test back under the sink and answered. “Sorry to call so late- early.” Yelena stopped herself. “This is an all hands on deck situation. Are you okay being in the field with us?”

Bucky had groggily pulled his phone to his ear. You could hear Sam’s voice talking. 

Two hours later, you were cleaning your weapons on the jet whilst Bucky tightened your holster to your side and your thigh. 

“Promise me you’ll be safe?”

Bucky nodded. “Always. Same goes for you.”

“I won’t let anything happen to her, Bucky.” Yelena said as she passed you both by. 

Bucky stood up, pressing a kiss to your lips as you cupped his cheek. He pressed his forehead to yours and closed his eyes. “I love you.”

You did the same. “I love you, too.”

The next fourteen hours were spent running and fighting for your lives, whilst also fighting for others. 

At one point, something had rocked the earth as it exploded to the south of you. Exactly where Bucky had been running to when you’d seen him last. 

“Bucky?! Bucky?!”

The relief that came over you after two minutes of dead silence, hearing the crackly voice of Bucky over your comms. “I’m okay, doll.”

“Oh, thank God.”

Sam’s voice spoke next. “I’m heading your way, Buck. Be ready.”

With helicarriers packed full, you and Bucky had gotten separated. 

“He’s with Sam. He’s okay,” Yelena assured you. 

You didn’t relax until you finally saw him. Having gotten back at different times and helping those to the medical bay that needed it, Yelena had sent you home. 

“When he gets here, I’ll send him home, too. Go.”

You couldn’t relax. The dead silence over comms kept running through your mind until you finally heard the door unlock. Within seconds, you were running towards the door. 

“Hey,” Bucky felt the weight get lifted from his chest once he saw you. But he didn’t talk much after that since you planted one on him, immediately. 

“We’re never doing that again. I thought I lost you.”

You kissed him again. 

“I promise,” Bucky said between the kisses and as he moved you further into your home. “We’ll stick together next time.”

“We work better as a team anyway.” You said quickly, feeling Bucky’s hands grip your hips steadily before softly kissing your neck. 

His mumble of a Russian, “Agreed,” rippled through your skin. 

You needed him. 

And he was more than happy to provide. 

Peeling the jacket from you once he’d hoisted you onto the side cabinet, you unbuckled his belt and jacket. And somewhere between the rough kisses, the strewn clothes and the scuff marks being made against the floor and walls, Bucky fucked you like you were both on borrowed time. 

Your relationship was loving, slow and filled with soft kisses. He’d spent a lot of his life being the tortured pet for Hydra, being forced into the brutal being they created him to be. 

Hard, fast and rough was rare in your relationship. 

But when it was…

You pulled him in closer to you as you climaxed, Bucky finishing as you whimpered into his ear. 

Between heavy breathes, Bucky’s tongue dragged across your collar before you felt his teeth beside your neck. 

“We both need a shower,” you eventually said. 

“Good. Because I’m not done with you yet, doll.”

As dirty handprints were washed away from the shower glass with the rest of the blood, ash and dirt, you fell asleep against your husband’s bare chest, his arms wrapped around you and his fingers tracing your spine. 

A few weeks later, you woke up in a similar position, only fully clothed. 

When Bucky had gotten back from work, he’d joined you on your bed and both of you had been asleep within minutes. However, when you woke a few hours later, you managed to peel yourself from his grip without waking him so you could go to the bathroom. 

As you were looking for a spare roll of toilet paper, you saw where you’d previously thrown the box of pregnancy tests. You hadn’t tested in a few months, and you’d hadn’t fully been keeping track of your cycle. 

Just as you were waiting to surprisingly give birth, you decided to just wait for Mother Nature to send Aunt Flo your way when she was ready. 

From the bathroom, you could see Bucky’s sleeping frame. It was probably going to be negative, but you decided to take one anyway. 

Only after three minutes had passed and you’d washed your hands and tidied the bathroom counter, you decided to look at the test. 

Two lines.

Two…lines. 

“Oh, my god.”

You pulled the box out from under the sink to triple check you’d read it right. 

“Oh, my god.”

Walking out of the bathroom, you went straight towards your husband. 

Bucky woke up to you lightly shaking his shoulder. “Everything okay?” He asked, a little groggily. 

“I’m pregnant.”

The tiredness was still heavy on him, but his eyes snapped open as he looked at you. “What?”

As you sat on the edge of the bed, he sat up and looked at the test you handed him. And, as clear as day, in front of him were two very prominent lines.

He looked up at you. “You’re…it’s positive?”

You nodded. “It’s positive.”

You were on the verge of tears before Bucky almost beat you to them and pulled you on top of him. “We’re having a baby?”

From behind you, Bucky held the stick up. You choked a laugh. “We’re gonna have a baby.”

Pulling back so you could see your husband’s face, you found him with the biggest smile on his face. “We’re gonna have a baby! We’re gonna be parents!”

Laughing out of joy, Bucky kissed you until you wiggled off him to lay beside him. You both looked at the test stick. 

“I’m pregnant.”

Bucky smiled. “You’re pregnant.”

“You’re gonna be a dad.”

“You’re gonna be a mom.”

Looking up at your husband, to find him already looking at you, you smiled. 

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Bucky said before kissing you and laying a gentle hand on your belly. “I love both of you.”

[o-wyrmlight]

This is actually misinformation born of a common misconception. While animals like squirrels, cardinals, and horses do have a greater range of vision from the side than we humans do due to their eyes being more on the side of their head, that doesn't mean that they can't see in front of themselves at all. The range of their vision is just much wider than ours.

As an example, horses have two blind spots when looking straight ahead: Anything that's directly in front of their faces or anything that's anywhere directly behind their hindquarters. Here is a general diagram of a horse's range of vision compared with a human's, which I found from askanimalweb:

It should be noted that the range of vision depicted doesn't actually start at the horse's eyes, but this diagram is also intended to compare it to human vision. Here is a better diagram of horse vision. The link provided also provides more information into how exactly this vision functions and works in more ways than just their vision range:

While horses are able to see you just by looking at you from the side, that doesn't mean that they aren't looking at you by staring you head-on. I found this post strange because I've seen videos of horse training specialists that insist that horses are fully "regarding" or "considering" them when the horse is fully facing them, and that their attention is turning away from them when they aren't.

This same general rule of thumb is also true of birds and squirrels. Here is a diagram of a grey squirrel's range of vision and a diagram of a starling's range of vision, since I can't seem to easily find any vision diagrams of cardinals:

You can also find the same trend that starling vision has with pigeons. It's a very similar range of vision.

All of this to say that this is a massive misconception of prey species. They need to be able to observe as much of the area around them as they can, including what's in front of them. Notice how humans' range of vision to the sides and especially behind is severely limited. That's because we're a predator species who requires consistent depth perception. Animals such as birds and horses also need to see what's in front of them so they don't end up hitting anything while they're traveling at high velocities.

From the link provided via the starling example, here is a diagram of an owl, which is a prey bird. Notice how the range of vision behind an owl is severely limited in comparison to starlings, horses, and squirrels.

Anyways. All of this to say that this is a common misconception that's taught frequently in educational circles and rarely, if ever, debunked. I don't think that I ever would have questioned it if I hadn't watched horse training videos that explicitly insists for the horse to remain facing the trainer while awaiting instruction.

One of the coolest things to remember is that because prey animals have eyes on the side of their head, they are looking at you when they're in profile, not facing you! Hot tip for artists and animal lovers!

[idiomagic]

Horse Story #1 for @elodieunderglass

When I was young, back in the early 1980s, I rode horses for a living. Show jumpers. This is a story about me being an asshole to a prince and almost causing an international incident. I would like to preface this by saying that I regret reinforcing the 'ugly American' stereotype. I regret being rude, as I was a guest in the country. So...I'm sorry, England, your royalty is and always has been trash, but it was wrong of me to be rude. Anyway. I was 14 years old, and riding in the Royal Windsor Horse Show in England. It was my first international show, my first time ever leaving America. There was a Protocol Officer provided by the American embassy, to teach us how to bow and curtsey, how to address various members of the royal family we might encounter, since they were personally handing out the prizes. I was an utter nightmare at 14. I was a brat. I had a chip on my shoulder the size of Plymouth Rock, I hated every form of authority, I had just discovered punk rock...I was a horrid creature who should have been confined in a barrel, not let out onto the world's stage. The Protocol Officer reminded me of my mother, which was not a good thing. She was bitchy and superior, and it was clear that she idolized the royals. Worshipped them. Wanted to be them. I loathed her on sight, and immediately tuned out everything she said, while mocking her mercilessly. I was like that. So, I rode in the Open Jumping, and we won! There was a full ceremony, with a band playing God Save The Queen, fancy soldiers saluting, the whole nine yards. Then, the royals arrived. Prince Charles was going to hand out the prizes. He was there with a whole entourage...assistants? secretaries? royal ass wipers? Who knows. The lackeys followed him around like baby ducks as he approached. One of them carried bouquets of flowers for him to hand us, plus the ribbons and medals. First, he handed the goodies to the third and second place winners, then he approached me. There was a big crowd, and I resolved to be on my best behavior. Truly. I was going to be so good, and a credit to my country. I listened to the other winners say "Thank you, your Grace. It is a great honor." Right. I could do that. And he approached me and said "That was a very nice ride...for a 14 year old." And all of my hatred and resentment sprung loose. This chinless, brainless, inbred parasite who couldn't even ride a complete polo match without falling off his horse at least once (and sometimes more) dared to condescend to me? About my riding? Fuck that noise. He handed me the bouquet and ribbon, and put the medal around my neck. And I looked him in the eyes, smirked, and said: "Thanks, Chuck. Y'know, if you keep your heels down, maybe you won't fall off your ponies so often." Chuckles looked like he was going to have an aneurysm. His entourage fluttered and moaned. The end result was a Sternly Worded Letter sent to the embassy, a screaming match with the Protocol Officer, and a real question as to whether I'd ever be allowed out of America again. ............................................................................................................................ If you like my posts, please check out my pinned post. We are going through truly horrific times, and really need help. https://ko-fi.com/idiomagic

[suuuupernovaaa]

surprise

summary: despite your mid-level efforts at preventing, you find yourself pregnant with Joel’s child - and you really don’t want to be.

tags: pregnancy, jackson joel, fluff, comfort, established relationship

Based on this request.

MASTERLIST

Shit. Fuck. Shit. Fuck!

The words repeat over and over in your mind, day in and day out. How could you have been so careless? How could you have let this fucking happen?

You’re not an idiot. Not some dumb teenager. You know exactly how babies are made. You know what you and Joel have been doing, damn near constantly, leads to this - and you haven’t been as careful as you could have been.

The two pink little lines haunt you. It’s been four days since you saw them in the bathroom, since they stared at you with their taunting little pink eyes until you vomited, and you’ve avoided Joel since.

Which has been super fucking hard. You don’t live together, even though you’ve discussed making that happen in the near future, but you and Joel have a routine.

He brings you coffee, every morning, to enjoy together on your porch. That is, unless you’ve spent the night together before, and then he doesn’t have to make the long journey Nextdoor to deliver it.

You part ways for your daily duties, whatever they may be, and always meet up again in the late afternoon. You take walks, make dinner together, maybe have a drink at the saloon or watch a movie. Sometimes Joel has more work to do at night. Often you sleep at his house, but you sometimes end up back at your own home, and then it starts again the next day.

You’ve left a note every morning the last four days that you had to head out early, and you’ll see him later.

It’s harder in the evenings to come up with excuses. A headache, sour stomach, spending time with a friend… Joel is too smart to let it go on too long.

But you can’t face him. You feel like a failure. You never really wanted kids, maybe not even before the world ended. Even in the safe town of Jackson Hole, motherhood doesn’t appeal to you. Safety isn’t guaranteed, and it doesn’t feel right to bring a child into a world like this.

But you’ve missed two periods now. You don’t feel right; you’re extra tired, so hungry, and soon, you know you’ll start to show.

You can’t hide it forever.

That evening, day four of avoiding Joel, he pounds on your door at dusk.

Shit. Fuck. Shit.

You take your time going to the door, and try to muster a smile when you pull it open.

“Hey there,” you say, and Joel scowls down at you.

“Don’t ’hey there’ me,” he replies in that gruff twang of his, and practically shoves you aside to enter your home.

You know there won’t be any avoiding it now. You can’t lie to Joel.

“You gonna tell me what the hell is going on with you? I don’t like you avoiding me.” He faces you, his hands on his hips like you’re a child he’s scolding. “I don’t buy it that you’re sick. Fess up.”

You rub your forehead with your fingertips and take in a deep breath that comes back out all shaky.

“I’m pregnant.”

Joel’s hands fall from his hips. Clearly, that’s not what he was expecting.

“Pregnant?”

You wince. “Yeah. I guess maybe, two months along or so.”

Joel walks to your worn leather couch and sits down, rubbing his jaw.

“Pregnant.”

You stay where you are, near the door, in case you need to bolt.

“I… am scared. And sick. I’ve been freaking out.”

“All alone?” he asks, his voice sad, and you feel your heart soften - just a little.

You take one step towards him. “I never wanted to be a mom. I don’t think I’ll be good at it. And I didn’t figure you’d want to, uh, do it all over again.”

He stares at you for a long moment and finally, pats the couch next to him.

You hesitate.

“Come on, girl,” he says, like you’re a skittish horse, but it works. You sink into the couch next to him, and he wraps his arms around you.

“I probably wouldn’t have chosen to have a baby, anymore than you would have. And we do have… options.”

You shake your head. “I know, but I don’t want that. I think I want it. But if you don’t…”

“I do,” he says, so quickly and so firmly, it makes your stomach flutter.

“You do?”

Joel nods, meeting your eyes. “I think you know that you’re the love of my life. If we’d met before, when I was younger, before all this, I’d have married you and had as many kids as we could’ve.” His expression is soft, nearly dreamy. “I’d have worked hard and bought a big house, with a big yard and some dogs. Maybe a farm or something. We’d have been happy.”

You sink into him, picturing it together. It doesn’t sound so bad. “But we met here, honey, and we’ve made the best of it. You’re the best thing that’s happened to me. I want you to move into my house, I want to take care of both of you. Parenting ain’t easy, but we can do it together. Plus, Tommy and Maria will be around. And Ellie. We aren’t alone.”

Your throat feels thick and tears are pricking at the corners of your eyes.

“Are you sure I can do it?” you ask.

Joel holds you close, his chin resting on top of your head. “Never been more sure of anything in my life.”

[4m0r1m]

I Didn't Want To Lose You

SUMMARY: You never understood why Ellie started hating you. One day she was teasing you with smirks and dry jokes, the next she couldn’t stand to be near you. But now, with blood soaking through your jacket and her hands trembling against your skin, you finally see the truth in her eyes.

WORD COUNT: 3,237 words

PAIRING: ellie willams x reader

You never understood why Ellie started hating you.

It wasn’t always like this. There was a time when she used to smile when you walked into a room. She’d make sarcastic comments that weren’t exactly mean, just sharp enough to make your cheeks burn. There was warmth in her then—something careful, buried deep, but real.

And then, one day, it disappeared.

No argument. No incident. No words exchanged. She just flipped a switch, and suddenly you were the last person she wanted to see. If she could avoid you, she would. If she couldn’t, she’d be cold, clipped, or outright cruel. The rest of Jackson had no idea what happened. Neither did you.

You asked Jesse once.

“She’s weird,” he said, with a shrug that didn’t hide the hint of worry in his voice. “You didn’t do anything. She just… shuts people out sometimes.”

But that didn’t help the way it gnawed at your chest.

Especially not today.

The air outside is bitter and sharp as you saddle up, snowflakes drifting lazily down as you tie your pack. Jesse’s voice carries across the stable.

“You and Ellie are on patrol. East route.”

You freeze. Of course. Of course it’s you and her.

You glance over your shoulder. Ellie’s already pulling herself onto her horse, barely sparing you a glance. Her jaw is tight. She doesn't say a word.

Great.

You mount up silently, trailing behind her as the two of you head out of the gates. The quiet between you is deafening. Only the soft clop of hooves and the whistle of wind fills the space.

The cold bites through your gloves. You tug your scarf higher and try not to think about how far this patrol is going to stretch. The East route isn’t short. You’ll be stuck with her for hours.

And she still won’t look at you.

The snow crunches under your boots as you dismount at the first checkpoint, a partially collapsed cabin half-buried beneath frost. Ellie hops down without a sound and begins her sweep. You follow behind, keeping your distance.

Your mind drifts—like it always does—back to the day it all changed.

You were laughing at something Dina had said. Ellie was walking past, and you turned to greet her. Just a simple “Hey.”

She looked at you like you were something stuck to her boot.

After that, the walls went up.

You tried once—just once—to ask what you’d done.

“Did I… piss you off or something?”

She scoffed, not even looking at you. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

That was months ago.

Back in the cabin, you both move in silence. You clear the back rooms, she checks the kitchen and front. When you return, she’s crouched over an old drawer, rummaging.

You lean against the doorway. “Nothing upstairs.”

She doesn’t respond. Just closes the drawer with a snap and brushes past you, the touch of her shoulder colder than the air outside.

You sigh.

“Y’know, this would be a lot easier if you weren’t pretending I don’t exist.”

Ellie freezes. Just for a second. Then straightens up, not turning around.

“You done?” she says quietly.

You blink. “What?”

“I said, are you done?”

Her voice is low, tight with something you can’t quite name. Anger? Hurt?

Before you can respond, she pushes the door open and walks out into the snow.

You follow. Because what else can you do?

You’re halfway through the forest when it happens.

The snow makes everything feel muffled—like the world is holding its breath. The trees close in tight, branches heavy with white. You and Ellie walk on foot now, horses tied back a ways. It’s quiet. Still.

Too still.

The infected come fast. A screamer first, then two runners. You dispatch one easily, but the other—larger, faster—catches you off-guard. It barrels into you, teeth snapping, and knocks you to the ground.

Your shoulder slams into a rock.

Pain flares white-hot.

“Shit!” you gasp, kicking out wildly. Your knife slips from your hand.

The runner snarls, pressing down on your chest. You scream for Ellie—then hear the blast of her shotgun. The weight on you goes slack.

Ellie’s above you in a flash, face pale, eyes wide. “Fuck, fuck—are you okay?”

You blink up at her, dazed. Her hands are on you, checking your side, your shoulder.

You wince hard. “Think it’s dislocated.”

“Shit,” she breathes, visibly shaken. “Okay, okay. Hold on.”

You’ve never heard her sound like this before—scared.

“Ellie—”

“Shut up. Just breathe.” Her voice cracks. “Don’t talk.”

She kneels beside you, her hands trembling as she takes off her backpack and rummages for supplies. You watch her through the blur of pain—how her brow furrows, how she keeps glancing at you like she’s terrified you’ll disappear.

You can’t help it. “Why… do you care?”

Her hand stills.

She doesn’t look at you. Not yet. Just wraps your arm in a makeshift sling, movements stiff and silent.

Then she sits back, snow crunching beneath her. Her breath comes out in a shaky cloud.

“I didn’t want to lose you,” she whispers.

Your heartbeat slows. Or maybe it skips.

“What?”

She finally looks at you. Her green eyes are glassy now, the cold turning her cheeks red, but it’s not the wind making her look like this.

“I didn’t tell you sooner because—” Her voice breaks. She swallows. “Because every time I care about someone, they get ripped away from me. Joel. Riley. My fucking parents. Everyone.”

She looks away.

“I thought if I pushed you away first, I could stop it before it happened.”

You stare at her. “That’s why you’ve been—”

“Yeah,” she mutters. “A complete asshole. I know.”

Silence settles between you, thick as the falling snow.

You don’t know what to say.

Not until you see her wiping at her eyes quickly with the back of her hand.

“Ellie.”

“What?”

You shift slightly, ignoring the pain. “You didn’t lose me.”

Her gaze flicks up, hesitant. Scared.

You meet her eyes. “I’m right here.”

And something in her face crumples. She leans forward, resting her forehead against your good shoulder. It’s a fragile touch, scared and desperate all at once.

“I’m so fucking sorry,” she mumbles. “You didn’t deserve any of it.”

Your uninjured arm wraps around her.

“I know,” you whisper. “But… I still care about you. Even if I don’t understand you most of the time.”

That makes her huff a laugh. Wet. Shaky. Real.

“You shouldn’t.”

“But I do.”

You sit like that for a while—two bodies in the snow, hearts beating fast against the cold, years of fear and loss held between you.

And somehow, something begins to thaw.

Later, when you both get back to Jackson and your shoulder’s properly set, Ellie lingers at the door of the infirmary.

You glance up. “You heading out?”

She shifts awkwardly, hands shoved in her pockets. “Only if you want me to.”

You pause.

“Ellie.”

“What?”

“Stay.”

Her eyes soften, a flicker of hope breaking through the guilt.

She sits beside you.

This time, you’re the one who reaches out.

A/N: sorry for not posting for a while but I'm here now!! finals are destroying and I need a vacation soooo I'll see if I can post anything more!

[polysucks]

why you think starks are brown. No hate, I just want to know reason 💓

No hate taken!!! I'm more than happy to give a little context.

I also talked a little and at length and then some about why I think the Starks are ndn or indigenous coded, therefore anecdotally "brown" if you want some more!

---

The Starks Are Indigenous and You Can’t Change My Mind

Look, I’m just gonna say it: the Starks are giving "we’ve been here for 10,000 years and you just got off the Mayflower.” Fandom loves to frame them as cold (literally), brooding white dudes who talk to trees and wolvves and die tragically—but if you zoom out just a bit, what you’ll see is a whole culture that’s basically been staring the apocalyptic Chekov’s gun in the face while mumbling “this is fine” for millennia.

Let’s start at the beginning: the First Men walked to Westeros on foot twelve thousand years ago (according to legend. it's giving oral storytelling), chopped some trees, made some mistakes, and then struck a sacred pact with the Children of the Forest. Instead of wiping the Children out like the colonizers down south (cough Andals cough), they basically said, “Yeah u right let’s chill,” and started building their whole culture around respecting nature, living weirwoods, and the gods that inhabit them. Now fast forward six thousand years and the Andals show up like, “Hey, we’ve got gods who look like us and wear robes, and also we’re here to murder your trees bc they're just trees they mean nothing.” (SOUND FAMILIAR?) And the North said: “uhhhhh doubt but alright try me bitch.” The Andals conquered everywhere else in Westeros, but the North? Untouched. Still praying to SpOokY tReEs, burying people under roots, giving a fuck about their ancestors, still naming their kids things like Brandon and Benjen and not, like, Luthor Tyrell III.

So when I say the Starks are Indigenous-coded, I mean it. They are the last major ruling house descended purely from the First Men, with customs, spirituality, and governance structures that date back over ten millennia. They didn’t import Andal feudalism or Southern chivalry—they rule by duty, community ties, and vibes. There’s no divine right here, just “I said I’d guard the North, so I’m gonna guard the North, even if I die horribly doing it.” Which... they usually do.

Physically, too, the Northerners are not your typical pale-and-pink Southron types. Descriptions from the books associate the First Men—and thus the Northmen—with brown hair, darker complexions, and gray eyes. They’re closer to earth tones than the golden-and-ivory palettes of the Reach and Crownlands.

Now, it’s all fun and games until Robb Stark starts stacking Lannister corpses like firewood and suddenly—boom—“savage skinchanger” propaganda. The second the North stops being cold and quiet and starts sending wolves downriver, the Southern rumor mill goes feral. The same lords who wear wolf pelts to look edgy start whispering, “Is he... using magic? Unnatural beasts? Isn’t that his direwolf out there eating men’s faces?”

We’re not even being subtle anymore. This is textbook colonizer panic: “Oh no, the brown people with strong spiritual ties to nature and weird customs have found a way to beat our superior steel and horses! They must be cheating!” And this is coming from a place where Melisandre literally births a shadow demon out of her woman's place and half the people involved just shrug and go, “Well, kings do be kinging and doin whatever it takes to be kinged.” But Robb winning battles with tactics and a big-ass dog? Witchcraft.

And let’s talk tone. The way Northerners are described when they show up in King’s Landing is... gross. Dirty. Sullen. Uncouth. They bring the smell of snow and smoke and old gods into the nice, civilized complacency of the South, and the court acts like they're watching a pack of feral dogs crash a garden party. Even the Dornish, who are also not white-coded in many ways and face plenty of racism, are still seen as exotic—dangerous, sure, but sexy-dangerous. The Northmen? They’re not fetishized. They're feared. Loathed. Dismissed as brutes and barbarians with ways that are so different that they should be feared.

And this is a classic move in imperialist narratives: you marginalize a people, rob them of power and culture, and the second they resist? You demonize them. Turn them into monsters. Say they commune with beasts and demons. (Sound familiar? Because it should.) Whether it’s North American Indigenous peoples being accused of “savagery” the moment they defend their land, or these colonized peoples being portrayed as superstitious and irrational for refusing assimilation and persisting with their culture—Westeros is playing that greatest hit on repeat.

So yes, when I say the Starks are Indigenous-coded, I also mean that the way Westeros treats the North is textbook colonial anxiety. They’re tolerated when they stay quiet and frozen. But when they rise? When they win? Suddenly, they’re not just a threat—they’re unnatural. Inhuman. Monstrous.

And if that ain’t some real-world racial politics wrapped in an easy to swallow fictional narrative, idk what is.

Now let’s talk Boltons vs. Manderlys, the perfect case study in Indigenous vs. Settler-coded houses when it comes to the cultural conversation. The Boltons? Chaotic evil First Men energy. They used to flay people alive, possibly made cloaks out of skin (ok im sorry that’s so baller), and ruled from the Dreadfort for thousands of years as a rival to House Stark. They’re the North turned inward and twisted—a cautionary tale about what happens when colonization doesn’t get you, but intergenerational trauma does. Still, they’re part of the land, part of the same heritage. The Manderlys, on the other hand? Total transplants. They got kicked out of the Reach, showed up in the North all teary-eyed and humble, and the Starks were like, “Fine, you can live in this swamp by the sea.” And they did! Respectfully! But they never converted to the Old Gods. They still pray to the Seven, build stone cities, and have the audacity to name their castle White Harbor. That's like moving into someone’s house and renaming it “Good Christian Suburb.” (like. Like americ--*gets dragged off stage*) But they're chill. Because they never pretended to be something they're not. And they never tried to change the ways of the lands and the peoples who welcomed them when no one else would.

Even within the North, there's a whole spectrum of resistance vs. assimilation. You’ve got the Free Folk beyond the Wall—who are basically the “burn it all down, no kings, no lords” crowd—then the Starks, who are like, “Fine, I’ll wear a crown if it helps keep the peace,” and then the Manderlys, who are “we love it here please don’t send us back south.” It’s not unlike real-world Indigenous communities: some stayed in the woods, some ran into the mountains, some took settler names and built schools—but the throughline is survival. Resistance is survival.

And that, my fellow losers, is what the Starks are all about. They are the final boss of stubborn cultural preservation. They’re the people who would rather freeze than bend the knee to "gods" they don’t believe in. When Ned Stark says “Winter is Coming,” he’s not just talking about weather—he’s quoting a generational mantra. This, too, shall pass. And we will still be here. He's got seasonal depression and ancestral memory and PTSD, and he's still out here doing what is best for his people (well. not anymore, i guess.)

The North Remembers—and So Should You

When we say the Starks and the North are Indigenous-coded, we’re not just slapping a label on because it sounds cool and we’re desperate for representation. We’re talking about a culture that predates colonizers, resists assimilation, honors its dead, and survives against impossible violence. Whether it’s through sacred trees, communal leadership, or refusing to compromise on your ancestral values, the Starks represent the heartbeat of a people who never left their land—because the land never left them.

So yes. The Starks are “brown,” in the way that means something. Not necessarily in skin tone (though there’s canon support for that too), but in soul. In story. In surviving. And if you disagree, I’ll meet you in the godswood under the bleeding tree, and we can discuss it like Northerners—with our fuckin fists.

(this is a joke ur allowed other opinions)

[grayandthyme]

southbound | oneshot

dark!tommy miller x f!reader

masterlist

synopsis: After a small joy trip goes wrong, you're captured by a group planning to invade Jackson. Hours of torture follow—until Tommy finds you. Fueled by rage and something deeper he hasn’t said out loud, Tommy cuts through anyone in his way to bring you back. But getting home doesn’t mean things go back to normal. Not after what was done. Not after what he did. Now you’re both left with the weight of living, unspoken feelings, and the question of what comes next. warnings: Extreme mentions of violence, torture, blood, death, and gore. Reader gets mildly tortured, mention of sexual assault (doesn't happen), Tommy's a lil psycho ngl, Seattle!tommy vibes, 18+, Smut, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected p in v, spitting, hair pulling, praise kink, body worshipping (f receiving). SoftDom!Tommy, Reader follows his orders.. (who wouldn't w him??)

The sky hung heavy, darker than usual—like the storm had been waiting, bidding for its time. Most of the town was in a rush, hammering and hauling, shouting over the wind that hadn't yet arrived but already threatened everything. Tommy was elbow-deep in the fields, swinging a hammer into wooden posts with practiced effort, lining the ground for crops for post-storm.

You had slipped away from the noise, announcing your scouting shift, “Just gonna check the generator by the creek,” you said. “Be right back.”

God forbid you just wanted to walk around for a lil'. Nothing has ever happened on your patrols. Not a single thing.

You’d smiled as you said it, pressing a hand to his chest—his white t-shirt soft with wear, pulled tight over his worn-down strength.

“Don’t wait too long for me, cowboy.”

He’d rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him. That look—equal parts tired and fond.

The kind of look that said I know you’re full of shit but I’m gonna let you go anyway.

There was always something unsaid between you. Something warm and infuriating and inevitable.

Eyes lingering too long, fingers brushing like accidents, shared smirks in the middle of chaos.

That dance at the bar—your hands in his, laughter spilling into the space where words usually failed.

You were supposed to come right back. That’s what you told yourself. That’s what he expected.

But the rain came fast, heavy. You had to pull off the trail, guiding your horse toward a half-collapsed garage just off the road. The door creaked open under your weight, metal screeching like a warning. Shelter, at least. But when you pressed your hand down on the walkie, all it gave you was static.

Useless. Just like the signal out here.

Just like promises made in passing touches and stupid jokes.

Just like saying I’ll be right back.

“Stupid fuckin’ thing,” you muttered, voice low and bitter as you twisted the dial on the walkie.

Click. Static. Click again. Nothing. Not even a whisper from Jackson.

You fiddled with the receiver like it might suddenly change its mind. Like Tommy’s voice might cut through the fuzz and tell you to hurry back. But it didn’t. Just more silence.

With a sigh, you gave up, yanking a cracked plastic beer crate from the corner of the garage and flopping down onto it.

It groaned beneath your weight.

Just you and your horse now. She snorted gently from the shadows where she was tied, content and half-asleep, like she trusted the walls to hold. It wasn’t all bad, right? The quiet? The kind that only exists after the world ends. You could pretend it was just a road trip. Just a night alone in someone else’s mess.

Fingers drumming across your thighs in an offbeat rhythm—boredom or nerves, hard to say. Eventually, you stood with a grunt, your knees clicking like the old garage door had, slow, rusted, and reluctant.

You wandered. For funsies. Why the hell not?

The place smelled like rust and oil, maybe a little mildew. Tools lay abandoned on dusty benches, a couple of long-dead flies stuck to the surfaces like they’d been swatted mid-thought. Sticky. You trailed your fingers along the edge of a workbench, smearing clean streaks through the grime.

A magazine rack caught your eye—crooked and clinging to the wall like it had survived something it shouldn't have. You raised a brow when you spotted the stack of Playboy issues, their covers yellowed but still grinning like the world hadn’t fallen apart.

A soft laugh escaped you, the first real sound in what felt like hours. You let out a low whistle, nodding at the magazines like they were an inside joke you weren’t sure you should be laughing at.

"Classy," you muttered, then turned toward the photos taped to the wall beside them—family snapshots, curling at the edges.

A man and a woman. A kid in a Halloween costume. A golden retriever with a tennis ball in its mouth.

You smiled, faintly. This place wasn’t just a garage—it had been someone’s sanctuary. A father, probably. Someone who fixed things with his hands.

Okay, maybe exploring wasn't that bad.

Standing there for a while, just breathing, listening to the storm rattle faintly against the roof.

A low rumble in the distance made your horse stir, but she settled when she heard your voice.

“Yeah, I know,”

“Be mad at me all you want,” you said quietly, eyes still on the faded snapshots. “Wasn’t supposed to take this long.”

The words lingered in the stillness like dust in the air—settling into your chest heavier than you'd like to admit.

You clicked your tongue against your teeth, already imagining the guilt in your horse’s eyes. You’d owe her a carrot. Maybe two. Call it bonding. Or maybe a peace offering for dragging her into yet another mess that smelled like wet drywall and regret.

With a tired breath, you crossed the concrete floor, boots scuffing against the ground. You crouched at the edge of the garage, fingers curling beneath the threshold of the door. It was stuck, of course. Everything in this world resisted being moved. You gave it a tug—metal scraping, shrieking.

“Shit,” you muttered, cringing at the noise.

Subtlety was out the window.

From the crack in the garage door, the rain still poured—worse now than it had been when you ducked in. Sheets of water smacked the gravel and turned the air sticky and thick. A good old-fashioned Wyoming storm, like the kind you’d watch from midwestern porches when the world still made sense.

You glanced sideways toward your horse, her ears twitching beneath the wind. “Up for a little waterpark action?” you asked, lips twitching into something like a smile. She gave you a slow blink, unimpressed. As if she could even respond.

You didn’t have a choice, really.

Stay here, and you risk a lot more than getting wet.

Death. You were talking about death.

Out there, at least, you’re moving. And moving meant you had a shot—at getting back, at being useful, at not letting anyone down.

You pressed your palm flat against the metal and shoved the door the rest of the way up. It rattled into place with a reluctant clunk. The rain greeted you like a slap. Humid.

Beyond the garage, the storm swallowed everything—the trees, the trail, the space between you and the people waiting back in Jackson. But you stepped forward anyway, arm shielding your face, shoulders squared.

Your eyes flicked to the walkie as it crackled to life, static humming low like a warning.

Then came the click—brief, sharp—followed by the voice on the other end, strained and no-nonsense.

“Radio Two, copy. Make your way back to Jackson. Main trail’s gonna flood any hour now, and Tommy’s pissed. Over.”

You let out a breath through your nose, a soft nod to no one. Yeah. You figured he’d be pissed. Probably pacing the front gate with that jaw clenched, arms crossed, eyes scanning sorta look. y’know, the one.

You pressed the button. “Copy. Making it back now. Holed up in the tan house—garage, ‘bout a mile or so out from the generator. Should be headin’ back any minute. Over.”

Slipping the radio inside your jacket, the static dulled, but not the unease humming beneath your ribs.

You turned toward your horse, patting her flank gently as you moved to mount up.

That’s when you heard it.

A crisp snap—the unmistakable sound of breaking branches. Not wind. Not rain. Something closer. Slower.

You froze mid-step, hand halfway to the saddle horn. Heart catching. Breath tightening. The kind of silence that followed wasn’t natural—it was listening.

Your hand instinctively brushed the grip of your pistol at your side. You didn’t draw. Not yet. You turned your head slowly, eyes scanning the tree line just past the edge of the open garage.

There—movement. A shape, or the idea of one. Just far enough to make your skin crawl. Not close. But not far enough either.

The rain pounded on, relentless. Somewhere behind it, the storm kept whispering secrets to the trees.

You stepped back, slow and quiet. The kind of quiet you didn’t breathe through. Your horse shifted beside you, sensing it too.

“Okay,” you murmured, barely a breath. “Time to go.”

Your horse reacted before you did—ears pinning back, a sharp snort ripping from her throat as her hooves scraped backward, skittering against the slick garage floor. That sound alone would've been enough to raise the hairs on your neck.

Crash.

The shattering of glass behind you came too fast to register. The world turned sideways, violently, as something—a bottle—cracked against the side of your skull. A burst of light exploded behind your eyes. Pain bloomed sharp and instant.

The concrete met you before you knew you were falling—your shoulder taking the brunt, your head bouncing once, twice.

Dazed.

Move.

Your instincts screamed louder than your head injury. You twisted onto your back, body slick with rain and blood—now panic, hand scrabbling across the ground—fingers numb, and desperate for your weapon.

A breathless grunt tore from your chest as you half-crawled, half-flung yourself into the open storm. The cold rain hit you like needles, soaking instantly through your jacket, but you didn’t have time to feel it.

Your horse screamed. That awful, gut-wrenching kind of scream that told you everything you needed to know.

A gunshot rang out. Crack. She dropped mid-kick, legs folding beneath her as she collapsed hard onto the wet gravel.

“No—!” you choked, but the word was lost in the thunder, in the horror.

Another shape surged from the garage behind you. You spun, but not fast enough.

The man was on you—his weight slamming into your torso like a freight train, sending you skidding across the mud. His hands clawed for your gun, your grip barely holding as the two of you wrestled for control.

Rain poured, turning your grip into a losing battle. Your desert eagle slipped between your palms, the cold metal slick with water and blood.

“Get off me, fuckin’ get—” You kneed him, hard, catching somewhere soft. He grunted, but didn’t let go.

You caught a glimpse—two women moving behind a rusted pickup in the lot. One was reloading. The other, already raising a rifle. Seven total. Maybe more. You’d lost count in the blur.

This wasn’t a robbery. This was an ambush.

The man atop you growled through his teeth, pressing his forearm against your throat as he tried to pin you. The barrel of your own gun now half out of your grip, half in his.

Your hand slipped—he nearly had it.

So you bit him.

You sank your teeth into his arm with everything you had, jaw clamping through soaked fabric and skin. He screamed, and you took the second he gave you.

Twisting your hips and threw him off-balance—enough to jam your knee upward and roll. Mud caked your palms, your fingers finally curling fully around your weapon.

You fired.

Point-blank. Right into his gut.

He didn’t scream this time—just choked. A wet, sputtering sound that would haunt you later if you made it out.

But you didn’t wait. You scrambled to your feet, backpedaling as more shouts rang out. You ducked behind a burnt-out car shell, breath ragged, blood dripping down your temple.

They were circling now. Organized. Too clean to be amateurs.

You checked your clip.

Half-full. Not enough.

Your horse was gone.

Escape, gone.

This wasn’t a fight. This was survival. They weren't shooting directly at you.

That means they wanted you alive. And, that's even more dangerous than dying.

You gritted your teeth, steeling yourself.

"Come on then," you muttered to the storm.

You barely had time to reload. Your fingers moved by muscle memory, slamming the mag home and cocking the slide just as another figure emerged from your right—low to the ground, fast, deliberate.

You turned, too slow.

He tackled you mid-pivot, dragging you into the gravel with a force that knocked the breath clean out of your lungs. You hit the ground hard, your spine lighting up with pain as rocks scraped skin and dug into your ribs.

Your gun skitteded from your hand, bouncing-tumbling somewhere out of reach into the dark of rain.

“Shit—” you gasped, but his knee was already pinning your chest, weight pressing down like a goddamn boulder.

You punched him—once, twice, knuckles splitting against the sharp edge of his cheekbone. Blood smeared, but he only flinched with a grimace, teeth knotted together tightly.

He grabbed your wrist mid-swing, twisted.

Snap.

White-hot pain screamed up your arm. You cried out, elbow buckling. He used the opening to slam his fist into your face.

Everything blinked white.

Then pain. Nausea. Another hit.

You tried to roll, but he caught you again—hands like vices, one in your hair, yanking your head back so your neck arched unnaturally.

“Shoulda stayed in that garage,” he rasped. His breath was sour and too close.

A deep purse of your lips, spitting blood into his eye. It bought you half a second—enough to scramble, wild and uneven, onto your knees.

He kicked you in the ribs. Then again.

You collapsed onto your side, arms wrapped around your middle as the air wheezed out of your lungs. Something cracked inside. Definitely cracked.

Still—you reached for your knife. One more chance.

But he saw it. His boot came down on your hand.

A sickening crunch.

You screamed.

Your fingers didn’t move after that. The knife stayed in the dirt, untouched, as he grabbed you by your jacket collar and hauled you up. You thrashed, but it was all desperation now—unfocused, sloppy, weak.

He punched you again. And again.

Until your knees gave out.

Until the rain became a blur behind your lashes.

Until you couldn’t tell what was thunder and what was your heartbeat.

The last thing you saw before the darkness claimed you was one of the women walking toward you, her rifle slung across her back and zip ties in her hand.

“Still alive?” she asked.

“Barely,” the man muttered, wiping his mouth.

“Good. They’re gonna want to talk to her.”

Your head lulled to the side as they pulled your arms behind your back. You couldn’t stop the cry that left your mouth—raw, broken. You tasted blood. Dirt.

Somewhere far off, the rain kept falling.

And Jackson felt very, very far away.

Though someone else’s mind was running fucking circles.

“I’m gettin’ on that damn horse, and I’m checkin’ that house.” Tommy’s voice rang out through the barn—sharp, low, barely controlled. His hands moved fast, looping the reins tight, jaw clenched so hard the muscle ticked under his stubble.

Rain was leaking through the old roof in steady drips, pattering off saddles and crates.

It didn’t faze him.

Nothing did right since the silence hanging on the radio.

Joel leaned against the stall door, arms crossed like the world was one big inconvenience. His brows were furrowed, deep lines carved between his eyes as he shook his head with that same goddamn annoyed look he always wore when he knew something was about to go sideways.

“You won’t be able to see five fuckin’ feet in front of you, Tommy.”

Tommy ignored him, yanking the saddle tight. “Then I’ll feel it out.”

“You’ll feel yourself off a damn cliff,” Joel muttered, pushing off the doors trim and stepping closer. His voice dropped, but it was no less sharp. “Storm’s not lettin’ up, trail’s already washed out. I told you she’d come back. She’s not stupid.”

Tommy’s jaw clenched tighter. “She’s not late unless somethin’ happened, Joel.”

“Or she got stuck somewhere and waited it out like we trained her to do,” Joel shot back, voice rising slightly, arms now gesturing with that same old exasperated flair. “Jesus, Tommy, it’s been two hours. You’re actin’ like we already dug the grave.”

Tommy whipped around, eyes sharp, voice low but laced with steel. “She ain’t just some fuckin’ scout, Joel.”

Joel paused. Just for a breath.

And that was all Tommy needed.

“She’s smart, yeah, but she’s kind, too. You know that,” he said, pointing a gloved finger toward him.

“She'd stop to help a family of strays if they looked at her sideways. If someone laid a trap, she’d be the one who tried talkin’ her way through it before pullin’ the trigger.”

Joel’s eyes narrowed, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “What, you think she got jumped?”

“I know somethin’ ain’t right.” Tommy’s voice cracked there—just barely, like something was fraying at the edge of his usually steady tone. “And if she’s hurt out there somewhere while we’re standin’ around arguin’, I won’t be able to live with that.”

Joel looked at him for a long second, silent now. Studying. Judging.

Then, “You in love with her or somethin’?”

Tommy didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

Joel huffed. “Jesus, Tommy," Hand raising up to clasp a pinch on the bridge of his nose.

“You’re gonna get yourself killed.”

Tommy finally looked up, eyes hard, rain already starting to streak down his face as he pulled the barn doors open. “Then I guess I’ll die on the road she shoulda come back on.”

Joel didn’t stop him. “God damn, idiot."

The road there was half a river by now—nothing but slick mud and pooling floodwater, and Tommy’s horse fought every inch of it. He gripped the reins high, the leather soaked and sliding between his gloves, his thighs aching from the pressure it took just to stay on.

Rain didn’t fall—it hammered. Each drop sharp as glass, pelting his skin like it had a vendetta.

Branches whipped his face. Water bled down the inside of his collar. His boots were long past soaked, sloshing heavy with every rise and fall in the saddle.

Didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but what he might find up ahead. He knew the route—every damn tree root and deer trail. But tonight, it felt unfamiliar. Wrong. The kind of silence that made your gut twist before your mind could catch up.

Then he saw it.

The house.

There she was.

Not You.

Your horse.

Laid out in the dirt like a forgotten carcass. Blood mixing with the rain, thick red ribbons vanishing into the brown runoff. Prints everywhere—boots, dragging marks, something heavy gouging through the dirt. Blood. So much blood.

And your pack. Just lying there by the edge of the garage, torn open. Tommy stood slowly. Chest heaving, lungs burning.

“Fuck,” he breathed. It came out like a growl.

His hand went to his holster. Fingers curled around the grip of his rifle like it was the only thing tethering him to the earth. Then he started walking. The slow, agonizing piecing together of the scene.

Boots sinking ankle-deep in water, body soaked to the bone—but none of it touched him anymore. That dull ache in his ribs, the sting of open skin on his face, the whip of wind and thunder—they were just noise now.

Because he knew what this was.

This wasn’t someone gone off-course.

This was a snatch.

A deliberate, grimey thing.

A warning, maybe. A message. To who? He didn’t care.

You hadn’t gone down easy. That much was clear.

He imagined you, scrambling through this same mud, blood on her mouth, teeth gritted and wild-eyed. He practically picture your fingers fighting for a weapon, boots kicking through puddles, the sound of your voice in a scream.

He could hear it. And something inside him snapped. The last bit of patience. Of diplomacy.

Gone.

You came to with the taste of rust in your mouth and something cold pressed to your cheek.

Concrete.

Your eyes fluttered open, one already swelling shut from the hit previous. The room was dim, yellowed light flickering above like it couldn’t decide if it wanted to stay on or give up.

Everything fucking hurt—your ribs, your shoulders, your wrists strung tight behind your back with rough cord.

Knees raw from dragging.

Jaw tight from where they'd backhanded you hard enough to make your ears ring.

Voices echoed. Low. Male. Calm in that cold, practiced way that made your stomach twist.

“She’s awake,” one of them said.

Boots scraped across the floor. The sound had weight to it—intended, deliberate.

You blinked again, trying to focus, only for a hand to twist in your hair and yank your head back.

“There she is,” another voice cooed. A woman, this time. Syrupy-sweet in the worst way. “Was startin’ to think we cracked your skull too hard.”

You spat at her feet. Or tried to.

It landed short. Too dry.

She laughed anyway, crouching beside you. Fingers trailing along your cheek like a warning.

“We’re gonna play a game, sweetheart. Real simple.”

You didn’t respond.

Not at first.

The man beside her stepped forward—tall, broad, a scar carved deep into his forehead. The same one who’d pulled your gun from your grip. You remembered the weight of him. The fury.

He crouched too, grabbing your jaw tight between calloused fingers.

“Tell us how many people Jackson’s holdin’.”

You didn’t blink. Just stared. Your breath shallow.

“Fuck off.”

A pause.

Then the fist came. Swift. Precise.

You saw stars.

Your body twisted sideways, head spinning. Ears ringing again.

He didn’t even grunt. Just straightened and looked back to the woman.

“She’ll talk.”

“Eventually,” the woman said, turning now, pacing. “We’ve got time.”

Your vision blurred. The pain bloomed like fire through your jaw, but your heart? Still steady. Still stubborn.

Because you knew what this was.

They wanted Jackson. Something in Jackson, at least. Weapons? Food? Fuck, an army?

“They won’t come for you, you know,” the woman called, her voice lighter now, taunting. “People like you? Disposable. Another cog in the little machine. Bet they’ll write you off by morning.”

Your mouth twitched—half a smirk, half a snarl.

“You don’t know shit about them.”

You don't know him.

She stopped.

“Oh? That a crack in the wall I hear?”

You just stared.

But your silence—stubborn as it was—would cost you.

The man grabbed you again. This time pulling you up to your knees. The cords at your wrists pulled harder, slicing skin.

“You wanna do it the easy way, or you want me to start takin’ pieces?”

You looked up at him, rainwater still drying in your hair, blood in the corner of your mouth, teeth bared—

“Start with my fuckin' di—"

He snarled.

And this time, the hit sent you fully into the dark.

Time became slippery.

It bled between moments—blinks and screams, boots and leather, the sound of dripping water somewhere above, and the sharp, sharp sting of electricity licking across your ribs.

You weren’t sure how long it had been.

Hours. Maybe more.

You’d slumped forward now, barely able to hold yourself upright. Blood had dried tacky against your cheek, cut along your temple still leaking slow and steady. Your wrists were numb, rope biting deeper with every twitch.

You couldn't feel your fingers. Couldn't feel your entire fucking body.

But you still hadn’t said a word.

“Un-fuckin-believable,” one of the men muttered, pacing now, wiping sweat from his brow with the edge of his sleeve. “She’s gotta be military trained or some shit. No way she’s just a scout.”

“She’s fuckin' stupid, that’s what she is,” the woman hissed. “They’re all like this. Built on fantasy and fucking self-righteous bullshit. She’ll crack. Just needs the right lever.”

Your head lulled to the side. You breathed—shallow, wet.

The scarred man knelt again. He’d been the worst of them. The ringleader. Always the one who came back in with something new in his hands.

A blade. A cigarette. The end of a belt.

This time? Nothing. Just his hands.

“I’ve broken tougher,” he said quietly. “You’re just delaying the inevitable.”

You met his eyes through the haze. One barely open, the other nearly swollen shut.

Your voice scraped low, dry, near-gone.

“Then you’re gettin’ fuckin’ slow.”

He chuckled. Actually chuckled. And then stood.

"One more round,” he said. “Then we take a finger. One at a time. She’ll tell us how many rifles Jackson’s stockpiling. Where the weak points in their walls are. How many patrols per shift.”

He looked back down at you. Smiled a little.

“And if she doesn’t? Well. We’ve still got use for warm bodies.”

Your face twists, an actual pang of horror driving straight into your bones.

It wasn't like the fear previous, no—this was nauseating.

The others started shuffling again—tools clanking, boots scuffing against concrete.

But even with your head pounding, your limbs shaking, your body giving out—you didn’t fold.

Because Tommy’s voice still lived behind your ribs.

"You get back to me, y’hear? You always get back."

"You always this sweet? Cookies before patrol? Aren't I fuckin' lucky."

"You.. You look real pretty t'night, Darlin'."

And he would come. He had to.

Because you weren’t dying in this fucking basement. And they were going to regret not killing you the second they had the chance.

The forest had gone quiet. Too quiet.

Even with the storm passing overhead—just distant rumbles now—something about the air had shifted. Gone still. Heavy. Like it knew what was coming.

Tommy had dismounted three clicks back. Left the horse tied near a broken fence line. Didn’t want to risk it panicking from the noise he planned to make.

His rifle was slung across his chest now, hands steady despite the mud smeared up to his knees, soaked shirt clinging to his skin. His face was stone—jaw tight, eyes flat, dark.

They took you.

And that was all it took.

Through the treeline, half-crouched behind a rotted shed, he finally saw movement. Flashlights. Voices.

A woman—one of the ones who dragged you off—stepped out to smoke. Just past the edge of the busted house. Relaxed.

Stupid.

Tommy adjusted his grip. Wind blew. And then, without hesitation, he pulled the trigger.

The crack of the rifle shattered the stillness.

Her skull snapped back, burst like a rotted melon. A full exit wound painting the wall behind her. No scream. Just the wet, dull slap of her body hitting the dirt.

That was the first.

Tommy didn’t breathe as he moved, rifle already slung behind him, hand reaching for the sawed-off on his thigh. He moved like water—low, trained, silent. Every muscle coiled, honed from years of training across FEDRA lines, Firefly camps, and shit most men couldn’t dream of surviving.

He approached the corpse without even glancing at it. Just stepped over her boot and reached down, yanking the walkie off her hip. He clicked it once—static—and then again, waiting for a voice.

“You good out there?”

Tommy pressed the button.

“She can't come to the phone right now.” he exhaled, voice low, graveled.

A pause.

Static.

Tommy smiled, as if his own joke caught him off guard. Tossing the walkie to the side.

Let them know. Let them fear. Let them start running.

Because he wasn’t here to negotiate. He wasn’t here to threaten or barter or wave a white flag. He was going to paint the goddamn dirt with their insides. One by one. Until he had you back. And until the last of them bled for what they did.

You weren’t sure if you’d passed out or just shut down for a while.

Your head hung low, hair plastered to your face, soaked in a mix of sweat, rain, and blood. Every nerve felt frayed, twitching from hours of abuse.

Your left eye was fully swollen shut now.

Breathing was shallow—like your ribs didn’t want to move anymore.

You couldn’t feel your fingers, couldn’t tell how much blood you’d lost.

Still hadn’t talked. Didn’t plan to. Didn’t have much left to say anyway.

“C’mon,” one of the men barked from the back of the room—scarred one, mean and lazy with his fists. “She’s fuckin’ useless at this point. We should’ve done this quicker.”

“You’re impatient,” the woman replied coldly, leaning against the table across from you, arms crossed. “Everyone breaks. You just have to find the right crack.”

You chuckled. Or tried to. Came out wet. Hollow.

“You… talk too much.” She sneered, standing up straighter, and just as she stepped forward to hit you again— The shot rang out.

Crack.

Silence.

Then a splatter.

Something wet hit the wall—behind you, to your left. Outside of the house. You blinked, barely able to lift your head. The woman turned sharply, eyes wide.

“What the fuck was that?”

The scarred man swore under his breath, reached for his gun, and shoved the nearest other lackey toward the door.

“You, check it.”

The man went outside, pressing his body to the wall.

Another beat passed.

Then a scream from outside.

It was short.

Cut off.

Wet.

Panic started to grow now—real panic. You could feel it vibrating through the floor, in the footsteps pounding across the rotted wood. Someone was yelling for reinforcements. Another bolted from the room entirely. A door slammed.

You didn’t move.

Didn’t need to.

Tommy.

You felt him.

And so did they.

The scarred man was still in the room, pacing now, gun up, hand shaking. He looked at you, eyes narrowed—like this was your fault.

“You bring someone with you?” he spat.

You smiled, just a little. Blood pooled at the corner of your mouth.

“I told you,” you rasped, voice shredded, “you should’ve killed me sooner.”

Flickering.

And then the lights cut out.

Everything went black.

You heard it first.

The splintering of wood.

The crunch of a boot.

And then the wet, heavy choke of someone gargling on their own blood from right outside.

You didn’t know where he was.

But you knew who it was.

And someone was about to die.

The first body crashed through the open doorway like a sack of meat.

Throat slit wide. Eyes glassed over. The blood so caked, leaking into the floor it looked black.

Tommy stepped through right after—rifle hanging from one hand, his combat knife dripping from the other. His shirt was plastered to him, soaked in blood that wasn’t his. His face was unreadable. Cold. But his eyes—

His eyes were locked on you.

And then he moved.

The woman spun to fire—too slow.

Tommy’s rifle barked once, and the round ripped straight through her neck. It tore it open like wet paper, spine severed, blood spraying in a hot arc against the wall. She collapsed with a sickening snap, twitching, mouth gasping—but she was already dead.

Fuck, you've never seen him like this.

This was different than clickers, or strays. This was—murder.

The scarred man screamed, firing off a panicked shot—missed wide. Tommy dropped the rifle and charged.

It wasn’t clean.

Tommy slammed into him like a freight train, knocking the gun from his hands, and they went to the floor with a crunch of ribs and a snapped chair leg. He didn’t hesitate. One hand gripped the man's throat—squeezed—while the other brought the knife down.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

The blade sliced into throat—fast, like muscle memory. Blood sprayed up across Tommy’s arm, hot and thick, pooling under them. The man tried to scream, but all that came out was foam and choking.

Then he shoved the knife up—straight under the jaw, the man spasmed—and stilled.

The final one—a younger guy—had dropped his weapon.

He was begging.

“No—no, please, I didn’t touch her—I didn’t—I was just following—”

Tommy shot him in the kneecap.

The scream that came out was feral.

He stepped forward, calmly, practically dragging the kid by the collar as he shrieked and sobbed, blood gushing down his leg.

“I don’t give a shit.”

He didn’t even use the knife. Just his boot.

Stomping.

The guy’s skull split, bounced once, then slumped limp. The floor was soaked now. The stink of death, copper, rot and terror.

Tommy finally dropped the blade.

Breathing hard.

And then—he turned.

He was at your side in three long strides, falling to his knees so fast it nearly hurt your ribs. His hands hovered, not even touching you yet—afraid to break something even more.

“Sweetheart,” he breathed. “Christ… look at me. Look at me, baby.”

Your eyes fluttered open. Purple, puffy. You barely smiled. Barely made a sound.

“You came,” you whispered, voice just a rattle of air.

Tommy’s jaw clenched so hard it looked like he might snap a tooth. His eyes were full of blood and murder and grief. And then, so gently it broke your heart, he untied your wrists. And held you like you were something sacred. Even covered in blood. Even broken. He held you like you were still his.

His arms were shaking. Not from fear. Not from adrenaline. From restraint.

Because Tommy Miller had just painted a room in blood—and still, none of it had been enough.

Your hands were barely untied when you collapsed forward into him, and he caught you like instinct. Like he needed to. His arms wrapped around your middle, mindful of the cuts, the swelling, the way your body flinched at even the softest pressure. His voice was a whisper now. Hoarse. Words stuck in his throat like barbed wire.

“Shit, darlin’. Look at what they did to you…”

You didn’t answer right away. Your face was half-buried in the blood-soaked collar of his shirt, the tang of iron stinging your throat. It smelled mostly of blood. But his scent was still there—earthy, sweat, gunpowder, and something warm. Something safe. You gripped at his shirt with fingers that barely worked, nails caked in dried blood.

“Tommy…”

“I’m here,” he murmured, cupping the back of your head, pulling you in tighter. “I’m here, baby. Ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

You were shivering. Shock. He knew it. Felt it in your bones rattling against his chest.

He shifted, adjusting his grip, one arm sweeping under your legs. You cried out—just a little—and that single sound shattered something in him. He looked down at you, eyes glassy, jaw locked.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner.”

“You got here,” you rasped, trying to focus on him through the blur. “That’s… that’s what matters.”

Tommy nodded, lips pressed to your temple, forehead, anywhere that wasn’t broken. He stood, slow and deliberate, cradling you to his chest. Your blood smeared across his arms, down his knuckles, mixing with the gore on his boots as he stepped over the bodies.

He didn’t look at them.

Didn’t need to.

They weren’t people anymore.

They were just reminders.

Outside, the rain had slowed to a drizzle. Mist rose off the dirt, the air heavy with the aftermath of violence. He carried you through it—shoulders squared, rifle slung back over him, blood dripping down one temple from a cut he hadn’t noticed.

His voice came low again as he moved through the trees.

“We’ll get you patched up. Warm. I’ll get you food, alright?”

He was just babbling at this point. Probably to keep you awake.

You didn’t respond, and that silence was a blade in his gut.

“Talk to me,” he said, quieter now. “Just… say anythin’, honey.”

You stirred against his chest, cheek brushing his collarbone.

“mmhmhm.. Food, yeah.” you mumbled, though it came out mostly as a hum.

Tommy exhaled. It wasn’t relief. It wasn’t joy. It was grief, maybe. Or guilt.

But still—he held you tighter.

Through the trees.

Through the mud.

Back to the horse waiting down the path. Back to Jackson. And whatever would come next—for you both.

The forest whispered around you, leaves shivering under the rain’s weight. The storm had thinned to a quiet drizzle now, but the damage had been done—your skin was cold, damp, clinging to Tommy’s chest like it was the only place left on earth that felt safe.

He rode slow.

One arm locked around your waist to keep you steady, the other guiding the horse with a firm grip on the reins. His jaw was clenched so tight, it ached. Every breath that came from him was shallow, controlled. Like if he let it go too deep, he might snap in two.

You stirred a little, back of your head rolling against his collarbone. The bruises on your ribs lit up from the motion.

“Don’t—don’t move too much,” he murmured, voice low and raw. “You’re okay. I got you.”

You exhaled a shaky breath.

“You know I’m in love with you… right?” Tommy didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Your head was still resting against him, but your fingers—weak, trembling—tightened slightly around his coat.

“I didn’t mean to say it like that,” you whispered. “Not like this. I just… I want you to know.” His chest rose slow, then fell. The hand at your side flexed once. Twice.

There was a long pause. Just the sound of the rain tapping leaves, the creak of leather, the faint huff of the horse beneath you. Then, in a quiet, fractured voice:

And then, after a long beat:

“Yeah.”

His voice was quiet. Tense.

“Yeah, I know.”

It wasn’t a confession. It wasn’t relief. It was the kind of answer that carried weight behind it—grief, fury, guilt. Love.

You didn’t say anything else.

You couldn’t.

The words had cost too much.

Only after being checked by multiple doctors, and Maria… And, Joel… Did you finally get time to yourself.

Or so you thought.

“Jesus, look at you,” Tommy muttered, crouched in front of you, his hands working a damp cloth over the dried blood on your temple. “You get into a bar fight with a goddamn lawnmower?”

You huffed, throat raw, the corner of your mouth twitching despite the ache. “That supposed to be funny?”

Tommy shot you a look—half a smirk, half a grimace. “Didn’t say it was good.”

The rag moved gently over your skin, but there was nothing calm in his movements. Not really. His jaw was locked tight, his shoulders coiled like he still hadn’t come down from the killing.

And you’d seen it. All of it.

The aftermath, the blood, the bodies—the way he’d taken out seventeen people like it was nothing. Like he was built for it. Not just angry. Trained. Efficient. A switch had flipped and turned him into something else entirely.

You hadn’t said a word about it yet. You weren’t sure you could.

“You always this mouthy when you’re patching someone up?” you asked, quieter now. Your voice cracked a little.

Tommy didn’t look up. “Only when I’m patchin’ up someone too fuckin’ stubborn to stay safe.”

You blinked, the weight of his words like a slap. He finally looked at you, eyes hard, burning low.

Tommy stood abruptly, tossing the rag into the bowl with a splash. He paced two steps away, running a hand down his face like he could scrub the blood off his memories.

“You look at me different now?” he asked, voice dry. “After all that?”

You paused.

“…Little bit.”

His back stiffened. He glanced over his shoulder.

“I mean,” you said, softer, “you did paint the walls with someone’s brain.”

Tommy snorted, the sound bitter. “Yeah, well. They fuckin' earned it.”

He turned back, walked toward you again—but slower now. Tension rolled off him in waves, soaked into the floorboards of the house. He stood in front of you, silent for a beat, then lowered himself back down to one knee.

“But you’re not scared of me?” he asked. Quiet. Direct.

You looked at him. Really looked.

The blood on his shirt hadn’t dried. His knuckles were raw. There was a smear of something dark on his jaw—someone else’s, not his.

And still, even now, with your body broken and your head ringing, he was here. Holding you up. Keeping you whole.

“…No,” you answered honestly. And, even if you secretly were—your answer would always be no.

Tommy’s eyes flicked over your face, searching.

Like he was trying to find the lie in you and failing.

His voice dropped.

“You told me somethin’ on that horse.”

You blinked slowly. “…Yeah.”

“Still true?”

The air in the room changed. Thickened.

You nodded, slow. “Yeah.”

His jaw ticked.

He reached up and touched your cheek—just two fingers, light and fleeting.

“I know,” he said, voice sanded down to something close to regret. “I just can’t afford to say it back right now.”

A beat. Your heart stuttered.

“Why?”

He exhaled hard. “’Cause if I do, and I lose you again…” he trailed off, jaw pulsing for a moment, the tendon in his neck sparking alive.

“I ain’t sure what I’ll become next.”

And god help anyone who found out.

Tommy’s fingers lingered against your cheek, but he wasn’t really touching you anymore.

He was looking at you. Like he didn’t know whether to kiss you or run headfirst into a wall. Anger pulsating off of his muscles, like a thick stench.

Eyes dark, jaw tight. His thumb dragged gently over a smear of dried blood near your lip, and his touch slowed like he was memorizing the curve of your face.

Your eyes looming up his face, you made contact with those easy dark browns.

“You look at me like that again,” he said low, almost like a warning, “… and I ain’t gonna be able to stop myself.”

Your breath hitched. “Then don’t.”

That silence—the heavy kind, the kind that means something—settled for just a second.

Then everything snapped.

He surged forward, grabbing your face in both hands like he couldn’t bear another second of space between you. His mouth crashed into yours—all teeth and heat, desperate and rough around the edges. Not gentle. Not anymore.

It was hungry—like he’d been holding this in for years and something inside him had finally shattered. His lips crushed against yours, and you met him with equal fire, fingers tangling in his damp curls, dragging him closer, closer.

He groaned into your mouth, deep and gravel-thick, like the sound was ripped straight out of his chest. His hands slid down to your waist, yanking you forward off of the countertop, hauling you into his lap like he couldn’t get enough of your skin against his.

The kiss turned messier—your nose bumping his, your bruises sparking heat when his stubble grazed over your jaw.

None of it mattered.

You didn’t care. You wanted more. You wanted all of it. Pretty sure the split in your lip had come undone again, slowly gushing crimson.

His breath was ragged when he pulled back just an inch, lips red, messily and slick, forehead pressed to yours.

“Jesus,” You muttered, voice wrecked.

Your thumb brushed along his jaw, feeling the tension still buzzing beneath.

"Don't start preachin' now."

God can't save you.

His laugh was low, dark, his mouth already moving back to yours. And when he kissed you again, it wasn’t hunger anymore.

The rain outside hammered steady against the windows, but inside Tommy’s small, dimly lit room, everything else fell away. The sharp taste of his lips on yours was electric—like fire against bruised skin, dangerous and alive.

His hands didn’t hesitate, tracing every line and curve, memorizing every inch of you with an urgency that made your breath catch. Fingers tangled in your hair, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.

You felt him—his body tense and trembling beneath your hands, raw and unrelenting. Fingers sliding beneath his shirt, tracing the hard planes of his chest—the steady thump of his heart racing in time with yours.

Every touch was desperate, like both of you were trying to make up for lost time, for the nights you didn’t know if you’d survive.

You arched against him, hands clutching at his shoulders as the tension twisted tighter and tighter inside you.

“Fuck,” he groaned against your skin, voice rough and low. Tommy’s hands slid down, tracing the curves of your hips, pulling you flush against him.

The heat between you was fierce, bruising, alive—And in that small room, with rain pounding the windows and blood still drying on skin, you found a moment of something pure—something worth fighting for.

Tommy’s lips trailed lower, tracing a slow, burning path down your skin. His breath was warm, ragged, his hands gripping your hips like he’d never let go.

“Do you know what I would do for you?” he hummed, voice thick with something dark and fierce.

His mouth pressed kisses against your thighs, worshipping every inch like you were the only thing that kept him from losing his goddamn mind.

You shivered, the sound vibrating low in his throat. “Tell me.”

His fingers clenched tighter, pads of fingers digging just enough to remind you he was real, alive—dangerous in every way.

“More than what I did today,” he exhales, voice ragged, edged with something fierce. “More than tearing apart every son of a bitch who laid a hand on you.”

Your eyes met his—wide, soft, heavy with something unspoken in the dim, flickering light. Heart hammering so loud it drowned out everything else. The way he said it—like your pain was the spark to his wildfire, the fuel to his recklessness.

Tommy’s gaze locked onto yours, and slow, deliberate, his hand gripped the hem of your shorts, peeling the fabric down with careful hunger—mindful of your bruises, yet ravenous.

“You’re all I’ve got left to fight for,” he exhaled against your skin, breath hot and uneven, ghosting over your bruised flesh. “I’d burn the whole goddamn world to ash before I let you go.”

His touch was fierce, demanding—but beneath that storm was something fragile, a desperate tenderness clinging beneath the surface. His lips trailed along the sheer fabric of your underwear, planting scattered, teasing kisses like soft gunfire.

“Say it again,” you whispered, voice hoarse but tender.

A low growl rumbled from him, thick with raw hunger and reverence. “I’m insane for you,” Tommy confessed, voice breaking on the words. “You’re the only thing keeping me from falling apart—and I’m fuckin’ lost without you.”

Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, craving to drown in the wild heat that radiated from him.

His lips pressed back against the thin cloth, one rough middle finger slipping beneath the edge to pull it aside. Then, without warning, his tongue flicked along your folds—careful, reverent—stirring a raw, guttural moan from deep inside you. His tongue swirled slow around your clit, tender and unrelenting.

“Shit—” you gasped, thighs instinctively trying to close. His free hand caught your leg, palm wide, pressing it firmly back down.

His tongue danced, tracing small strokes up and down, lifting his chin to trap your clit between lips and teeth. A breathy, rough laugh slipped out as he slurped, lips and scruff slick with your essence—crudely beautiful, just like him.

Tommy’s mouth never left you, worshipping every shiver that his tongue milked from deep inside. His hands moved with the same reckless devotion—one sliding up your ribs, beckoning for any inch of your breast, while the other curled around your hip, forearm and elbow pushing against your thigh, anchoring you like he’d never remove his mouth from your cunt.

The heat pooling low in your stomach bloomed fierce, aching, and wild.

Your breath hitched as he deepened his ministrations, slow licks encircling, pressing harder, teasing, nibbling—pulling from you guttural sounds you hadn’t meant to give.

He looked up at you then, eyes dark and stormy, swallowing the sight of you with something feral, almost desperate. There was a visible deep lick up, tilting his head into the taste.

“Goddamn,” he muttered between strokes, voice low and ragged. “You’re fucking perfect.”

Your hands tangled in his hair again, pulling him closer as your body arched instinctively, desperate for more. As if stating, don't stop now, cowboy.

"Tastes like fuckin' heaven." It came out between vulgar slurping, and pebbling of his tongue.

Tommy’s lips parted from your heat with a pop, leaving a trail up your thigh, kisses wet, marking you with his hunger. His fingers slipped around your skin, tracing the raw edges of your pain and pleasure, making you forget the world—forget everything but him.

“Tell me,” he whispered hoarsely, his breath hot against your skin, “… Tell me what you want.”

You shivered, voice trembling, breath ragged. “You.”

"Shit, Doll," He leaned up on his knees, arm lifting behind to position his splayed hand across his back—fingers grasping the fabric of his shirt, and pulling it off.

If you died tonight, so fucking be it. The sight in front of you was enough to make you drool like a fucking dog. Tanned skin, scars peppered in random places, a dark inked sigil on his bicep, something you've definitely never seen before.

"… 'Makin be blush."

His voice came out sarcastic, almost unwavering in cockiness. His hands lowered, the clinking of his belt as he undid it—one hand pulling the leather slack until it fully slid out from his belt loops. "Roll on your back."

It came out more as a soft demand. Maybe, asking nicely if you squinted hard enough. He knew your condition wasn't tip top, his hands softly guiding around your waist to flip you on your stomach.

Leaning forward he lowered a hand to splay across your stomach, beckoning you to arch your back. His hand slid up from your stomach, rounding your ass, head tilting as if he was just inspecting you.

It felt a bit open, and airy. Never being on display for someone like this. "Gorgeous fuckin' girl." It rolled off his tongue like he was saying it to himself. Like you weren't even in the room.

"Cmon," He mumbled, it exhaled softly, slipping his free hand between your thighs, "Spread 'em wide." You obeyed without another beat, flexing your hips up to position against him—knees spreading open as they press into the plush of the mattress. As you move, he praises, "I know you're exhausted," A pause, "Yeah—That's a good girl."

"Tommy…" Your voice wavered, letting your face push into the plush of his comforter, a deep breath filling with his woodsy scent. It came out as a plea, and warning. His hands gently slide forward on the curvature of your back, fingers spreading heat across your spine. "I can't believe they touched you."

His fingers gently push your hair over your shoulder, back-bare—"I could do it a thousan' times over again,"

Kill them. He means slaughtering them.

Tommy leans forward, hand moving down to pull himself from his boxers, "You're lucky I don't lock you in this fuckin' room…" Breath coming out soft as his hand strokes up and down his cock, raising his hips to split you open. Sliding in with ease—a guttural clearing of his throat, and a whine so deep from your throat it causes him to let out a hoarse breath.

Hips sloppily grinding together at even the contact of penetration. "So fuckin' wet for me." His voice comes out grainy—bottom lip falling victim to the top row of his teeth. Hands coming down against your waist, holding you in place like some fucked-out pocketpussy. The shock rhythm of his hips starts slow, dragging his cock all the way out, and then slowly grinding back in.

"Fuck, sweet'girl," He rasps, deep hunger from his throat, "Take me so good…" One hand leaving your hips, sinking down to the back of your neck, a soft hold—hips jackhammering faster, and faster, until the echoing of skin-slapping fills the room.

At this point, you're spent. Head looming concussion from the event earlier, and his words eating at your braincells like fucking slop.

Babbles of his name, and whines slipping from your lips—muffled by the fabric shoved into your face.

"Look what they did to my poor fuckin' girl." He snarls, a deep exhale as he leans forward—his chest pressed against your shoulder-blades, rutting into from a deeper angle.

Tommy's tongue slides against a bruise on your shoulder, falling into an open-mouthed kiss along the lines of your traps.

"—if anyone ever puts their hands on you again," It sounds like a promise, relished in holy ink. That even a man who could bathe in the blood of others sins, could be so angelic to you. "Shit—Tommy," It's accidental, the twist in your gut coming all too fast.

"I know," He exhales, "I know, babygirl—" His hips stutter for a second, slipping out. You practically whine at the loss of connection, head tilting to the side to watch from your ass-up position. He's soft with the positioning, hands encircling your waist to flip you back over onto your back.

The breath comes out of his mouth in a deep, husky exhale. Eyes practically drinking in the sight of you on your back, legs tilted open for him, breasts on display.

"God—I'm one lucky fuckin' man," Leaning down, his lips trail around your chest, peppering soft nibbles and heated-healing kisses against your collarbones.

His face finally comes into your view, mouth inches from yours—so far in your space you could practically taste his breath.

You open your mouth, wanting to say somethng—anything—but you were so fucking tired. Just wanting to be used, below him as he takes out any ounce of anger he still has in his body.

"Wider." He nods to your mouth, leaning forward with a tilt of his head. You comply, lips parting wide, your tongue lulling out ever so slightly. It's slow, as he gathers the spit in his mouth, then moves his lips together, letting it dribble on to your tongue.

"My dirty fuckin' girl," It comes out as a husky laugh, before he glides his tongue against yours, taking in the spit, diving into a heated kiss—tongue and teeth.

His hand slid between your sweat-slicked bodies, grabbing on to his cock, guiding it to line up with your entrance.

Soft slide, as he buries himself hilt fucking deep inside you, tip of his cock pressing against the pink-and-reddened of your cervix.

"There she is," It comes out as a laugh. Like he was talking to it.

Panting entirely now, hips slapping and pistoning against your pelvis—huffs of groans, and pleas of your name as you flutter against him. "You're killin' me," Babbles from his mouth as he absentmindedly talks, plunging in all the way, and dragging back out. "Absolutely fuckin' killin' me."

The familiar coil in your gut comes back, that fresh blooming heat, pleas of his name, "Tommy—I'm gonna—" He swallows your voice whole, lips finding yours in another messy sloppy clash. Hand raising between you both, a palmful of your breast—thumb, and forefinger rolling the pebbling of your nipple in his grasp. Tommy's teeth sliding against your bottom lip, reopening the split from earlier—tongue swiping any inkling of blood.

"Cmon," He advised, "Let go, you're okay," Lips slowly making their way across your jawline, peppering down to your neck, "Milk me fuckin' dry." Boost of encouragement as his hand lifts from your breast, trailing against the back of your neck to take a fistful of hair.

The feeling washes over you, hot, and speckled—skin lit aflame as your stomach churns, insides tightening and fluttering against him. It elicits a cry from your throat, ripped of his name like a prayer, and pleasure. He smiles against the line of your jaw, delicate as he rides it out, making sure to hit the same spot over—and over—and over.

The feeling overwhelmed him, eyebrows knitting together as he leans forward on his palms—head tilted down to watch as he ruts into you. Watching the connection—messy, and slick as the mixture of precum and fluid coat his cock.

He's practically in a trance. It's not too long later that the image of you writhing underneath him sends a livewire to his brain. Hips stuttering as they sloppily slam into you, his fingers knotting themselves into the blanket fabric beside your head.

"Shit, Doll," He hums, eyes shutting tightly as he buries deep inside of you one final time—muscles tense, biceps spasming as he holds himself over you.

The hot wash of him spilling inside of you triggers a brainfucked giggle to slip, his eyes only slitting open to watch.

When the dust settles, he pulls out with a tight groan—collapsing beside you like a weary shadow. His hand rises slowly, tracing a slow, tired arc across his face before threading through his tangled hair.

The sweat cooled on your skin, as you both lay tangled beneath the plush sheets. The room was heavy with silence, the only sound the soft thrum of rain against the windowpane. Tommy’s breath was uneven, chest rising and falling close to yours, but his eyes were fixed somewhere just beyond the ceiling, lost in thought.

Leaning over, you traced a lazy line along his collarbone with a trembling finger, careful not to break the fragile quiet. “You’re not gonna talk about it, are you?”

He didn’t answer right away. His hand found yours above the blankets, fingers curling around your wrist with a surprising gentleness. “What’s there to say?” His voice was rough, distant. “Not proud of what I am. Not proud of what I did.”

You squeezed his hand. “Doesn’t mean I’m scared of you.”

“No,” he whispered, voice cracking like it was tearing something inside him loose, “It means I’m scared for you.”

Your eyes locked. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then, slow and heavy, he rolled to his side to face you, his hand still holding yours as if it anchored him to something real.

Tommy’s eyes lit aflame with something fragile—something you hadn’t seen before. “You’re the only thing I want to keep safe. Even when I can’t keep myself safe.”

You didn’t speak.

You just listened to the rain.

authors note: i love seattle tommy.. like ughhyess hubby give me all your dark and angst.. lemme get that also?? that fight scene… okay baddie!! you fought like hell!!

masterlist

[pretty-little-mind33]

Count Alexei Vronksy x fem!reader

Summary: You have not seen your childhood best friend in years, and when you finally do so much has changed, and yet nothing has changed at all...

Genre: hurt and comfort <3

Warnings: friends to lovers, mentions of brothels and implication of physical violence towards women/domestic abuse

COUNT ALEXEI VRONSKY MASTERLIST

You haven't seen Alexei Vronsky in almost ten years—not since your family had shipped you off to have an education in England. Which meant that, on the train returning to Moscow one February evening, when your Mama brought him up, you were more than surprised. 

"Alexei? Yes, what about him? Papa says he became a cavalry officer," you say, clutching onto the intricate leather gloves on your lap as you turn your head, your hat weighing heavy on your neck as the snowy landscape passes you by.

You had convinced yourself that you didn't think of Alexei, so why was he suddenly the topic of conversation now? 

"He is in Moscow with the Countess. He came to say hello," your mother hums, a soft smile on her lips. 

"Say hello to whom?"

"To you, доченька (precious daughter)."

Your head snaps forward as the train comes to a harsh halt. "Pardon?" 

Your Mama just sends you a look and stands. She doesn't seem amused by your attitude, especially because she knows Alexei was your best friend. She knows there is no man, apart from perhaps your Papa, you loved more than Alexei. 

Which is why this all seemed especially cruel. You had returned to Russia to marry Igor Angeloff, the second son of Grand Duchess Natalya Angeloff, your mama's closest friend. You shouldn't even be thinking of another man.

You follow her outside the train, gasping as you feel the chilly wind, and your hat finally falls from your head and stumbles through the snow in front of you. You lean forward and outstretch your arm, reaching for your hat, but you come to a halt when you see a pair of shiny leather shoes in your vision. 

"Is this hat yours, солнышко (Sunshine)?" The childhood nickname startles you, but it's the voice that makes you pause. You look up. Alexei has grown much taller since you'd last seen him. His lanky frame is now replaced by broad shoulders and flexing muscles. His hair is shinner and curlier, and the blue of his eyes contrasts to the pink of his lips. 

He looks like an angel. 

"Alexei?" you whisper, your gaze dropping down to where he still holds your hat.

"It had been forever, hasn't it?" he grins, his lips curl into a smile. Something inside you shifts, and your lips curl into a smile even wider than his as instincts take over. 

You practically jump into his arms, holding your arms around his neck. Alexei grunts, surprised, but he catches you anyway, your hat falling from his hands as they hold your waist. "I missed you," you admit in a whisper, which is only for him to hear.

You'd spent years convincing yourself you hadn't missed him that the admission felt foreign falling from your lips. 

He tightens his arms around you. "I missed you as well, солнышко (Sunshine)," he says, and suddenly everything feels right again. 

* * *

That evening, the gardens aren't in bloom as snow ices over the branches and cover the flower beds. You're dressed warmly, your arm linked with Alexei's as you nuzzle into him for warmth. The sky is turning darker the further you walk, and there seems to be so much to mention, you don't even know where to begin. 

"A cavalry officer, hm?" you say, smiling up at him. You look at his uniform, admiring it.

Alexei nods. "I like it. They're good people. You'll have to meet my horse, Frou-Frou, sometime," he looks at you with a small smile. "He's a sweetheart." He pauses and continues, "How was England?"

"Rainy," you laugh and look at the path, "But I got a good education. I cannot complain. It feels different being here again. With you." Your confession hangs in the air for a moment, and Alexei looks pained. 

"I should have written to you," he admits. 

You squeeze his arm with your hand. "I didn't write to you either. We were children, Alexei. None of us are to blame. We're here now, that is what truly matters." You smile, feeling an unfamiliar warmth in your stomach as you look at him. His blue eyes lock with yours, and the air leaves your lungs. None of you speak for a moment, but you've stopped walking.

Alexei unlinks your arms but holds your hands in his. His voice is strained when he asks, "Maman tells me you're betrothed to Igor Angeloff," Alexei says his name with such disdain, and your chest tightens. You nod slowly, your eyes never leaving his. 

Something is wrong. 

Alexei clicks his tongue. "He is a brute," he says, almost hesitating. 

"Whatever does that mean?" you ask, eyes wide 

"Alexsander and I have heard him speak of the brothels he frequents," Alexei admits, looking away for a moment as snow falls, dusting your hair with white speckles. His thumb brushes some away from your hair as his jaw tightens. "He doesn't treat those girls as he should."

You take in his words, reality causing your skin to shiver as your mouth dries. You don't know what to say to him. If you didn't marry Igor, what did you have waiting for you here? You were already twenty-two and without a husband. You couldn't wait much longer.

Hurt, anger, and confusion cross your features. What does Alexei think this information will do apart from scare you? There have been talks of him marrying Princess Kitty. What could he possibly do to prevent you from marrying Igor?

"I have no choice," you tell him, your hands dropping from his.

"There is always a choice, солнышко (Sunshine)."

"Perhaps for you, not for me. I am a woman, I need a husband," you say, looking at him sadly.

Alexei shakes his head, the snow falling quicker. "I cannot accept that. I cannot bear you marrying him, not when he could hurt you. He is capable of hurting you. Your family doesn't know him like I do. I- I will not watch you slip away from me again—" 

His words confuse you. Ten years ago, Alexei hadn't even said a proper goodbye when your family put you on that ship for England, and now he's pretending you slipped away? "I don't understand," you admit, your gaze wide, and when Alexei slowly kneels on one knee, you back away, heels kicking snow.

You frown, your gaze hardening. "Alexei. Get up."

He doesn't listen. Instead, he fumbles with his uniform pocket and pulls out a small, golden box. He pops it open,and the prettiest ring you've ever seen shines in the dim light. You stare at him, speechless. 

"Is this Kitty's ring?" you ask, your voice small. The ring does looks worthy of a princess. 

Alexei shakes his head. "No. No. I didn't buy this for her. It's for you."

"Me?" you say, shaking your head in disbelief and confusion. "Why–how? When?"

Alexei stands and walks towards you. He shuts the box and puts it in your hand as his hands close around yours. He's so close now. His blue eyes are intoxicating, but you don't want to look away. "When Maman told me you were coming back and that you were supposed to marry Igor, I almost lost my mind. Y/n, you were almost always on my mind—like some distant memory or an unattainable fantasy. I didn't dare reach out. And, then you were coming home again, and it was all real and I couldn't let him have you. He wouldn't be the kind of husband you deserve."

"But you would?" you ask and tense when one of his hands cup your cheeks. 

Alexei nods, his jaw clenched with determination. "I would do anything to make you happy. I would gift you the world if you let me."

You take in his words, but you are not quite sure how to process them. The confession of his feelings has caused the ones you had spent years hiding to bubble to the surface. The little girl inside you yearns for this. She wants to be his.

However, you have responsibilities—you have a duty. Igor is a Duke. Marrying Alexei wouldn't assure your family that stability. You'd be a Countess, nothing more, and you have worked so hard for a chance at a higher position. 

Did it matter that you'd be marrying a violent man when so much rests on your shoulders? 

"Let me show you what I mean," Alexei suddenly whispers, his voice snapping you back to the present and then his hand tightens around your cheek, and he leans in. His lips feel soft against yours, and he kisses you like you're something precious. Your hand falls from the box, and you grasp the fabric of his uniform near his waist. You find yourself kissing him back as his hand tangles into your hair. 

The pristine locks of your curled hair become messy under his touch, and still, you keep kissing him.

You don't want this moment to end, but you know it must. You pull away, hands lifting to rest on his chest as you catch your breath. "Alexei," you mutter. Your breathing is labored, and you lean into his touch when he cups your cheek with his hand. 

"мое солнышко (My Sunshine)," he whispers, a soft smile tugging his lips.

"My family—they wouldn't want—"

"Do you want this?" Alexei interrupts, his thumb caressing the skin of your cheek. 

You open your mouth but shut it just as quickly. "You know that doesn't matter."

"It does. It matters to me. Tell me."

Your eyes shut, and you bite your lip. "I do, Alexei, of course I do," you admit, a lightness in your chest being lifted. Alexei's eyes sparkle, and his smile widens. He leans in and kisses your lips again. 

"I will make you mine, I promise," he says as he rests his forehead on yours. "Let me take care of your family. Everything will be set right, my love."

You relax into him, feeling safe in his arms. You choose to believe him because for once in your life, you're choosingwhat you want and not what someone else wants from you.

You're choosing Alexei, and he's choosing you.

Nothing has ever felt more right. 

[glorioustidalwavedefendor]

Maybe Loki did hold himself together for as long as he did by being the responsible one.

Deffinitely

.

.

couldn't be maintained when Loki learned the truth.

This is just a perfect storm of bad

Becasue this shit sundae has layers

And a lot of people get kidn a stuck in the first layer

The whole

"You lied to me" layer

Wich is bad, don't get me wrong

But in a normal famiyl that would be the end of it

They treated Loki bad, they played favorits with Thor and on top of that they lied

That is bad enouhg

But here that is just the overture

Becasue until now

As unloved as Loki felt

he knew his standing was secure at court by being the spare

him being a blood heir of the king gave him a certain value and a certain safety simply for existing

And that is gone now

>> the fact that Odin told him to his face that he no longer has an actual reason to keep Loki around did NOT help with that ...

he doesn't just have no blood relation to the throne

It's worse

he has a blood relation to Odins arch enemy and the enemy throne

yikes

Which would be bad enough

But on TOP of that

another layer

Thor is screaming about making the frost giants fear him, and Loki has just committed conspiracy. Loki is scared of Thor.

So Loki doesn't realyl have the luxury of being butt hurt and having an identty crisis

>> That boy can compartmentalice like it's no ones business, wenn his hand turns blue, he just puts a pin in it, becasue that is the moment Fandral decided to get pierced by an icicle and he needs to be usefull first, shatter later ... as a treat ...

Because, as far as he can see

his live is on the line

ESPECIALLY with Odin down for the count

If Thor returns now, the Throne is his and Lokis ass potentially grass

So he better

a) makes sure Thor doesen't return

and

b) makes sure to proof his value to Odin

And I feel like if Loki had a friend he could confide in at this point

Someone he could tell the anxiety spirall that was spiralling

Someone wo could at least assure him that IF someone decides to execute im or burry im alive, they will be there with a horse/a master key ...

I feel like in that case Thor (2011) would have been a very different movie

But there was no one

Becasue he as not a single friend

Look all I am saying is, that if Verity had been available Thor (2011) would have been a fihs out of water rom com with occasional cuts to Loki in asgard saying the shit in is head out loud and agreeing that out loud it sounds redicullous and not liek something he should base desicions on ... there also would be Booze ... lots of Booze XD

.

.

~If Thor is metal, he gets dented but he carries on, then Loki is ice he can only take so much an then he shatters.

Thank you <3

LOKI LAUFEYSON | Thor (2011)

[kedreeva]

What do you look for in your quail, structurally? What makes a major flaw that's an automatic cull (aside from things that are obviously incompatible with life or impair basic daily functions) vs a bird who might have some minor flaws but stays in the breeding flock vs your ideal?

I know a fair bit about horse and dog conformation but very little about the way birds are put together. I'm planning on getting quail sometime in the not-too-distant future and whilst I've done my research re: daily care (thank you for posting all you do about them! I've learned a lot from you and it's made me feel a lot more capable of sorting out quality information from poor information as I've been reading care guides, blogs, etc) I want to know more about what makes for a quality bird so I can ensure that when I do eventually get a male I'm breeding towards quality and not putting out more substandard BYB birds.

So, there's not really a "standard of perfection" for coturnix the way there are for, say, horses, or chickens, or dogs. They're a game bird. Right now as it stands, the only 'standard' officially for game birds is "if they are alive, they are perfect" because the point of a game bird is survival. There IS a group that are attempting to put out a standard of perfection for coturnix, but the club is a) really young, like a year old and b) paywalled. You can't see the SOP at all until you pay a $25 fee and... I'm sorry, but I'm not going to do that.

So, what you turn to in this instance is the wild type.

C. japonica

and on the ground:

and C. coturnix

And on the ground

Pretty much all the "coturnix" quail in the USA are hybrids of these two species (and even possibly others), as they were not kept well separated over the years.

If you want to breed to a standard of perfection for a game bird, then you breed toward its wild type- black beak, Red reds, gradient chest, somewhat slender body, clean markings, the ability to stand well on their legs (some coturnix get really stubby legs), no "roached" back, bigger wings, correct facial markings, etc.

If you just want to breed for HEALTH, then you want a nice smooth back, nice high legs that make it easy for them to walk around, a face that isn't smushed in on itself and also isn't so collapsed down that it becomes thin and needle like. Good feathering on your birds (especially the belly, which can suffer if the bird isn't standing up on its legs like it should). A good temperament (ie, not aggressive, not throwing itself senselessly at walls and stuff if you so much as look their way, etc) is a must for keeping them healthy, because it means the males won't overbreed/injure the hens, the hens won't pick on each other, and the birds won't injure themselves out of fear.

On the chicks, you will want to cull things like clubbed feet, powder down, crossed beaks, wry neck... pretty much anything that isn't a vigorous, healthy chick. You do NOT want to assist hatch eggs; the only except may be if you open the incubator and you see a current pip, and come back and it hasn't zipped in a few hours, as you may have caused that problem. But, assist hatching just creates weaker individuals. Personally i don't keep late-hatch birds for breeding (nothing over 18 days, and most of mine hatch at 16-17, so even 18 is pushing it for me), and I don't keep late-to-lay hens if I can help it (if they aren't laying by 12 weeks, they go, as they should be starting to lay by about 10 weeks).

On eggs, you typically don't want to hatch anything under 14g. That said, if you're starting with standards, none of your eggs will be that size. In that case, check the average weight of your eggs to determine a median weight, and then say okay, nothing below the median gets hatched. Re-assess when you find yourself able to set the majority of your eggs, to find the new median, until the majority of your eggs are over 14g. Anything above 20g has a fairly high possibility of being double yolked. You also want to keep up with egg shell quality; test strength by giving a relatively gentle squeeze between your pointer and thumb (over a sink or big bowl). A normal egg will be able to withstand a pretty good deal of pressure. Shells should be relatively bright, smooth, and shiny, not matte, not bumpy, not pale (heavy bloom, not enough protoporphyrin), not dark (too much protoporphyrin affects hatch rate). Egg shape should be fairly uniform, with a clear wide side and narrow side, without being misshapen (elongated, squashed, rippled, etc).

I hope that at least gets you started!

[asapeveryday]

noctuary pt.4 - p.b x tlou au

noc·​tu·​ary ˈnäkchəˌwerē

: a collection of a single night's events, thoughts or dreams

--read pt.3 here

pairing: Paige Bueckers x reader

AU: The Last of Us 2 x Wbb crossover

warnings: recreational drug use, mentions of smut in convo (but nothing happens at all lmao sorry)

synopsis: you meet her on the brink of giving up. she’s suspicious, too nice, too charismatic. you know you should be on guard, but you’ve got nowhere to go, and she’s eager to have nobody to be.

notes: this one's a little nika centric (sorry i luv her) but also because i wanted this chapter to really focus more on friendship, or really the beginning of it. having friends is important, but in this world i cant imagine it to be easy.

FRIENDSHIP ISN'T something foreign to you. You know the feeling of someone steady behind you, ready to defend. You can recall the comfortable brush of an arm slung around your shoulder. The lack of fear to speak your mind.

You wouldn't have survived back home without a friend. Everyone needed one, one person they could count on to clean their bruises after a beating, to argue in their favour regardless of the consequences. You haven't felt that solidarity in a long time time.

Paige is not your friend. This is something you tell yourself over and over, despite the way your walls come crumbling down when she's near you. You chalk your past weakness up to circumstance, it was only natural for you to willingly trust the girl who saved you and took care of you.

But you weren't hurt anymore, your wound, after a month or so in Jackson, had been reduced to a scar, a long stretching divet along the skin of your shin.

You decided there was no more reason to fold under her pressure.

--

"OH MY FUCKING GOD, it is hot." Nika groans, wiping her bare forehead with the back of her gloved hand.

"Want some water?" Kk, the girl with half-up twists asks her with amusement, holding out a grimy-looking steel bucket. The water inside is brown and murky.

"You're disgusting." Nika sneers, whipping her head away while Kk laughs, dumping the water all over the stable.

"This'll be you soon." Kk grins. "If you keep pissing Geno off, you'll be on horseshit duty."

“Geno loves me.” Nika snorts, shaking her head.

“Not if he swings by and sees how much work you’ve done.” Kk jeers in return. “Better hurry it up.”

Nika just grumbles, putting her body into it as she rakes fallen hay from the floor of the stable, a little bit away from Kk, who’s washing out each individual stall.

You’re outside of the stables, brushing off Sue. The horse’s brown coat is shedding thanks to the summer heat. You’ve luckily been placed on grooming duty.

“I wanna patrol.” Nika whines from her corner of the stable. “I’m tired of doing barn work.”

“Girl, don’t complain.” Kk rolls her eyes. “At least you’re not cleaning horse shit.”

“Yeah, well I can smell it.” Nika frowns.

“Join the club.” Kk kisses her teeth, splashing another bucket of water onto the stalls.

“Newbie’s got it easy.” Nika mutters under her breath, jutting her head in your direction. You hear the little comment, and it makes you tense. Kk mumbles something in return that you don’t catch, and suddenly you wish you weren’t assigned barn work at all.

It’s quiet for a bit till you hear the crunch of boots on gravel. Nika stands by you, watching has you brush off layers of hair from Sue’s coat.

“Must be nice.” She says. You just half-look at her, unsure what to say. She steps a little closer.

“You tired of barn work?” She asks. You don’t turn to meet her stare, still as sharp as the day you first met her.

“Not really.” You mumble.

“No?” She raises a perfectly shaped brow. “You’ve been here for like, a month. How many jobs have you worked?”

“One.” You say. Dawn had suggested working with the horses--hoove maintenance, grooming, braiding, bathing. You took the opportunity and stuck with it. The horses were spontaneous creatures, but they calmed beneath your touch. It gave you a little sense of purpose.

She nods, still staring at you intensely. “Planning on trying anything else?”

Her questions have an edge to them today. She and the other girl, Kk, tried their best to start conversations with you when you first came. They were energetic in a way that freaked you out a bit, so you hardly felt comfortable with their prying questions.

You didn't want personal relationships with any of them, you really didn't care to be friends at all. After a while the questions became occasional, and slightly dipped with malice. Playful malice, but malice nonetheless.

Like talking to you was predictable, like talking to a toddler.

“Maybe.” You shrug after some thought, swiping more hair off of the horse. The shaggy mops pool at your feet.

“Like?”

You meet her stare for a moment before looking back at your work. “I’m not sure yet. Maybe something in the greenhouse.”

“Think you could grow us some more pot?” She chuckles, and you let a sliver of a smile show.

“You know, the rest of us consider barn work punishment work.” She continues.

When you don’t respond, she keeps going. “But you like it a lot, huh? There’s so many other things you could do.”

You shed her another glance.

“The barn sucks.” Kk’s voice chimes in, now beside Nika, who’s in front of you now, watching. “It’s far from all the fun stuff. Smells like shit. Is filled with shit.”

“It’s okay.” You say.

“It sucks.” Kk frowns.

“About the pot.” Nika cuts back in. “You smoke?”

“Sometimes.” You mutter. It seems Paige hadn’t recounted everything about your three day trip with her.

“You do?” Kk exclaims, obviously surprised. Her and Nika share a look.

You finally turn to stare at both of them.

“Is it that surprising?”

“No…we just…” Kk trails off, glancing at Nika for help.

“You brought back all that shit and you haven’t even touched it.” Nika frowns. “It’s kinda shitty of us that we didn’t offer.”

“It’s fine.” You wave it off, returning to your grooming. “Not a big deal."

“So,” Kk hums. “You wake up, eat, come here to work. What else do you do?”

“Go back home.” You say. “Help out wherever Dawn or Geno ask me to.”

“And?” Nika probes.

“That’s it.” You say curtly, growing tired of the interrogation.

“You some lone wolf?” Kk asks, half laughing. It doesn’t seem belittling, moreso unsure.

Before you can think of a response, Nika cuts in. “You talk to Paige?”

You frown at this, unable to hold it back. She’d shown up to your house for check-ins a few times, but you made sure every conversation was shorter and shorter. Then you stopped answering the door, or you stayed at the barn longer. You hadn’t seen her in a few weeks.

“Not really.” You settle.

“Has she not checked up on you?” Nika frowns. “That’s not like her.”

“She did, the first few weeks.” You nod. “But I started working here more, doing little jobs around. Don’t see her much.”

“And how are the clothes?” Nika asks, eyeing your denim shorts and white tank, flannel unbuttoned and wrapped around your waist.

“They’re great.” You smile. “Thanks for that.”

“D’you like the posters I gave you?” Kk butts in.

“I don’t know who Lebron James is.” You hum. “But it adds something to the room.”

Nika laughs aloud at this, Kk just shakes her head with a smile.

“You know, I feel like I never see you around, Other than when we’re at the barn.” Nika says.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She hums. “S’weird cus I feel like I see everyone.”

It's hard not to buckle under her stare. This game of twenty questions is unnerving. You'd been pretty isolated since you came here, intentionally, of course. You assumed nobody noticed.

“Hm.” Is all you say.

“You really always doing little jobs?” She continues.

You nod.

“She likes being busy. Let a girl live.” Kk snorts, turning to walk back into the barn.

“Just asking.” Nika frowns, but she looks at you further, like she’s figuring something out. She follows after Kk soon after.

You try not to look at her for the rest of the day.

-

SHE SHOWS UP at your door the next evening, a light jacket thrown over her crinkled t-shirt and muddy jeans.

“Nika.” You gape, eyes wide. You weren’t expecting her.

“Newbie.” She grins, white teeth glinting. “Get dressed.”

“For?”

“We’re going out, obviously.”

“I’m okay,” you begin, but she cuts you off sternly.

“Not a question. We’re going.”

“Where?” You frown. “With who?”

“Just some friends.” She shrugs. “Around.”

You frown at her. “I’m really okay.”

“I’m sure you’re okay.” She looks you up and down. “Didn't ask if you were, though. I told you to get changed.”

You open your mouth, then close it. She's pushy, big brown eyes prying you open, one hand on your front door. You consider shutting it in her face when she shoves it open further.

"Not sure what to wear?" She asks, stepping inside your house uninvited with a smile. "Don't worry, I can help."

"Nika, I'm not going anywhere." You say seriously, shutting the door and following close behind her as she glances around your house.

"You haven't decorated much yet." She quirks a brow.

"Yeah." You swallow tersely. You couldn't bring yourself to, you had no idea where to start. And the house still didn't feel like it belonged to you.

"Haven't gotten around to it." Is what you settle for.

She just shrugs, turning to walk down the stairs that lead to your bedroom. Despite your frustration, you follow.

She's already prying open your closet when you step into your bedroom, brows strewn in focus as she takes things off of their hangers and throws them onto your messy bed.

"You know, if you don't like any of these you can always trade them out for something else." She hums, holding a flannel and tank top together in thought.

"They're fine." You mutter, still annoyed at her presence.

"Clothes weren't much of a concern where you're from eh?" She asks you.

Clothes were assigned. There weren't many choices. You got what you got, that was it.

"Some of us had bigger things to worry about." You practically spit, foregoing your usual curt responses.

Her eyes narrow, though something satisfied glints in that pungent stare.

"Nobody is living easy out here, princess." She cocks her head. "Just because we have the liberty of being picky with our clothes doesn't mean we aren't roughing it out like everyone else."

"You realize how stupid that sounds, right?" You scoff.

"Okay, yeah." She snorts in return. "I get it, Jackson is probably a breeze compared to wherever it is you're from. But it's all born from blood. People worked their asses off, and people died to get us all the shit we have."

You hold her stare now, teeth clenched.

"People died so we could think about what to wear on a free night out, where our friends aren't on patrol risking their lives. So wear whatever the fuck you want, and if you dont like it, trade it out."

You understand where she's coming from. Point noted, not that you'll admit it. Instead you walk over to the closet and slightly shove past her to eye the contents inside.

"I don't need you to pick for me." You frown, finding an outfit that's thin enough for the warm weather without being too exposing.

Nika grins from behind you satisfied with your choice. In fact, she holds that triumphant grin even as you shoo her away so you can change, and eventually join her in your bare living room.

"What?" You snap, noticing her expression.

"Nothing." She shrugs, walking through the ground floor. "Just happy to see I was right."

"About?"

"You." She hums.

"What does that mean?" You glare.

"You're finally showing some spunk." Nika shrugs. "Some of the others were thinking you were...well, they thought you were donezo."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Donezo. Burnt out. Gave up. You know, some people can't handle shit. They break down, go all mushy." She continues. "They come here to live a new life, but they don't really live. Don't have a personality anymore."

"So why are you making me hang out with these people who think I'm donezo?" You cross your arms, offended. Going out was seeming like a worse and worse idea by the minute.

"Paige made it sound like you weren't." Nika hums. "And I believed her, even though you seemed like a total bot everyday at the barn. Braiding your horsies' hair and giving one-word responses."

There it is again, Paige being brought up, and the sizzle of vulnerability that comes with it.

"Just didn't wanna talk to you." You say seriously, but Nika laughs anyways.

"She's been asking about you, by the way." Nika grins. "Everyone has. We're all curious about you."

"Not much to be curious about." You frown.

"Bitch, you're kidding." She laughs. "Paige dipped for three days and came back with a chick our age, who has a sliced open leg and a backpack full of high-quality weed."

You try not to crack a smile.

"And then she's never out, only leaves the house to work or eat. Doesn't talk to anyone, doesn't smoke the shit she brought, never holds conversation. And Paige defends her mysterious ass every time someone says she's lost it." Nika adds.

"Okay, okay."

"And then today at the barn, you were getting snippy with me." Nika points a finger at you, still smiling like she's won a fight.

"Kk didn't notice, but I did. You were bugged. I finally thought, hey, maybe this chick is actually breathing. So I came over to see for myself if I was right."

"And?"

"And I was. I am." She smiles, hands on her hips now.

"So...there's no need for me to go out anymore?" You ask.

"Oh, that part is for real." She snorts. "Especially now that you wanna be sassy. We gotta show everyone you're not brain-dead."

"I'm not sassy." You grumble, following her as she begins to walk to your front door.

"You are," Nika hums, "just like Paige said you are."

You turn to shut the door before she can see the way your lips quirk upward.

--

THE THEATRE stands out so starkly compared to the rest of the town. The sky is dimming, string lights illuminated, streets growing more and more bare as you and Nika walk.

You pass by the bar, which seems to be filling up. You can hear talking and music, and the clinking of glasses as you pass. Up ahead are more flashing lights, the ones that belong to the theatre's flashy billboards.

"Are we watching a movie?" You ask.

"Not today." She grins. "The theatre has a different purpose after hours."

"Like what?"

Nika just shakes her head. You follow her as you step beneath the short ceiling of the entrance, past the deserted ticket box and into the building by a door that says employees only. It's darker inside the theatre, the floors are fuzzed over with dirty red velvet carpeting, the decor rusted gold.

"C'mon." Nika bumps your shoulder, motioning you to keep going. She pulls out a flashlight as you walk, pointing the white light at the big fancy numbers that differentiate every corridor.

"What the heck are we doing, Nika?" You ask, eyeing the darkness around you.

"Here, this one." She says, pointing her light at the corridor that reads 5 in big blocky letters above. She turns into the dark space, pushing open rusty doors as she walks. You follow close behind.

What follows past the doors is a sight to behold. The room is massive, covered in more velvet carpeting, a huge damaged screen like the kind people once watched tv on. Across from the screen lay hundreds of rows of seats, curving around the tv and sprawling through the perimeter of the room. There are little lanes between columns of the seats, steps for you and Nika to scale.

You can see a group of people sitting at the seats at the very top.

"Muhl! You're late." Someone jeers, laughing as Nika scales the steps before shimmying past a few seats and plopping down in one.

"Oh, and you brought newbie!" Kk smiles, nodding at you. Everyone looks at you expectantly. Paige sends you a little grin, motioning you to sit by her.

You decide to sit one row below her, beside Nika, so you both turn around to face the other girls.

"How you been?" Paige asks genuinely, blue eyes stuck on yours.

"Good." You shrug, and she waits for you to go on, shoulders sinking when you turn away slightly. The curt response makes the other girls share a glance. It's a quick one, but you feel it.

"So, what we celebrating?" Aubrey chimes in beside Paige.

"Geno's making P and I take a break from patrol." Ice hums. "Thank fucking god, because I am tired."

"Not our fault we're the best." Paige shrugs, smiling as she pulls out a plastic baggy from her short's pocket.

"Fuuuuuuck yes." Kk howls, causing the others to chuckle. The noises echo through the dim light of the theatre.

Paige opens the bag, gingerly taking out a pre-rolled joint and placing it between her lips. "All thanks to our newbie, who's got us stocked for a good few months." She says, jutting her head in your direction.

The others turn their stares to you in acknowledgment, Nika slaps your back.

"Nika." Paige mumbles, joint still between her lips. "Lighter?"

"Oh, shoot." She curses, tapping her pockets. "I forgot it."

Paige groans, taking the joint out of her mouth. "Jana?"

Jana takes one out, but it doesn't emit so much as a little flame. The group deflates.

"How does nobody have a lighter on them?" Kk groans.

"Nika, you always bring yours." Aubrey huffs.

"Okay, well don't rely on me so damn much." Nika rolls her eyes.

"I have one." You interject, pulling out a lighter from the pocket of your bottoms. You always had one on you.

The group is quiet, all eyes on you again. Paige just grins, placing the joint between her lips once more.

Nika is the first to break. "You're the best out of all of us." She sighs dramatically, shoving your shoulder. The others sing your praises, ruffling your hair and flicking your arm.

Paige leans forward a little, closer to you, breaking your surprise from the group's reaction and bringing your focus to her. Her eyes are wide, expecting, pink lips wrapped around the joint. A silver chain slips from beneath her t-shirt, dangling from her neck.

She's waiting. You flick on the lighter, bringing the flame to the tip of her joint. You hold her gaze all the way through, watching how the orange light brightens her face.

Finally she pulls away, leaning back into the theatre seat with her legs spread, two fingers reaching for the joint. You watch her chest rise, and fall as she pulls the joint away, tilting her head back so that all you see is her neck, the sharp lines of her jaw, and the plume of smoke that she exhales.

You look away from the sight of her before she can catch you gawking.

"Give it here." Nika says, holding her fingers out. Paige clicks her tongue, eyebrows raised.

"You forgot the lighter, so no." She says, meeting your eye once more. She leans forward again, arm outstreched.

She calls your name like a question, the joint glowing from one end, her brow raised in wait.

It's too easy to take it from her, to take everything she gives--no questions asked. So instead you shift in your seat, mumbling, "No thanks."

The girls around you deflate, shooting glances they pretend you can't see. She holds her look on you, carefully searching your face. You do your best not to give anything up. She shrugs, and hands the joint to Ice.

You watch as it gets passed from person to person, ignoring the feeling of Paige's eyes on you. The girls talk about trivial things, arguments with neighbourhood kids and easy kills while out on patrol.

Finally the blunt reaches Nika, who giddily holds in the hit before blowing it out, careful not to breath in your face.

"How bout you, newbie?" She grins. "Best kill?"

The girls eye you expectantly again, sharing looks between them. you can see what Nika meant earlier, they think you've given up. What's worse is you haven't given them reason to think otherwise.

Paige had been fending for you before Jackson, and hadn't stopped even when you reached safety. The thought is flattering but infuriating. If there was a time to sever ties, it was now.

"Give me that." You tut, unsheathing your usual demenor, the snip behind your words, the attitude.

You lean towards Nika, snatching the joint from her loosened fingers. She gives it up easily, smile rising on her lips at the tone of your voice.

As you lean back into your seat, you feel like the girls seated above lean back with you, following your movements, noting the change. You bring the joint to your lips, breathing in and feeling the smoke fill you with satisfaction before you exhale slowly, clouding your vison for a moment.

"My best kill," you mumble, savouring the last of the smoke on your lips, "was a few years back. I was on a job with a bigger group, kept having this bad feeling cus we hadn't ran into anything a few hours in. Of course, nobody listened to me." You snort, the sting of being disregarded still fresh.

"Caught the stalker early, before any of them noticed. Shot it twice with a crossbow. Once here," You say, bringing a finger to your forehead, "and once here." You finish, trailing that finger to the bare skin of your chest, just below your collarbone, over your heart.

They watch the way your finger travels down like they're hypnotized, dead silent.

Nika is the first to break from the spell of your simple words, eyes glinting triumphantly. You cock your head at her, and she nods. Damage done.

Paige is next, clearing her throat as she looks away from the finger on your chest, covering her mouth with a closed hand as she glances at her friends.

The rest--Kk, Ice, and Aubrey, nod in delayed understanding. Your story was simple, and consice, but they could gather enough information about you from that alone to grasp your capability.

"I hate crossbows." Kk finally says. "Heavy as shit."

"Long reload time." Aubrey nods, glancing at you carefully. "Gotta be fast to land two on a close target."

"I was fast." You hum, taking another hit and blowing it with a little smile. "I think I still am."

Wordlessly you raise your arm, offering the joint to back Paige, one seat above you. She takes it, fingertips brushing yours.

"What were you guys transporting?" Ice asks.

"I don't remember." You shrug. "Guns, probably. That's what it usually was."

"And where's your squad at now?" Kk chimes in. "You said you were in a group?"

You scoff. "Got into a fight with one of them. After that, I was only allowed to do jobs alone."

"Shit." She huffs.

"So, when Paige found you, you were on the job, delivering weed." Nika says.

"That's what I thought." You shrug. "Got set up, though. One of my old..." You almost say friends, but catch yourself. "..colleagues, fucked with my info. Changed the address, had one of her connections wait there for me."

They seem really intrigued by your story, heads cocked forward eyes wide despite the joint.

"So that's your favourite kill." Ice hums. "You're the type that kills em' like a robot, I bet."

"For sure." Kk laughs. "I thought she was gonna go crazy, talking bout' some blood all over her n' whatever."

Paige exhales smoke from your peripheral vision, passing the joint to Ice again. You can feel her bullet-eyes aimed at you.

"She's not messy like you." Paige says, a slight grin playing on her face. "She likes her kills clean."

You finally turn to meet her stare, brows furrowed slightly.

"How would you know?" You ask, even though she's right. It's the first you've properly spoken to her in ages. It irks you that she just comments about you like that, like she knows you deeper than the few days of weakness you shared with her.

"Cus' I've seen you when it gets messy." She hums. Her voice is low and matter-of-fact, calm and confident.

The girls surrounding you turn to share more glances, more unspoken words at Paige's comment. You feel your face burn at the unintended double meaning, but also at her seriousness.

"D'you miss it?" Nika cuts in, saving you from the situation. "Your old community. Was there anything better than Jackson?"

"No." You respond immediately. "Everything there was worse. I got used to it, I lived there for most of my life. They work us like dogs, leave us with nothing. Here, at least you work and get to live a little."

"Damn." Aubrey sighs. "Scuse' me for saying this, but I thought you were pretty fucking miserable over here."

"We was really asking Paige if she brought you here, or dragged you." Kk laughs.

You grin a little too, hiding it beneath your palm as you rub your face for a moment.

"Best thing here?" Ice asks you.

You think for a moment. "Having my own space. Horses. Decent food." You say.

"Of course she says the horses." Nika snorts, eyeing Kk who shakes her head in amusement.

"Did you guys not have separate housing?" Ice gawks.

"Nope. We got smushed into these sweaty-ass bunks. It was hell."

"Sheesh." Aubrey huffs. "How'd you guys hookup?"

"Literally everywhere else." You laugh. "On the job, mostly. Nobody watches you out there. It's easy to sneak away from the group and...take a break."

"No wonder you at home all the time." Kk smiles. "I'd be a homebody too, if I never had my own room before."

"You hiding someone in there?" Nika raises a cheeky brow. "Maybe she's taking extra advantage of her new hookup spot. Don't gotta fuck on grass or against a tree anymore."

Everyone bursts into CBD-enhanced laughter at that, every giggle echoing through the wide space of the theatre.

"Oh, I got one." Paige finally chimes in, still smiling. "Craziest place ya'll have ever hooked up with someone."

"When you say hookup...what are we talking about." Ice asks.

"Like," Paige thinks, catching your eye for a second before breaking with embarrassment. "Like more than making out. anything further than that."

"Tipsy Bison family bathroom." Nika says immediately, grinning as her friends boo her loudly.

"That's the bar not far from here." She adds amidts the boos, to which you nod.

"Roof of my house." Aubrey says shyly, covering her face as soon as she says it. Kk shakes her shoulders, teasing her, as everyone else laughs and comments.

"Kinda romantic." You hum.

"Sounds uncomfortable." Paige counters.

"It was both." Aubrey huffs.

"Okay...guys I'm basic. Literally just like, against a wall? I dunno." Ice sighs, accepting the boos you all throw at her.

"Kk?" Paige asks.

"I'm not answering this." Kk scoffs with extra put-on attitude. "Cus I'm not a devil's child like you guys."

"You say that as you hold a joint." Paige snorts, smiling when Kk tosses the now-bud away without hesitation.

"Okay P. It was your question, so answer." Kk narrows her eyes. "Actually, I don't think I wanna know."

"Hm." She bites her lip, adjusting her seat on the velvet chair a little more, getting comfortable. "Like, prolly on patrol."

"Oh, what the fuck!" Nika squeals. "You and Azzi? Was I there? This is so wrong."

"You were off somewhere else." Paige snorts. "It wasn't anything crazy, just a quick little...you know, anyways, doing it outside isn't too bad."

You recognize the name, asking Paige before you can think to stop yourself, "Is Azzi your girlfriend?"

She seems surprised that you're asking her anything, eyes widening slightly before she shakes her head. "She was at one point, but we're better off as friends. She's out on an expedition right now."

You half nod, looking away from her before your mind can get ahead of you.

"So, newbie." Nika juts her head in your direction. "You really be doin' it outside?"

You break out into an embarrassed smile at that, shaking your head as the girls begin to coo and holler at your reaction. Paige's eyes burn the most, you make a point not to look at her.

"Okay, okay." You huff. "Yeah. My craziest...um..."

"C'mon. Spit it out." Kk jeers.

"It's not that bad, but uh. Yeah, I've done it like, against a tree. A few times actually."

"Nasty." Kk frowns, eyeing Aubrey, Ice and Nika, who laugh their asses off.

"I don't think that's my craziest, though." You sigh. "There was one time...in our artillery shed."

"The fuck?" Nika guffaws. "Like, where all the guns are n' shit?"

"Yeah. It was actually kinda hot. I was on this table, literally surrounded by all these weapons and bullets...I dunno, it was a thing." You mutter, the words practically tumbling out of you. You feel a little light on your feet, mouth running more than it usually does.

"You're crazy." Aubrey groans, cringing at the thought.

"Yeah, I'd be scared." Ice nods.

"She likes high stakes." Paige shrugs, tongue darting out to wet her lips. "Nothing wrong with that."

"Of course, miss get-freaky-while-on-patrol-with-me has no issue with it." Nika rolls her eyes.

"Maybe ya'll are meant for each other." Kk adds with a laugh. The comment makes your jaw go slack, you immediately grind your teeth to wipe your face of any reaction. There are trivial laughs all around you, from everyone but you and her.

You can feel Paige above you, and the moment her attention shifts to you. It makes your stomach flutter.

You keep your face trained on Nika, and try to forget Paige is there at all.

--

COLD SUMMER AIR nips at your fingertips as you walk back home, night sky clear, Nika by your side.

"You didn't have to walk me home." You say, glancing at her.

"It's no big deal." She smiles. "You live close to me anyway. Did you have fun?"

"Yeah." You grumble. "I guess I did."

"Girl, don't be like that." She snorts. "You had a damn good time. I'm gonna bring you every time we meet up now."

"And how would they feel about that?" You ask.

"First of all, don't care." She says seriously. "Second, they like you."

Now it's your turn to scoff. "I thought they thought I was donezo."

"Not after tonight, they don't." She grins, that signature sharp-eyed stare cutting you thin. "Now they know you're good with a crossbow and you like getting fucked surrounded by guns. You're not donezo."

"Stop." You squeal at her recount, shoving her lightly. "I can't believe I actually told everyone that."

"It'll be more personal next time." Nika hums. "We're gonna pry you open."

"Gross, don't." You tut. "Let me be closed."

"S' no fun that way." She responds. "But seriously, nobody in Jackson is a mystery. Doesn't matter if you avoid everyone and play with horses all day. People are gonna know you eventually."

"Okay, okay." You groan. "I get it, alright?"

"Good." Nika says, suddenly serious. "And what's up with Paige n' you?"

You stop in your tracks. "What?"

"What'd she do to you?" Nika stops too, brow raised. "You act like you don't wanna be around her."

You consider spewing a white lie, but you know Nika's eyes catch everything.

"That obvious?"

"To the others, maybe not." She shrugs. "But to me? Yeah. And to her? Fuck yeah."

"Has she said something?" You ask.

"No. She wouldn't." Nika says. "So what is it?"

"It's nothing, really." You say, and it's the truth. Your reasons for distance aren't malicous or fulled by something she did, they're just for your own peace of mind. To guarantee you're careful.

Still, Nika stares. The same way she did at the barn, like she's got you figured out. "Did you hook up with her?"

"No! I barely know her!"

"You know her." Nika says. "She's not some complex character, what you see is what you get. You spent three days with her alone. You know her."

"We didn't hook up." You snap.

"Okay," Nika grins. "so, what then? You look like you're in pain everytime she talks to you."

"I'm not." You frown, finally turning into your yard. Nika follows you to the door, watching as you open it up and step inside.

"Whatever." You huff. "Thanks for today. It wasn't bad."

"It's fine. You're a part of Jackson now, so it's only fair you experience everything, not just the barn." Nika grins, holding your door open.

"Yeah, sure. What's next, we smoke in the farmer's market?" You scoff.

"Hey, we drink too!" Nika laughs.

"But really." She continues, a little softer.

"You don't have to be afraid of people knowing you, okay newbie? There's nothing in you that isn't worth knowing. Jackson is different. We rely on each other, n' you gotta know your people to do that."

"Okay." You nod, taking in her words. It makes sense to you, this place is different from the last. There's no competition, no hidden motives. People here work to live, not live to work.

"I'll try." You settle.

"Good." She smiles. "I'm always here to help...and regardless of what's going on with Paige, she's here too. If there's anyone here I'd want to know me best, it'd be her."

"Really?" You ask.

"For sure." Nika nods seriously. "Because she's the best of us. She cares more than anyone else here, more than Geno and Dawn, even. It's hard to trust people, but trusting her will do you good."

You shift on your feet. You'd witnessed that selfless care first-hand, so you know it's no fluke.

"It's...hard." You mumble. "Hard to be around people who notice everything. Who know you wordlessly."

"It gets better with time." Nika nods, like she knows it all too well.

"Sleep good tonight. I'll see you tomorrow at the barn.

"Yeah." You shoot her a small smile. "See you."

You watch her wave and walk away, the night sky hanging heavy on the landscape. Today was a leap you didn't think you'd ever take, but it didn't feel as wrong as you thought it would.

The shared blunt, the laughter and teasing. It was natural, a warmth that you haven't felt in too long. Paige is dangerous, too kind, too good. It scares you, makes you feel like you're not in control, makes things messy.

Distance is safe, cleaner, colder. You know it well.

You strip off your clothes as you head to bed, dousing your face with cold water and flopping onto your mismatched sheets with a sigh. It's hot in Jackson, the summer leaks through your walls, makes you sweat, ignights you like the end of a blunt.

Friendship is new, messy, warm.

--tags

@juumecca @cowboybueckers @sweetbcgs @rishofkf @yailtsv @bueckers2fudd @syraxsbigfanfr @azziswrld

[arkhamsknightz]

maneater // arthur morgan +18.

word count: 1k (i'm still testing the waters lmao)

warnings: feeling like a clown right now, this is more fluff than smut lol: oral sex (male receiving), size kink, praise kink, dirty talk, softdom!arthur, established relationship, a little bit of aftercare, fluff, if you like it, I might keep writing smut for arthur lmao, it's like a preview? idk but is really soft.

note: my comeback to this app was indeed baptized by superman, the next had to be (literally) the love of my life aka arthur, I can't, istg I can't explain how much I love him, and the photo made my mind short-circuit in a second, btw english isn't my first language :)!

You’d been watching him all damn day—jaw clenched, shoulders tense, like he was carrying the weight of the whole world on that broad, bruised back of his. Arthur didn’t say much when he was in a mood like that. Just worked, smoked, and brooded in silence like a storm cloud waiting to burst.

So when he walked past your tent that night, dirt on his hands and guilt in his eyes, you stood and followed without a word.

He stopped behind the horses, near the tree line, where the light of the camp couldn’t quite reach. He didn’t ask what you were doing. Didn’t need to. You stepped in close, fingers curling in his shirt, pressing your forehead to his chest for just a moment—long enough to feel his heart racing like he was already burning under your touch.

“Darlin’…” he said low, like a warning. Or maybe a plea. “You don’t gotta—”

“I want to,” you whispered, already dropping to your knees in the grass.

His breath hitched. “You sure?” he asked again, his voice all gravel and restraint.

You looked up at him, eyes soft but sure. “Let me take care of you, Arthur.” Something broke loose in him right then. Maybe it was the way you looked—on your knees, hands on his belt, reverent and hungry all at once. Maybe it was the quiet. Out here, away from camp, it felt like the whole damn world had narrowed down to just this: you, him, and the sharp edge of want between you.

You undid his belt slowly, savoring the way his breath grew heavier with every second. His pants hung low on his hips, and when you freed him, his cock slapped up against his stomach, thick and flushed and already hard.

“Christ,” you breathed. He was… well everybody know it. He always was. You never got used to it. Arthur let out a sharp laugh, but it caught halfway in his throat when your hand wrapped around him, pumping slowly, teasing the tip with your tongue.

“You’re gonna be the fuckin’ death of me,” he muttered. You hummed against him, letting him feel the vibration as you took him deeper, one hand steady on his hip, the other working what your mouth couldn’t reach. You weren’t in a rush. You wanted to savor this—savor him.

His voice is a low, guttural rasp, heavy with want and anticipation. "That's it, sweetheart... get a good taste. I want my cock dripping with your spit before you take it into that hot little mouth". He grinds the swollen head of his erection against your lips, smearing the salty-sweet flavor of his arousal over your skin. His hips start to rock forward, rubbing the thick length of his cock against your cheek, your chin, your neck... coating your skin with his musky scent, making you drunk on the essence of his desire. He wants to mark you, to claim you, to make it undeniable that you belong to him.

Arthur’s hand found your hair, fingers threading through gently at first, then tighter as you took more of him. Your throat burned, and your eyes watered, but you didn’t stop. You looked up at him, lips stretched around his cock, mascara smudging, and you swore he nearly lost it right then.

“Goddamn,” he groaned, trying not to buck into your mouth. “You takin’ all of me like that? Shit, sweetheart…”

You pushed down until your nose brushed his stomach, gagging just slightly—but Arthur was quick, pulling back, his thumb wiping your cheek as he muttered, “Breathe, girl. Just breathe. You’re doin’ so good…”

You blinked up at him, cheeks flushed, spit trailing down your chin, and he looked at you like he didn’t deserve you. Like he wanted to fall to his knees and worship right back.

You bobbed your head again, faster this time, messier, spit pooling and dripping onto your chest. Arthur’s moans turned ragged, the kind of sound he tried to swallow but couldn’t. His hand gripped your hair harder, hips twitching forward. “Fuck, you want me to come in that pretty mouth?” He rasped, his voice thick with need. “That’s what you want, huh? Just like the fucking cockslut you are”

You moaned around him, and that was all it took. He cursed under his breath, his whole body tensing as he came, hot and deep down your throat. You swallowed every drop, still stroking him through it until he sagged against the tree behind him, chest heaving like he’d just survived something dangerous. You pulled back slowly, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, then looking up at him with a dazed little smile.

Arthur stared down at you like you were a miracle. A fucking angel with spit-slick lips and love in her eyes. “Come here,” he said roughly, pulling you to your feet. He didn’t kiss you right away. Just held you, one hand cradling the back of your head like he was scared you’d disappear.

“Y’ain’t gotta do that for me,” he murmured into your hair.

“I wanted to,” you said again, voice steady. “You needed it. I saw it in your face.”

He huffed a shaky breath, finally pressing his mouth to yours—soft, careful, tasting himself on your lips, and not caring one damn bit.

“Gonna return the favor,” he muttered, already guiding you back toward the tent. “Right now. Lay you down, until you forget your name.”

You grinned. “Then stop talkin’, cowboy. I’m waitin’.”

Arthur didn’t answer with words, he just growled low in his throat, picked you up like it was nothing, and carried you back to your tent with steady, unhurried steps—like he knew exactly what he was about to do to you, and he was gonna savor every second of it.

Inside, the world softened. The air was warmer here, still holding the scent of leather and woodsmoke and dust. He laid you down like something precious, his big hands slow and reverent as he peeled off your clothes one layer at a time.

And when he finally touched you, it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t just about need—it was care. His mouth was hot and rough and worshipful between your thighs, fingers steady, patient, even as your moans turned breathless and your hands tangled in his hair.

“Good girl,” he whispered, voice deep and proud when you finally came on his tongue. “That’s it. That’s what I wanted.”

You were still catching your breath when he moved over you, kissing you slowly and fully, like you were something worth saving. Like, for once, he wasn’t drowning in all the shit he carried. For once, he could just feel.

He slid into you with a groan that felt like a prayer, one hand on your waist, the other cradling your jaw, holding your gaze as he filled you. “I got you,” he whispered, forehead to yours. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The way he moved was pure devotion—strong, deep thrusts that made your whole body arch into him, that made you cling to his back like he was the only solid thing in the world. He whispered your name like it hurt. Like it healed.

And when you came again, it wasn’t just pleasure—it was something more. Something holy. You shattered in his arms, and he followed soon after, holding you like he never wanted to let go. For a while, you just lay there tangled up in each other. His chest rose and fell beneath your cheek, one big arm wrapped around your waist like a promise.

“You saved me tonight,” he murmured into your hair. “Didn’t even know I needed savin’.”

You looked up at him, eyes soft, fingers drawing lazy lines over the scars on his chest. “That’s what we do, right? Save each other.”

He smiled, slow and crooked. Kissed your forehead. Then your nose. Then your lips.

“Reckon I’m yours, then,” he said.

You rested your head back on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

“Good,” you whispered. “I’ll keep you.”

[kay-jay-self-shipping]

Time for me to tell you guys what pets my OCs and F/Os would have! For the sake of my sanity, assume all these take place in a modern setting, rather than their chosen universe, where they could realistically have these pets and be less commonplace.

Orochimaru

Orochimaru's pet of choice would be a white snake (shocker,) as someone who also has a pet snake, I can safely say he has everything needed to carefully care for such a strange, but fascinating creature. I even imagine he'd speak with it, likely as an outlet for his thoughts.

Kaede is 100% a horse girl, she adores animals that are free spirits, and given wild horses can run free and live in the moment, she would love them unconditionally. Her horse would likely be given free roam of a field, so she can watch it gallop to its heart's content. (Within reason, of course.) She can ride the horse, but rarely does as it kind of defeats the reason she loves them in the first place.

Lotor

Lotor has a cat already, so in a modern setting, he'd still have a cat, likely a grumpy old grey cat with an attitude problem, but a perpetual need for cuddles from those it trusts. He often has to work around the cat in his lap.

Ziera would also have a cat, though her's would be far more energetic and resemble a Ragdoll cat, since those are larger and more wild in appearance. I imagine she's had to save a few potted plants from an early grave by catching them when the cat climbs her plant shelf.

Mereoleona

Mereoleona also has a cat, but more importantly an exotic cat that may or may not be legal for her to have. Since in a modern setting, she'd likely live in the woods within a cabin, I imagine that any of the wildlife there would likely be considered part of her pride. But the cats are the ones she lets into her home, so long as they know not to mess with her or her things.

Lucia would likely own a rat as a pet, surprisingly enough. She is an elegant woman who doesn't want a loud pet, so getting a white rat would be just up her alley. It's a quiet little critter that would spend its days nibbling on seeds and silently enjoying its little enclosure while she does what needs to be done. Don't tell her how cute it is when she gives it attention though, you may be punched for it.

Piers

Since Pokemon don't exist in a modern setting, I imagine his pet would be a large black and white malamute with a tendency to 'sing' and get up to mischief. This poor man is dragged everywhere during walks, and is perpetually exhausted as a result.

Thorn would have two bearded dragons from the same litter. One would be gentle and enjoy attention, while the other would bob its head and wreak havoc if removed from its vivarium. However, both would be very much loved.

Aaravos

Aaravos would have caterpillars, he'd raise them in well-maintained environments, then release them when they become butterflies. He tends to carry a lot of vegetation in his pantry tailored for their growth, so expect some irritation if you accidentally munch on some pre-assigned lettuce.

Nymera would have a cat and a gecko, since in her original story, she had a cat that passed away from old age. However, many years later, she'd raise a gecko, finding them to be such fascinating creatures. You'd think this would be a problem, given Aaravos' preferred pet, but they keep the two VERY separate, having one enclosure in the bedroom, and the other in the living room to ensure neither side meets.

Vax'ildan

Vax would have a bird, more specifically a crow he'd rescued and rehabilitated to good health. Of course he'd try to release it back into the wild, but now it just appears daily for food and attention. It's less of a pet and more of a friend at this point, but still, its a constant in his life.

Ryah doesn't really keep any pets, but has a fascination for snakes, she finds their mannerisms interesting and will often observe them in zoos as a result. Vax is considering getting her one as a pet, though he wants to make sure she's fine with it first, he plans to bring it up around her next birthday.

would your f/o be more of a cat person or a dog person? or maybe they'd be the type to answer "both!" or "neither," and say a totally different pet?

[cherrywriterrr]

ride me slow

word count: 2,163

warnings: cowboy!rafe / established relationship / extremely suggestive content / dominance / rough language / sexual themes / domestic setting / barn scene / kind of smut??

the sun’s setting like it’s trying to seduce the whole damn sky.

everything’s golden, warm, slow—especially him.

he’s leaning against the barn door, arms crossed, hat tilted low, jaw sharp enough to cut god. that button-down shirt’s half undone, sweat on his chest, boots scuffed and dusted from riding all afternoon. and he’s just watching you. chewing a piece of straw like he’s got nowhere to be but under your skin.

“you lost, baby?” he drawls, voice like whiskey poured over something sinful.

you roll your eyes, even though your stomach flips. “you asked me to bring you lemonade.”

he nods toward the stall. “put it down over there. then c’mere.”

you blink. “rafe—”

“i said—” he kicks off the door, slow steps toward you “—c’mere.”

you feel your pulse stutter. you do as you’re told.

he meets you halfway, takes the jar of lemonade out of your hand, sets it on the ledge. doesn’t even take a sip.

instead, he tips your chin up with two fingers.

“been thinkin’ about you all day.”

your voice is already quiet. “yeah?”

“watchin’ you walk around the ranch in those shorts. actin’ like you don’t know what the fuck you’re doin’ to me.”

you smirk, tilting your head. “maybe i do.”

he hums, presses you back against the stall with one hand on your hip.

“well,” he murmurs, mouth brushing yours, “you’re gonna find out what that earns you.”

he kisses you like he’s starving. but not rushed. no, never rushed.

cowboy rafe is patient. deliberate. the kind of man who can tie a rope with one hand and break your will with the other. his dominance isn’t loud—it’s bone-deep. calm. like thunder in the distance.

and right now, that thunder’s rolling straight through you.

his hands slide under your shirt, palms rough from reins and ranch work, fingers finding skin and clutching tight like he owns it.

“lift your arms,” he says lowly.

you do. he tugs your shirt off in one swift motion, tosses it over a saddle like it’s nothing. his gaze drops to your chest, and he drags his tongue over his bottom lip.

“fuck,” he mutters. “you’re perfect.”

he undoes your shorts next, slow. teasing.

“these drive me fuckin’ crazy,” he admits, slipping them down your legs. “you bend over in ‘em one more time, i’m puttin’ a baby in you on this floor.”

you gasp. “rafe—”

“not jokin’.”

he drops to his knees, kisses up your thighs, licks the crease where they meet your hips. his voice is reverent, but there’s steel under it.

“gonna ruin you right here. right now.”

he lays you down on a horse blanket in the stall, where it still smells like hay and leather and dust and him. your back arches as he settles between your thighs, mouth warm and greedy. he takes his time, and you can barely breathe. you’re moaning his name like it’s a prayer and a curse in one.

he climbs back up over you, chest to chest, sweat to sweat.

“open your eyes,” he commands.

you do.

he tips his hat up just enough so you can see how dark his eyes are. full of need. full of you.

“you feel that?” he asks, pressing his hips into yours.

you nod, desperate.

he kisses your throat, your jaw, your lips.

“then ride me slow, cowgirl.”

you’re on top, but he’s still in control.

his hands are on your hips, guiding you, grounding you. his head’s tipped back, hat shadowing his face, mouth parted like you’ve taken all the air outta his lungs. you move with him like it’s instinct—sweat glistening, moans echoing off barn walls, your nails dragging down his chest.

you lean forward, forehead to his, panting.

“you’re mine,” he whispers, voice ragged. “you hear me? no one else gets this.”

you nod, barely holding on.

“say it,” he growls.

“i’m yours.”

he pulls you down into a kiss so deep, you forget your name.

when it’s over, you’re both breathless, tangled in limbs and heat and heartbeats.

he wraps you up in his arms like he never plans to let you go.

“you okay?” he murmurs, brushing hair off your face.

“mmhm.”

“hurting?”

“only in the good way.”

he chuckles, lazy and warm. “that’s my girl.”

you trace the edge of his hat with your finger. “you’re still wearin’ this?”

he shrugs, smirking. “makes me feel powerful.”

you roll your eyes, then kiss the corner of his mouth. “you don’t need the hat for that, cowboy.”

he tilts your chin up again, all slow and easy. “no?”

“no.”

he leans in, nips your bottom lip.

“then let me show you round two.”

tags: 🏷️ @rafesbabygirlx @rafesfavegf

[newtonsheffield]

I got in a mood and started watching the minute and a half of kanthony in s3. And my god The way Kate just slinks back into her chair the second Anthony walks into her office after being gone all day, you can just see without them saying anything how much they love each. How much they miss each other when one of them isn’t around.

They really are each other’s person.

I know that when Anthony has to go to town when the family’s at Aubrey Hall he’s so annoyed. He doesn’t want to make Kate and the children move all the way into town just for two nights so he goes by himself and I know he just stares at the ceiling, unable to sleep because usually he falls asleep with Kate’s fingernails scratching against his scalp and her breathing against his neck.

Kate’s also not really sure what to do without Anthony. I mean she has budgets to manage and dinners to select but she hates how their routine’s interrupted. She’s not sure where to have her tea in the afternoon. She usually has it taken in to Anthony’s study and sits in the alcove at the window and they talk about their days. It’s nice, and she feels lost without it.

Even sitting with Edmund on her knee she feels a little lost until she hears the hooves of Anthony’s horse on the drive.

“Where’s the carriage?” Kate asks, her face pressed against her husband’s neck.

“The driver was being very slow.” Anthony huffed, pulling her and their son closer. “He’ll be here tomorrow I expect.”

“I’m glad you’re here now.”

[arcadecarpetgay]

OUFHDKJFDFJKD HII IM BATSHIT FUCKING INSA EABOUT THIS AND ALSO. WROTE A DRABBLE FOR IT ITS UNDER THE CUT IM LOSING IT AS ALWAYS

Collin’s canine digs hard in his lip when he hears the door to the bank slam shut, just as he’d been hoping. He hears a horse whinnying outside, hurried footsteps on the wooden porch, setting the perfect tempo for the next passage. He’ll be hearing the hoofbeats in the back of his mind even after the runaway’s out of earshot, mentally measuring the distance it’ll take the poor bastard to call for the sheriff.

The rest of the bank is still, unsteady breathing swirling the dust hanging in the air, and Collins doesn’t break eye contact with the teller. 

“Don’t get jealous, lad,” he says calmly, pointedly adjusting his grip on the revolver. “We’re not done here, are we?”

“No,” the teller says, but Collins can hear the thread of relief in his voice. Someone’s going to get the sheriff. At least, Collins hopes he is. 

“No,” Collins confirms, with no little satisfaction. 

The teller swallows, and nods hesitantly at the other patrons. “If I open the vault, are you gonna swear not to harm any of ‘em?”

Collins smiles. It’s an unexpectedly kind offer to make, one that he wasn’t expecting to hear– and it takes a lot to surprise him these days. Not only that, his shoulders aren’t tense, his breathing mostly steady. He almost gives the real appearance of someone used to threats like this, calmly accepting the demands while prioritizing the lives of those around him. It’s a valiant effort. 

“You’re no place to be strikin’ deals with me, boy. I’m sure ‘get me the money and no one gets hurt,’ is something you’ve heard before, isn’t it?”

The teller’s expression changes minutely, the tiniest flicker of terror in his eyes betraying him. Collins hums. 

“I’ll tell you something about the people who say that sorta thing, lad. A man like that is just as threatened by the gun he’s holding as anyone he’s pointin’ it at. He’s hoping he can leave with all the gamblin’ funds he needs, and without a drop of blood on his hands. But me? Well,” he exhales softly, tipping his head to the side. “The blood’s damn near as valuable to me as the gold.”

Fear seeps out from behind the teller’s collected expression, the way wax is forced out in a around the press of a metal seal, and it’s wonderful.

“Don’t tempt me,” Collins warns, voice low. “I can practically hear your heart.”

“Alright, I’ll– I’ll–”

“Good lad.”

“Just, just give me a minute–”

Right on cue he hears footsteps, outside. The sound’s picked up again, slipping into a crescendo as they approach the front of the bank, hard heels on wooden boards. 

Collins’ back is to the door when it opens, hinges squealing in the heavy silence of the room. He sees the teller’s eyes flick over his shoulder, catches a glimpse of the figure in the reflection of constricted pupils. 

It’s suddenly a lot more difficult to keep his smile bitten back, and no easier when he hears the very familiar clink of a pistol. 

“Alright, doll, we can make this easy, or you can get a bullet to the back of the neck.” Collins knows that he’d be able to hit his mark. The man’s nothing short of a sharpshooter, and he’s at more than close enough range to kill him stone dead. “I need you to put your hands up.”

Christ, Collins has missed the sound of his voice. It’s been a month, four days, and seven hours since Collins heard it last, hummed half against his lips in the softened shape of I’ll see you in a while, doll, and he’s had nothing but that to subsist him. 

Collins doesn’t move. 

“I’m real capable of making this unpleasant for you.”

He turns, slowly raising his hands above his head, and stares straight back at Sheriff Finley, back home in his best coat and with the barrel of a gun pointed straight at Collins’ face. He’s silhouetted beautifully by the harsh evening sunlight spilling in from the door, setting the hem of his form aflame and draping his face in shadow. Collins wills his eyes to adjust enough to see his face, absorb as much of him as possible. 

Noel’s expression shifts. Collins watches as the hope in his eyes dawns into the gleaming sunlight of relief, the emotion concealed beneath the cold scowl on his lips. Collins loves him. 

“Set down the gun, doll.”

Grinning, Collins obliges, though Noel’s eyes don’t leave his own as he slowly sets it down with a heavy clink on the counter. He lifts his hand above his head again. 

“Out!” Noel barks to the other patrons, jerking his head in the direction of the door. “And you, I suggest you hold still.”

The bank clears out quickly, and it’s only once the door slams shut for the final time that Collins speaks. 

“Fancy seeing you here, sheriff.” 

There’s a pause that Collins savors, the breathless hesitation of a half-rest, before Noel slowly lowers his gun. His hands don’t shake when he puts it away, the familiar implication of calmness– except it isn’t fear Noel is trying to hide, he knows. Noel straightens his coat and approaches him, and Collins instinctively reaches to touch his arm affectionately. 

“Did you miss m–”

Before he can finish Noel’s hands are on the sides of his face and he’s being kissed so hard that he feels his hat slip from his head and land on the ground by his heel, caught off-guard by the sudden warmth of a mouth against his own. 

Noel kisses him like he needs it to live, and Collins isn’t complaining. The music in his mind sings with contentment, as if finally freed from a halting, unfamiliar tempo to fall back into the beat it knows best. He realises only belatedly that he’d briefly forgotten what Noel smelled like, in the time he spent unable to breathe in the leather of his coat and taste the smoke on his lips, accented by the hazy, overheated weight of the bank in the late afternoon.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Collins breathes, when given the chance. 

Noel’s still holding onto him, a wide hand against the side of his arm, keeping him close. He laughs in a short, dry scoff against Collins’ lips, as if a moment ago he hadn’t nearly knocked him to the floor. 

“You wish.”

wild west dollins sketch comic inspired by a message from @arcadecarpetgay who is CRAZY AND INSANE and has been a terrible enabler regarding this au ⬇️