#drawn-up stirrups

[equinista]

DRAWN-UP STIRRUPS. Available for Download on My Patreon (free!) now! <3

I am SO excited to finally be able to release these and share them with everyone! This was a a lot of work and am so thankful to the amazing content creators who created/converted them from SSO and helped me with several issues I ran into while creating these. This is a collaboration between myself, Schrodcat, and Kamill. There are 3 different Versions, and the top photo gives an explanation along with several photo examples of all 3 versions. (LINKED IN MY PATREON POST ARE LINKS TO Schrodcat's PATREON FOR THEIR SADDLES AS YOU WILL NEED THEIR SADDLES IN ORDER TO ATTACH THE ACCESSORY VERSION TO THEM) --The 1st version is always attached to SC's Jump saddle, that way no accessory slots will be used up and all accessory items can be used on the horse (such as polos/boots/fly bonnets/quartersheets/ect)

--The 2nd Version is always attached to SC's Dressage Saddle, so like with version 1, none of the slots will be used up. --The 3rd Version is an Accessory version of just the Drawn-Up stirrups and can be used on ANY/all of Schrodcat's REALISTIC FIT saddles of any riding style/discipline. (I chose to only attach the drawn-up stirrups 'permanently' to SC's Jump and Dressage saddles as those are the 2 "most commonly used riding styles/disciplines") (Please read the post on my Patreon for more info and Download links!) These draw-up stirrups are perfect for using for photos of lunging horses, before and after rides, tacking up/untacking, leading, having the horse stand tied at a horse trailer between horse show classes, and whatever other situation you can think of as their use is as limitless as your imaginations!

[alkali1]

Fantasy Maternity Ward

It had been a relatively quiet day at the maternity ward, but all of Dr. Ixia's hope of going home on time vanished when she heard the anguished screams of the petite elven woman being carried into the delivery room by her hulking orc husband. Half-orc deliveries were almost always a drawn-out, tortuous affair, and with the three-year length of elven pregnancies, the mother would surely need a lot of time and assistance to squeeze out the 60-70 pound toddler currently cramming its way through her overdilated cervix.

The nurse briefed the goblin OBGYN on the patient's status: "She's carrying a singleton, half-orc 163 weeks pregnant, and nearly fully dilated." The doctor's eyes widened at hearing how long the pregnancy had been. Elves usually couldn't handle bearing interspecies babies the full three years, but this woman had gone severely overdue. She shuddered thinking about the sheer size of the baby, and whether her body could even stretch enough to accommodate it.

The patient was helped into the birthing bed, her feet strapped up into the stirrups. Her breasts, sagging low with milk, were pushed up into her face by the enormity of her womb, which dominated the rest of her body. From Ixia's low angle it looked like it could be the size of the rest of her combined. The elf's straining, barrel-sized belly shifted back and forth as the strong, overdeveloped child confined within writhed, desperate to be born.

The doctor reached into the patient's swollen pussy to examine her cervix. She found her to be fully dilated, with the baby's watermelon-sized and colored head battering against the elf's hopelessly tiny pelvic inlet with each desperate push.

"Huff...huff...stuUUUUUUUUUCK!" was all the poor elf could say as another contraction made her strain desperately to squeeze the colossal head through her unyielding hips. "We're going to give you a little something to help you stretch", said Dr. Ixia, loading up a syringe with a clear potion.

Ixia made three careful injections into the ligaments holding her pelvis together, one in the front and one on either side of her delicate tailbone. She wrenched the strirrups back, bringing the elven woman's feet almost parallel to her head. The patient let out a desperate scream as she reacted to the burning sensation of her pelvic ligaments stretching like taffy.

With her hips finally widened enough for her pushes to slowly start squeezing the overdue toddler downwards, the patient writhed underneath the suffocating boulder of her belly, clinging desperately to her orc husband's burly arm. Each push brought a few agonizingly slow millimeters of progress, and with it an unimaginable searing pain that made her scream and wail that her hips would split. Though this was one of the most disproportionate births she'd attended, it was nothing the veteran doctor hadn't seen before. Ixia squirted some lubricating oil into the now bulging cunt of her patient, working it in around the brow of the child to hopefully ease its passage somewhat.

After a few hours the head was just barely starting to approach the elf's bulging lips. With a sliver of green skin visible, each push made her swollen flower distend just a bit more, until it formed a sickening bulge several inches wide. Her perineum was pulled so tight that it dragged her anus open with into a teardrop shape.

Ixia sighed, realizing that the elf's hole was just too small and tight to stretch around the colossal toddler head. She gently ran her fingers around the taut rim, testing its pliability and trying to stretch it around a little more of the huge skull. There was just no way it was going to fit without splitting the poor elf wide open.

"Ready the traction forceps," Ixia said to her assistant. As the device was being assembled, she rubbed a sticky potion into the elf's vaginal lips and perineum. "This will help you stretch wide enough to deliver." she explained.

With the ointment taking effect Ixia was just barely able to wiggle the curved metal faces of the forceps into the patient's birth canal and secure them into place around either side of the head. She locked them together and hooked the apparatus up to a chain, then turned a crank to create constant pressure against her patient's stubborn cunt.

"IT'S RIPPING MEeeeeeee!" screams the poor elf, struggling to stay calm with the burning sensation in her overstretched cunt suddenly multiplying tenfold. "Calm down, you're not tearing. Just breathe and push when you feel a contraction." Privately, Ixia had her doubts. The doctor prided herself on rarely having to cut her patients, but the sheer size of the grossly overdeveloped half-breed could easily prove too large for the extra capacity provided by the stretching ointment.

Over the next three hours the elf's grotesquely stretched pussy gradually stretched around the baby's boulder-like, fused skull. The doctor periodically ratcheted up the tension, and reapplied more ointment to the patient's vulva and perineum. But just before it reached its widest point, it stopped progressing.

The red-faced elf gasped as Ixia explained that the shoulders had become stuck on her tailbone. "Brace yourself, this will be quite uncomfortable." said the doctor as she pulled on an elbow-length surgical glove.

Ixia carefully squeezed her hand into the gaping maw of the elf's rectum. She faced severe resistance from the stretching and squeezing being exerted on the hole by the massive obstruction lodged in the birth canal. Every square inch of space in the moaning patient's pelvic cavity seemed to be taken up by the baby, but finally the doctor was able to get some leverage on the shoulders.

With the next push she attempted to rotate the anterior shoulder, but it wouldn't budge. It was completely wedged against the unusually prominent bone. With a sickening pop, the fragile spur gave way. Ixia quickly withdrew her arm from the patient and provided counterpressure as the unstuck baby surged forward.

"Try to pant through the urge to push. If it comes too quickly you're going to tear yourself badly." But the agonized elven woman was far too deep into the throes of labor to resist her body's desperate signals. With the next contraction the head finally popped free from her gaping cunt with a gush of fluid. Ixia disengaged the forceps and gently guided the shoulders and torso out. With one more quick push the gigantic toddler fully emerged from the elf's blown-out birthing hole.

Ixia needed help from her assistant to lift the child onto the mother's chest. As the new parents cooed over their firstborn and the nurses cleaned him up and did their examinations, she supervised the delivery of the placenta and stitched up the shockingly minor tears in the elf's loose, swollen-purple hole.

"76 pounds 15 ounces!" announced one of the nurses after weighing the chubby newborn boy. "One of the largest I've ever delivered" thought Ixia to herself. With the ordeal largely over, the doctor advised the patient to stay on bedrest for at least six weeks while her tailbone healed and alchemically stretched body parts slowly returned to normal. Finally, hours after she expected, she could go home.

[jorvikzelda]

So. Star Stable's Spotify header.

I saw this on a little trip to SSO's Spotify page to see if they'd released any music without announcing it again and went hm. This looks kind of weird. I sure hope they haven't stooped so low as to use AI for their promo material. And then I looked closer.

First thing I noticed was the stirrups. Or, should I say... "stirrups".

Did they like... employ someone who doesn't know how tack works? What IS that? Also I'm only noticing this as I'm writing the post but why on earth does the boot not have proper laces or eyelets

And what the fuck are these weird straps on the saddle? And the guitar straps aren't attached to the guitar?? Actually... it can't be... but let me look at the hands. Just real quick

Uh. hm. that's not very hand. Are they fucking using AI

OH BOY.

The bit and the reins are... not properly attached to one another, just welded together. The noseband just disappears. The buckles at the top of the bridle don't really exist and the chin strap doesn't fit properly at all. The reins are double on one side, but not the other, and one or both of the reins on the far side almost look attached to the breast collar - or they're just being held a lot looser than the near side rein. Also, you need a very specific type of bit to use double reins, which is not the type of bit that's on this bridle. Or maybe the two weird straps are supposed to be a fucked up martingale, and that's why they're attached to the breast collar? But then why does the horse only have one rein? Also the martingale is attached wrong if that's what it's meant to be, see below (it's never attached directly to the bit). The breast collar is also attached to the underside of the saddle, rather than the saddle itself like it should be. The horse's front shoulder looks like it's drawn by someone who doesn't know very much about horse anatomy, or... y'know... AI.

The cart isn't fucking attached to the fucking horse. Poor guy is dragging that thing along with one singular back leg.

The keyboards all have the wrong number of black keys in the wrong places. And also those knobs do not look right. Oh, and something is DEFINITELY wrong with that drum kit.

And also just look at this fucking horse. Yeah, it's passable as a horse, but have you seen the quality of SSO's horses and horse art??? This isn't even anywhere CLOSE to that

So yeah uh, SSE used fucking AI art for their spotify banner. I feel like this is the greatest punch in the gut they could've possibly sent their laid-off artists' way. You cannot defend this.

[sleepsart]

Rattling the bars of my cage ,,, bring the eggs back ,,,,

[ ID: A drawing of Fit and Ramón, with Fit being drawn from the thighs up, and Ramón being fully visible. Fit is carrying Ramón, and is facing away from the viewer. He's wearing an orange t-shirt, a brown pair of pants, and he has a grey prosthetic arm that is secured with various brown straps. Ramón is asleep and hugging Fit. He's wearing a red aviator's cap, a pair of brass goggles, a red-orange t-shirt, khaki shorts, dark red stirrup socks, and a bracelet with a mustache charm on it. He has horns, pinkish wings, clawed feet, longer ears, and a pointed tail. His hair is long and curly and pulled into a ponytail. His face is mostly obscured, but he looks calm and asleep. The background is grey. End ID ]

Tag list: @luna-spacedoodles @convexers @renchanters @grey-nova @chimbamuerto @gardenergulfie @oakskull @griancraft @bellemyers @solardashpraxus

[deluxewhump]

Bluebeard's Pet III

This is the final part of a folk/fairytale retelling of Bluebeard in three parts. It replaces Bluebeard's new wife with a male "pet" (slave/concubine). It takes place in a largely fictional medieval Europe.

Part two

CW: slavery, pet whump, slave auction, stocks, power imbalance, gruesome elements like torture, execution, and draconian policies throughout, whipping, sexually explicit scenes, dubcon because of social status, light knifeplay, alcohol consumption, praise kink

Part Three: The Key

September brought the harvest moon, and only slight reprieve from the uncomfortably warm days that had settled over the castle in late summer. The Baron left again, this time for the lands to the near east. He took a company of men and soldiers with him, and left Luca with the keys. Again, he held the moldered key from the rest and asked him not to use it. Luca was kissed goodbye on the cheek in front of the soldiers, which surprised him even now, when he ought to be used to the difference in customs here.

He did not go to the village again, but instead spent some time at the stables riding a gentle gelding called Sparrow out into the fields and back. He was a decent rider, though he didn’t know anything about combat from horseback. He could keep his seat with or without a saddle, and even experimented with using a bitless bridle on Sparrow, who would turn and stop at the slightest provocation of the reins with or without anything in his mouth.

One such afternoon he ran into a small group of servants on a picnic, up in the meadow by a brook. They startled each other but he apologized warmly, having decided to endeavor to be liked more by the strange, sometimes chilly staff. He let Sparrow graze and sat beside them when they invited him out of strained politeness. He planned only to have a drink if they offered, or a bite of apple and cheese and be on his way. Perhaps the next time they saw him they would not turn away so quickly, like they seemed to do around his master as well.

One of the servants was drunk, he soon realized, and the other two were giving him dirty looks as he chatted openly. “Give you the keys, does he?”

Luca didn’t answer. He tilted his head in a silent bid for why.

“He gives them all the keys. Some look. Some don’t.”

“Look at what?” He still hadn’t gotten an explanation for the giant cauldron, but he was embarrassed to ask now, after the Baron had explained the nature of the rumors. “Where he takes them all,” the drunk boy said. His thin lips curled in a smirk and his face was pink.

“Who?”

“You know,” he replied, dipping his chin to his chest and looking up at Luca through a winedrunk haze, a smirk on his stained lips. “The Baroness. The pets.”

Like that June day in the village, Luca felt as if the sun had gone behind a cloud. The warmth on his back felt artificial and imaginary, like the sunlight in a painting.

“Mircea,” the other servant hissed crossly. “To your Lord's very companion, you say these vile things?”

“They’re true. Where do they all go?”

“Lady Elanor died,” she insisted.

“Not from having the little Lord Alec.”

“Shut up, you foul thing!”

The third servant smiled demurely. Luca thought she might be simple. “Bluebeard,” she said to him as the other two bickered. “It’s Bluebeard.”

Luca pushed himself to his feet and onto Sparrow’s back, glad for the stirrups and saddle that day.

That night he lay alone in the cavernous bedchamber of the Baron, always so empty when the Baron himself was not filling it with his larger than life presence. Luca turned the keys over in his hands. What harm would it be to look in that one room? Why had the Baron told him not to enter? He had the keys to every safe, jewelry box, and wine cellar in the castle, yet he could not look in this dusty, cobwebbed wing, in one little room?

He convinced himself he was going to look at the stained glass in the old chapel. It was not a biblical depiction, but rather a depiction of Hercules with his sword drawn at the lake that was said to be the mouth of the underworld, facing the Hydra. Luca counted thirteen heads on this beast, and the three on his ring glinted in envy. Dust and loose paper littered the tile floor. He sat on a cobwebbed pew and thought of the time he’d fallen asleep in a similar one, and woken to his angry master unfastening his belt. He never understood why he was so angry. What did God care if he slept in his house? He tried to picture the Baron beating him for a transgression, any transgression, and found he couldn’t. Especially not as he’d been then, a child of ten or eleven. The image wouldn’t form in his mind. It kept breaking. Constantin would not hurt me.

He should go back to his lavish, expensive room and leave the keys on the bedside. He should respect the one command his master had ever given him, which was to leave this room alone.

And yet he couldn’t. He knew he couldn’t, and when he turned the key the door slid open like it hadn’t even been locked. Like the girl at the fountain had picked up the golden cup.

He covered his mouth and nose with the crook of his elbow. The smell of mildew was overwhelming. Dark shapes took form in front of him, and when his eyes began to adjust he thrust his torch forward and made them out for what they were — a rack, some kind of sawhorse, and most startlingly, an iron maiden with a carved face like that of a sarcophagus on the heavy outer shell. It was ajar, and the spikes were thicker than he’d ever imagined, sharper and dark with dried blood.

The Baron’s favorite Greek once said, ‘the worst of all deceptions is self deception’. Had Luca deceived himself in believing there was ever anything to fear from a man who had been nothing but gentle and affectionate towards him? Who had saved him from a thousand evil fates at the hands of the slave traders who had ripped him from England’s craggy shores?

Or had he deceived himself in believing there was nothing wrong? That his own needling reservations, the things he had heard, the way people behaved around the Baron Illés were all just strange quirks of the people in this castle, and in the village beyond? Had he wanted to be the beloved pet of a powerful man so badly he’d crawled eagerly into bed with a monster?

Slowly, he approached a rough wooden bench. Instruments he couldn’t name were set out lovingly, at even spaces. They, unlike the rack and iron maiden, were cleaned meticulously of blood. A small jar caught his eye and he lifted it to his light. It was full of teeth. He set it back in its circle of dust perfectly, his hands shaking.

He remembered the lock of hair, the sexual game he had made out of the kiss of that dagger, thinking that’s all it was for the Baron too, a game of taking and relinquishing power willingly. Oh, how cooly it had caressed his neck. How lovingly.

He was as trusting as a lamb to the Baron, and thus far it had never been betrayed. Could he really have been so naive? Had the tastes he thought they shared been nothing but veiled bloodlust on the part of his master?

He left the room feeling dizzy. He fumbled to turn the key in the latch to re-lock the room and his heart sank when he heard a sound like a snapping twig. The moldered old key came out missing a tooth and the door was not locked still. He tried to lock it again but it wouldn’t work now. The mechanisms were not moving together as they should. He shoved the traitorous thing deep into his pocket and, trembling, in the verge of frustrated and betrayed tears, he made his way back to the south wing of the castle, where he lay in that wide sleigh of a feather bed and wondered what it was he was supposed to do.

The Baron and his company of soldiers arrived home a day early. Luca had stopped trying to figure out impossible ways to evade his fate, and he watched the procession come through the gatehouse with little more than an unconsciously clenched jaw.

Playing his kalimba to smooth his nerves, he’d remembered the last stanza of the song about the two sisters. A harp was made of the drowned younger sister’s breastbone and strands of her yellow hair. A minstrel took it to the court, where her love, the Knight, has become King, and her older sister has become his Queen. The harp begins to play alone, with no hands plucking its strings, and tells the court how she was murdered by her jealous older sister, the Queen, as everyone looks on in horror. The greatest horror was likely the Queen’s, for the dead seldom accuse their murderers so eloquently.

He turned the broken key over in his palm, knowing he must either flee or present his sin to the Baron. The lord of this land. His master. What happened to the criminals who tried to flee? Were they not dragged back and nailed to crosses or thrown into boiling pots like sea creatures? Was that not the truth? The Baron had softened it for him, white lies to soothe a silly pet. But he knew. All along, he knew.

Luca joined the Baron in the dining hall for their supper that evening. The table was as long as three men, and a great hearth sat cold and empty on the north wall, big enough to roast a reindeer on a spit inside. The weather was still too pleasant to need a fire, and they ate in what the Baron seemed to think was companionable silence. They were served sweet muscadine wine, roasted pheasant with hazelnuts and shallots, white cheese that spread like soft butter on aromatic wastel bread.

“You hardly eat, Luca.”

The Baron often called him by name, unless they were alone and he was speaking in that low, confidential voice. Only then was it pet, love, angel.

“I didn’t know you’d be home this evening. I ate in the late afternoon.”

“Not like you not to drink your wine, though,” the Baron teased. That was true. Luca took a deep drink for courage and pulled the key from his pocket. He placed it on the great table, thick as a ship’s mast, and pushed it closer to the master of the castle.

The Baron did not look surprised. He knew it immediately, of course, that disfigured little skeleton key that looked like it was decomposing. The second tooth was broken off, and was as noticeable as a hand cleaved clean from a wrist. He set down his utensils, slowly, deliberately, so they hardly made a sound on the fine china they dined on. He rubbed a hand over his black, bristly beard. Luca wondered when he would see Bluebeard the warlord, the brute, the power-drunk sadist that the villagers had seen, that his previous pets and wives had known for their last days, or weeks, or however long he tortured them for before they either died or he killed them.

“I suppose that’s in the nature of man, isn't it? Sons of Eve that we are,” the Baron said as if to himself.

“You sound like my English master, now,” Luca said, and regretted it immediately. That was a weak and passing shadow of a truth.

He took a sip of muscadine wine. “I am saddened, though, Luca. I already know the lock is broken on the door. My servant Remi told me this evening upon our arrival. I had hoped it wasn’t your doing, though.”

“You’re saddened?” Luca asked hotly, his blood pounding in his ears, his stomach hot with fear. “I only finally went inside only because of things the servants said about you. About Lady Elanor.”

At his late wife’s name he blinked, looking from the key into Luca’s eyes. “What do they say about Elanor?”

“That you killed her,” he whispered, trembling and exasperated now. “And your other pets.”

The Baron’s eyebrows raised. “Oh yes, the dozens of them. There were two.” He shook his head. “I don’t wish for Alec to grow up hearing these things about his mother. About me. I won’t ask you which servants, because I’m sure it’s half of them, and you wouldn’t want to tell me anyway.”

Luca realized he’d been taking nothing but shallow breaths for the last minute or so and took a slow, steadying draw of air. “I saw the blood.”

“What do you think you saw?” the Baron asked sharply, for the first time sounding cross and even mean. “Just tell me and be blunt about it.”

“I saw a room full of… of pain and death,” he half-whispered. “There was blood on the spikes of the coffin. A jar full of teeth.… I defied you. I betrayed your request.”

“I know.”

“I thought you’d be very angry.”

“I am angry.”

“Well what are you going to do about it?” he cried impatiently. “How will you punish me? Will my fate be worse than theirs, since I’ve so displeased you?!”

The Baron stood abruptly at his outburst, toppling his chair behind him. Luca flinched but refused to cower. The Baron took his wrist and pulled him up, his grip like an iron vice, like one of the instruments laid out on that table. Luca stumbled along behind him. A servant girl scurried to flatten herself against the wall as they passed, her face white as chalk.

Luca knew where they were going. He could have found it alone, blindfolded. They crossed the bailey and up a wide flight of steps to the long corridor with the chapel on their left, the stained glass Hercules in his eternal fight with the Hydra.

The door opened with a push, since it would not lock now. Luca was pulled inside and the door shut behind them. He instinctively tried to flatten himself against the wall like that servant girl when she saw them, but the Baron dragged him forward and lifted him like a bride, all too easily, and set him on the bloodstained rack. He was loathe to touch it, and wrapped his arms around himself protectively. If the Baron could not get his wrists from him, he could not strap them above his head in the leather ties.

The Baron picked up an instrument from the work bench and turned to him, held it a foot in front of his face. “Was this here when you were here last?”

Reluctantly, he looked at the device. It was rather beautiful, like an intricately decorated corkscrew. He didn’t recognize it, but he’d been so distressed he’d hardly taken an inventory. “I don’t know. No?”

“No. It’s called a pear of anguish. Hence the shape.” He demonstrated by turning the round knob at one end and the thing opened up, like a twirling dancer’s skirts. “I acquired it on the trip I just returned from. Remi, a servant who travels with me, brought it here for the collection, and that’s when I learned something was amiss with the lock on the door. The pear is designed to be placed in its victim's mouth or… other orifices. How widely it is opened depends on the transgression of the victim. Or the whim of the torturer, I suppose. I thought it an interesting piece, belonging perhaps next to this heretic's fork here.”

“You brought it for me?”

The Baron stared at him in disbelief. Luca had never seen him appear wounded. He turned and tossed the pear onto the bench so it clattered and Luca flinched, sitting there with his arms wrapped around him on the rack.

“You ask me this in earnest…” muttered the Baron. “I’ve done nothing but love you.”

The word love from the Baron’s mouth made Luca’s eyes fill with unexpected tears. He had to clench his jaw against them.

“I thought we had an understanding, you and I.”

“We do.”

“Do we? Then why do you mistrust me so? Why do you believe every vicious and fantastical rumor about me that you hear? I admit it’s an unsavory hobby to most, but it is that, a hobby. I collect daggers, too, I could show you the room where I keep those. It’s no different. It doesn’t mean I killed my lady wife or my pets with those daggers.”

“What happened to the other pets before me?”

“There were two, as I said. One ran away. We were not well matched. One I loved. They died. They were never very strong, physically, after they spent a winter in a prison cell in Saxony. This was over the span of a decade, by the way.”

“You never thought I’d run?”

“I don’t want a pet that doesn’t want to be mine.”

“Is that why you choose captives and slaves? It’s an improvement for us?”

“Is it not?”

Luca dropped his eyes. It had been.

“Luca,” the Baron said sadly, like he was mourning someone dead, wishing to taste their name just once more. “I loved you from the moment I saw you. From the moment you lifted your eyes to me in that auction yard.”

He came closer, empty handed, and Luca raised his chin in either defiance or surrender, he wasn’t sure. He had never been so lost, so unsure of his own reality. The Baron placed his hands on either side of Luca’s neck, cupping his jaw. He had never since his first night with him been so acutely aware of his master’s stature, the breadth and height of him, the size of the thumbs that brushed his chin. His traitorous body was often excited by moments like this, though now all he felt was fear, old primordial fear ringing down his spine, like the hare in the field that senses the Timberwolf. The Baron smelled of fine leather and spruce, a forest at night. Luca closed his eyes and tried to calm his wildly beating heart.

The Baron only leaned down to kiss his forehead before he left on soft footfalls, leaving the door ajar behind him.

-

For a week, the Baron did not seek him out. He stayed in his own rooms and rode Sparrow farther than he ever had before, all the way to another village where there was another beautiful fountain, but no golden cup. On his second visit he was robbed. Not of much, only the few coins he had on him, but there was an initial struggle that led to him sporting a purple, swollen bruise under his left eye.

The Baron broke the stalemate between them by cornering him in a brazier-lit corridor to ask about it. “I saw this from across the bailey earlier,” he said. “This time you will tell me a name.”

It felt like a relief to be in his presence again. To be spoken to softly, which he thought he might never be again. “I don’t have a name for you.”

“Who then?”

“Some boys,” he said, shrugging. "Hardly grown. They stole some coins from me is all, but I was startled and fought the one who grabbed me.”

The Baron was looking at him but his mind was elsewhere. “Did you report anything?”

“No.”

“Do you remember what they look like?”

“What does it matter?”

“Will you flinch from me again if I try to touch you?”

Luca shook his head. The Baron reached out and touched just the tip of a strand of Luca’s dark hair, like he had that first night they met in the castle. “You are mine, whether you approve of my policies or not. I would like to behead anyone who dares touch you myself.”

Luca forced himself to meet the Baron’s eyes. “But not put them on your rack? In your iron maiden?”

“Don’t be vulgar. It doesn’t suit you. And if you’d looked closely you’d notice that rack isn’t even operational. There is no rope or chain on that cylinder, and it probably hasn’t been turned in a quarter century.”

Was that true? He hadn’t even looked. Finally, the Baron had taken one of many opportunities to make him feel foolish. They stood in silence for a painful moment.

“...Am I really still yours, then?”

“Of course. I forgive your curiosity, if you’ll forgive me for testing it so cruelly. I have to remember you have been mistreated for a long time. Why should you trust blindly?”

“You never gave me a reason not to trust you,” Luca said. He had been tossing and turning at night thinking over it, feeling more and more wretched as the leaves on the mountainsides began to lose their emerald and turn to blood.

“The burden of proof is still mine,” the Baron said. “I should never have forgotten that.”

“What do I do? How can I be in your good graces again?”

“You never left them,” he said, and touched Luca’s lower lip with his finger. The power in that touch, he thought. The way I am sick with lust for it. That is why I am damned.

“Come to me tonight. I miss the taste of you.”

-

Three springs later, in his twenty-fifth year, Luca made a long journey west and south, accompanied by ten soldiers and three servants. He went to his homeland, where he remembered only white clay walls and lemon trees, and the lilt of the language, if not the words. He looked for relatives but found none, which did not surprise him.

Satisfied to eat the food and drink the wine of his motherland, he stayed in a spacious, airy house he rented for the warm months and prepared to leave for home again when the rains came. Stray cats came into the house he stayed in and perched in corners, near the hearth. He didn’t have the heart to shoo them out. The servants began to batten down the shutter windows against a hot wind that had begun to blow sometime in the night and would not stop. The sea, once so prismatic and calm, was choppy and white.

Even here, he had heard rumors of the warlords to the East, those barbaric and heretic lands with their Orthodoxy and their strange influences. The worst of them was Bluebeard, who had a reputation nearly as famed and dark as that of Vlad the Impaler two centuries earlier. Luca listened aloofly for all the trappings of the stories, the hallmark atrocities and places where rumor had cemented into legend. Always, there were idiosyncrasies.

“Doesn’t it bother you?” once asked his favorite servant, Alea.

“Not anymore,” Luca replied. “Only a third of it is true.”

Alea turned back to making them tea.

Two months after he’d revealed his dishonesty to the Baron about entering the room, the thieves who had robbed and beaten him tried their luck in Hwenn. They were apprehended and the Baron was made aware. He had them brought to the castle on a hunch, which Luca confirmed was correct. These were the three from Kyrr. He knew from the look in the Baron’s eyes— he had just sealed the thieves' fates.

“I suppose you think the cross too heinous?” Constantin asked him in English.

“Please,” he said quietly, so the thieves and the soldiers standing nearby could not hear. “Just the sword, if they must die.”

“The people of Hwenn will want nothing less. That one there tried to kill an innkeep for the coins in his register. And they wronged you, which you may be quick to forget, but I am not. Tell me which one caused that bruise and I’ll put him on a cross. You will not be made to watch. I promise.”

Still Luca shook his head.

The Baron looked at him for a long moment. He sighed. “The sword, then. If only by mercy of Luca Illés.”

That night, Luca lay in the ancestral bed of Baron Illés, under the arm that had swung the sword three times, a contented hare between the paws of the Timberwolf.

~

Note:

Inspiration for this retelling comes from the French folklore/fairytale of Bluebeard, Angela Carter’s The Bloody Chamber, and folklore concerning Vlad the Impaler (specifically, the golden cup). Luca’s kalimba song is very old and has many versions but the version I drew from is Two Sisters by Emily Portman. My intent for this telling was to leave some ambiguity about how many of the stories and tales surrounding this particular Bluebeard are true. We only know that Luca made his deal with the devil. Thanks so much for reading!

@starfields08000

[morning-star-joy]

when men like you come around chapter I

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x OFC!Ethel

Summary: One of the most important lessons Ethel Taylor was taught in life was when you meet a bad man, pull the trigger and run. She's done it before, and she's ready to do it again when she crosses paths with outlaw Arthur Morgan. But something stays her hand, and when she ends up as the newest addition to the Van der Linde gang, they quickly become thorns in each other's sides, up until they're the only two that can pull off a big job posing as a doting, newlywed couple.

Fic Warnings: Canon-typical violence, mentions of a past abusive relationship, mentions of murder. Rivals to lovers, slow burn, sexual tension, eventual smut, lots of sass from both Arthur & Ethel. High Honor!Arthur with some Medium Honor vibes. Ethel POV written in second person, Arthur POV written in third person.

Wordcount: 3.2k

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series masterlist || kofi || updates blog

You knew men like Arthur Morgan.

All your life, you’d been warned against them. Men who stole what they wanted and murdered whoever dared to get in their way in nothing but cold blood. Bad men, the likes of which your father only ever gave you one lesson for:

“Come across a no-good man, honey, and I need you to hold this gun steady,” he instructed you as you struggled under the weight of the rifle, too little to hold properly, too young to understand the consequences if you ever did aim and pull the trigger, even as your father taught you how to do just that. “You pull back—right here. Get your aim straight, squeeze down on the trigger, and shoot. You shoot ‘til he’s dead, until you’re safe, and you never look back. Alright?”

“Alright,” you had said then with a sure nod, soaking in the gravity of those words and taking them to heart, carrying them with you until the day you were face to face with a grizzled outlaw, one who no doubt deserved a bullet in the chest and not a single glance thereafter.

Because you knew men like him well.

Men who cheated, who lied, who punched and punched until their knuckles were bloody and broken and somebody wasn't breathing anymore beneath them, didn’t deserve an ounce of mercy.

You knew men like Arthur since before the moment you met him, yes.

But you didn’t know Arthur.

You wouldn’t know him, not really, until months later. Months of pushing each other with your words until you were both on your wits absolute end, months you spent settling into the Van der Linde gang with nowhere else to go after he had found you running from the law in a torn-up, blood-stained dress of the latest fashion straight from Saint Denis.

Honest to God, you had wanted to shoot him then. Hand clutched around your father’s rifle, you were ready to aim as soon as you turned around in the saddle to follow the noise of the gunshot that just rang out behind you.

And then you saw him.

Sitting comfortably, almost casually in his saddle as he came to a stop a distance away from you, Cattleman in hand. You had felt a surge of panic that hadn't completely abated for days, hand tightening around your rifle, ready to raise it until you realized that his smoking revolver was pointed up at the sky, not towards you.

“You alright, Miss?” he asked, his voice a rough drawl, and you glanced from him towards the lawman that had been hot on your trail and shooting at you a moment before, now dead weight dragged far away along the dirt by a limp foot still caught in a stirrup, Lord knowing who would find him and what mayhem would follow.

“You just killed a lawman,” you said, looking back towards the man currently not pointing a gun at you, and so for just the moment, you didn’t point yours at him.

His worn hat was perched on his head to protect from the blaring sun, black brim covering his eyes, but you swore then and even now that you saw a twitch of his lips before he shifted in his saddle.

Glancing behind him towards the other dead body you yourself had left in the dust—you had drawn without a moment of hesitation the moment their concern for you shifted towards apprehension and reaching for their sidearms—the man turned back to you and replied matter-of-factly, “So did you.”

He holstered his gun slowly, deliberate in making no sudden movements, even as you kept a steady grip on your own firearm resting across your lap, not lowering your guard for one second.

This man just murdered somebody innocent without so much as a second thought, the voice of a skittish animal of prey, trying to still keep you alive, echoed in your mind.

And then another voice—louder, prowling, unfeeling and unforgiving (though towards the man you had killed or to yourself, you didn’t know)—resonated in all corners of your thoughts with the same words he had just spoken: so did you.

Something stilled your hand then, but maybe not for too much longer if a woman hadn’t come riding up next to him. Seeing your blood-stained clothes, your rattled, wide-eyed look of a wild animal backed into the corner and lashing out at the nearest possible threat, she had approached cautiously and introduced herself.

When you relaxed and gave your own name with some difficulty, she offered you a safe place to wash up and get your affairs straight, much to the protests from the man, which she quickly shot most of it down with a dirty look. 

This woman you would get to know, fairly quickly; her sandy blond hair tied in a braid that never once got out of place through all her riding and shooting. You’d come to appreciate Mrs. Sadie Adler, with all her sharp words fiercely protecting a warm heart, and the other girls in the gang.

Eventually, you'd care for and rely on them more than any of the women you had known your whole life, other than the unconditional love of your mother—even if that love had gotten you into this situation in the first place, in a way, but you tried not to think about it like that.

You also tried not to think too hard about what she’d think if she could see you now, running with a gang of outlaws after what you’d done.

Tried not to dwell on the fear that the kind-hearted, God-fearing woman may be the first to call the law down upon you if you ever dared to show your face around home again.

Home, though it hadn’t been home for quite some time.

Still, you longed for it, aching for a short-lived era of your life long past—maybe even a time far before then. Days of running for what felt like miles and miles across open fields, but in reality were just your little feet and large imagination carrying you across the sun-bleached grasses of your family’s modest farming property.

Until they found oil underneath it, and everything changed.

You hadn’t always been as prim and proper as you tried to pass off, no. Although you had almost been made for the socializing and charming of high society with your quick wit and sharp intellect that you learned to hide underneath a smile of perfectly acceptable, alluring innocence. But your just as quick temper and sharp tongue was a tell that life for you hadn’t always been getting pinched by corsets and drinking fine wines.

"I'm a high society lady,” you had snapped one day when that Arthur Morgan had laughed at your offense towards the mud a passing stagecoach had splattered on the hem of your dress, “thank you very much, Mister."

"Sure,” he had drawled in a tone so casual it was nearly downright condescending right back, over exaggerating a low bow that made your blood boil. Tipping the brim of his hat back with a coarse trigger finger that had sent more men to the grave than you thought any of you could count, he arched an obnoxiously knowing eyebrow at you and added, “One that can shoot a man right between the eyes at ten paces."

You had waved him off as you turned to stomp away, nearly resorting to a very unladylike gesture that would have only proved his point. Still, your haughty reaction was enough of an answer that he needed, more laughter echoing behind you, so bordering on taunting that your shoulders bunched up around your ears.

Arthur wanted a reaction. He always wanted a reaction from you, though you couldn’t figure out for the life of you why—a reason to give Dutch to kick you out of the camp, maybe. Proof that you didn’t have the gang’s best interests in mind, that for all your chores and schemes that Hosea eventually began to loop you in on, you just weren’t one of them.

And that thought only made you work harder. If Arthur wanted to prove you weren’t loyal, you would only show the exact opposite, just to show him.

Maybe you were just vindictive. 

Maybe, if you were only trying to prove him wrong, you were actually proving him right.

But you did care about those girls, forming a deep bond, a fond kinship with them that you had never felt before with anyone else. You had high esteem for Hosea too, finding a likeness in his sage advice to your father, appreciating the way he gently formed your high society schmoozing into outright swindling the same kinds of folks.

Not to mention you were a wicked good shot. All your father’s shooting lessons had assured this, and the combination of those assets wrapped up with your pleasant, pretty smile on top made you a valuable asset to the group.

As long as you stayed far, far away from Lemoyne and the posters that surely plastered the walls of every town there, and Arthur didn’t give you a reason to make good on shooting him dead like you were raised to do, everything would be just fine.

“Miss Taylor.”

Or maybe not.

Because if that no good Arthur Morgan kept drawling your name like that and giving that tiny hint of a smirk, interrupting you while you were in the middle of enjoying a perfectly good cup of coffee on a pleasantly warm early morning, there was going to be a grave needing to be dug.

“Mr. Morgan,” you replied curtly, not raising your eyes from the words on the page in front of you, holding the book Mary-Beth had loaned you in one hand while taking another sip of coffee with the other. You were out of Miss Grimshaw's view right now, and planning to make good on sneaking in a few pages this morning before getting to work.

“Didn’t they teach you in all your high society fancy lessons to look at somebody when yer talkin’ to them?”

The words weren’t haughty or necessarily accusatory, but more teasing, trying to get under your skin by throwing your claims of being a civilized lady back in your face. Your jaw clenched, eyebrow twitching, and you knew from the quiet, husky chuckle hidden under a breath that you had stepped right into giving Arthur the reaction he wanted, yet again.

“When I’m speaking to an honorable man of high caliber, yes,” you replied smoothly, setting down your coffee for just a moment to turn a page. “Wasn’t aware you were one of those, Mr. Morgan.”

A snicker caught your attention then, and a smirk catches on the edge of your own lips, seeing a flash of red hair from the corner of your eye. You felt the energy shift from Arthur momentarily, and you didn’t need to look to know Sean surely scuttled away from eavesdropping on the two of you at Arthur’s silent intimidation before he settled again.

“Well, I sure as hell ain’t claimin’ to have any sort of honor,” he mumbled, and you gave a noncommittal hum that merely said that you knew this well, lifting your tin back to your lips for another slow sip of the bitter drink.

There was silence for a moment, and you dared to hope that Arthur would move on then, go hand out his warm good morning greetings reserved for almost every member of the gang other than you.

But then the words in front of you were a blur, the paper slipping from your fingers as you reached them out to try and snatch the book back, but Arthur had caught you off-guard, and was already stepping away with the novel in hand.

“Hey!” you snapped, coffee forgotten on the table to rise to your feet, holding the skirt of your dress out of the way to stomp after him. “Really? Don't you have somethin’ better to do?”

“Probably,” Arthur called back to you, sending a wider smirk back over his shoulder at you that made your blood boil. “But mayhaps I wanna see what’s gotten your attention so completely this mornin’, Miss High Society.”

He was still striding quickly away from you, making you start to jog a little to try and catch him, now leading you right across camp as you muttered apologies to anybody you almost ran into, all the while Arthur flipped carelessly through your book’s pages and dodged everybody effortlessly at the same time.

You were giving strong protests, fumbling over your words for once as he kept skimming the pages towards the back of the book, eyebrows raising as he cast a glance back towards you with a surprised laugh.

“Well, Miss Taylor,” he said slowly, his smirk growing into a grin that only spoke of trouble, and you lunged for the book, stumbling past him when he dodged you easily and flipped another page. “I always thought someone of yer education was so above these kinds of…vulgar stories.”

Face heating, you glared at the infuriatingly smug look on Arthur’s face as you snapped back, “It’s not vulgar. It’s romance.”

“Clearly, you haven’t gotten to the end,” Arthur drawled, clearing his throat loudly as he straightened up, and you only had a brief moment of fear for what he was about to do before he began to read out loud, “‘Her hands clutching his luscious, dark curls as he ripped open her bodice, revealing a voluptuous, heaving bosom—’”

You finally managed to snatch the book back then, snapping it shut and clutching it to your own heaving chest, breaths quickened with flustered anger at his satisfaction of having gotten on your nerves, again.

“Well, might as well read those words, outlaw,” you snapped again, returning his own nickname of your status with your nickname of his own, each one thinly veiled with an insult instead of anything remotely fond. “Those pages are the only place you're gonna see a heaving bosom.”

Arthur laughed, the sound loud and hearty, echoing around the camp and surely drawing attention to yet another altercation between the two of you, as it seemed like most days the gang wasn’t functioning as normal without you and Arthur bickering.

“They teach you ‘bout that kind of thing in those fancy lessons too?” he shot back through chuckles, still grinning in a way that was almost wicked, and you felt the heat in your face surge through your whole body as you smacked his shoulder with the book.

“Oh, shut up!” you exclaimed, glare withering as he only laughed louder before you repeated in a hiss. “Shut. Up.”

To his credit, his laughter did ease then, even as he gestured towards the book again and accused, “Now that is just about the worst thing I’ve ever had the displeasure of settin’ my eyes upon.”

You groaned with a roll of your eyes, annoyed that you couldn’t even deny his statement. The book was awful, but Mary-Beth had told you it was one of her favorites, and you had needed a little escape, a little happy fantasy to dream about for a while. "It may be awful, but so what?"

“So what?” Arthur repeated your words in disbelief, nose crinkling up in what was almost disgust as he glanced down towards the book still clutched to your chest. “Don’t tell me you actually like this kind of nonsense. What’s so appealing about getting married to some tall, dark and handsome man?”

You bristled at the word choice, shifting the book into your arms as you crossed them tightly against your chest before biting back, "For your information, Mr. Morgan, some women like these books. They're an...escape. No man is nearly as tall, dark and handsome in real society."

Arthur made an unconvinced noise at the case you made, hand digging through his satchel for a cigarette, leaning over to strike a match on the bottom of his boot at the same moment you felt a fire igniting inside of you at the flick of his fingers, anger burning bright at his apparent indifference towards the case you were making.

“Is it truly so terrible to long for a marriage of love?” you asked, and there must have been something bleeding into your tone that caused Arthur to look back at you, hand holding the lit match pausing halfway to the cigarette perched between his lips before finally lighting it, shaking out the flame even as the one in your soul burned even brighter, hotter. “So many women are trapped into unhappy marriages that they're allowed to dream.”

He watched you silently for a moment, inhaling the smoke from the cigarette before pulling it from his mouth, head turning to blow it out away from your face even as he finally responded, “Well, they sure are dreamin’, then. Ain’t no perfect storybook ending waitin’ out there.”

The bitter tone he spoke the words with were a shock to your system, eyes widening as he gestured towards you with the lit cigarette and added in a voice not quite as hard, but just as disbelieving, something borderline accusatory, “Unless, of course, you’re buying it, Miss High Society. But you running with us now. And if you believe in that, then you’re more naïve than I gave you credit for.”

Any inkling of playfulness you may have felt faded quickly as your insides turned as cold as the steely way he used that nickname for you, with more resentment than you had heard from him before, and although you had always idly wondered if Arthur didn’t like you, in that moment you were fully convinced he actually did hate you.

And in that accusation of your past life, that insinuation of naivete when he didn’t know a damn thing about what it was, you hated him just as much.

“Right,” was all you muttered, closing off from him entirely as you shifted to move past him without another word. You were wasting your breath on somebody like Arthur Morgan, not knowing why you even tried to explain in the first place.

But even then, you saw a flicker of some emotion on his face before you walked by him, those rough features pinching in a way you didn’t recognize, but you kept walking even as you heard his voice call out after you followed by quick footsteps, “Miss Taylor—”

“There you two are!”

You stopped in your tracks as Dutch came striding right towards you, a wide grin plastered on his strong features that was directed first towards you, then sent towards the man you had just been trying to be rid of as he came to a slow stop beside you.

Dutch inserted himself between you and Arthur, patting you gently on the shoulder as he smacked the other hand between Arthur’s shoulders, jostling the younger man and eliciting a glare from him before squeezing both your shoulder and his with the words, “Got the perfect job lined up just for the two of you.”

Your mouth opened to protest in the same moment Arthur’s did, but you were both abruptly cut off from any words to say or even think as Dutch turned his head from side to side, offering a cunning little smirk before addressing you each in turn, “Mr. and Mrs. Callahan.”

taglist: @kmc1989 @5oh5 @vickie5446 @cupofjoel @joelsgreys

[blackseafoam]

These Wells Are Dried

Part 1 of 2

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The Red Lantern is a story I rolled up with The Broken Cask self-guided rpg book. It’s about an inn on the edge of a barren wilderness, owned by a "grumpy on the outside, soft on the inside" half-elf (Nicco) and run by his staff (Arturo, a human ranger and Elleh, a gnome bard). I highly recommend the book! It is so fun, and it got my confidence way up for DMing and creative writing.

The setting is based on the high desert and shrubsteppe of Eastern Washington and Oregon, a very special place.

whumptober 2024. Day 04. sunburn l healing salve l heatstroke l "if my pain will stretch that far"

WC: 2445

SFW no warnings really just peril, bad decisions, and someone almost dies

The high plain’s summer race was brutally hot this year. So bad that many participants had scratched before the starting gun even sounded, despite having trained years for this moment.

Nicco knew his horse could handle it. Cataldo was made for this weather, and the two of them had braved worse together. If anything, the severe heat wave would give them a competitive edge. 

Each year, the Red Lantern Inn hosted the race as one of the checkpoints as well as the first aid headquarters. The famous location had been run by Nicco’s family for generations. The rustic wood paneled operation was self-sustaining, being this far out in the shrubsteppe wilderness. Despite the remote location, travelers came from all over for the experience. Not only was it a place to see riders coming and going, it boasted famously delectable dishes, had quaint lodging, and a haunting bottomless spring in the cellar with healing properties.

The spring had always been open to the public, until five years ago. Nicco had boarded up the cellar and magically sealed the door with no explanation. Since then the inn had lost a good chunk of business, making the High Plains Horse Derby a crucial opportunity to catch up on profits. 

The starting line was twenty miles east of the Red Lantern. Where the tall ponderosa pines on the edge of the nearest mountain range offered the last shelter any of the riders would see for days. From this spot the high desert stretched out below, rolling hills stretching out until they became flat plains far beyond.

Nicco trotted Cataldo in the nearby clearing, a race veterinarian standing by to assess the beast’s gait. A horn rang out. Ten minutes till start. The half elf secured his long black hair into a ponytail and checked his pack one last time. Water was a concern, but he knew this land well, probably better than any of the other racers. Several springs along the way should be his saving grace, so he skimped on water. His gaze drifted up to the other riders heading for the starting line, heavy water skins bouncing with every stride. Nicco would make do with just two. He knew this land, it had always cared for him, and he for it. It was a risk, but calculated. 

Riders stood abreast at the line drawn in the dirt at their feet. The fresh scent of pine needles crunching under hoof perfumed the air along with the excitement and adrenaline of three dozen horses and three dozen riders. Nico patted Cataldo’s already sweating neck, a confident smirk gracing his face as he made eye contact with the rider next to him, who was ogling at Nicco’s lack of waterskins. 

The chatter grew more quiet as the three minute flag holder ran across the field.

The race marshall began the count down.

“TEN, NINE, EIGHT…”

Nicco ground the balls of his feet into the stirrups, heels down.

“...SEVEN, SIX, FIVE…”

He choked up on the reins and flexed his elbows.

“...FOUR, THREE…”

He shook a stray hair out of his face.

“TWO”

Breathe in.

“ONE”

Breathe out.

BANG. The starting gun went and so did thirty six horses. In an instant, Nicco positioned himself up in the saddle, taking his rear off the leather. As everyone around him whipped and kicked, he simply gave Cataldo the space to do what he did best. 

Run.

-

“He’s here!” Arturo leaned out the window as he watched the telltale dust cloud of a group of riders nearing. They were just dark shapes, peeking in and out of view as they traversed the low hills and short sage bushes. Elleh put down the dish she was cleaning and ran to the door. The two of them jogged to the checkpoint station to cheer for their boss. As they neared they saw his waterskins were shriveled, completely empty, his face was flushed red. 

“Nicco are you okay?” Elleh was immediately concerned. 

“Quite fine, Elleh.” He dismounted as the race volunteer signed him in. He leaned closer to her and Arturo “First spring was dry, but it was the smaller of the three.” He said in a hoarse whisper, his lips were severely cracked already. “The next one will have water."

Arturo hummed doubtfully “We have extra water bladders, Ni–”

“NO.” Nicco cut him off. “If you help me I’ll be disqualified, remember? I’ll just refill here, and the next spring is 10 miles away.” He stormed off, leading Cataldo to a cooling off station. Arturo cast Elleh a worried glance, she shrugged and went back inside. When Nicco was cranky AND set on an idea, there would be no convincing him otherwise. 

-

The next spring was dry. 

Nicco tried digging into the cracked earth but it was no use, the deep-rooted plants bordering the basin had already begun to whither and drop their seeds. He bit his thumbnail as he decided what to do next, he looked over at Cataldo. The horse was absolutely drenched in sweat, and they still had a long way to go. He weighed his remaining water in his hands. Surely the next spring, the largest one will have water. With a decisive nod he lowered his hand and mounted again. 

The heat had become even more unbearable as the day wore on. It made Nicco feel like he were fermenting from the inside, sticky sweat clinging to every inch of his skin, nausea creeping up with every stride of his mount.

-

Seven miles further, with 25 more to go. Nicco left the marked trail once more, to find his secret spring. He followed a small gravel line to a low spot behind a hill, anxiously leaning forward to see what awaited. 

A basin of dust. 

Panic immediately rose in the half-elf’s throat. He most certainly was not going to make it to the finish line, that much he could decide right then and there. He had gambled and lost, but what was worse is that Cataldo was an equal in these consequences. He dismounted, wringing his hands and looking at his steed. Taldo probably looked better off than he did. Being a thin-blooded desert horse, he could withstand the lack of water if Nicco was careful. 

He had already given all of his water to the horse on the way here, with a pinch of salt for electrolytes, but Nicco hadn’t had anything to drink but one sip on his way to the second spring. He scratched at his beard nervously one last time, still looking around at the ground as if water would spontaneously erupt out of the earth. There was only one thing to do, head back as efficiently as possible. The rider undid his top wrap. He would share his sun protection with his horse to hopefully save on sweating. Upon remounting, he tucked one end of the fabric into the browband of the bridle, between Taldo’s freckled ears. Then he took the rest of the fabric and tucked it into his belt, creating something of an umbrella for the nag’s neck. It wasn’t much, but it was the best he could do. 

Nicco chirped and squeezed his legs ever so slightly, sending Cataldo into a trot, the most energy efficient way home. Immediately, he could feel the heat of the early afternoon sun begin to prickle his exposed chest, shoulders, and back.

-

A cowbell rang on the west corner of the inn, the cooling station volunteer had been instructed to ring it upon anyone returning to the checkpoint, alerting the staff and medics to prepare for something to potentially be wrong. 

Elleh and Arturo, in the middle of serving food, hurried to the windows along with most of the guests. The cowbell hardly ever went off, but this was the third time they had heard it today, two other riders had scratched out of caution for the heat just an hour ago.

“Can you see the rider?” short-statured Elleh couldn’t see past the crowd, and began to make for the door.

Arturo squinted and craned his neck, “It’s Nicco.” He looked back at her with wide worried eyes. Elleh burst out the door.

Elleh was concerned by Nicco’s sun-baked face before, now she was horrified. Nicco swayed on the saddle as he came in, eyes half-lidded and red, red like the rest of his blistering skin. His black hair was plastered to his forehead, neck, and shoulders with sweat. He swayed harder as he slowed Cataldo to a walk, leaning forward and gripping the front of the saddle, his wrap top that had been protecting the horse’s neck fluttered to the ground. The tiny gnome rushed toward the pair “NICCO!” Arturo was right behind her. The station medic was already on the way as well, and the three of them helped Nicco down. 

“All dry.” Nicco huffed as Arturo supported him, the half-elf’s hand still gripping the saddle. His skin looked an awful lot like the rotisseried pheasants they served in the winter time, blistered and charred deep red.

“Damn it Nicco…” Arturo began to pull him away. 

“No… Can’t leave… Dissqualiff’d” Nicco slurred as he gripped the saddle harder. 

“Boss, your race is over.” Arturo said gently. “We have to go inside, now.” The burly man could feel heat radiating off Nicco’s body like a cast iron pan. He reached out and broke Nicco’s grasp on the saddle. He muttered and protested the whole way to the aid tent as Elleh hurried the horse to the shaded stables.

The race medics had already been prepared for dehydration, heatstroke, and sunburn as the number one concern of the day, but did not expect to see a case this bad. Nicco had been sick, twice, in the short walk to the tent, in between incoherent complainings. Arturo was basically dragging him by the time they got him to a cot, and deposited his lanky figure onto the frame like a dead fish. 

-

Nicco’s blank mind didn’t even try to figure out where he was when his eyes squinted open at the gently rustling canvas ceiling of the tent. He had been drugged by an angry customer once, and that was the first thing his mind went to as he felt like his whole body was made of fog. Like how he imagined performing “misty step” would feel, if he knew any magic. He heard a gentle scratching sound above his head, he tried looking up to see, the cold rag on his neck sliding off. A tiny arm caught it before it tumbled off the cot, and placed it back in its place. Elleh’s rosy-cheeked face came in to view, tight with worry, she set her sketchbook on the stool she’d been sitting on and kneeled next to her boss. Her friend. His eyes started to close again.

“Nicco.” She whispered, she would shake his shoulder, but it was the worst burnt part of him and covered in a strange mint green salve. Instead she reached for his hand and squeezed it. “Nicco.” She said a bit louder. 

His eyes opened a little wider now. Some of the fog had lifted and he could comprehend more of the space now. The little gnome was grabbing his hand, it felt nice. He squeezed it back weakly. He took stock of his surroundings, he was on a hammock-like cot, with naught covering him but his underpants and a few cold wet rags draped over him strategically. Several potions and a canteen sat on an empty stool by his feet. 

“It’s bad Nicco.” Elleh frowned. She was never this serious, something was very wrong. “You almost died.” She barely choked out the words while her eyes went glassy. Nicco was still confused, why was she so upset? He hadn’t seen her cry since the first day he’d met her. Elleh was supposed to be the uplifting one. 

“Cataldo…” Were Nicco’s only muttered words in response. 

A flash of frustration heated Elleh’s sorrowful expression. “Your horse is fine Nicco, you gave him all of your water!” She shook her head, then got serious again. 

She hesitated. “Nicco… you have to unlock the cellar. The medics… they said you could have permanent internal damage.” 

His eyes shot up at her with that all too familiar stubborn look. He shook his head as much as he could before he was too dizzy after two shakes. 

“Whatever… whatever it is, Nicco. Whatever it is you won’t talk about. It isn’t worth this. Please, you’re not thinking clearly. Just tell me how to open it. You could die.” She was begging now, having pulled his hand to her chest and squeezing it even tighter. “Just this one time, then we can lo–” She stopped talking when his dark eyes locked with hers, his cracked lips parted to speak. Nicco rolled over and was sick on the ground at the bard’s feet. Elleh released his hand to grab a nearby bucket, patting her boss on the back as the only secrets he let out were what he had for breakfast that morning. 

-

Nicco fought the severe burns and inflammation for days after, the main medic stayed long overdue her contract to tend to him. Arturo offered to call in someone else so she could get home, but she declined, she had to see the job through. A cleric happened to be passing through the second day and treated the innkeeper to the best of his abilities. Nicco fully woke up the next day, to his caring employees again begging him to open the cellar so he could use the healing waters. He simply shook his head, voice too hoarse to respond. 

Once the boss was semi-ambulatory, the medic left, and he sulked around the inn like a lost ghost. Elleh and Arturo constantly fussed over him to stop moving around. He insisted at least to sit in the kitchen to oversee things, but never lasted long. It was only when he was snoring like a bugbear in his seat that Arturo would force him to go to bed. Nicco was unusually quiet for weeks after, clearly hiding his pain from his doting employees, who were also his closest friends. He laid in bed and tears ran down his blistered cheeks once he was alone. They cared so much for him, care he in no way deserved. He could feel his body not working like it should, the horrifyingly abstract wrongness of it. The magical healing of the cellar pool could help immensely… NO. He buried the idea as quickly as it sprouted. No one could go down there ever again. He wasn’t even sure if he could remember how to break the magical seal anyway. He would take his suffering as long as he could, would he die for his secret? Undecided. He drifted off to sleep. 

--

Author's Note:

I've been so excited to share this! I was struggling to come up with an actual story for these characters until I started writing for this prompt. The second part will show up later for whumptober :)

I just gave it a final edit and I'm so glad I wrote this when it was actually hot out because I would never have thought of some of the descriptions otherwise. I've never actually gotten heatstroke but came close when I went to Pompeii in August a few years ago, that place is like a huge brick oven that is also a maze (but also full of really cool stuff). I fell asleep in the taxi home and woke up on the Airbnb couch, whoops! Stay hydrated, gamers.

[tsupertsundere]

FFXIVWRITES 2024 - Day 1 - STEER Incomplete ---- 742 words ----- Notes: DID NOT EXPECT TO POST THESE NOW but the submission works differently than I thought it would.

editor's notes: the first day is just proving that I can make something like this exist.

Angeline Carax's focus had a weight of its own sometimes. That was according to the family mythology - so heavy that it would slip out of her head and roll onto whatever had caught it, drawn up and absorbed like honey on the tongue. "I'd like to savor it just as much," Angeline said when she was finally able to, which was far too late for it to have mattered, "but the connection seems made to be broken."

Many things are, her mother Wisteria commented drolly. The resulting argument was as tedious as it had been familiar, a long time ago. Distant now, very nearly sweetly so.

It made her lip twitch into a light smile, even as that weighty focus now had caught and spread across the expanse that unrolled before her - Shaaloani, Tural. She had just traced a path through it to reach this vantage point, one she could fancy she could still trace, and her steed's sides huffed in regular rhythm beneath her as Cinnamon caught his breath after the invigorating climb.

Taking in the fabric of each plain, mesa, prarie, meadow, scrubland, wash - if she could go into it deeply enough, she'd be satisfied. As it stood, just staring would have to suffice, though even that at the wrong moment could prove to be costly.

Cinnamon's ears flicked up first before a deep rumbling made the clasps on the saddle and its attached bags clink. With a little gasp Angeline came to, her fluffy curls bouncing beneath her hat as she shook herself back to herself. The rumbling had grown so intense stones around them leapt like tossed coins and Cinnamon shifted nervously, whinnying.

At once, Angeline tightened her thighs around him and clicked her tongue, that heavy focus falling together in a single point with the weight of a black hole. It swept in a ray at the rocky outcropping, and at her whistle she rocked forward as the same time Cinnamon surged. For an instant an impossibility of horse and rider on uneven land flipped the stomach, but with the flexing and twisting of his supple muscles beneath his skin Cinnamon spilled down the scrub ridge As sure-footed as if he had magnetized horseshoes.

The ridges mellowed out quickly, and the slow build up of gravity gathered exponentially like a bowling ball dropped into a halfpipe - Angeline stood in her stirrups to crane her head as finally she could get a glimpse of a huge dust cloud sweeping in off to her right. /Rrhoneeks?/ she thought furrow-browed - deeper still in the distance small figures were running and waving their arms, only one other similarly mounted and, as was easy to presume by the wail unfurling from them like a banner across the plains, out of their depth.

A broad grin spread across Angeline's face beneath the flopping brim of her hat, eyes devilishly shadowed, and she dropped flat across Cinnamon's back as she kicked him up into a full gallop and set them both on a comet-like arc toward the herd.

The miqo'te on the [horse] slowed its gallop as she caught and lost her breath - she lifted her hat and wiped her brow with her forearm, leaving it resting there as she squinted in surprised relief as the rhoneek herd funneled and then stretched out along the comet's trail. With a sharp HUT she replaced her hat and kicked off to hold up the other side.

The thundering of the rhoneek's hooves rattled toward their home pasture - replaced by the young cowpoke's fervent thanks, and to please not mention this overmuch, especially when her uncle was in earshot. "Mention how well you ride? Now why wouldn't I share that?" was all Angeline said in reply with a conspiratorial grin. "These things happen. Nothing days."

"Nothing happening," the girl replied, returning a fanged one of her own.

Angeline's final assessment: "Yes. You'll be just fine."

The sun was setting as Angeline trotted Cinnamon back to town, passing another miqo'te perched - or rather poured - across a fence, cheeks resting on both fists.

When she approached, the weight of her focus made his tail flick. "Need any help there, sir? You're looking mighty flushed," Angeline affected in a long drawl, her giggles disrupting her good ol' college try at the local accent. His look of astonished delight made the attempt more than successful.

"Wh- why - I - well - " he was laughing too hard and quickly abandoned his own attempt at a high coquettish reply

[demise-seems-dead]

@askingkyborg 's main here to bring you some depressing chip mini fic time because im dying

SPOILERS FOR EPISODES 32-34 AND TW FOR suicidal ideation, self harm, and some mentions of blood.

chip in todays ep was so insane for me i just i couldn't resist.

Mathidle hasn't felt a lot of warmth in their after life, and that's alright. The thing about ghosts is that they feel in opposition to a human. When you're alive, you get a spring to your step. You feel the kisses of the sun bead down over your eyelashes. The wind stirs hunger in your stomach and you fight against it in a little human battle. Your hands get warm when you work for too long, calluses thrumming with your pulse and very very warm. Mathilde knows this to be true.

They don't remember holding a lot of hands, but they remember the feeling, maybe due to its stark contrast to know. When a person is very alive, their hands get warm, and when they are dead and gone, their hands grow cold. And thus for ghosts it works the opposite. When alive hands are as cold as frosty knives but when on the brink of death their hands would be ever so warm. 

Ellgas hands were moderately warm. Not technically undead but having lived multiple life spans she grew warm. With Barney it was impossible to tell. Sometimes his hands felt hot, other times too cold. Hard to discern. By way of logic Chips hands are the coldest of course. Being the youngest of the party somehow, and pretty physically adept, he was the most alive of them all, and thus the coldest. Mathilde can't touch the tieflings hands without a shiver climbing up his non corporeal body. 

That's what made today so different. Chip’s are blazing warm. 

They’d been giving blood to the vanian worker in exchange for currency. Mathilde put themselves close to the brink of death, but for good reason. There is a ghost after all, dying again would be a stunt and a half. Their body has started to float, and their items are starting to slowly fade through their body as he inches closer to full spirit than not. It's not as if they enjoy it, but the familiar tickle isn't a bad thing. 

From beside them a sharp gasp comes from Barney's throat. A head turn shows chip loading up his crossbow, using the cocking stirrup and his foot to slide the bolt back with ease. Its a weird action for someone who had initially seemed hesitant to donate any blood at all. Mathilde raises an eyebrow just as the purple tiefling points the crossbow down at his foot and shoots. A shot of blood stains the white of his shoe and he noticeably grimaces. JJ mews from beside mathilde, circling where his feet are dangling. Mathilde knows kittens know when people are close to passing on, and especially a ghost cat. Mathilde bends a bit to scratch her tiny little grey head to let her know they're okay. It's weird knowing you're close to dying, but as a ghost it doesn't hurt, so it's a bit easier. Another crossbow bolt is shot, and JJ’s ears flatten down a little. 

Mathilde looks back up towards chip. A fuzzy outline is starting to show on him, blue and purple swirly. His face is tight and screwed up, nose pressed into grooves and eyes watering. They can hear a crack of barney's voice, like he's about to say something but pauses. The old man's brow furrows. The teller behind the counter starts counting out money softly, and chip moves in a quick motion. Mathilde momentarily thinks he's putting it away, but after a moment it's drawn, but up by his head. 

“Mon ami, maybe be a little bit more careful w-” Mathilde doesn't finish their thought before the bolt is wedged in chip's neck. It drips a long red string, and mathilde can see ellga lick her lips ever so slightly, but does not ignore the slight worry in her brows. 

Mathilde knows Chip can't take many more shots. Three if he was lucky. Yet it doesn't stop him from moving again. Mathilde closes their eyes as he hears the loading noise, and with the shot the blurry ghost-like outline grows stronger, the purple colour bloombing out more. Another shot. That makes five. He can only take one more. JJ is meowing at the tiefling, who's struggling to stand, blood dripping out of his mouth and leaned over the counter. The clerk seems unphased. 

Mathilde closes their eyes again, and sees a new colour. A soft green pushing the blue and the purple away in the dark. Instinctually, as the light brightens, mathilde opens their eyes. Chip is shuttering audibly, eyes lazing open and shut as he braces.

“Carols gone, what else is there to lose…?” JJ bats at chip’s leg, as if in an effort to stop him. Mathildes face stiffens  at the assassin's comment, and they gently wrap an arm around chip, protectively surrounding him with his wings. 

“Alright, I think that's enough. We’ve got plenty of spending money, right chip?” “...Spendin’ money… r-right, right yeah! Were, were rich!” The brunette moves to pick up his currency and his fingers fumble uselessly, eyes lidded slightly. Mathilde makes their hands noncorporeal and gently scoots the coins to his hands without him noticing, not to make him feel coddled. The alchemist shoots a look over his shoulder at mathilde, and mathilde nods back. The mood remains a bit darker and dreary, but chip seems somewhat stable. Mathilde takes his hand gently. The tieflings hands are warm as can be, and it makes a flood of warmth come over mathilde themselves. 

Weirdly, if just for a moment, he feels a second hand reach over theirs. They close their eyes and see a ghostly outline of a tiefling woman, her hand over yours and chips. She presses a finger to her lips and gives a soft but saddened smile. She mouths to them gently.

“Don't let him down this path, mathilde…” A ghostly wiz-consinite voice whispers in their head. He opens his eyes again to see chip leaning down, smiling at a photo in his hand. Mathilde smiles softly.

“I'm glad she's watching over you, my friend.” they say even though the rogue will likely forget his words from the blood loss. He nods and smiles a bit more. 

“‘M glad too, mathilde…” 

[ladylooch]

Hiiii! 👀

Could you write about T&Em first time after one of the babies? The 6 weeks of waiting must have been crazy! Ily 😘

-💜

A/N: First I LOVE YOU SO MUCH!!!! Okay, now I can focus on writing this… I am using after Emma gave birth to Liv here. Because I feel with the twins they waited longer than 6 weeks and Emma had a “get the fuck away from me” mindset ☠️🤣

“How are you feeling?” Emma’s doctor asks as she is washing her hands in the sink.

“Great.” Emma responds cheerily. She truly is feeling well, which made the 6 week rule feel harder than she remembered it being with Lio. 

“And Livia is good?” 

“Yes! We are thinking of keeping her.” Emma jokes. 

“Ha! Good! How is Lio? You can lay down.” She says as she comes to her stool. 

“He’s… adjusting? Not quite used to sharing our attention.” Emma admits as she lays back. After two babies and countless doctors, nurses, and med students looking at her giving birth, having her feet in stirrups no longer phases her. 

“All normal. How is Timo? Boys are playing well.”

“Very well. We are looking forward to playoffs.” 

“Great! Well…” She pauses. “I am going to give you the green light here. Everything looks good. You’re feeling good. You have your birth control going?”

“Popping them like mints.” Emma chuckles. 

“I can’t remember, did you want to do an IUD again?”

“Um, I don’t think so. We are going to try to stick with the pill for now. Having a different brand and dosage makes me comfortable with going back after Lio.”

“Okay. Well if you change your mind, give us a call. Have a great day. Thanks for the pictures of Livia!” 

Emma quickly hustles to change back into her work outfit. She has an hour to get 16 blocks, but she isn’t quite sure if that’s going to cut it. She stuffs her heels in her bag as she walks out of the clinic, opting instead for her sneakers. On her way to the event center, she sends Timo a quick text.

You may pass go tonight.

Her husband’s internal response? Fuck waiting until tonight.

- - - 

Emma is hustling up to her office to go answer some emails she had been reading through on her phone. The event downstairs is going well and the assistant event planner had everything covered in the main space, leaving Emma to focus on the next event happening this weekend. Emma pushes the door open to the office suite, then heads to the water cooler to refill her water bottle. She takes a big chug, then almost chokes at the shadow of someone in her office. 

But she has nothing to worry about. Leaning against her desk is Timo Meier. He’s in one of his game day suits, his bare ankles crossed together, hands stuffed into the pockets of his blue, pinstripe suit. 

“Ah… hi.” Emma is breathless in the doorway. She glances over to where her window shades are drawn, looking out into the rest of the office. They are normally open. “What’s up? Are the babies okay?”

“They are.” Timo murmurs, not moving from where he is. 

“Timo.” Emma begins to shake her head. “We can’t.”

“Sh.” He cuts her off briskly. “Shut the door.” He tosses two finger in a backwards motion. She doesn’t move. Timo sighs, standing up, walking towards her. He towers over her as he reaches beyond her, putting his hand on the side of the door. “If you seriously don’t want to do this, you can walk out this door right now. No questions asked.” It’s the way he allows her to make a dash for it that has Emma’s inner muscles clenching.

“If I stay?”

“We are going to fuck the pictures off your desk again.” Emma moans, pushing Timo’s chest to knock him back towards the point of discussion. Timo startles back, blue eyes going wide with excited surprise. “That’s my girl.” He catches her as she leaps towards him. He hoists her up on his chest, bringing a hand to her ass to hold her up. “Finally going to give you a proper thank you for my perfect, baby girl.”

“I shouldn’t like that sentence.”

“Yeah you should. You’ve been so good to me. Now I’m going to be good to you.”

Emma can’t help but whimper as he sets her down on her desk. He sits on her office chair. Heavy inhales have her lips quivering as Timo runs his finger tips up her thighs.

“Can I taste you?” Emma nods earnestly. “Nipples?” 

“No.”

“How deep?”

“We will play it be ear.”

“Okay.” His fingers dart under her skirt, hooking around her panties and pulling them off. They’re red, a bit see through but a distinct, wet trail has dampened the fabric. Timo grins.

“You know I was coming?”

“I figured.” She admits, working her way back to rest her weight on the heels of her hands behind her. She brings her leg up to his shoulder, then hooks her ankle around the back of his head to bring him closer to her core. He laughs wickedly, then dives tongue first into her heat. 

Every stoke of Timo’s tongue against her folds has Emma trembling against the glass top of her desk. His big hands come round her hips, pulling her by her ass to his mouth. His tongue works and slurps her clit, like it’s a dripping ice cream cone he wants every drop of.

“Ohmygod.” Emma breathes out. The words shake in her mouth. “Yes. More.” She begs. He adds a suction to his mouth. “Oh yep, right there.” She nods frantically, reaching for his hair and holding him to her. “Don’t stop. Please Baby. Oh… my… Yes!” She squeaks out a needy whine as she comes on his face. 

Her orgasm washes over her folds, dampening her more until Timo isn’t sure what is from her or his mouth. He kisses her clit, causing her to jolt. He stands from the chair, kicking it back and out of the way as he reaches for his belt. He pops it open, staring down at Emma’s drunk daze with hot, burning desire. He is going to have to restrain himself from fucking her hard. 

“Tell me how to take you.” He drags a thick digit through her soaked folds, adoring the way she pushes into him. She’s ready again. 

“From behind.” He nods, then gently glides his middle finger into her entrance. She moans, fluttering around the appendage, desperate for more. “Babe, help me up.” He takes her hands, satisfied with how wobbly she stands on her heels. He steadies her, hands at her hips, then turns them. He presses down on her back, falling in love with her again as she looks back at him over her shoulder. 

He works himself out of his pants, giving two pumps of his shaft, squeezing the tip too as he folds her skirt up her back. He puts a guiding hand on her ass, then the other at the bottom of his shaft.

“Are you on the pill?” He asks, pausing at her entrance. He is pretty sure he saw her take it this morning.

“Yes.” She is croaky. Just how he likes her. 

He puts the tip of his dick against her, practically falling over at how good her wet pussy feels around his cock. 

“Mmm.” He moans profoundly as he pushes in. He removes his hand from his shaft, gripping her other hip to pull her completely down on him. Emma turns to jello against the desk. She has a sharp inhale of breath. “Okay?” He pauses.

“Move, T. I’m begging. Will do anything for you to fuck me harder. Please.” Timo’s eyes widen, then his balls tighten at her needy pleads. 

“Anything?” He teases, easing out, then pressing back in. Her moan is louder this time. “Will you scream my name when you cum?” He asks her. She nods, reaching back around to grip his bare ass with her hand. She digs her red fingernails into his thick cheek, encouraging him deeper. He picks a consistent tempo, but three strokes in, he knows he’s not going to last much longer. She feels too good and begs him for more with each thrust. Fuck holding back, she’s okay. Off he goes. Timo’s balls slap hard against Emma’s folds as he rails into her. She puts more pressure into her finger nails.

“Oh…..” She grits her teeth. “Timo, fuck.” She wails. Goosebumps protrude out of her skin, puckering her nipples in her bra as he takes her hard and deep. He slaps her ass firmly, leaving a stinging behind as that pushes her over the edge. Emma comes hard around Timo. He coughs at her fluttering then releases his load inside her dripping heat. 

“Oh my god.” Timo moans as he finishes. “Perfect. Your pussy is perfect, baby.” He assures her. 

Timo puts himself back into his underwear. He redoes his belt as Emma takes a chance to recover. Her pictures are strewn about the office again, making her purse her lips against a laugh. She feels Timo crouch behind her. He lifts one Louboutin pump, then the other, dragging her panties back into place. Then, he pulls her skirt back down, giving her ass a greedy grope. 

“Good as new.” He hauls her up flush against his chest. She melts into him for a moment. “See you at home for round two?” He trails his finger tips up her stomach, resting beneath her breasts.

“Mhm.”

“Have a good event, baby.” He kisses her throat, dragging his teeth over until he leaves a mark. Good thing Emma has make up in her bag. Although, she thinks that may have been her husband’s point. 

Once Emma is steady on her feet, Timo walks to the door, opening and turning to toss her a kiss before he disappears completely. 

“I love you, Mrs. Meier!” He calls out to her as he leaves her office suite. 

Emma giggles, then gets started on putting everything back together, including herself.

[ikeromantic]

Hiiii hope you are doing great!💕

*pulls up to the Ikeromantic drive thru*

I'd like to order a Kyubei with the word ''instructor'' (if it doesn't inspire you a lot you can take the word ''secret''!👀) with some 🥵, if it's possible!

(Btw i just wanted to tell you that i really love your stories, you write so well!!😔👌🏻)

Ding! Fries are done? xD Some Kyubei to quench your thirst. Approx 1500 words with a touch of spice.

Kyubei met the chatelaine at the stables. He didn’t need to ask how she felt about this lesson. He could read her anxiety in the set of her shoulders and the tightness of her jaw. Clearly, she’d never been around horses and was afraid of the large, sometimes flighty creatures.

“Here,” he gestured her over to a bay mare. “This is Ayumu. You’ll be practicing on her today.” The horse was one of the calmest mounts in the castle, and well trained enough that all a rider really needed to do was stay mounted. 

The chatelaine eyed the horse distrustfully. “Are you sure I can’t just walk wherever I’m going? I did track in high school. I can go pretty fast.” 

“Track? High school?” Kyubei found it endearingly strange when she used these made-up words. 

“Umm. Never mind. Anyway, is this really necessary? Where am I even going that I need to ride there?”

He shrugged. “Wherever Lord Oda decides you need to go, I guess.” 

The chatelaine crossed her arms. “Well, maybe I don’t want to just run where he points. I’m fine right here.”

Kyubei laughed at her stubborn expression. She was cute when she made that face, with her eyebrows drawn down and her cheeks puffed out. 

“It’s not funny!”

“It is. Now stop delaying and come meet Ayumu.” He gestured toward the horse. “You want to hold your hand out to her, so she can smell you and decide if she likes you or not.”

“Oh so I don’t get to decide but the horse does,” the chatelaine grumbled as she did what he asked. Her hand trembled as she held it out to the mare. 

Ayumu snuffled her outstretched hand, probably hoping for a treat.

The chatelaine’s expression went from fear and annoyance to surprise. “It - it tickles! And she feels so soft!”

Kyubei’s smiled stretched so wide it hurt his cheeks as he watched the chatelaine scratch Ayumu’s nose and chin. “She likes you.”

“How can you tell?”

“Well, you still have all your fingers,” he teased. His reward was a surprised ‘o’ as her eyebrows shot up. “I’m only kidding. I can tell because she looks happy. You can see it in her eyes, the same way you see it in a person’s gaze.”

“Hmmph.” She looked back at Ayumu. “You are as bad as Mitsuhide sometimes, Kyubei.” 

Her smile as she said it made him feel warm inside. He laughed. “I shall take that as a compliment.” 

Once the introductions were done, he showed her the saddle, bridle, and other tack. Ayumu didn’t need a bit, but Kyubei showed the chatelaine that too as he couldn’t be sure what horse she would ride on a journey. As usual, Mitushide had been vague about what type of saddle she should use, so Kyubei made sure to show her all of them - even the ni-gura which a peasant might use to ride. But for their practice, he chose a warrior’s kura, a saddle only warlords and their noble soldiers would use. It seemed . . . fitting.

They saddled Ayumu together, with Kyubei directing as the chatelaine draped and buckled and tied the assortment of gear onto Ayumu. For her part, the mare was placid and didn’t seem to mind the chatelaine’s clumsy work. 

Then came the hard part. “You have to either lift your foot high and put it in the abumi and then swing your other leg over the horse or you can leap up, hook your foot in it, and swing your leg over.” Kyubei grabbed the stirrup to illustrate.

“Ehm. What? Can’t you like . . . lower it a bit?” She stared hard at the abumi in his hand.

“No. If you lower it, you won’t be high enough to swing your other leg over her back. And it’s hard to adjust the straps once you are in the saddle.” He gestured her over. “I will help you get up this time, until you are more comfortable with mounting.”

The chatelaine sighed. “Alright. But remember, I’m doing this under protest.” She put a hand on his shoulder and tried to lift her leg high enough to get it in the stirrup, but it was out of reach. She wobbled precariously, and only a quick hand to her back kept her from falling over.

“Let me give you a boost.” Kyubei knelt down and made a basket with his hands. “Just step -”

The chatelaine didn’t need instructions for this, it seemed. She stepped into his hands and let him boost her up high enough to get her leg over the mare’s back. Then she easily slipped her feet into the stirrups. 

Kyubei watched her face light up with a smile of wonder. She was so beautiful in that moment that he felt his heart stutter as his chest filled with a hopeless, helpless love.

“Is something wrong?” Her expression clouded over as she looked down at him. 

“No - no, not at all. I just had a - an unrelated thought.” He mentally chided himself for letting his emotions show on his face. “So, now you’re mounted. That was the hard part. Riding is easy. You lightly guide with the reins and use your knees to put a little pressure to her side.”

Ayumu huffed at the chatelaine’s clumsy motion and began to turn. In circles. 

Kyubei couldn’t help but laugh as she tried to course correct and ended up going in circles the other way. 

“Stop laughing and help me!” The chatelaine wobbled in the saddle. 

“Ah, hahaha ok. Ok, sorry.” He cleared his throat. “Just let the reins go slack. Yes. See how she stopped?” Kyubei moved closer and reached up to lay his hand over the top of hers. His other hand rested gently on her leg. He was suddenly, terribly aware of her warmth under his touch and his mind went completely blank.

She nodded. “Ok, yes. So how do I make her go forward?”

“Forward.” Kyubei repeated. Her leg was firm beneath the thin fabric of her hakama. He tried to ignore the sensation. Riding. Horse riding, he reminded himself. “You just nudge her side, like so.” He pressed her leg against the mare’s side. 

Ayumu immediately began to walk forward at a sedate pace. 

Kyubei walked along beside her, still resting his hands on the chatelaine. As they approached the edge of the ring, he laced his fingers with hers and tugged the reins gently to turn. Holding hands! They were holding hands! No - no - focus. He looked up.

The chatelaine was looking down at him, her cheeks stained with heat. She looked away as soon as their eyes met. “Umm. So. I - I nudge and . . . tug . . .”

“R-right.” Kyubei pulled his hands away and put them behind his back. “Now you try.”

“Ok.” She took a breath and nudged Ayumu again. The horse sped up a little, turning with the slight pull at her reins. Her smile returned as she rode around the ring a full turn. “Look! Kyubei! I’m doing it!”

“I knew you could.” He felt a foolish smile spread across his face, but he could not stop it and did not really want to. 

She giggled.”It’s actually kind of fun!” She nudged Ayumu to go faster, and the horse complied. They went around and around the training ring, with the chatelaine building confidence in her ability to stop, turn, and speed up. But just as she began to relax, a barn rat darted across the mare’s path.

If there is anything a horse hates, it is small, fast things moving near its legs. Ayumu reared back, tossing her head. The chatelaine tumbled from the saddle. 

Kyubei darted forward, his heart hammering in his ears. It was a split second, but in that tiny sliver of time, he closed the distance between them. She slammed into his chest as she fell, and nearly knocked him off his feet. But he kept his balance, cradling her against him. “Are you ok?”

She went limp in his arms and let her head rest on his shoulder. “I think so?” Her eyes found his and there was something in them. Something warm and sweet as honey. “You caught me.”

“I couldn’t let you get hurt. I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself.” Kyubei knew he should probably set her down but his arms weren’t of the same opinion, and held her more tightly instead. 

“Not even for a few bruises?” She smiled.

Kyubei smiled. ”Not even for a few bruises.”

The chatelaine’s fingers brushed against the line of his jaw. He held his breath at the unexpected touch, even as it ended too quickly. “Thank you, Kyubei.”

“O-of course.” Now put her down, he thought. He forced the tension in his arms to relax and began to set her on her feet. “I - I’m going to set you on your feet, ok?”

Her arms went around his shoulders in a sudden flurry of motion. “W-wait!” 

“What is it? Does something hurt?”

“Maybe?” She let her head settle on his shoulder again. “Give me just . . . just another minute?”

“As long as you like,” he replied. Forever, even, he thought guiltily. Here she was, feeling perhaps a little dizzy or hurt, and all he could think of was how nice she felt in his arms. Love truly did make fools of anyone.

"Thank you." Her breath ghosted across his throat, tickling and light.

Kyubei tried to keep his thoughts together, but they scattered into a thousand imagined moments. Kissing her when she next looked up, those satin lips against his, the way her hair would brush against his cheek as she clung to him. Carrying her to his room, undressing her one undone tie at a time. Letting his hands explore her body with no fabric to separate them.

He wanted her so much that it hurt. The desire he felt, to make love - to know every part of her body and soul and mind. He could imagine late nights of passion, the sounds she would make. And long, slow, gentle mornings. Kissing the sleep from her face before they . . .

"You feel good," she sighed.

"What?" He felt a shiver run through him.

"Ummm. I mean. I. Feel. Good? Not hurt. I mean." She pushed away from him. "You can - ah - set me down?"

The moment between them passed as if it had never happened. Kyubei felt a pang of loss as he let go of her. It took every ounce of artifice and will in him to smile placidly and ask, "Are you ready to get back on the horse?"

[kathyy-21]

Ominis Gaunt x Hufflepuff!F!Reader | "bruises" |

Genre: Fluff/angst

Warnings: mention of verbal bullying/a physical fight.

Summary: Reader getting into a 'Muggle fight' with a Gryffindor students because he was about to put Ominis into an uncomfortable situation.

Relationship can be read as platonic? Maybe. Pre-relationship kind of situation.

Start of story

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

You had known Ominis for a little while by now. You being a Hufflepuff and him being a Slytherin, your paths still crossed rather often, and you didn't really deteste each other despite your differences.

Surprisingly, or maybe not that surprisingly, you grew rather fond of him over the weeks you'd know him, and he could say the same about you if he pleased to do so.

You were walking to your next class with Poppy, chatting happily as you noticed the blonde boy, who should now be headed to a different class. As you wanted to call out for him, you were interrupted by another student, doing just the same, in a much different tone you would have chosen.

,,Hey, Gaunt!", the taller boy yelled through the hallway, causing Ominis to perk up in your direction, his expression only changing into a slight frown.

You on the other hand, were almost pulling a grimace. Even though Ominis had not exactly opened up to you about them, you knew he didn't want to be assosiated with the Gaunts or his doings anymore. So bad, that it must have pained him to be called by his last name in such a voice, that was clearly trying to cause harm to the blind student.

Not thinking twice about it, your body took it upon itself to walk over and confront the bully, appearing to be a Gryffindor. Being at least a tad smaller than him, you had to look up at him, which didn't stop you from trying to put him in his place.

"Who do you think you are?",

You gritted out, voice already sounding pressed, as your opponent lifted his hands up in defense. His swollen voice only made your anger against him grow further.

"What do you mean, I just wanted to call him over by his name... is there anything wrong with it?"

Acting innocently, he pulled up his eyebrows into a concerned expression, only causing you to loose your composion further.

Poppy tried her best to reason with you, but even you insisted on having this issue off the table right now.

As you pulled him down at his tie, there was still hope for it to end peacefully. Ominis had made his way through to you by now, standing at the side of the circle that had formed itself around the two of you, next to poppy.

"Ominis, I'm sorry, uh.." she tried to collect her words to best describe what she was apologizing for, without offending him as well. Yet, the boy had already formed his own picture in his mind.

"But what is she doing..?",

His expression now seemed just as concerned, as he tried making sense of the noises and conversation, over the constant babbling of the other excited students around.

Poppy could only tell him so much:

"I'm not sure if they can find a peaceful solution to this"

His body stiffens, hoping, maybe even praying to Merlin, that this would not end in a duel, since he already had an Idea of what kind of Student you were currently offending, and it did never seem to Ominis that he was much of a fair duelist, ending up seriously injuring people in defends against the dark arts.

A stirrup of commotion in the middle of the situation had drawn both of their attention back to the scenario playing before them. A loud thud and an irritated groal drom the Gryffindor indicating, the situation to Ominis mind: he had already casted a spell at you, and you must be hurt on the ground already.

Trying to interfere in the fight already, Ominis wanted to step forward, but was held back by a hand on his shoulder, that was probably covered in a nervous sweat: Poppy.

"Stop, Ominis... it's not safe. We can't do anything about it right now!",

His expression changed to a softer, but definetely not less concerned one as he turned into her general direction. The girl seemed just as pained by the fact they were helpless right now as he was. Even He knew it wasn't like Poppy to just stand by and watch.

To his surprise, or much more confusion, the commotion wasn't over yet, but he couldn't really make sense of the noise either. As it came to a stop, he could hear both of your heavy breathing, and you both whispering. Ominis was probably the only one being able to hear it clearly, as the other students were already parting ways again.

"I'm... im sorry, okay?",

"Don't apoligize to ME.

This week, better tomorrow, I will ask him and you will have apologized to HIM.",

"Okay, okay, just let me leave, will you?"

"I better not hear from him that your apology wasn't good enough either",

Before the two of you could part, you were already held by professor Sharpe, who seemingly was called by another student to clear the scene and take responsibility of Necessary consequences.

Now that he knew there was a professor nearby, Ominis couldn't contain himself and immediately walked over to you, struggling to find what he wanted to say first. Addressing at sharpe, his voice sounded unusually shaken: "what does she look like, is she hurt..?"

The response only seemed to confuse Ominis more.

,,She looks like a darn troublemaker.",

Were you not the one being beaten up?

By an unfair duelist??

Sharpe promised appropriate consequences for you actions, as he took you to the hospital wing, where you were treated accordingly to your wounds and bruises, the door opening only a little while later, revealing the boy you had taken this all for.

,,Ominis",

You smiled lightly at his appearance, also knowing he was probably upset about your behavior. He seemed a little more pale than usual, and his body language seemed much more uncertain than you knew of him.

"You can sit down here if you'd like... uhm I want to apologize to you",

Ominis nodded understandingly, but immediately shook his head at your apology.

"Stop it.. you don't need to apologize... you got into this fight because of me, and even ended up hurt",

The hint of pain in his voice was not entirely new to you, yet you still had to get used to this vulnerability.

You sat up straight and furrowed your eyebrows once more, trying to understand what he was getting at.

"I'm okay... and it's not like you told me to fight him. It's not more than a few bruises, really.",

It stayed quiet in the room for a little while, until he felt like he could dare to raise his voice again.

"But.. how did you do that? I heard that it wasn't even a duel, but.. a 'muggle fight'",

You laughed at the expression and shook your head lightly to keep your composure. Careful not to spook him, you placed your hand on top of his and gave him a reassuring squeeze. Even though he first wanted to pull away, the warmth of your touch kept him there, just to experience your comfort. It felt so calming, yet scary, since it had been quite a while since he had allowed someone to keep physical contact upright with him for longer.

Turning his gaze to your general direction, he spoke a lot quieter now.

"But is he not.. much taller than you? I thought he had totally beaten you..I was.."

Ominis didn't manage to get the words out, but it was not hard for you to understand what he was trying to say.

"Worried.. I know. And that's why I'm sorry.",

Now taking his hand in both of yours, you continued: "I didn't mean to make such a fuss, but... he was clearly trying to make you feel uneasy.",

After those words, another wave of silence came upon the both of you, the blind boys face now seemed like he was thinking intensely, almost losing his attention on his surroundings at the thought. Then, as he had finally built the courage to say it, your heart skipped a beat at his request.

,,can I.. touch your face? I wish to convince myself of your wellbeing.",

A little tint of pink was on his face, knowing the question might be awkward to you, yet you couldn't contain a smile as you gave him your permission.

,,go ahead",

Leaning a littke into his direction, you took the wrist of his hand he had lifted, to guide him to your cheek. Your skin felt warm and fizzy at the contact, his hands being rather cold. A little giddiness ran through your body as he guide his hand and fingers across your features.

"Thank you...", Ominis whispered, also feeling childishly energetic at the scenario. His touch was careful and soft, yet you couldn't help but flinch away as he came across a particularely nasty bruise around your eye. Ominis expression became a mixture of worry and anger, as he let out a frustrated sigh, dropping his hand again, as he had felt enough.

,,how could you say you're okay, when you feel like this...? This moron really beat a girl like you.. in front of the whole year 6...", the way his lips curled downwards made you hurt inside. Yes, you knew it wasn't appropriate of either of you, yet you felt pretty offended at the thought that this guy, actually did try beating you up without shame. Yet, you give him an amused response.

"Well, I still won though. Apparently he only knows how to duel, but I will stay experienced in physical combat."

You look at him expecting of a little laugh, or anything that would show he's cheered up, yet there was nothing but sadness on his features. You could have sworn, tears were brimming at the corner of his eyes for a second.

The guilt now totally overcame you.

"Oh Ominis... I'd like to give you a hug, is that okay? I'm really sorry",

You knew he might not accept your offer, yet you just couldn't stand seeing him this way. It surprised you even more, when he quickly hugged you instead, clumsily laying his arms around yours, so you could only place your hands to his sides as he sniffled into your shoulders. It hurt a little, since he was putting pressure on another bruise, but you couldn't deny him this either.

Even though you were taken aback, you did not decide to bother him with further talk. You had never seen him like this before, and you were sure, he didn't know how to handle this feeling right now either.

[sleepsart]

Wear your GODDAMN glasses !! Based on a post by @yb-cringe

[ ID: A drawing of Fit and Ramón, with Fit being drawn from the chest up and Ramón being mostly visible. Fit is holding Ramón up and leaning back with a grin. Ramón is trying to shove a pair of glasses onto his dad's face, and he looks determined. Fit is wearing a t-shirt, a bandana, and an earring. His left arm is a prosthetic supported with a few straps. He is covered in scars. Ramón is a young dragon-like kid with horns, long ears, a pointed tail, clawed feet and hands, and a pair of wings. He's wearing a hat, goggles, a t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up, shorts, stirrup socks, and a bandana with a mustache on it. He also has a bracelet with a mustache charm on it. He has a couple bandaids on as well. End ID ]

Tag List: @luna-spacedoodles @convexers @renchanters @grey-nova @chimbamuerto @gardenergulfie @oakskull @griancraft @bellemyers @solardashpraxus

[just-a-girl-who-wrytes]

Part 9 ❤️🍼💍

The following week, David was sitting next to Nikki in her first OBGYN appointment. She had just had her blood work drawn and they were waiting to be called back into the ultrasound room. 

When her name was called, she stood up, excited but hesitant. She was remembering this very same walk when she carried Dakota, but oh, how different this time was.She felt David squeeze her hand which snapped her out of her thoughts. She hadn’t realized she hadn’t moved after standing up. 

“Ready, babe?” He asked softly. 

She nodded and they followed the ultrasound tech into the room. The ultrasound was to determine how far along she was since she had no earthly idea. She was sent to the bathroom to undress from the waist down and returned with a sheet around her lower half. Deacon and the nurse helped her up onto the table. She placed her feet in the stirrups in preparation for the vaginal ultrasound. 

Nikki couldn’t put her finger on it, but there was something calming about the love of her life being next to her throughout this process. The human body was nothing to be embarrassed about to Nikki, but she dealt with the nitty gritty on a regular basis. She knew a lot of women felt uncomfortable exposed like this - laying on a table, spread eagle. She knew a lot of women didn’t like a hint of light being on if their pants were down, but David didn’t make her feel like that. She appreciated that. 

David sat on the side of Nikki opposite the ultrasound tech with one hand over Nikki’s on her belly, his other hand stroking the hair on her head. David struggled to make out what he was looking at on the screen as the tech entered the probe into Nikki, but soon saw a little bean shaped baby on the screen. Nikki started crying as soon as she saw their baby and heard the heart beat. Tears welled up in Deacon’s eyes as well. 

“Baby…” Nikki cried. 

“I see, darling.” Deacon said, his tone of voice like a hug to Nikki’s soul. “Isn’t our baby beautiful?”

Deacon pulled Nikki’s hand to his lips and kissed it as they watched their baby wiggle around on the screen and the tech took pictures and measurements. 

“You’re measuring approximately 11 weeks along,” the tech said, “but your blood work will also confirm that too.”

“Thank you so much.” Nikki said. 

 

Once the ultrasound was over, Nikki and Deacon followed the tech to their exam room. The doctor came in and told Nikki that her bloodwork confirmed we was 11 weeks and 3 days along, however her electrolytes were off from being sick and not eating and she was extremely dehydrated. After the birth control was removed from Nikki’s arm, the couple were sent to another area of the office where Nikki received an IV and fluids filled with electrolytes accompanied by some IV nausea medicine. 

 

Deacon knew Nikki had felt bad, but didn’t realize it was to the point of needing IV fluids, replacement electrolytes, and IV nausea

medication. Nikki admitted to him she didn’t realize that either. Regardless, a new Nikki walked out of the doctor’s office and he was so relieved to see her color back, her seemingly feeling better, and most of all - ready to eat. Deacon was thankful for everything that day: Nikki, her health, her feeling better, and most of all - their baby. He opened Nikki’s door for her and helped her in before taking his place in the driver’s seat. 

“Where would you like to eat, baby?” Deacon asked, reaching his arm across the console and resting his hand on her lower belly. 

“Mmmm..” Nikki started. 

“No.” Deacon cut her off, “I asked the baby. Not you.”

He held her gaze with a serious look for a moment and then winked at her. 

she laughed and popped his arm with her hand. 

“A cheeseburger sounds delectable.” Nikki said. 

“Easy, babe, you’re drooling.” Deacon tapped her chin with his index finger as he laughed, “But seriously, whatever you want, my love. As long as I get to see you eat something.” 

 

The couple were snuggled up watching a movie and eating supper when David’s pager went off signaling he had to leave. Nikki got off of the couch with David to hug him goodbye. He put on his badge and his gun before wrapping his arms around his girlfriend. 

“I love you so much, beautiful.” David said, burying his face in her hair. “I love both of you.”

Nikki kissed Deacon’s neck, then his jaw, resting on his lips. 

Deacon pulled away first, got down on his knees, lifted Nikki’s shirt up, and kissed her belly. 

“Daddy loves you, baby.” He said against Nikki’s skin. 

Nikki couldn’t stop herself from smiling as she watched and listened to David talk to their unborn baby. 

“Be safe, sweetheart,” Nikki said while David stood to his feet. They kissed again before she watched him leave. 

 

“What’s got you grinning like the Cheshire cat?” Luca asked when he saw his teammate walk into the building. 

Deacon chuckled, “Nikki went to the doctor today. She got some fluids and medicine. She’s done a complete 180. Man, I’m so glad she’s feeling like herself again.”

“Admit it, Deac, that’s only so you can get some.” Hondo chuckled, walking by Deacon and patting him on the shoulder. 

“You got me!” Deacon pointed at Hondo, following him with his index finger. 

The team joked together for a few minutes before Hondo gave them the run down of why they were all there. 

Once the mission was complete, David was more than ready to return home to his girl and their baby. He needed her in his arms.

 

The next morning, David woke to Nikki snuggled up next to him, tracing circles in his chest. 

“I’m ready to be your wife…” 

David perked up, waking up more when he heard Nikki say those words. 

“Hmmm, is that so?” He asked. 

“Are you not?” Nikki had a hint of concern in her voice. 

“Why don’t we go today?” 

Nikki pulled her head off of his shoulder and propped herself up on her elbow to look at him.

“What?”

“I said… why don’t we get married today?” David brushed a piece of her hair behind her ear. “All we have to do is go down to the magistrates office, sign a marriage license, say some vows, and you’re Mrs. Kay.” He smiled at her in a way that gave her butterflies. 

“What about an engagement?” 

“Do we need one to know we want to get married?” 

“Well… I guess not… Dress and suit?”

“We can go buy you a dress, I have my class A uniform.”

“Witnesses?”

“I have an entire team that would be thrilled to be our witnesses.”

“Rings?”

“Let’s go pick em out, baby.”

“And a honeymoon?”

“We can take a honey/babymoon in 3 or so months - let you feel a little less miserable but not about to pop and it will give us time to plan a good trip.” 

“David Kay…”

“Yes, love?”

“Let’s get married.” 

 

The rest of 20-David were ecstatic to hear about David and Nikki’s courthouse wedding and were more than willing to clear their plans for the small ceremony at the magistrate’s office. 

“You look beautiful, babe.” Luca said, giving Nikki a hug.

“You all look phenomenal yourselves,” she replied, taking in each member in their best SWAT dress. 

“We’re so happy for you two,” Chris said, following Luca’s hug. 

“Thank you, Chris.”

“Let’s get married!” Hondo said, rounding up his team to begin the proceedings. “Deacon told me 8 months ago he was going to marry this girl,” he put his arm around Nikki, “and I don’t know how he’s waited any longer.” 

The team laughed and David took Nikki’s hand and led her inside of the building. Once everyone was seated in the small room used to little ceremonies, Nikki and Deacon joined the magistrate under the archway fixed up for couples. 

The time came for Deacon to say his vows. He intertwined his fingers in Nikki’s, never breaking eye contact with her. 

“Baby, it’s not secret to anyone in this room that you literally saved my life. You don’t have to tell me that I did all of the hard work. My desire to do any of the hard work came because you took the time to make sure I was okay in the middle of the most terrifying moment of my entire life. Now, it’s my turn to spend the rest of my life taking care of not only you, but also, taking care of our baby.” 

Nikki grinned when she heard the gasps of surprise coming from their friends. 

Deacon chuckled to himself, never breaking his gaze with Nikki, “You have become my very best friend, my girlfriend, for a very brief few moments - my fiance, you have become the mother of my baby, now it’s time to make you my wife. I promise to love and take care of you for the rest of my life, Nikki.”

Deacon slid Nikki’s rings onto her finger.

“With the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife.” The magistrate spoke.

“Sergeant David Kay, you may kiss your bride.” 

David took Nikki’s face in his hands and passionately kissed her lips. 

20-David immediately began clapping and whistling. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, Mr. & Mrs. David Kay.” 

David’s team jumped up to hug the couple. 

“Talk about one hell of a pregnancy announcement!” Luca said. 

“Congratulations you two!” Hondo followed, “Deac, I see why you were so damn happy the other morning.” Luca laughed. 

“How are you feeling, babe?” Chris asked Nikki. 

“Much, much better after some IV fluids and medicine at my appointment.”

“How far along are you?” Hondo asked. 

“11 weeks and 4 days now,” David responded proudly. He pulled their ultrasound pictures out of his back pocket to show his team. Chris was the first to take them as Street and Luca looked over her shoulder. 

“Are you guys going on a honeymoon?” Tan asked. 

“Once I get around 30 weeks or so, we’re going to plan a trip away. A honey moon and baby moon.” Nikki said. 

“We’re so happy for you two.” Chris said. 

“Thank you so much,” Nikki replied, giving her a hug.

David and his new bride were both so grateful for each other and the support of his teammates.

[secondratefiction]

Would you be willing to write headcanons about Friodo falling in love with a human warrior reader (like Boromir's squire or something) please?

Let's give it a shot...

You weren't even supposed to be going to Rivendell, but you'd been glued to Boromir's side since he'd agreed to take you on and train you.

While you were exploring the first night, you happened to meet a few curious little creatures. At first you thought they were children, but that idea was quickly squashed.

Hobbits they called themselves, they were all quite friendly and you spent most of your evening talking to them, but one in particular stood out...

Where Merry and Pippin were loud and boisterous, Frodo was quiet but no less good, fun company... there was just something about the oldest hobbit that kept drawing your attention.

The next day the council of Elrond was held. You were not invited...

Not to be perturbed by such an insignificant fact, you very much found a spot to hide yourself and listen... There was talk of Mordor and Sauron, of evil you could only barely begin to understand, fighting about who should get the ring, who would be the one to destroy it... And then you heard it:

"I will take it. I will take the ring to Mordor."

Frodo Baggins, the sweet hobbit from the night before had sealed his fate, and one by one the others joined him.

You met them Just outside of the gates and the Fellowship started their match towards Mordor. Boromir was furrios

"I thought I sent you home with the others!"

"You're here of your own decision, I'm here of mine."

The two of you bickered for hours, but the party didn't stop, and short of tying you to a rock himself, Boromir couldn't stop you either.

The first several days passed well enough, mostly it was walking. Lots of walking. Which gave you lots of time to speak with Frodo.

He told you stories of the Shire, of rivers and fields he'd grown up exploring, of mischief Merry and Pippin would often rope him into, all sorts of story of his uncle Bilbo - those were his favorites, Frodo's fondness of the man shining through.

In return you told him stories of your own childhood in Gondor, growing up in Minas Tirith. Learning to race horses even before your legs were long enough to reach the stirrups, how you always followed the Guards and Rangers around the training fields until Boromir finally took pity and agreed to train you himself.

Boromir himself interjected that pity had nothing to do with it. Only that it would have been a shame to let such potential go to waste.

It wasn't until Moria that the reality of it all started to sink in... Gandalf was gone, the rest of you'd only barely survived due to his sacrifice.

Lothlorien was a bit of a blur, you were still in shock, reeling from it all when you loaded up into elven boats and started down the river.

As upset as you were though, you could tell Frodo was taking it harder. More than that, the last night in the Realm of Galadriel had done something to him... He was more sullen, more with drawn, something weighed heavy on his mind and heart.

Not that any one had much time to deal with that...

You had gone out with Frodo to gather wood for a fire when your Master confronted him. Frodo vanished right before your very eyes. It was only then that Boromir noticed you... He seemed almost broken, but you took off after where something in you just knew Frodo would be going.

And you were right. You caught him just as He was loading a boat to cross the river. Both you and Sam being steadfast in the idea of going with him... You even swam the whole bloody thing to prove your seriousness.

But Frodo was firm... the ring corrupted Boromir, the most honorable and steadfast man you knew. There was no one Frodo could really trust, and as much as he wanted, almost needed, you to come along; he couldn't. The task appointed to him was too great for that kind of risk.

Really, he shouldn't even be taking Sam, but he knew there was nothing he could say or do to convince his friend to stay.

And so, he helped you back into the boat, Frodo and Sam helping you push off the bank so you could row yourself back over to the other side. Both hearts heavy with the parting, and sincerely wishing for the opportunity to meet again when this was all said and done.

[candied-boys]

Luke's POV x F! Reader - Part 7

Warning: dark content

Including but not limited to references to prostitution, child neglect and abuse, war and death, PTSD, flashbacks, nightmares, suicidal ideation, and historically accurate ages for relations. The dark content is almost entirely drawn from/same as Luke's route.

Themes: protection, hurt and comfort, mutual healing, learning to trust, letting yourself feel, and eventually giving into love. Everything is written from Luke's POV.

Part 6

With a courser, the trip to Espoir would take from morning ‘til dusk at a full gallop. However, to ride a fast horse one must first know how to ride at all. So instead you borrowed a palfrey from the town stables. Even if the trip will take twice as long, the mare’s naturally ambling gait will make a comfortable ride over the long distance and rugged terrain.

Hoisting Honey up into the saddle with ease, you climb up the stirrups and sit behind her once you get her seated properly. She's never ridden before, so you keep one arm around her waist and both reins looped through your knuckles.

Hip to hip, her legs are nowhere near as long as yours. Her height is perfect though, letting her head rest below your chin when she leans back. Even over the clip clop of hooves on gravel, you hardly have to raise your voice above whisper to keep the conversation going.

She mentioned before that she's never left her little home just outside the capital since the invasion, and along the way you find yourself pointing out various features of the land that give you direction; the names of the mountains and streams you cross, what the baren valley you pass through smells like in full bloom, how to know which trail to pick at a fork in the road, and so on. Likewise, she tells you about all the mushrooms and plants that can be foraged in the forest at this time of year as you ride through the shade of tall pines.

When the light dims and the chill in the air begins to nip, you stop in a little town halfway to the northern border. The inn has plenty of availability, but you worry about leaving her alone in a building full of strange men. It wouldn't take much to pick the locks, and you can tell she's already drawing attention just by being here.

After dinner in the tavern on the first floor you settle into the room upstairs. Compared to your bed back in the apartment this one is considerably more spacious, but still you set up camp on the floor near the fire.

“Aren't you going to come to bed, Luke?” she asks when she finishes washing her face.

“Whadya mean? I'm gonna sleep here by the fire like I always do,” you answer up at her where she stands by your arms crossed beneath your head.

“But you might catch cold. It's much colder here than at home, and we have a long way to go tomorrow.”

Home… Does that little place feel like home to you now?

Shrugging you answer, “I'm fine. I'm used to it. I can sleep anywhere under any conditions.”

With a frown she takes a seat on the floor beside you.

“What’s that look for?”

“What do you mean ‘you're used to it’? Did you sleep on the floor before I stole your bed?”

Throwing your gaze at the fire you shrug again.

“I never had a room growing up. At least not that I remember. I always used to sleep on the floor in the kitchen in front of the hearth.”

“Because your mother had stopped looking after you entirely by then?”

You've told her a lot of things over the past month or so, but the dark memories that keep bubbling up seem unending.

“Yeah. I used to wonder if I was a ghost. I thought maybe I had died and that's why when she married I couldn't sleep in her room anymore and the house had no other room for me… But besides the nagging hunger telling me I must be alive, it was only when Leyla was born that I really believed I wasn't a ghost. Even though she was just a baby, she was the only one in the house who would look at me.”

Turning to find the black pools of her eyes in the dim light, you’re met with a scowl even deeper than when she first sat down.

“Hey, y're gonna get wrinkles if y’ keep it up, y'know,” you tease, sitting up and rubbing the crease away with your thumb.

Her brows pinch up instead and she tugs your hand into hers.

“You're not sleeping on the floor anymore. I won't let you. You always say I put up with bad treatment because that's what I'm used to, but you're no better, you know?”

“I'm not sleepin’ on the floor because I think I don't deserve to sleep in a nice, soft bed, Honey. I'm only doin’ it for y’r comfort.”

“Well, I don't like it,” she huffs.

You can't hold back the chuckle that wells up at her angry pout.

“Whadya mean y’ don't like it? Y’ wanna sleep on the floor — ‘cause I'm sure y’ won't like it once y’ try.”

“I mean it hurts to see you suffer for me. It's not comfortable. It makes me sad…”

“I'm not sufferin’. Y’ don't need to worry y’r pretty little head none about me,” you reassure her with a kiss to her crown. “Now off y’ go. Before the bed warmer gets cold.”

Frown returning, she tugs your hand and demands stubbornly, “No. I'm not going to bed without you.”

“Without me? Oh no, I'm not sleepin’ with y’, that's for sure.”

“Why not? I trust you,” she counters with frustration clear in her eyes.

I don't trust me — that's why.

“'Cause a big bear like me’d squish y’ flat as a pancake in y'r sleep,” you brush her off with a cheeky grin and flop back down on the wool blanket.

“Luke… please? You always do so much for me and there's so little I can do to take care of you…”

“Yeah, but lookin’ after y’ is what makes me happy, so y’ are takin’ care of me.”

“You say that, but getting a good sleep doesn't mean you're not looking after me. It's not like you're making me happy by doing this either… so please, just come to bed.”

I just can't say no to y’, can I? Not with those damn puppy eyes…

“Fine,” you groan and pull yourself up off the floor. “Just until we get back.”

The way she immediately curls up against your chest the moment you slip beneath the covers has your heart breaking. Leyla was the only person you ever held close like this. Taking naps under the warm sun together, her small frame cradled in your arms, is now nothing more than a distant memory. And some part of you worries that this will push it even further into the past.

Part 8