#horse hauling companies

[rockingyranch1]

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[hybbart]

Day 2655: As winter trucks on, everyone hauls up as the snow piles up in the city below...

Short story below the cut

Snow accumulated along the penthouse's enormous balconies, and the many large windows. Beyond was a landscape whited out by the frosty blanket, difficult to discern the shapes of any of the distant buildings through the heavy weather.

Tango's arm quietly ached. These days he could almost ignore it. Jimmy would chastise him if he knew, say it was not healthy, but what was there to do about it? hypocrite that he was, the avian had his own issues, even if it normally was not painful. They'd spent all morning pretending like Tango couldn't hear his unnaturally deep breaths, or that he'd turned his machine up higher. It was already high compared to before they'd been separated.

Today, though, was an okay day for Tango. He could almost ignore it. His prosthetic couldn't, but it was far too cold for it anyways. There was little to do while hauled up, he'd taken to hardly wearing it the past two weeks as the cold settled in. If not for their few chores and Jimmy's returning energy they'd both be hauled up in their room still.

But they still needed to clean and they still needed to eat. So, while he waited for False to return from taking care of the animals for them and the signal from Wels that his brother was still safely locked up, he cleaned. Plucked the dead leaves from the plants, moved muddy clothing to the laundry room, put away the last game they'd played, anything he saw that he could do.

Humming echoed from the hall, riding the same breeze that wafted a lovely smell of spices and meat. The last of a deer False had found. It was easy to mindlessly work with the smells and sounds of Jimmy cooking nearby. Or maybe it was just easier because he knew there was something tasty waiting at the end of it all. His thoughts were quick to get lost imagining the various dishes, unwilling to risk a fork getting thrown at him for interrupting to ask. It couldn't hurt, though, to take a peak..?

The room dimmed as great ruddy wings blocked the whiteout. False's terrifyingly sharp talons seemed like they might crush the railing beneath them, and Tango was silently glad Jimmy's were that of a songbird and not a raptor like their new companions. It wasn't as graceful as Wels' or Grian's landings either, the woman lurching slightly before hopping down to the ground. A few months ago Tango might not have noticed, but he'd seen the three avians come and go so often from that window he couldn't help notice the differences.

"All the chickens are accounted for, and your horse is fed." She announced, giving a salute with her smile that Tango returned.

"Thanks again for this." He said for the fourth time that day. "Jimmy can't even get himself off the ground this week, never mind carrying-"

"I told you it's fine." False waved him off as she slipped off her cap. even just the short flight from ground level to the 40th some-odd floor had it coated in a heavy blanket of snow.

Tango opened his mouth to protest but a yelp escaped instead, accompanied by clattering metal and plastic. It took them both a moment to realize it hadn't been him at all. Both spun towards the hall, a squeaky curse echoing. Tango was the first to rush forward.

Jimmy was leaned over the counter, head in one hand and the other limply stretched over the kitchen island where his leftovers bucket had spilled over the edge. His breaths came heavy and quick, much worse than earlier. Feathered ears twitched, well aware of his new company but unable to pick himself back up to say anything. At least until Tango had his arm around him. Then, he found the ability to give a weak protest, easily ignored as Tango guided him towards the bench-chest on the far wall.

Tango only glanced to False for a second, to check she had followed, "Go turn up the airificator." He directed.

"I'm fine." Jimmy wheezed. It was as though he'd just ran several miles, his hand clutched to his chest to catch a breath of air that would not come to him. "I just got a bit dizzy and dropped my knife."

"Is that all." Tango muttered, running his hands down Jimmy's tubes looking for any knots or breaks. A wing smacked his head until he backed away.

Jimmy huffed, though it wasn't entirely clear if it was frustration or his inability to breathe. "Just give me a minute! It's already high enough. I don't need to get used to it being even higher."

It was pure stubbornness. And if Tango was honest, he wasn't sure what to do with it. Normally it was himself being stubborn about his arm and Jimmy knocking sense into him. Jimmy could be as stubborn as a mule, but it'd never been directed at his health.

Sheepishly, False appeared around the corner. "I turned it up, there's not much room for higher, though."

"See?" Jimmy said pointedly. It was true, that it wasn't good for Jimmy to have it so high for extended time. But if that's what his body needed right now, then what could they do? Suffer and almost drop a knife on himself, apparently. Tango's brows knit together.

"You go lay down, I'll finish the cooking."

Jimmy balked. "You have one hand!"

"That's one more than you right now." He knelt down, allowing the hunched avian to look down on him. "It's not going to get better if you push yourself."

There was a look in his rancher's eyes, one that quickly shifted between several emotions until they were almost glassy, before he dropped his head, his grown out hair curtaining his face out of view. Tango sat there, running his hand up and down Jimmy's arm, until a weak voice escaped between gasps, "What if it doesn't?"

If it didn't? There wasn't much to be done if it didn't. They'd live with it like they did every time things became incrementally worse, and a bad day became a regular day. But if this was a regular day, what would be a bad day? Tango couldn't bring to let himself think about the thought that seemed to be consuming Jimmy at that moment. Not while Revy was still in the back of his mind. So, instead he says, "It will."

There was nothing in Jimmy's expression that conveyed any faith in those words.

"You need to let yourself rest." False interjected, hesitant to step forward when both men's eyes turned to her. She fiddled with the tube in her gloves, still having yet to even remove her coat. "Your lungs, if they're straining you need to let them rest for now, build up strength."

"For how long?" Muttered Jimmy, expression resigned. He'd already spent weeks in bed.

False wasn't one for complicated answers. "As long as it takes. You've been straining them for months, it'll take a while. And there's no better time to do it while we're all cooped up in here anyways."

"But it's just cooking. If I can't even do that-"

"Singing while running back and forth and wielding heavy utensils and pots? Your muscles aren't exactly in great shape either after that, it's probably taking it out of your entire body. And there's a difference between exercise and straining yourself."

She pushed he hand to her chest, "If you rest now I can help you with your breathing."

Both ranchers blinked in shock. "What?" Tango asked.

She ignored them at first, taking her time to pull off her scarf and coat, hanging both up on the back of a chair. Hands went to her clothed ribs, and she took a deep breath as her wings flexed. They stuttered, that same oddity Tango had noticed in her movement. "Look, you've met my sister, right? H?"

"Yeah..."

"Then you must have noticed she has a few less limbs." False nodded, fluttering her wings. "She's basic."

"That's a bit rude." Tango couldn't help joke, earning a shoulder bump from Jimmy to quiet down.

She groaned, and then threw her arms out, "I was born from an alteration of her genetics, I wasn't naturally an avian."

That made sense to Tango, knowing what they could do to Doc when he was already alive. It quickly cascaded, other pieces of the puzzle clicking into place.

"I had to learn things you already know, and make up for things that didn't quite take. This included an obnoxious amount of physical therapy, especially dedicated to lung capacity." She put her hands on her hips, taking in a deep breath as if it were an example of her newfound capabilities before releasing. "I don't exactly know all the doctor-y mumbo jumbo behind how it all works, and we don't have all the big fancy equipment, but I know what helped me and what will probably help you some."

"False..." Jimmy sounded torn, and Tango couldn't blame him. It was hard to have any hope after living with his lung damage for seven years, steadily watching it get worse and worse. Their conditions had been very different, but was there really something False could offer that Scar hadn't already offered them in the past? How much was there that she could realistically do? At some point there had to be nothing at all. But it was tempting, even if just to get back to what it had been before, or at the very least prevent it from getting worse. There wasn't much farther it could fall, after all, any lifeline looks tempting.

"It's worth a shot, innit?" She shrugged, giving a tentative smile. "It's the least I could do, is at least try. At worst it does nothing."

"At worst I get my hopes up." Jimmy sighed, leaning his head against Tango. It seemed his body was beginning to decide for him that it was time to rest.

Tango brought his hand up to his rancher's hair, running his claws through the long strands in comfort. Whatever you want to do, I support it. That was how they always operated, wasn't it? He let his tail curl around Jimmy's talons. "I think either way, for now rest is in order."

That Jimmy found the strength to grumble about. "Fine, all of you can go hungry. I don't care."

"That's the spirit!" Tango chirped, hauling the whining avian to his feet. He couldn't pick him up with only one arm, so he resigned to dragging him down the hall. He stopped as they reached False, giving her a grateful smile before shuffling past her. He hissed as his stump bumped against the wall. Jimmy's head shot up immediately. "It's fine, I'm used to it." Tango strained to say through the jolt of pain. He'd forgotten just how tender it had been that day.

"You shouldn't be used to it." Jimmy chastised. "It's not healthy."

Tango gaped at him then burst out laughing, "Okay, Mister Hypocrite. Time to go to bed."

"Excuse me!"

[sheriffaxolotl]

Bleed, Survive, Remember (Chapter 1) Arthur Morgan x Reader

Summary:

A hardened outlaw tied to a gang that's as much family as it is trouble, and a drifter searching for something she can’t name, find their paths crossing by chance. As Arthur shoulders the weight of the gang’s choices and the drifter continues to wonder, trust becomes a gamble earned through grit, gunfire, and mistakes neither can outrun. In the end, they’ll have to decide what kind of people they want to be. For now? It’s just bad decisions, sharp words, and worse company.

Chapter 1: How Did I Get Here?

Content Warning: Description of injury and blood      ︻デ═一・・・・・・・一═デ︻

The rhythmic pounding of hooves slices through the haze of pain. Your entire body aches, but it’s the jagged, burning sensation in your side that consumes every thought. Each breath comes in shallow bursts, the edges of your vision blurred, but you fight to stay conscious. The air reeks of blood and dirt, the sun searing your skin.

Stay with it, you tell yourself. Don’t fade now.

The wound bites deep, a tether holding you to the world. That, and the steady rhythm of hooves beneath you. The pain is unbearable, each jolt of the horse sending fresh waves of agony ripping through you. But you’re alive. Not dead yet. That grim truth is all you have to cling to.

The rough leather saddle digs into your skin as you slump forward, vision swimming. The world blurs with every move, the edges of consciousness threatening to give way. Blood seeps warm and sticky beneath your clothes, but you can’t dwell on it—not now. Thinking about it will undo you.

Fragments of memory flash through your mind: the campfire, the men, the fight. Gunshots. A trap. You recall the fire of the gun in your hands, the brief surge of triumph as your shot landed true. Then came the pain—searing, all-consuming.

Who did this to you? The thought spirals in your fractured mind. It wasn’t supposed to end like this.

The horse stumbles slightly, jolting you back to the present. A sharp gasp escapes your lips, the agony flaring anew. The sound of your own shallow breathing drowns everything else out, until a voice cuts through the noise.

“Stay with me.”

The voice is low, firm, and tinged with urgency. It pulls you back, anchoring you against the pull of oblivion. You turn your head slightly, eyes straining to focus, and catch a fleeting glimpse of him: Arthur Morgan. His familiar drawl grounds you, his steady presence a lifeline in the chaos.

The warmth of his arm braces you as the horse charges forward, his grip firm yet careful. The leather reins creak, and you catch the faint scent of sweat and gunpowder. It brings you an odd comfort.

“Don’t you dare close your eyes,” Arthur murmurs, the strain in his voice unmistakable. “I need you to hang on.”

A weak, bitter laugh escapes your lips, a cruel parody of defiance. “Only ‘cause you asked so nice…” The words tumble out, strained and barely audible.

Arthur spurs the horse onward, his breathing steady but his heartbeat frantic against your back. His urgency is a sharp contrast to the lethargy clawing at your limbs. You’re slipping, and he knows it.

The edges of your consciousness flicker, bright sparks turning to embers before dissolving into the darkness. The world tilts, a chaotic blur of sound and sensation, and for a moment, everything goes black. You lose the shape of his arms around you, the thud of the horse’s hooves beneath you. The pain recedes, leaving behind only the distant, rhythmic pounding of blood in your ears. The wind carries the faint, rhythmic sound of the horse’s hooves, a deep, steady thrum that draws you deeper, pulling the last of your thoughts, your memories, your fears, into the void.

                   ︻デ═一・・・・・・・・・・・・・・一═デ︻

The pounding of hooves slows, the sharp crunch of dirt underfoot stirs you awake once more. Strong hands haul you from the saddle, not gently, but with care born of necessity. Your vision swims, catching fleeting images: the flicker of a campfire, shadowy figures darting in the firelight, voices cutting through the haze.

“Come on, girlie,” a voice whispers, rough and urgent. Arthur. The gravelly tone catches in your ears, thick with exhaustion and a quiet strain. There’s a rawness to it, like the edge of a blade that’s been used too long, but beneath it, there’s something steady—something anchored. A confidence that can’t quite disguise the fear threaded through his words. The words are almost a command, but with a tenderness buried deep, like he’s trying to reassure both you and himself.

“Almost there,” he adds, the drawl of his southern accent seeping into the syllables, giving the words a warmth that contrasts with the urgency. The sound of it is grounding, familiar in a way that makes the world around you feel a little less threatening. It’s almost like he’s talking to himself, trying to believe in his own words.

A moment later.

Voices.

"Careful with her,” someone says sharply. “She’s bleedin’ bad.”

Cool hands press against your side, applying pressure to stem the flow. The pain flares, white-hot, and a strangled cry escapes your lips. Arthur’s voice is a constant thread through the noise.

“You’re gonna be fine,” he says, though his tone wavers.

A woman’s voice joins his, sharp and authoritative. “Careful! We need to stop the bleeding before she goes into shock. Someone go get the supplies! Reverend!”

The camp blurs in and out of focus. Cool cloths press against your forehead, the sting of antiseptic cuts through the fog. Every sensation feels distant, muted, like it’s happening to someone else.

“She’s losing too much blood.” The woman’s voice is sharper now, tinged with desperation.

Arthur’s grip on your arm tightens. “She’s not dyin’. Not here, not now.” His voice carries a fierce conviction that makes you want to believe him.

Your breathing comes in harsh, shallow gasps as you open your eyes again, only for the world to spin. Your vision narrows in on the looming figure above you—Arthur. You can make out the shape of him now, darkened against the campfire. His face is a mask of concern, his lips moving, but the words don’t quite reach you.

“Open your eyes,” he mutters lowly, but it sounds distant, as if he’s speaking through thick fog.

A rough, half-sarcastic laugh escapes you, though it’s weak and breathless. “Fine mess I got myself into…”

The words feel foreign, so far removed from the weight of the pain. But somehow, they escape, even though they carry with them the faintest echo of something you don’t fully understand.

Arthur’s grip on your arm tightens, firm but gentle. “We’ll get you patched up. Just hold on.”

You don’t have the strength to answer. The words are too far out of reach, tangled up with the pain and the weight of everything that’s happened. Your thoughts are swimming, slipping between memories that don’t quite make sense and the sharp, burning agony in your side. Your head lolls to one side, and your body shudders, a chill running through you despite the heat of the campfire.

The world dims, but Arthur’s steady presence anchors you.

“Stay awake, spitfire,” he says softly, the nickname laced with something unspoken. It stirs a faint flicker of warmth, like a distant memory brushing the edge of consciousness.

The warmth of Arthur’s hand is steady on your arm, his grip unshaken despite the commotion around you. You feel his breath against your ear, his voice cutting through your fractured thoughts.

“Hold on. You’re gonna be okay. We’ll fix this.”

For the briefest moment, you wonder if he believes it—or if he’s just saying it to keep himself together. Either way, it doesn’t matter. All you know is that you’re still here, and the voices haven’t stopped. Not yet.

The moments bleed into each other, each breath sharp and fleeting, but somewhere amid the blur of pain and fading vision, the voices begin to grow more distant. The chaos around you settles into a steady rhythm—softer murmurs and the movement of people working. You feel hands on you, their touch careful and practiced, pressing and adjusting with an urgency that pulls you back to the present.

A new cool cloth is pressed to your forehead, the sudden chill shocking you back to awareness. You let out a shuddering breath, eyes fluttering as the pain in your side radiates with a sharp bite. A voice, belonging to the woman, drifts through the haze.

“We’re lucky. The bullet went clean through; didn’t hit anything vital, from the looks of it.” Her voice, while tinged with worry, carries a note of relief. You try to focus on that, the small sliver of fortune.

Hands work quickly, removing torn fabric and applying pressure to slow the bleeding. The sting of antiseptic sears your skin, sharp and biting. The world wavers, edges blurred with fatigue, but the cool touch of the cloth remains. You shift slightly, feeling the taut muscles in your side tense as the cloth is replaced with bandages, rough and raw but securing the wound with an iron grip.

Arthur’s voice cuts through the fog again, low and steady, urging you to stay with him. You can feel his grip tightening on your arm, firm yet gentle, as if trying to beacon you back to the world around you.

The muffled sound of boots pounding on the dirt fades into the background as you force yourself to take another breath. You’re grateful for the simple fact that the bullet went clean through. For a moment, you allow yourself to think that maybe, just maybe, you’ll be alright. The voices around you blur into a comforting lullaby, soft and rhythmic, as if time has slowed to match the steady press of hands and the pulse of life still burning within you.

“Arthur…” The whisper escapes your lips, rough and barely audible. The sensation of your voice feels distant.

You feel his presence this time before you hear him, the shadow of him falling over you like a protective veil. He leans closer, his face etched with concern, the firelight casting deep lines across his features. “You with me?” His voice is urgent but gentle, like he's fighting against something he can’t control. “I need you to stay with me now, you hear?”

A tiny nod escapes you, barely perceptible, but it’s enough for him to catch. His breath catches, just a fraction of a second, before he exhales slowly. “Good,” he murmurs, the words so soft they might be meant for himself. “Just a little longer.”

But the camp around you seems to blur into nothing, a fading hum in the distance. The voices become indistinct murmurs, the movement of people turning into the background noise of a world you're slowly drifting away from. Each breath feels harder to pull in, your chest heavy with the weight of it, and your vision narrows to a thin line now.

You can feel Arthur’s grip, firm but tender, his calloused hand against your skin, grounding you as you fight to stay conscious. “Hold on, almost done,” he says again, his voice wavering once again.

The air feels colder now, the world spinning faster, and your breath comes in short, jagged gasps. The firelight feels far away, distant as the shadows stretch longer. The voices grow muffled, like you're sinking deeper into water, and the weight of the night presses down harder on you.

“Damn it,” Arthur's voice growls, low and fierce. “You’re gonna make it through this. Just hold on, spitfire.”

The nickname cuts through the haze like a beacon. Spitfire. It ignites something faint but stubborn—a flicker of warmth in the growing void. You cling to the sound, not for the word itself, but for the way he says it. It’s not a command but a promise, wrapped in affection and fear. Your lips twitch, almost a smile, but the effort is too much.

Your eyelids flutter, heavy with exhaustion. The cold gnaws at you, threatening to drag you into a place you won’t return from. For a moment, you surrender, letting the darkness cradle you. But his voice pulls you back.

“Don’t you dare,” he says, fierce and pleading all at once. “Stay with me. You hear me, spitfire? Stay awake.”

The nickname strikes you again, a whisper of warmth against the encroaching chill. You latch onto it like a lifeline, the way it curls around you, soft and steady.

The edges of your vision finally fades into a dark blur, the firelight fracturing into kaleidoscopic patterns. Your body sinks into the cold, bone-deep and unrelenting, but his hand doesn’t let go. You don’t think you’ll make it back this time, but as the void rises to claim you, his voice cuts through one last time.

“Spitfire.”

The world vanishes, and the darkness swallows you whole.

                                    ︻デ═一・・・・・・・一═デ︻

I hope you enjoy the first chapter! I’m always open to your thoughts, comments, and suggestions. AO3 : Chapter 1

[vitaminkenjoyer]

i'll probably never finish this fic that i'm working on so here's a little drabble. post-stoneheart, jaime's trauma, the quiet isle, etc.

They had ridden in a quiet daze, stopping only for the briefest of moments to piss or shit or redress their wounds. Jaime's blood was still singing from their bout, but he felt no jubilance for his victory, and Brienne's sullen silences only helped to set his teeth on edge.

The girl called Long Jeyne had stitched and patched their injuries before the brotherhood allowed their leave, but it was shoddy work at best. When Brienne had to be coaxed from her mare to sit against the trunk of an oak she insisted they ride for the Bay of Crabs instead of risking any inns or keeps. Her adamancy pricked his anger once more.

"Why, so you can lure me into some other trap?" He paused dabbing up the blood from the cut on her arm to sneer.

"No!" Her eyes widened in dismay. "It's the only safe place I know, ser, please. The holy brothers will heal us - "

"I've had my fill of getting kicked around and my men are waiting for me. I have no time to be lectured by a bunch of tonsured eunuchs on the state of my honor." He threw the bloodied cloth down in the dirt and stood. Every word magnified the pain in his jaw twofold, coming out in a hateful slur. "No doubt you'll be welcome among such pious company, deceitful righteous bitch that you are."

Brienne lurched to her feet and grabbed him by the collar with her good arm, hauling him close. Her nose nearly brushed his. "Honor or no, you still would have found yourself in that cave. And I still would have trailed behind you. Now we are both soiled."

Jaime clutched her bad arm with his hand and she winced, but did not pull away. Their breath mingled, hot and rank, and for a moment he was certain they would come to blows. A purse of the lips would be all it took to close the space between them...

The muscles in his back tightened, sending a fresh stab of pain beneath the skin where the arrow's shaft was lodged.

"Lead the way, my lady," he wrenched himself free and mounted his horse, sparing her not another word or glance.

The sun had just set when they led their weary horses off of the ferry and onto the dock. A group of men in robes greeted them, silent and somber, and two took their mounts off to the stables. Through a maze of steps and stones they walked in a dour procession to the maester's chamber.

Finally, stumbling and crusted in blood, they stopped before a heavy oaken door. One of the holy brothers rapped his knuckles on the wood and the surprisingly brutish healer within widened his eyes at their entrance. "My lady, I had not thought to see you again. Please sit, both of you. Brother Narbert, fetch some more candles, will you?" The man's gaze landed on Jaime, lingering. He knows me. Despite his wariness of the place Jaime could not bring himself to care. He was tired of fleeing, tired of lies and games and subterfuge.

"Yes, Elder Brother," the proctor obeyed.

Their wounds were deftly tended to by a pair of hands that looked more fit for killing than healing once ample light had been established. Jaime found his eyes drooping as he sat, though the agonizing withdrawal of the arrow in his back soon roused him.

By time they were through he and the wench looked a matching pair; the Elder Brother had splinted his jaw with cloth wound around his head, then cleaned and applied a salve to Brienne's cheek, advising her to keep it covered for the night. "To better soak in, my lady, though you'll want to air this out soon..."

"And you'll want to stick with mashes and stews for some time, my lord." He placed a bowl of crushed sourleaf in his hand. "This will help with the pain. So will holding your tongue as much as you are able."

Jaime would have laughed if he were the man of a few days ago. He let the leaves melt on his tongue and scrunched his nose in distaste. "That may prove difficult," he spat red into a handkerchief. "What say you to giving my commands for me, wench?"

Brienne's big weary eyes flitted about his face and she turned away in guilt, saying nothing. The less she said the more he wanted to shout, but this was no good time or place to start a fight, and it wasn't her that did the kicking besides. And how she screamed when the blow landed...

The Elder Brother looked between them then braced his hands on his knees, rising from his seat. "I'm certain you will overcome the adversity, my lord."

He and Brienne were sent off with a dose of milk of the poppy then hastily placed in a small hut on the eastern side of the isle. "Normally we would not permit a man and woman to cohabitate unless they were wed, but circumstances of late have forced us to forego some rigidity," the Elder Brother said as a pair of novices hauled a spare straw pallet in and dumped it on the floor.

His eyes were just starting to shutter when Brienne whispered, "Jaime, can you hear me?" He laid still, slowed his breaths, and waited. And waited. And waited. She said no more and rolled over. The sniffling of her nose lulled him into a restless slumber, and he dreamt he was in the Whispering Wood again, the wind riffling through his golden hair as men fell dead at his feet. The sun warmed his skin and he laughed, but a cloud passed by and blotted out the light, making him shiver.

Enemies surrounded him, faceless and hateful, and he was without a sword or armor, naked. Claws punctured his arms and he was dragged through the muddied field and back into the wood at a tortoise's pace. His felled horse squealed in the distance. "Kingslayer," the shadows spat, and he spat back, laughing. "Oathbreaker," they hissed, and he kicked out his leg, smiling at the sound of teeth cracking on his heel. "Freak," a foul hand pulled at his manhood and twisted, and he screamed like a woman. "You must never do that again," a voice whispered from the trees, full of sorrow and hurt.

Corpses dangled overhead, swaying like perverse ornaments. Drained of blood and shrunken, their skin had turned to leather underneath the sun's harsh rays. Dwarves, he thought, but that wasn't quite right. Children. Rhaenys and Aegon, aye, and the Stark boy as well. And the girl called Tysha, with tears still wet on her plain but pretty face. Jaime peeled his eyes for Brienne's squire, for Lady Catelyn's daughters, but the sun blinded him, and he was pushed ahead.

Finally, he was brought to the black mouth of a cave. His toes were cracked and bloodied. Pebbles and twigs had dug into his flesh, pushing deeper with each attempt to plant his feet. Desperately, he glanced behind him, searching, waiting. Brienne! he wanted to shout, but no words would leave him. Brienne, where have you gone? He squeezed his eyes shut. They cannot hurt me if I do not see. Floating blindly, his feet brushed along an endless tangle of roots. Wood splintered and scratched at him as he was tied down to a pale chair. "Goldenhand," they jeered, mocking. The more he struggled against his hempen bonds the more he bled, and soon the crude throne he sat upon turned from ivory, to crimson, to rust.

"Goldenhand the Just!" They chanted with false merriment, dancing around him in zealous ecstasy. "Goldenhand, Goldenhand, Goldenhand!" A thousand nails pinched and tickled at him cruelly, and he woke up breathless. Cold echoing cackles seeped into the walls around him.

"Ser?" A big hand rested on his shoulder, heavy and warm. Brienne towered over him even as she knelt at his bedside. Her eyes were wide and wet with worry. A girl's eyes, he thought, and shuddered. She palmed his forehead, checking for a fever. "Ser, are you well?"

No, he wanted to say, and to hell with you all, but he only closed his eyes and whispered, "My name is Jaime," as salt trickled coolly down into his ear. He turned his head away.

"Oh, Jaime," Brienne gasped, and she trailed her fingers through his hair.

[specialagentlokitty]

Derek morgan x reader - thunderstorms and those small moments

Hi! Could you do derek morganxreader where he takes her with him to one of the houses he renovates but a big snow/thunderstorm stops them from going home so they are stuck there for a couple nights Fluff ensues as they try to make the best of the situation by cuddling and catching up on what happened in their personal lives🧡 - Anon💜

Looking around the old house, you walked into the only room that was finished.

“Of course you finished the kitchen first.”

“Hey, where else are you supposed to cook amazing meals if there’s no kitchen.” Derek chuckled.

You laughed a little bit, and he took you to the stairs.

“Careful, there are little unsteady.”

Derek held his hand out for you, and you took it, letting him carefully lead you up to the second floor.

Your fingers were laced with his as he showed you the other rooms, explaining his plans and his visions for each room.

You didn’t really understand most of it, renovating properties wasn’t something you were all that interested in, but Derek was and he loved it, so you were trying to make sense of everything he was saying.

You both went back downstairs and you sat in the middle of the living room while you watched Derek.

“Why did you ask me to come anyways?” You asked.

“I thought you could use the company, especially after the last case.”

Derek looked at you and you offered him a small smile as you picked up some of the papers and tools he had laying around

“Thank you..”

Derek walked over, kneeling down in front of you and he took the things front you, taking the safety glasses from his face he put them on yours

He then held out the hammer for you, and you furrowed your brows a little bit in confusion.

“I got a wall that needs bringing down and a (Y/N) with a needs to work out some rage.”

“Derek it’s okay.”

“Come on sweetheart, I know you like breaking things and trust me you got a real talent for destruction.”

“Is it too much work for you Derek?” You taunted.

“I just know I ain’t stronger than you.”

You laughed, and Derek walked behind you, putting his hands under your arms to haul you to your feet.

You walked over to the wall, and he pointed to where you needed to swing the hammer first and you did.

You were a little unbalanced, and he stayed behind you in order to keep you from falling over from the weight of the hammer you were holding.

You kept going for as long as you could until you arms began to ache, and you finally set the hammer back, turning back to Derek with a sheepish grin.

“Feel any better?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

He smiled at you, leaning down to kiss the side of your head.

“You ready to talk about what happened?”

Your hand instinctively went to your thigh, feeling the bandage from under your jeans.

You shook your head and Derek gave you a gentle look, nodding his head in understanding.

“Alright, we don’t have to. Come on, let’s go sit down, don’t want you overworking yourself now do we?”

“I’m as fit as a horse.”

“Yeah, got the bullet wound to prove it and all.”

You laughed a little bit, making your way to the kitchen to sit on the chair.

Derek picked up his jacket, placing it over your shoulder, and he pulled a chair over to sit in front of you.

You placed your hands on his knees, looking up at him.

“Can I ask you something Der?”

He gave you a soft smile.

“Of course, ask whatever you want you know that.”

You nodded, taking a small breath.

“I uh.. I’m thinking about taking some time away from the BAU…”

“You’re leaving? Where would you go?”

“My parents downsized and moved to a small country house, I guess I would go there for a little while, they’re on a cruise at the minute, so they won’t be back for a while.”

Derek nodded his head.

“And the question?”

“Would you… would you come with me… if I did?”

“Yeah, yeah of course I would (Y/N). I wouldn’t let you go alone you know that, I got time off I need to use, I can tell Hotch I’ll be there in emergencies.”

“Really?”

Derek placed his hand over yours, giving it a small squeeze, running his thumb along your knuckles.

“Yeah sweetheart, I know right now you can’t be alone. When you’re ready to talk about what happened I’ll be right by your side.”

You leant down, resting your forehead on his hands, tears burning your eyes.

“I just don’t want to be alone…”

“Hey, hey it’s okay… it’s alright… you’re not going to be alone…” he whispered.

Derek leant down, kissing the back of your head and he cradled your face in his hands, lifting your head so he could look at you, wiping your tears for you.

“How about we go to that little pizza place you love so much?” He whispered.

“Can we have Thai food instead…?”

This made him laugh a little bit.

“Whatever you want sweetheart.”

You stood up, pulling his jacket on properly, and he did the zip up for you, picking up his bag, the pair of you making your way towards the front door.

You both noticed the dip in temperature the closer you got, and you shared a look as he opened the door to see the rain hammering down all around, the wind whistling through trees.

There was a few flashes across the sky, followed by a crack of thunder so loud it shook the very building you were stood in.

“Can you see the car?” You asked.

“No, it ain’t safe to go out there, we need to stay here until it passes.”

Derek closed the door again, ushering you to the kitchen and he rummaged through some of the cabinets in there, pulling out a blanket and some candles.

“Some people would consider that creepy Derek Morgan.”

He chuckled.

“Sometimes I forget to look at the time so I would stay here instead of going home.”

You hummed a little bit, letting him wrap the blanket around you before he began lighting some candles.

It didn’t light up the place all that well, but it made it easier to see when the lightening wasn’t streaking across the skies.

Derek went through a few more of the cupboards, pulling out some snacks and a few cans of soda.

“Damn Derek you’re really stocked up huh?”

“Gotta be prepared for any situation. Here, these are your favourites.”

He handed you your favourite sofa and snack, and you smiled sweetly at him.

Derek sat next to you, and you wrapped the blanket around his shoulders, sitting between his legs with your back against his chest.

“So, if I didn’t bring you with me what would you be doing?”

You thought for a moment.

“Probably be at home to be honest, maybe asleep or watching tv.”

“Yeah? With that dog of yours?”

“You mean Thrasher?”

“Yeah, that’s the one. You’ve had him a few weeks now right? What breed is he?”

“He’s a Doberman, my friend couldn’t keep him at her apartment but she couldn’t keep him at the shelter either. He’s actually really sweet once you get to know him.”

Derek hummed a little bit.

“Didn’t see him last time I was there.”

“Oh yeah, he was at the vets, that’s all.”

He nodded his head, wrapping his arms around you with the blanket, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“You got me as your big scary bodyguard and you get yourself a dog, should I be insulted?”

“Yeah but nobody’s scared of either of you.”

He chuckled.

“Careful sweetheart that just might break a mans heart.”

You grinned a little bit, leaning your head against him.

“Come on, I wanna know everything, tell me what else you’ve been up to.”

You turned on your side, resting one leg under his and the other over it, mindful of your injury.

Resting your head on his chest, you began to tell him everything you had been up to while you weren’t at work, from volunteering with your friend, to just lounging at him.

Derek wanted to hear about it all, so you told him about it all.

He just listened, arms wrapped around you, making sure you were fully wrapped up inside the blanket in order to keep you warm.

“So, when we run off to the middle of nowhere what’re we gonna do?”

“Well, there’s a nice village nearby. We could go there, or there’s a hiking trail nearby.”

“You’re gonna hike with that shit leg of yours?”

You laughed, playfully hitting his side which made him laugh.

“It’ll be fine by then. I’ll have to bring Thrasher though, can’t leave him alone while I’m enjoying the country life.”

“Yeah? What about me?”

“Yeah I could leave you happily.”

“Ouch, okay. I see how it is, you know what? You know what I’m gonna do?”

“What’s that?”

“I’m gonna take you there, then I’m going to go down to that village and get a house there, then I’m gonna move there, and the only rule is you can’t go there.”

You grinned a little bit.

“You can’t stick to that.”

“Can’t I?”

“Nope.”

“I reckon I can.”

You hummed a little bit, moving away from him and you laid down with your head on his bag, turning to look at him with a little grin.

“Get your ass back over here before you freeze.”

“Nope. If you can stick to it you can stay over there then.”

“(Y/N) you’re going to freeze come on.”

You just grinned a little more at him.

Derek stared at you before he rolled his eyes, making his way over he laid next to you, covering you up with the blanket.

“I knew you couldn’t stick to it.”

“Hey, this doesn’t mean I won’t stick to it.”

You hummed a little bit, turning your back to him and he chuckled, climbing over you to lay on your other side, wrapping his arm around you.

You reached up, brushing your fingers against his cheek and he closed his eyes.

Your touch as gentle, almost as if you weren’t really brushing your knuckles against his skin.

Derek opened his eyes, moving forward to press his forehead against yours.

“You’re so damn stubborn you know that right?”

“Yeah but you wouldn’t love me if I wasn’t…”

“You could be the most stubborn person out there and I’d still love you.” He whispered.

“Would you love me if I was a worm?”

He chuckled, leaning foreword to gently kiss you, then he pulled away.

“I’d make you your own little house and everything.”

“So you wouldn’t try make me not a worm? Wow okay.”

“You didn’t say that was an option.”

You leant forward, pressing your lips to his again, resting your palm on his cheek.

When you pulled away, you resting your head on his chest, letting Derek pull the blanket around your shoulders.

You balled your hands into the fabric of his shirt, and he ran a hand up and down your back.

“But would I really have to turn you back into a person & just keep you as a worm?”

“You asshole.”

He chuckled a little.

“I’d travel every country if I had to sweetheart don’t you worry.”

You closed your eyes with a little grin on your lips.

“So does this mean I can live in your fake village house now?”

“You can live in any fake house I own. I love you.”

“I love you too Der…”

[monstersandmaw]

Laces for a Lady - 18th century poly shifter romance (Part one, sfw)

Disclaimer which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me. 

Well folks, here it is. You said you were interested, so I hope it meets expectations! Here's part one for you, of a multi part story. If you want to kno wmore about it, you can find some more info here, as well as a little 'mood board'.

Content: sfw, the daughter of a country gentleman from Sussex relocates to a sleepy fishing village in Cornwall in order to become the paid companion of a young widow, and meets some of the locals on her arrival. Wordcount: 3972

Five and twenty ponies, Trotting through the dark - Brandy for the Parson, 'Baccy for the Clerk. Laces for a lady; letters for a spy, Watch the wall my darling while the Gentlemen go by! ~ from ‘A Smugglers’ Song’, Rudyard Kipling (1906)

In the cool, lavender light of a late spring dawn, a gaff-rigged cutter drew into the sheltering arms of a small bay at high tide, and quietly dropped anchor. As if the soft splash had awoken him, a cockerel spluttered to life in a farmyard somewhere inland, but most of the villagers were already up and awake and steering their small, secret fleet of boats out from the golden crescent of sand beneath the cliffs to meet the waiting ship fresh from Roscoff.

Beneath the waves, where churning kelp moored itself in unyielding handfuls to the ancient granite of the sea floor, a long, serpentine shadow snaked between the stalks, and the currents of the coastline subtly shifted. Any revenue men trying to sail along the coast from Fowey to catch the smugglers would have found the wind and tide set dead against them, and in the subtle wake that wafted from the mottled, eel-like tail as it passed unseen, the waters of the secluded inlet calmed beneath the keels of the scurrying fishing boats. The drag of the oars through the waves lessened, and muscles already tired from heaving and hefting goods up the cliff moved a fraction easier for the unexpected boon.

Between them over the next hour, the gathered men and women shifted their haul of half anker barrels and dozens of crates and boxes of goods ashore. The small kegs of rich, French cognac would fetch a pretty price all across Cornwall, and along with the liquor came smaller luxuries like lace and silk, and bundles of tobacco and spiced tea, all meticulously wrapped in oil cloth to keep the sea and the salt and the water out.

And when the speedy, slender ship was riding noticeably higher in the water, the locals simply melted away into the countryside like so many mice from a late summer granary before the excise men even knew the ship from Guernsey had visited the cove at all.

Fifteen miles away, as the sun breached the horizon and cast its first rays of warmth along bellies of fleecy clouds and the flanks of blossoming hedgerows below, a stagecoach lurched and rumbled westwards along potholed roads, and a young woman stared out of the grimy window as the horses carried her into a new chapter of her life.

After leapfrogging some two hundred miles or so along the staging stations that dotted the South Coast, with nothing but a small trunk of her belongings and a thrice-read, dog-eared novel for company, Eleanor Bywater was more than ready to see the back of that infernal stagecoach. Had it not been for the small but inconveniently bulky travelling case sitting at her feet, she might have hired a horse and ridden from the last staging inn at Plymouth to reach the secluded fishing village of Polgarrack, but given that the trunk held all her worldly belongings, she had not been quite desperate enough to escape the discomfort of hard seats and poor suspension to abandon it.

Bouncing along in the nearly-empty stagecoach, she studiously tried to ignore the older woman sitting opposite her. She’d stared intently at Nel since they'd left Plymouth behind that morning, and her scrutiny had begun to make that last twenty mile stretch feel much, much longer.

Finally, after jouncing over a pothole deep enough to start prospecting for copper ore at the bottom, Nel gasped and then raised her eyes to meet the woman’s openly curious stare. She found sympathy for her own discomfort, and a small degree of kindly amusement too. 

“Where are you headed, miss?” the stranger asked after Nel raised the hint of an eyebrow at her as the silence stretched.

“Polgarrack.”

At that, the woman’s grey eyes narrowed in confusion. “Now what takes a young miss like you to an old fishing village like Polgarrack?”

She looked to be in her fifties, though a life beside the harsh sea had weathered her features somewhat, and her wiry grey hair was covered by a simple linen cap. Her dress was dark and plain, though there was a hint of tired lace around the neck and cuffs. Her hands had the tough, reddened look of someone who scrubbed pots and salted fish, while Nel’s own hands were smooth and soft, if a little ink stained from sending a letter to her friend before leaving the inn that morning.

Nel laughed quietly and shrugged. “There’s no mystery to it,” she said. “I am to be employed as a companion to the widowed Lady Penrose at Heath Top House. I am expected there this afternoon.”

Given that only ladies of relatively high social standing themselves tended to become a ‘lady’s companion’, the older woman made a hasty re-evaluation of her fellow traveller, and her already ruddy cheeks flushed a darker shade as she cleared her throat and looked away.

“Begging your pardon, miss,” she said. “We don’t get many new faces in Polgarrack, is all. I didn’t mean to pry or cause offence with my questions.”

“No harm in a little curiosity,” Nel said, trying to put the stranger at ease to avoid any further awkwardness between them on the remainder of their journey. “I take it you’re from Polgarrack yourself then?”

“Oh, born and raised, miss,” she chortled. She eyed the forest green redingote Nel wore, with its rather masculine high collar, wide lapels and small, gold pocket watch dangling on a chain, and the contrasting sage green skirts beneath, and no doubt made one or two judgements of her own about the young lady. “And yourself? You don’t sound as though you’re from these parts at all, if I may be so bold.”

Nel smiled. “I’ve come from Sussex.”

The woman’s watery, grey-blue eyes widened almost comically and she gasped. “’at's a bloody long way, miss! And all on your own?” She shook her head but remembered herself and mumbled, “Begging your pardon.”

“You’re right,” Nel sighed, letting her gaze slide to the window to watch the countryside roll past in a blur of salt-bleached grass and vibrant yellow gorse flowers. “It is a bloody long way.” And her spine and backside felt every lump and bump and lurch of the stagecoaches from Sussex to Cornwall. With a warmer smile, she turned back to the woman. “My name is Eleanor, but most people call me Nel.”

“Agatha,” she replied with a grandmotherly smile of her own for the young woman. “But everyone calls me Aggie. My husband, Martin, is the village carter and smith, and we’ve got four boys, all of them either fishermen or miners. They all married too, so I’ve got nine grandchildren, if you can believe it!”

Nel offered Aggie her congratulations and another little smile, and then ventured to ask, “Will you tell me a bit about the place? I should like to know more about it, since it is to be my home for the foreseeable future.”

Aggie brightened even more and shuffled her plain, dark skirts, giving a wince and a grunt as the coach lurched over a pothole and the driver cursed audibly above them. Settled, if not entirely comfortable, she began.

“Well, see now. Folks has been fishing these waters for time out of mind. Pilchards is our mainstay, o’course, but the folks over St. Austell way mine clay, and obviously there’s copper and tin mines all over in the north of Cornwall. Mining here is as old as fishing, but it’s starting to dry up here and there now, o’course.”

She barely paused to draw breath before barrelling on, and Nel sat and listened while the older woman talked.

“Now, your Lady Penrose married into the Penrose family — see, she’s from Bath herself originally, though I can’t rightly remember what her family name was, but…” Nel let Agatha's potted history of the fishing and mining community wash over her, paying just enough attention to make polite sounds at the right pauses, but the discomfort of the journey and a decided lack of sleep was beginning to wear her attention span down to a single, fraying thread.

After two hours in the swaying, rolling coach, she felt woozy and weak-stomached, but with Aggie’s near-constant chatter, she at least had a better understanding of the politics of the little village than she’d ever have gained in six months on her own. She’d also learned why Aggie had been in Plymouth, since most folks never had any reason to travel further than the bounds of their own parish. Agatha’s sister’s husband had apparently been killed in the American Revolutionary War some ten years earlier, and since the widow’s health wasn’t the best these days, Aggie made the trip along the coast when she could to see her and take care of her.

Nel’s ticket took her as far as Whitcross, a desolate intersection of paler roads on a clifftop overlooking the tightly-nestled fishing port below, and away across the heather and tufted grass of the heath, she could just see an old manor house in the distance, flanked by tall copper beeches and ash trees. It looked slightly further away than she had anticipated, and she glanced apprehensively down at the travelling trunk at her feet.

Still, she was aching for fresh air and to be free of the sickening motion of the carriage, so she took the driver’s hand and allowed him to guide her safely down onto the hard-packed surface of the road before he lifted her case down for her as well.

From inside, Aggie peered out and scowled disapprovingly. “Now just you wait a moment,” she barked at the driver, who cocked an eyebrow but did pause. “Did they not send someone for you, dearie?” she asked Nel, still leaning out of the doorway and peering about like a disgruntled badger, and using the endearment freely. Apparently, two hours of talking non-stop at Nel had removed any pretence of formality or sense of social distance. Nel might as well have been adopted into Aggie Carter’s family as a niece by that point, and she couldn’t help but smile at the warmth it conjured in her chest.

“I… I never thought that far through,” she admitted, with her hand atop her bonnet as the wind gusted up from the sea below, soaring delightedly over the edge of the cliff and racing on inland as if to continue the momentum of the great rolling breakers that foamed and thundered against the shore. The coachman glanced at his pocket watch and groused something about a schedule that was almost immediately lost to the next inward gust.

“No, no, dearie,” the old woman scoffed. “No, you must come into the village. It’s far too far to go all by yourself, and with that case as well. Here, let me —”

“I can manage the case, I assure you,” Nel said with a gentle smile as Aggie half-toppled, half-leaned out of the coach to pick up the case. “How far is it to the house?”

“Two miles up that hill yonder,” Agatha said, pointing with one gnarled and arthritic finger towards the house on the rise to the north. “Come to the Lantern, and we’ll have one of the lads take you up once you’ve caught your breath.” The Lantern, as Nel now knew thanks to Aggie’s detailed prattling, was the inn at the centre of the village, right on the water near the harbour.

She had been about to protest, but with a sigh, she simply nodded. The constant journeying and jolting had worn her down more than she cared to admit, and while she wasn’t the kind of wallflower she’d met any number of times in London during the Season, a life led mostly indoors with few opportunities for physical activity had not prepared her for a two mile walk in heavy, too-fine clothes, carrying an unwieldy case in gusty conditions. Her family had been invited a number of times to Goodwood House to walk the large park there, and she had frequently ridden a rather spirited mare through the parkland of Lavington Hall with her dear friend William, so she was not entirely unused to the great outdoors, but she did have to admit that her experiences had been rather more curated and sanitised than the wild expanse of heathland visible on all sides of the stagecoach from Whitcross.

“You’re kind, Agatha,” she said, and let the woman heft her case into the otherwise empty coach.

The thing about a tiny village was that an outsider stood out a mile, and a young lady in her mid twenties and dressed in impractical, rich green clothes, stood out like a beacon in a dark night. Everyone turned to watch her as she disembarked from the coach. At home, she had barely garnered a look from anyone. Being the centre of everyone’s curiosity there was novel and, in a word, horrifying.

She almost blurted aloud that one would think she was a revenue man come inspecting for smuggled goods, but she bit it back just in time. Cornwall’s so-called ‘free trade’ and smuggling rackets were absolutely none of her concern as an outsider, infamous though they may be, and it would do her no good to start sticking her nose where it did not belong.

The Lantern was a half-timbered, two-storey building that faced the walled harbour. Its painted sign was peeling and sun-bleached, and it squawked something dreadful as it swung back and forth in the squalling wind. Mullioned windows glinted and shimmered, though the small, diamond panes were caked with a haze of salt spray, and alongside the inn, a hand-cart rumbled down from a narrow side alley towards the harbour beyond, where fishing boats bobbed on their mooring lines at the lapping high tide.

Agatha pushed open the black-painted door but came to an abrupt halt as someone appeared to be leaving the inn at the exact same moment, and nearly barrelled into her and Nel.

“Oh, excuse me,” came a young man’s hoarse tenor, and he stepped aside within the inn’s small porch to allow the two women to enter before he left.

Nel noted briefly that he wore well-made but plain clothes, and carried a hefty looking cane in his left hand, upon which he leaned while he waited for them to pass. He was pale and thin, his undyed linen shirt hanging loosely off his shoulders, and his light brown hair was tied back at the nape of his neck into a horsetail. The moment he met her eye, he inhaled in surprise and almost immediately looked away, his large, dark brown eyes turning shy and uncertain. “M’lady,” he mumbled without looking up.

She didn’t have time to correct him and tell him she had no such title, because the moment she had stepped inside, he was off out into the day beyond, limping markedly on his right leg as he went.

Nel turned back to find Agatha waiting for her, watching. “That there was young Edmund Nancarrow,” she supplied as Nel caught up with her. “Local lad. Lots of Nancarrows in this area,” she chuckled. “Can’t move for tripping over a Nancarrow. He was a shy, skittish thing even before he went off to war in the Colonies and came back with a bad leg,” she added. “But he’s a sweetheart if ever I saw one. Tailor’s ’prentice he is now.”

At that, Nel just nodded. Something in her ached when she realised she probably wouldn’t have much to do with the folk from the village once she was ensconced up at Heath Top House, and she half wised she could. They already sounded far more interesting than the Lady Winnifred Penrose, with whom Nel had only exchanged a short flurry of letters before becoming formally engaged as her ‘companion’. 

Still, an unmarried woman of Nel’s age and social standing was considered almost past her prime, and given that the few marriage proposals she had received had faded into the mists of her very early adulthood, she had had to find another respectable way to support herself. Hence, Heath Top House.

Aggie bustled her into the main room of the pub, and their arrival caused a flurry of activity that drew the eyes of a good few patrons. 

Seated at the wooden bar inside, hunched over a pewter tankard, sat a tall, bulky man in his late-thirties or early forties, with long, thick, dark grey hair shot through with a shimmer of silver white. He had it tied back off his face in a low ponytail at the nape of his neck and as he turned to regard Nel’s arrival, she met unusually deep green eyes surrounded by a web of crows’ feet lines in a tanned, weathered face. His scowl was dark and full of suspicion, but even the storm clouds in his expression couldn’t mask the fact that he was handsome, in a rugged, rough-hewn kind of way.

When she saw where Nel’s attention had snagged, Aggie let out a little gasp and snatched her by the upper arm to steer her towards an empty table in a bay window, about as far from the wooden bar where the man still sat and glared at them as it was possible to be. 

“And that’s Locryn Trevethan,” Aggie hissed as she saw Nel settled into a seat. “Can’t say as I’ve seen him in here more than a handful of times this year though. He’s usually out on the water. Lives alone in an old stone cottage round the bay from here, up at Pilchard Sands. You’d probably best be giving him a wide berth, miss. Not that he should give you any trouble, mind,” she amended carefully, “But he’s not for the likes of you to go mingling with.”

Nel smiled at the protective tone in the older woman’s voice, and nodded once.

With her warning given, Aggie raised her voice and called over to the old man behind the bar. “’ere, Tom! This young lady needs a ride up to Heath Top. You think you can arrange that for her?”

The stoop-shouldered, white-haired man nodded and knuckled his forehead at Nel across the space. “Not the finest, but we got a cart.”

“If you have a horse, I could ride,” she said, trying to be helpful.

“Ain’t got a saddle for a lady,” he said regretfully.

Memories of galloping through the leafy trees of Lavington Hall’s parkland with William flashed across her mind and she suppressed a smile. She certainly hadn’t ridden the grey mare side-saddle while keeping up with her childhood friend, and although it had been a year or so since she’d sat astride a horse instead of side-saddle, she thought she could manage well enough. “I know how to ride a man’s saddle,” she said, “But I do have a travel case I’d need to send someone back for.”

“I could get one of the lads to bring that up for you after,” said Tom, “But it’s almost as much effort to hitch up a cart as it is to tack up a horse for riding, ma’am.”

“Whatever is the least trouble for you will do fine,” she said, and the stoic, weather-beaten old man’s red cheeks darkened and he ducked his head.

While Tom left to sort out transportation to the house, Aggie flapped about getting some refreshments for Nel, leaving her to wait at the table alone.

In the wake of the hubbub and pother Agatha left behind her, Nel took a long, deep breath looked around to find Locryn Trevethan still staring across the room at her. Taken aback by his directness and the intensity of his glare, she tried to smile, but his expression remained thunderous beneath strong, dark brows, and she quickly looked away, embarrassed.

In a face turned to leather by the sun and sea-wind, wide cheekbones and a heavy brow framed his piercingly green eyes. Never mind that marked crow’s feet around his eyes that made him look like he would rather have been laughing; the contrast between the dark, hostile glower and the soft laughter lines unnerved her and made her feel off-balance, as though her stranger’s presence in their local pub had unknowingly raised the ire of a usually gentle man. 

He had a short, neatly-trimmed, salt-and-pepper beard around full lips that were currently turned down at the corners and which bore a silver-pink scar across the middle. Despite the warm day, he wore a fisherman’s dense, woollen sweater, and when she risked another look back at him, she found him still frowning openly across the bar at her.

Nel didn’t relax until Aggie returned, at which point the man snapped abruptly out of his trance, slammed a coin down on the bar, and strode from the pub on long legs that were thick as tree trucks at the thigh. The door bounced back off the plasterwork in his wake and his boots rang on the flagstones outside.

“Not one to welcome strangers, I take it,” Nel muttered, and downed half of the cheap, watered-down wine that Agatha had set on the table for her.

“Oh don’t you pay him no mind, miss,” Aggie scoffed, settling herself down into the seat opposite her like a brooding hen and glaring at the pub door. “He don’t seem to like no one in Polgarrack save for sweet Ned Nancarrow, strangely enough. Then again, I ain’t met no one who’s taken a disliking to sweet Ned. Now, Tom will have the horse and cart ready for you in just a moment, but you just take your time and recover after your journey.”

Nel, who had felt ten times better the moment she’d taken her first proper lungful of sea air on stepping out of the swaying stagecoach, looked across the table into the older woman’s face and found a mother’s kindness and compassion in her wrinkled face, and something twisted in her gut. “You’re very kind,” she whispered, unable to muster anything more. “Thank you.”

She chuckled. “You know, and don’t you take this amiss, but you remind me of my niece a little, though she’s a little younger than you.”

Nel’s eyebrows twitched in wry amusement, and Agatha blushed at the impropriety of her words. Nel didn’t get the chance to reassure her because Tom shuffled back in and told her the cart was ready for her.

She laid a coin on the table for the wine and stood, following the innkeep out into the yard and clambering up with her case into the back of the cart. It was hardly a very dignified mode of transport for someone of her station, and when Tom said as much while they rumbled out of the inn’s yard, Nel just laughed and said she didn’t mind.

“Anything is better than that awful rolling stagecoach,” she beamed, and swung her legs back and forth like a child off the back of the cart bed while Tom clucked his tongue at the horse to hurry up.

As they trundled up the narrow, cobbled street from the harbour, they passed Edmund Nancarrow standing outside a tailor’s shop, talking with the beast of a man from the bar. Both men looked up and watched her pass like she was some kind of rare spectacle.

In a way, she supposed she was. 

Still, she smiled at them despite her nerves, and Edmund knuckled a non-existent cap at her with a shy smile, while Locryn just glared.

She sighed and wondered what this next chapter in her life would bring.

___

Next chapter ->

Well, what did you think of it so far? I can't wait to hear your thoughts on it, as always!

I hope you’ll consider reblogging as well as leaving a like if you enjoyed it. Take care, and I hope you have a lovely day/night wherever you are, and whenever you read this.

| Masterlist | Ko-fi (tip jar)

[hellowoolf]

on strawberries and masonry: chapter ii

series summary: you atone for your sins, now, in a jackson garden, learning to care for soft things and yourself. joel miller is a lethal sort of similar, and misery loves company

OR

you live in jackson and meet joel and you’re both damaged little babies and fall in love (but i’m drawing this shit out🫶🫶)

warnings: angst, age gap (reader late 20s/early 30s, joel 50s), a little bit of blood/gore (at the very end), scars (NOT self inflicted), knives, mention of stitches, mention of masturbation (if i left out any, let me know!)

word count: 2.9k

authors note: thank you guys SO MUCH for all your kindness on chapter i. writing this story thus far has been cathartic and challenging and wonderful. i hope you enjoy this next chapter🤍

series masterlist | masterlist

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you don’t think of the people you worked with before jackson. out of self preservation or self suffocation or some amalgamation of the two, you let the whole of them go, frozen over and pieced off into nothing by the town and your garden and the little house you took up. on your path to the stables, wind curling about your torso and squeezing there, you can admit that you loved them, and this was your greatest concession. still, with trembling fingers you’d let the thing go, out a half-open window somewhere within you, and starved yourself the satisfaction of the remembering. now, though, coming up on the stables and knowing joel waits for you there, you think of the softness of them, which survived in spite of the killing, and suddenly you’re reeling in the line you cast when you hauled the memory of them over. 

you walk through the great doorway of the barn. the line of joel’s back shakes a little as he tightens something on his horse’s saddle, and the hardness of it makes you quiet and hot between your legs, a wanton thing that reaches for him, but you are certain it would be the reaching that scares him from you forever. his hulking figure casts a long shadow, and you feel it grazing your ankles as you saddle your own horse, but still he is as terrified as he was when you first met him, perhaps now more so in the face of his residence here. by his gait and the jerk of his movements you determine the permanence of jackson disquiets him some. it’s your first patrol with him, and so in the early morning light you allow his terror to consume you to make no room for your own.

the patrol is silent, save for the give of snow under your horses, though this is unsurprising to you. you seek out silence, or have sought it, at least, but you find the quiet unbearably difficult with him, what with the warm wood of his eyes and the carving of his silhouette. the fire of him, which he wraps his arms around in a frantic sort of way, catches on you when your horses drift together, and so you mind the gap between your paths and time your glances towards him.

despite yourself and all the rest, the time passes quickly. you return your horses to the stables, again in silence (forever in silence, it seems) and walk together in a staggered sort of synchronization towards the dining hall. 

but he sits with you, here.

surely, he’s no less comfortable with you than the rest of the town, who have filled the tables now, and so you figure he resigns to your company in favor of the unthinking of it. the weight of him next to you presses at your stomach and you constrict with it, your mouth swallowing around your tongue, and your thighs make to wrap around one another because still, you want him to touch you. you do your best, at his shoulder while you both eat, to pull the sweetness of your wanting from around your neck and wrists, but it refuses to extract itself. you suppose if joel can yield to your closeness, you can do as much for the lust, but immediately regret drawing any sort of comparison between you. you think again of the group before jackson, and your heaving of the creature of them into an ocean like blurriness and a faint sort of penitence, but the line of yourself has run out, and so the wanting of joel stays ashore with you.

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you haunt the garden later in the evenings, now that your mornings are spent in the cold, looking silence of joel, and the soil is cooler in your palms then. your strawberry came and went, the vines of it flowering and fruiting into sugar and seed, and perhaps it’s the chilled hands of the twilight along your sides, but you can’t help a selfishness with them. you’d left a basket of them in your kitchen before stalking back to the planter boxes tonight, and even in the dirt that touches you like a baptism you are glad for this sweet little monopoly. all the rest of your garden you’d given, nearly willingly, to the dining hall for eating; a thankless sacrifice you took sated pleasure in, believing only the soft and good could be capable of such a donation. but the strawberries are yours, you decide, to eat or let rot or preserve in resin like flowers.

as you scoop in the last palmful of new soil into the planter box, you sense joel’s little creature, in all her skittishness, contemplating coming into the greenhouse. she watches your fruits in the daytime, you know, with or without you, inspecting how the greens and reds of things come along. like joel she is silent, and like you she measures her distance. you turn your head, and she’s watching her reflection in the door.

“you can come in, ellie, i’m almost done,” you call through the glass, shifting back to your cucumbers. she moves only when you aren’t looking. 

“that one’s fucking ugly.”

your spine stiffens and locks in place. it’s the first full sentence she’s ever given, and the sound grabs right below your collarbone. the profanity of it, and the mundanity, too, unspools something within you. ellie came back to jackson even more vicious than when you’d first met her, though her face was made new with a sort of vacantness now, and the whole of it resembles the youth of you from years ago. but she’s talking to you, suddenly, about the cucumber by your left hand, which hangs hideously misshapen, and your fingers tremble in the dirt with the leadened weight of her effort.

“yeah, yeah,” and you smile a little, but keep your head turned, “it’s pretty grisly.” you hear her swishing responses on her tongue, and from your shoulders down to your forearms drips the yawning need to make her a vegetable and protect her in mulch. the sins of your adolescence, done by and to you, remain a plague to you, and you feel as though ellie is your chance to mend them (a selfish thought, a selfish thought). you know that to indict her as your adolescent self is an accusation too unfair to voice, but all the same you find yourself looking for forgiveness in her in a gasping kind of way. the gasping pushes the words out.

“you can help me in here, if you want. i could show you how i take care of everything.” and you do look at her, now, a leaf standing at your back, but her eyes are probing over the soil along your fingers. it strikes you that she’s smart enough to figure you wear the dirt to be cleansed, and you think it’s in this figuring that she steps closer to you.

“yeah.” but she doesn’t kneel, yet. “but not tonight.”

you nod. “okay, not tonight.”

and you don’t say it with any resemblance of conclusiveness, but nonetheless she takes it like goodbye, backing out the greenhouse doors and absorbing again into the night.

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weeks go by like this. you brave the snow, unprotected and newly fallen, with joel at daybreak, and let him follow you into the dining hall like you don’t think about how his cock would feel. the brutish quiet of him eases none, but in the evenings you help ellie (coarse as anything, but a tender thing) care for the things growing in your garden. this you do in silence, too, but it’s a filling sort of stillness that strikes you as a gift. 

you feel less venomous than you used to. joel, the selfish violence of whom bares itself in his posture, makes you something soft and yielding. even against the rushing water of your wanting of him and his neglect of you, you return to the stables every morning like a pull upstream for the knowing that you aren’t doomed for hell alone. and ellie, now, has become a harbinger of your caring, and you’re reminded of the ease with which you used to love. you loved, once, and to be faced again with this loving is a sanitizing pain you relish in. walking home from the greenhouse in what must’ve been the very early hours of the morning, you brush your dirtied hands down your jeans and drop your brutality to hang loosely at your side.

you’re a few yards from your porch when you see him standing there, hands warming in his pockets and his shoulders strung up by his ears. the night clings to joel, dark accumulating on his shoulders and broadening him further, but he’s scuffing the toe of his boot back and forth against the wood of the deck and you have half a thought to hold him. it’s a horrific thing you slice through immediately.

“can i help you?” and it comes out a little unkind, pained as you are to speak with him, but you find you mean it sincerely.

“uh,” pause, “yeah.” the cold snaps at you, but you know if you see him inside your home you’ll never sleep again, so you do not invite him in. “i was…well,” pause, he’s pausing, “well, i was noticin’ ellie comes by to your greenhouse.”

sometime in the last few seconds you’ve found your way in front of him, the bass and scratch of his voice tugging desperately at you. you nod a little. his eyes will kill you, surely. “mhm. she’s not…” and you let a breath of a laugh out through your nose, “she’s not a natural, really. but i like having her there.” and then, “she seems to enjoy it.”

he nods back at you, the swing of his head cautious while he keeps his eyes tilted down to yours. the moon peeks through his curls in silver pillars. “and she’s been okay?”

there’s a worry in it, in him, that startles you, an unknowing you’re unused to. you hum to comfort the both of you. “yeah, i think so. she doesn’t really speak to me, but i don’t mind it.” 

you know you’ve made a mistake as soon as you say it in the way his eyebrows pull together. you see, through and across his eyeline, his own refusal to speak on your patrol rounds; it stands in the space between you now, and he crosses his arms over his chest to push it further off him. 

“you don’t mind it.” and he’s only parroting you, really, but his question sinks to the ground at your feet. what about my silence? do you mind that?

“no, i guess i don’t.”

a pocket of silence passes through the both of you, rigid, and then he sucks on his front teeth, jerking like he’s made a decision and walking past you, back down your porch steps. “i’ll see you tomorrow, then,” he mumbles out as he goes, but you’re choking on the leathered scent of him, and so you offer nothing in return.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“why d’you work in the garden?” 

daybreak had come as a surprise to you, the dawn reaching through your curtains to paw at your floorboards. still, the habit of your days lets you float unmindful through the morning, and so you’d mounted your horse and slipped out the gates with joel with little pomp and circumstance. but now you’re squeezing your horse’s reins through the lines of your palms and willing yourself not to tip off the saddle. you’re shuddering, now, because he is talking to you, he is talking to you. and the flames of him, of that voice and of those hands (you aren’t religious but you pray about the hands) are released from the hold he’s kept on them, extending to lick down your spine. and you want him, desperately and unrecognizably. 

“i don’t really know.” your own answer disappoints you, for how much you’re affected by the asking. the squeak of his gloves scratches behind your eyeline. he’s never ridden next to you; the rhythm of his horse stays behind the line of your shoulder, always.

“did you…” and you can hear he’s considering scrapping the whole thing, defaulting again to the quiet, “did you garden? before?”

“i didn’t do much of anything before.” you run your fingers through your horse’s mane. “i was eight on outbreak day.” you don’t know why you add this part.

“jesus.”

you can only nod. “what did you do?”

he considers your question and kicks into his horse a little, finally, mercifully, lining you up side by side so you can see his face. he doesn’t look at you, but the side of him devastates you just as much. “i was a contractor.” he grunts, at you or the memory of it you’re unsure. “y’know, fixin’ houses and la-”

“i know what a contractor is.”

he’s hardening and you’re watching it happen, but you don’t think you can help it. “christ, you were a kid,” and he starts gesturing with his hand now, “i figured…” but you never find out what he figures; he lets the end of the sentence brush away with the wave of his hands. you think of him, last night on your porch, and the way he’d searched so earnestly in you for pieces of his little creature, who might not be as much his as you had thought.

“you’re welcome in the greenhouse, too. you can see how ellie trims the plants and things.” he turns his face fully to you then, examining you, you think for the first time. joel’s eyes bump around and poke at the space you take up, noting where you end and begin, and though he lets you watch him think, he takes great care to tuck the thoughts away from you. even still, it makes your cunt throb beneath you and you look for your own embarrassment, but it slips between your fingers. you grin at him a little, instead. again you cannot help it, you cannot help yourself with him. “you can always help out, too, if you want.” and then, “but if you manhandle any of the plants i won’t let you back.”

he lets out a breath that sounds like amusement, but only just. regardless, it fogs in front of his face. “manhandle?”

and he’s giving you something here, by entertaining your jab at him, but you don’t know what to name it. your little grin grows curious; he’s surprising you. “yeah, they’re delicate. you have to be gentle or i’ll kick you out.”

he turns back from you to the road in front of him, but you make out the slight pull of his cheek into what could almost be the twitch of a smile. it’s gone in an instant. “alright. no manhandlin’.” and then, mostly to himself, “scouts honor.”

“okay then.”

he hums, low and stilted, and that’s the end of it. and, really, it shouldn’t shock you as it does that joel drawls like tommy, but still you bask in how he sips on his words, all honey and southern heat. the rest of your patrol falls into silence again, the elastic of the moment snapped back into place, but you remain tacky with the stick of the accent and the shapes of his voice. 

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everything is muted around you, and you’re halfway shocked to find yourself running. your mark focuses ahead of you. someone is screeching your name behind your head, but you don’t dare look.

the thing you’re chasing is human. it moves like it’s new, but the size of it slugs ahead in the whole expanse of your vision. your father’s knife tethers you to its handle and you ready it in your hand.

and the killing is easy, your body suddenly pressed against the back of this poor creature, who gurgles its life out as you twist your knife in its neck. it should disgust you, and it does not, and there is nothing else to say about it.

the world falls away, then. you’re alone and the knife has been kicked from you. a deep gash traces down your bicep. the wound begins to grow, stretching from your arm to the whole of your chest, and your body is consumed, gone, gone, gone, eaten up by the hurt and the blood and the unseemly edge of skin, and

you’re awake. a bead of sweat drips a line down your neck as you heave in place. you look down, the scar covered by your right hand, which claws at it and holds it still. you go long stretches without thinking of this mark, what with the cold of jackson and the sleeves you wear; the forgetting is blissful, and the remembering nearly reopens it. you unlock the vice grip of your hand on your arm to inspect the stitching, still jagged all these years later, the seam of you raised into something like healed. and yes, the mark of your stitches remembers that someone had attempted to put you back together. but the bulk of the tissue, which healed over by way of pure spite and refusal to die, feels a lot like an indictment. alone in your bed, you clasp your hands together, and plead that god is as cruel as you have been, so she may take pity on you.

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chapter ii !! i KNOW these conversations between our little gardener and joel are tense but she’s trying and he’s trying and it will all come to a head soon i PROMISE ! hope you liked it :)🍓🤍

taglist: @koshkaj-blog (if anyone wants to be added let me know!!)

[sketchfanda]

A Little Moxxie Love party 5

Teaser Imp

When it came to the natural born native demons of hell, the variety of species was akin to snowflakes with many looking plenty unique and diverse between each other and among themselves especially when it came to the social pecking order. With the figurative bottom rung of course being occupied by imps and hellhounds to name a few though the latter were often valued for their heightened senses and their natural strength and speed but of course Hell wasn't without its own share of distinct hell-beast folk, key among them in this case being Hell-Horses. Unlike the more primal quadrupedal flaming horses, these mares and stallions consist of centaurs and those that can walk on two feet like most, with both breeds highly valued for their natural gifts of good looks and amazing speed which makes them highly valued for fashion show pageants and racing respectively ensuring that Hell-horses as a result prospered very well in terms of financial care of wealthy patrons among Hell's social elite. Now of course being as equine as they were, this lead to the aforementioned clients often engaging in a common practice used especially with race horses in the living world wherein some owners would arrange for their best high quality mares and stallions to mate and breed together, thus ensuring children that would have the best qualities of both parents making for very bright futures for them BUT there was a small wrinkle to the matter.

Hell Stallions you see, like their primal kin in the living world, had very narcissistic, obnoxious personalities being borderline sex pest perverts who in spite of their physiques and endowments were also absolute failures when it came to sexual performance. In other words, "wham, bam thank you ma'am, may I have another?" so of course Hell Mares naturally hated their partners on sight and thus were in need of a means by which they could be coaxed into estrus hence many notable researchers looked into it and found that the equine beauts responded well to the presence and company of other demons who were more pleasant in terms of personality and of course more easier on the eyes than the brawny meathead frat boys that were their own kind. Particularly and especially demons who were the rare few within in Hell that didn't have their general mindset set to the default of being an overall shitty person, the diamonds in the rough as it were, who of course would spend sometime charming the mares to a point that as soon as they were in the mood? The stallions could pounce and do their job and thus this leads to the situation a certain sweet possum of ours finds himself in at this very moment.

Moxxie much to his chagrin and confusion had found a local blueblood had sent an escort entourage to pick him up and bring him on over for a task he'd been hired for, not that Blitzo had bothered to argue or ask questions, soon as he saw the fancypants was loaded, he had Moxxie haul ass and go do what he had to for that fat paycheck!! Of course soon as he arrived at the sort of fancy digs a rich demon outside of an Ars Goetia could enjoy, he was informed of why he'd been brought here which was to be a teaser for the guy's Hell Mares to whom he was introduced to of as they were in the midst of their daily spa treatment and even among Hell Mares, it could be well said that they were absolute beauties. Going by the names of Elaine and Mojita, they were quite the pair of stunners with the former an exotic blue eyed blonde mare with milk chocolate fur and the latter silver haired and having a colour pattern common with red and Snow White fur and lucky little Moxxie had the task of getting them into just the right mood for a couple of Hell stallions’ enjoyment. All Moxxie could think at this moment was two simp,e words to best sum up this predicament. “Ooh crumbs……”

But of course nerves aside, Moxxie managed to muster up a little well, moxxie as he took to doing what he’d been hired for, work his charm on the horse woman duo as much as necessary to get them in the mood for their potential baby daddies. A few rounds of audio relaxation therapy playing guitar or violin here, an hour or so of massaging their firm, strong thicc furry bodies there and a bit of wine and dine with a candlelit dinner and the mares we’re finding their moods improving exceptionally well. To say nothing of how drawn they were feeling towards the little imp but of course their owners figured that was no problem, that was part of his job as the teaser after all. If just having them in the room for him to lay their eyes on could get them good and wet then their designated stallions of choice would be good and ready to do the deed.

But of course their pending breeding date with their designated stallions was the furthest thing from Elaine and Mojita’s minds as they found themselves becoming quite enamoured with their sweetheart of a teaser. Such a poetic romantic and to say nothing of how he made them feel like royalty, it just made them envy his wife for getting so lucky in love, hell why couldn’t he be the baby daddy instead? But of course as if thinking as one as they knew they each bith had the exact same idea, the hellmare duo shared a look as they began to make a simple but effective plan. Ooh they’d see to it their owners would get their money’s worth in their best races having skme optimal future champions, just that it’d be more on their terms and their terms alone, thank you and fuck you so very much!!

When the time had finally arrived, Moxxie found himself sitting shirtless on what was unofficially the cuckold couch in the private love room, awaiting Elaine and Mojita who were no doubt getting prettied up. After all just because they were about to have some obnoxious blowhard stallions go jackrabbit on them didn’t mean they couldn’t look a little fabulous and sexy. Speaking of the stallions, whose names Moxxie didn’t really care enough to learn, they came into the room like overgrown jock frat boys they were, wearing needlessly shameless things designed to highlight and show off those ridiculous dicks of theirs. They reminded him way too much of his ex as they posed and flexed in a way that even Johnny Bravo would think they were being obnoxious, no doubt prepping to show off for the ladies whose worlds they were to set to rock, how these chumps were considered baby daddy material for some champion racing hellmares was beyond him.

But before the dumbasses could even get around to ditching their things and whipping out their worthless dicks, the doors shut and locked behind them. Revealing Elaine and Mojita much to Moxxie’s surprise as they proceed to bash the jock brained stallions over the head with lead pipes, causing them to pass out. Looking at them like they were trash beneath their feet before they looked the imp’s way, their expressions suddenly sensual and seductive as they made their way over to him. Giving him quite an eyeful as their furry, thicc, toned forms were in full display in their sexy, Lacey lingerie before they removed their bras to flash their bare tits to him.

Giggling at the sweet nervous look on his blushing face before they took To picking him him up off of that couch and setting him in the king sized love bed. Sitting in either side of him as they cupped and caressed his cute freckled face, taking turns kissing him deeply and passionately. Hands running along his quite built and toned little shortstack torso and moaning with delight at feeling his crotch up, mesmerised by the length and girth contained within as they removed them to free his cock. Stroking it to get her as the desire and arousal Moxxie built up in them had reached its fever pitch, their bodies yearning to mate and breed and they knew who whose babies they wanted.

Yes Elaine and Mojita had indeed been unable to help themselves from falling in love with Moxxie and really who could blame them? So they agreed to unofficially 86 the wastes of dna and have the imo fuck them and knock them up with his sure to be adorable little babies after all he deserved to be more than just their teaser. After how he made them feel like much more than just a sexy racers who deserved a better class of gentleman, all that romance and suave charm like their own personal love Story hero here to sweep them off their feet, it was small wonder they were now giving him a double team blowjob. Their tandem fellatio coaxing such cute little groans from their chosen baby daddy as they sucked and blew on that cock that clearly put Hell Stallions to shame, even kissing and massaging his balls for good measure as if to encourage the batter within to be plentiful and bountiful.

But the mare duo knew as amazing as the taste and scent of Moxxie’s cock was nothing compared to every inch of that length and girth penetrating them. Their wombs becoming hammered as he thrust and pumped in order to meet their desire to have his buns in their ovens, the private love room filled with sounds of sweet porno music. The slapping of crimson skin on furry skin as Moxxie took to taking Elaine and Mojita one on one whenever one of the mares needed to recover before tag teaming him two on one. No surprise they Especially took to riding him cowgirl style, his little but toned imp form taking their intense figures snd the impact like a champ.

To say nothing of how sexually impressive his stamina and staying power as his cock, much to the mares’ delight, barely ever stopped being stiff and hard and still raring to go. And ooh he knew how to use it, taking them any and every which way possible as their snatches practically moulded to his dick, ensuring they’d never think of wanting or needing another man and they’d damn well like it that way. Doggy style, prone none, missionary, spread eagle, their cute teaser was a walking kama sutra machine and frankly it’d be some cruel joke if they didn’t wind up pregnant after this was over. All the while the stallion pair was still comatose unaware they were getting full on cuckolded.

by the time the morons finally woke up, the mares were freshly showered in bathrobes telling them thanks for stopping by and thst they could leave now with the deed done. Gaslighting the nitwits into thinking they’d actually done it when in fact they’d blown their load within seconds of getting knocked out, go figure typical minute horsemen but Hey ignorance was bliss. Leaving Elaine and Mojita with their sweetheart teaser to kiss him farewell and thank him for a wonderful time, sending him in his way after exchanging contact details of course, missing him already. And you can bet soon as the 9 months had passed, they were going to want to do it all over again.

And yes their owners were none the wiser , thinking the horse studs had done their job as Elaine and Mojita later gave birth to a healthy set of twins, never taking time to notice the distinct hybrid features. With was helped especially by Mojita having the same hair and fur colour pattern that resembled Moxxie’s own, leaving their little teaser in the clearer and those same pair of twins going on to grow up and become record making race champions. This would of course result in Moxxie becoming a very highly recommended and in demand demand HellMare tease which saw quite a population boom and a new generation of racing champions. And yes that would be a story for another time…and how sweet it is…..

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Casting Couch

Moxxie was still having quite a time processing his current situation, to think that was he really here at Skullfuck Productions of all places, on Mr.Sketch’s personal invitation to boot after having taken the plunge and called the number on that business card. But he was here all the same, walking side by side with the flaming skullheaded enigma himself as they both rocked some Hugh Heffner style robe wear ensembles which the imp hsd to admit made him feel classy as all fuck. The studio head honcho talking with Moxxie casually like he was an old friend while giving him a personal tour of the grounds, including his personal living pad attached to it and what it had on offer to provide should he imp consider coming on board. The sweet possum had to say that for a porn studio, it was quite a sophisticated professional operation they were running here as he continued to follow Mr.Sketch along.

Mr.Sketch:*Bubble pipe in hand as he made chitchat with the imp like he was a longtime old friend rather than potential future employee.*"A lot of people know about the grotto and the game room but few know about the laboratory, the biosphere, the alternative research centre..."*He monologued, gesturing to Moxxie as he showed off the aforementioned lab, demon girls in labcaots worn over playboy bunny and catgirl outfits as the imp nodded in fascination albeit blushing. Really who could blame him when all throughout since he got here, he'd been seeing a lot of naked female skin.*"But anyway where was I? Oh yeah so let me just say again I'm really glad you decided to consider giving this gig a tryout, Moxxie, I can say with certainty that you've got potential...."*The skullheaded enigma remarked as he and the imp paused in their stride, taking a puff of his pipe as he gave Moxxie time to gather his thoughts.*

Moxxie:*Really now the imp had to wonder what he could even say, far as he knew, he felt he was crazy to have ever even called that number in the first place. But Millie had naturally persuaded him as only she could and far as he knew, the potential pay from taking up a sidejob as a porn star would seriously be able to cover some of IMP's debts.*"Listen, Mr.Sketch, Sir? I'm uh certainly flattered you think so highly of me and all but I'd be lying if I said I didn't have some reservations about this. Not like the sex or doing it on camera with other women i mean!! I mean well you're....aware of what my wife is into and....admittedly, she's always been a fan of your work so this is like a big deal for her but...I have to ask. Why me? What makes you think anyone would even pay to see me in anything like this?"*Okay sure yes Moxxie had quite a few women in his life especially thanks to Millie's peculiar little kink of course. But surely he wasn't really leading man material for porno now was he?!*

Mr.Sketch:"Moxxie, Moxxie, Moxxie...First off just Sketch is fine, save the sirs, misters and boss for when we work on the Sets. Secondly let me ask you...."*The resident enigma of Hell quipped as he leaned his broad frame to wrap a friendly casual arm around the sweet possum as they resumed their treck, taking him along to an important destination.*"What do you think it is that makes my material sell as well as it does? Who do you think my biggest fanbase is? Now the obvious answers would be the sex because after all, sex sells? Now you might figure maybe it’s the hot sexy guys and girls on the covers and posters but nah nah. See Mox, what makes my work sell is I know my audience and a big chunk of them happen to be women and what those women want is guys like you…..”*The duo paused as they came to a door, greeted by Mr.Sketch’s cute little gofer, the Robo-Fizz Kitty who stood there waiting with that distinct smile of hers and tray of drinks. The flaming skullheaded smut maker picking uo a glass as he had a sip, idly swishing the glass in hand as he resumed his monologue.* “To me, Moxxie, porn is too riddled with cliches, porn down here in Hell more so. You know all the usual cliches, BBC and blacked, netorare, cuckolding, obnoxious humpers and douchebags who think all they needs plot wise is to flash their big dicks and bang some bitches. I tell you the number of hell stallions I’ve had to turn away. But a guy like you Moxxie? That’s where it’s at, that’s what women want, genuine nice guys and sweethearts who’re not only packing but know to really treat a woman in bed…and from what I’ve seen and heard, you’re just that kind of guy….”*Nodding to Kitty as the robo-fizz opened the or, leading him and the imp inside to what Moxxie came to recognise as Skullfuck Productions’ infamous casting couch room and sitting there waiting was a violet furred horned fox girl looking demon, who a Moxxie couldn’t help but feel major vibes off of her that reminded him of Loona.*”But of course formalities are formalities so I just need to see you in action for myself. So what do you say buddy?”

Moxxie would be lying if he said he wasn’t nervous as he looked at the fox girl who was really burning a figurative hole in him with that deadpan stare, seriously total Loona vibes there. And to do it in the open like this but really with all his experience, he figured he’d be used to a bit of public exhibitionism but he already in deep enough as was. Especially as he reminded him how the money would really help out and the idea of Millie, as well as few of the other notable ladies in his life, watching him in porn was a bit of a turn on. Nodding to Mr.Sketch who rubbed his hands with glee as his likely future employer went over to a tripod mounted camcorder, Kitty standing by his dutiful as ever as the red light blinked indicating recording had started so it was time for the imp to go make some sensual magic….

Getting the hint of course and figuring he might as well get to making a good first impression compared to the second hand accounts and evidence Sketch had been getting as he ditched his robe, now standing clad in just his boxers. The demon fox girl still wearing her deadpan expression yet if one were to look real close, they’d see the small blush on her face or how sensually and eagerly her tail wagged which hinted how aroused she was becoming. But as soon as Moxxie pressed his lips to her muzzle and began to make out with her, she soon found herself giving off soft, deep moans as her bidy began to become quite personally well acquainted with Moxxie and his sensual approach in the art of love making. And oh she was loving every goddamn fucking second of it!!

But if she thought kissing Moxxie was arousing if not borderline orgasmic, ooh soon as he went down on her? She wasn’t so much seeing stars as rather it as like she was seeing god as Moxxie kissed his way down her violet furred torso and removed her thong to begin an oral assault on her pussy. His hot breath and that warm, wet tongue of his working some major sexual magic on her as she felt a surge of orgasmic energy rush through her nerves and along her spine, flooding her brain with sweet ecstasy. Toes curling as she grasped those horns of his snd wrapped her thick furry thighs around his sweet little head, wanting to feel him deeper inside her.

Sketch of course made sure to the camera was getting just the right details at the best angles as he felt any expectations he had about a Moxxie being surpassed. He knew that fox girl he poached from that louse Valentino would be a good measuring bar, so to speak so seeing her cumming just from the imp eating her out was more than a good sign. Soon as he had the sweet little possum signed on, hopefully, this casting couch video would be handy to show off on documenting the rise of his career in Hell’s adult entertainment industry. But for the time being, it was best to be an in the now sort of guy and right now he was witnessing some sexual magic.

Especially once Ms.Foxxxy got the imp’s boxers off and laid eyes on that goddamn slab of meat he somehow managed to keep contained within them. Leading to things starting off intense with her hanging head upside down off the edge of the seat as she had that big imp cock face-fucking her, using her mouth and throat as an oral pussy with those heavy red balls smacking her forehead to being in her hands and knees as she screamed her head off in primal sexual abandon. Taking it doggy style from Moxxie deep and hard as he pounded her like a jackhammer, his gifted little hands grasping her waist for deer park life as he felt her pussy’s embrace around his shaft. Before he shuddered at feeling a hand grasp and squeeze his swaying balls and a set of kiss kiss and lick them, t looking over his shoulder surprised to see Kitty was the one responsible.

Seems the robo-Fizz was getting so turned in watching Foxxxy and the imp go at it that her pleasure circuits went into overdrive, urging and compelling her to join in. Her red eyes twinkling in lust delight as she flashed that pretty grin of hers before soon finding herself pulled into the sexual embrace. The imp now the filling of a threesome sandwich as mr.Sketch found this casting couch become more fun than expected, seems his potential new star had a natural charisma which escalated situations like this, that was something that would make for some fun projects down the line. Grinning in mischief as he continued to film the ongoing scene before him with Kitty riding Moxxie cowgirl style while Foxxxy sat on his face, wanting to enjoy that magic mouth of his again while she and Kitty kissed and out with one another.

A couple of rounds and orgasm later, Foxxy was sleeping on the couch, spooning an equally blissed out Kitty as the pair basked in the afterglow of a heavy assault of orgasms from the imp. As their boss and the imp stood outside the door to talk in private after Moxxie had finished showering, a soda can in hand as he drank to recover some energy and fluids from that wild little casting couch session. The imp was still a little unsure about his choices, on the one hand there was no doubt the money would be great and Millie was sure to approve and yet could he really do such a line of work? Before Mr.Sketch went in for the kill as he handed Moxxie a script, one for a project down the line he knew for sure the imp would be perfect for as he watched him flip through it.

Moxxie had to say, he was certainly impressed by what he was reading, this script was well thought out and there was enough plot snd story but not too much to keep viewer waiting for the sexy scenes. It did remind him that Millie was a huge fan of Skullfuck Production’s works for good reason, the stash she had d stockpiled and collected was proof of that. And as thespian at heart, this did speak to his sense of art and creativity, sure it wasn’t a musical like the phantom or les miserable but all the same. Closing the script shut as he looked at the skullheaded enigma with determination and nervousness, classic Moxxie, got to love him….

Moxxie:”So where do I sign and how soon you want me to start?” *If joy could be harnessed as a power source, Mr.Skech was giving off enough to power all of Canada and the states for eternity. Looking at the imp with pride like the sun he’d never had just fine and told him he was going to run for president of Hell and win as he shook and his hand and began leading the imp back to his office so they could sign his contract. The demon enigma knee for sure, this imp was going to be a real fan favourite, the sooner he got him performing on camera the better. This was going to be the beginning of a very beautiful friendship……*

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Margot Ménage

Margot Mallard wasn’t happy, no sir she wasn’t happy at all, if anything she was downright fucking pissed off as all Hell and it was all her ex’s damn fault!! Normally she’d be all for shaking what her mama gave her on the dance floor alike right now at this little party being held by one of Perfecto Prep University’s resident frat houses but not tonight. No right now she was busy in her dorm room shredding, burning up and deleting any and all pictures of Danforth Drake, aka the aforementioned ex of this past week. Now you’d likely be wondering what went down to make this quite easy in the eyes duck girl so livid and vindictive?

Well she had been looking to surprise him with a little make out at the football team’s hot tub, only to find Drake gong at it with the goddamn donkey girl from the cheer squad, the cheating bastard!! And he even tried to deny it while he was still balls deep in that whore mule but basically just dug himself deeper, spilling the beans due to the shock and nerves of being caught in the act with details like the fact this wasn’t even the first time and that’d it’d been going on behind her bad for weeks, if not months! So small wonder she slapped him and kicked him in his pissant needle dick and brake it off with him then and there. It’d been a week since of course and she still felt like she had so much spite to vent but what could she do to really stick to Danforth?

Well what was good for the goose wa good for the gander but it wasn’t like any of the other guys on the team were an improvement, hell Perfecto Prep was seriously lacking in the looks department, maybe that duck from Acme Looniversity?! Maybe a little cam session killing herself off in her own personal hot tub on her new OnlyFans page would suffice enough, nothing would be sweeter revenge than posting naughty videos and pics of herself wet and naked for others to see…well, it’d be a start. Only to pause her train if thought as she heard a knock on her door, curious as to who it was though if it was Drake come crawling back to her back together, ooh she would castrate him. Opening the door to find quite the curious little sight before her, blinking a few times as she was wondering if this was for real.

Standing there before her was what seemed to be, she had to say, a quite cute, little red skinned and horned, freckled possum in a pizza deliver boy uniform. Those of us in the know of course know it was none other than our favourite little resident thespian Imp Moxxie, who of course was going a little incognito in the living worldon his first real job as a porn star for Skullfuck productions. Mr.Sketch had given him quite a particular task, a little amateur porno take on that Punk’d show, in this case the flaming skullheaded enigma would have Moxxie go to the living world and have him go to some random hottie posing as one of the most common porn based occupations (delivery guy, pool cleaner, Gardener/custodian, repairman, etc) and if they showed interest, well then go ahead and rock their world like only he could with that big imp cock of his. The sweet possum sneaking a nervous glance to is newfound side gif employer snd the camera girl peeking around the corner, human disguises on as they flashed him a thumbs up to reassure him.

Moxxie:*A stealth roll of his eyes and silent sigh as Moxxie hit the acceptance stage in his mental process and knew it was best he get in with and get it over with. A nervous smile as held uop the pizza box and began to recite his line as it came to him from memory, personally he’d have actually felt nervous doing a more scripted sort of shoot rather than one of these stealth method amateur acts…but Mr.Sketch loved put his newbies through the ringer when he saw potential.*”G-good evening Miss, Helluva slice at your service…Uhm, You happen to order the Uhm…”*The little sweetheart checked his secret post it chests note on the box to check his next line, in any porno with this sort of set up, it would be cliche as all fuck.*”Meat lovers special?”*His shaken smile was rather endearing and bless him, he was really trying as now he had to wait and see how Margot would react and if she would take the bait, hook, line and sinker….

A few moments later, the frat party below found a sudden interruption to their rowdy keg emptying bachanal as the scene suddenly went from the usual wild frenzy like out of teen movies to sudden silence besides the music from the dj as everyone just paused and stopped, why you might ask? Well might because many suddenly found their phone screens all get the same notification the music found a little something extra added to it in the form of some very deep throated leered moans and cries of pleasure. Because a this moment everyone was catching a livestream of Margot Mallard, the cheer squad captain of Perfecto Prep herself, in the throes of passion as she went at it like a porn star with Moxxie in the hot tub. And from the angle of the camera you could see a good shot of that big red imp dick as she bounced her violet feathered booty on it, her bombshell figured fully naked as her favourite swimsuit laid away discarded off to the side, fully exposing herself and being very vocal about how much she was enjoying her new lover compared to her ex.

Danforth Drake as well as the rest of the football team happened to be among the party crowd and he didn’t even have to look at his phone as it seemed that Margot went and hit a little snafu when setting up the stream. What was intended to be a broadcast to just her onlyfans subscribers had also accidentally been set up to every available device connected to the campus Wi-Fi which meant every one among student and faculty alike was getting a free show. The pencil dick canard looking on with shock and horror akin to witnessing a car crash as some nobody little possum was basically cuckolding him and Margot’s dirty talk was adding more blows to his ego. It certainly wasn’t going to help the fact that a few among the party started sharing this with friends, ensuring this amateur porn show was gojnf to be quite the talk of the town.

Margot:”Aaahn ooh god fuck me harder daddy!, you’re so much bigger and better than my ex!! He’s a little eunuch compared to you!! Fuck me like you want to own me baby!!”*But of course that was all the furthest thing from Margot’s mind because quite frankly her mind was busy drowning in an overdose of ectasy. Raw, pure sexual bliss flooding her brain with every pounding of her womb by that red hot length and girth which relentlessly jackhammered away into her slit. She’d just been expecting a decent lay if not just a quick blowjob to tip this unexpected but oh so cute delivery boy but the second Moxxie’s cock came out rested ion her face with a heavy, meaty thud on her face? Her libido proceeded to flip every switch possible to bitch in heat mode and that was how we came to current events.*

Mr.Sketch and the camera girl of course were still around, literally peeking around the corner as the latter filmed and recorded more intimately and closely to get just the right angles her boss needed. Shots of Margot’s face shifting through a range of expressions that showed how horny and orgasmic she was to the intimate connection of her feathered bouncing on that big Imp cock all to ensure the pleasure was genuine. Voyeuristic as it was, like hell the flaming skullheaded porn baron was going to pass up a chance to see his rookie star in action but hit damn who knew the delivery boy disguise would reel in such a hottie?! And Moxxie was really putting her through the ringer, from the looks of it whoever this limpdick ex was, there was no way she’d give him the time of day ever again once Moxxie was done with her.

The sweet possum of course, as overwhelmed at first as he was by Margot’s intense libido, was soon taking the momentum well as he mustered up his skill and experience to rock her world. From pounding and pumping her pussy with his white hot seed to facefucking her and pounding that feathered booty like she owed him money, thinking if Millie, Loona or Verosika were here, what would they love to see him do? Much to Margot’s delight as pink hearts glowed in her eyes, feeling like she could die happy just from the pleasure alone. But alas all things come to an end one way or another as the stream was cut off, leaving a stunned crowd and Drake feeling like an inadequate eunuch while Margot’s wet,naked body was tucked snug in her bed leaving her to bask in the afterglow and sweet sexy dreams of her mystery lover boy….

About a week after what Acme Acres came to know as One Night in Margot, the duck girl found herself getting e-mail from Skullfuck productions offering her a contract to become one of their stars, with the promise naturally of getting to see her random delivery boy once more, to which she couldn’t have typed a reply fast enough. While the porn company’s new video on their website was making record view numbers from the first it uploaded to hype and tease their new Rookie, known only as Mysterious M. Comments on the video vadied, some from a few female fans who could tell that big imp cock was going to be giving them some very sweet dreams tonight. While in the office of the Hesse honcho of SFP himself, he was on his cellphone speaking to his sure to be favourite little talent..

Sketch:”I’m telling you, haven’t seen views this fact since the first time our streaming site went public in the living world. Just a clip e more of these amateur bits and we can start you off on some legit scripted shoots. Hope you enjoy the present I sent you by the way, little dude….”*The enigma sat in his desk, checking his pc desktop screen while for Moxxie it was a different story, for you see at his and Millie’s love nest apartment, his wife and Verosika were currently sandwiching his sweet little snowball head between their demonic booties. Suffocating him with pleasure as they expressed their opinion of one of his first real pornos as his little amateur style short with Margot played on the tv screen. As a thanks for his above and beyond performance, in addition to his first paycheck Moxxie had been gifted with a dvd of the full uncut shoot compared to the streaming version which was a condensed highlight reel. One that was sure to sell like hot cakes once it saw distribution.*

Moxxie could only squeak out a thanks as Mr.Sketch finished the call wishing him luck as he promised to email and text him their next schedule of event shoots. Leaving him to continue suffering the sweet blissful agony of a boot sandwich which was of course just a preview of what Millie and Verosika had in store for him. How could they not after having watched him in action like that, the raw ahegao Margot made as she had the biggest cock in existence ensure she’d never think of any other men. And this would be just the beginning of what was yet to come in his new career in adult entertainment…..pray for him….

[hannibalzero]

Do you know who I am?

Charthur 🦬🦌🦬🦌 dabble!

With Dyani! Beware of cute and just Arthur.

Coming back from fur trapping, Charles Smith had hardly been gone a week but he was already so damn homesick. Turns out when you have a home to miss, it happens so easily. Charles hardly got on the trial before wanting to turn back and run straight into that little ranch house up on the hill with that large flower garden.

Charles missed Arthur, missed Dyani, his bed with that heavy quilt and a warm bath.

Taima being a spoiled and beloved horse now, saw her barn and broke out into a canter. She was sick of being on the road, she wanted to be home.

“Easy girl!” Charles soothed but couldn’t help but to smile. Excited himself to be home with his family. Taima stopped to allow Charles to open the stable door, Charles hurriedly got off before pushing the door open.

He stopped for a moment and counted. There were eight horses, when Charles left there was only three. Peaches, Gin and Brandy. Taima was with Charles of corse. Five random horses where looking at Charles curiously.

Arthur’s horses were still here.

But Charles still worried.

Removing the saddle and blanket, Charles took care of Taima and stabled her, he also cleaned his equipment and hung his fur haul to process later. Worry churned his stomach, did something happen while he was gone?

Charles took a deep, slow breath and settled himself as he approached the ranch house. He carefully pushed open the back door, the sound of Dyani crying made his heart hurt.

“Oh I know, it’s awful ain’t it.” Arthur soothed the crying baby in his hold. The sound of water filled poor Charles in on what was happening. In a washing basin on the kitchen table, Arthur was bathing Dyani much to her dismay. “Gettin’ wash up, I gotcha I ain’t gonna let ya go. Such a pretty girl.”

Beside the table was the actual tub, seems like Arthur was about to have a bath himself. The water was heating over the fire.

Charles relaxed a lot. “Hey.” He called out to his family, entering the room now as he closed the door behind him with a click.

“Hey you!” Arthur called out not hiding the smile on his face. Moving Dyani onto the towel on his shoulder and wrapping her up. “Wasn’t expectin ya till tomorrow!” He stood up and walked over. “God I missed ya.”

“Got done early, headed home as soon as I could.” Charles rubbed noses with Arthur before kissing him. Then moved down a bit to kiss Dyani. “Saw all those horses in the barn. You been busy?”

Arthur moved the baby to Charles shoulder towel and all. “Not by choice, but my hand was forced. Descent horses should fetch a good price after a little training.” Arthur went to pour the warm water into the waiting bath.

“Whatcha mean?” Charles asked his worry coming back to full force.

“Ohhhhhhh, small gang of outlaws broke into our house in the middle of the night. Thinking they could strong arm me for some money and well…pleasurable company.” Arthur said with a hum. “They hit the ground after sayin what they wanted and I got to work.”

“You took out a gang of outlaws?” Charles asked in shock holding Dyani closer now.

“While nursing.” Arthur sounded proud of himself. “I ain’t puttin up with nobody’s foolishness.” He looked back at Charles. “….we’re alright, I took care of everything.”

Charles was stunned for a moment. “You know something Arthur? I sometimes forget who you are and what you’re capable of. You are so sweet and caring, now that where out of the life it’s easy to forget.”

Arthur snickered cheeks turning red. “Imma Arthur goddamned Morgan Smith. I have a bounty of five thousand dollars and pretty red letters underneath saying don’t approach.” He bragged. “Husband of Charles Smith which they can’t find or charge. mama of the prettiest baby in four territories!” He leaned over and kissed Charles.

“Imma complicate feller you know?”

Charles smiled into the kiss. Nodding in agreement. “Yeah yeah you’re complicated. I’m glad you and Dyani are safe when I’m gone.”

“Miss ya awfully fierce when ya are gone. Makes me grumpy.”

“Those poor souls.”

“Ya got that right.”

[azucarmorena97]

Money Ties (Jungkook Love Story || Pt.3)

Pt.2 || Pt.4

Your parents have worked hard to get to the top and have made sure to teach you everything you need to know to be successful in this business: from tough but lucrative financial decisions, down to the right ball gown for any given banquet. A promising and extravagant future awaits you- that is, if you agree to one teensy detail...

Son of Mr.Jeon Sr. and heir to June Company, Jeon Jungkook is an immature playboy with nothing to offer a woman but good looks and a crap ton of money, and he stands to inherit much MUCH more, so long as you both enter into the arranged marriage contract that was drawn up before the pair of you were even born.

You're more than willing to try, but you're not sure you'll be able to stand each other long enough to inherit a single penny...

Series Warnings: There will be smut in the near future and I will label those chapters as such. As I say before most of my pieces- I do not endorse any themes, ideas, or behaviors in this series. This is all purely fiction/fantasy! Feel free to inbox me suggestions/ideas/what you'd like to see in this series and I'll see what I can do! Enjoy <3

Recap: "I hope you know you didn't ruin anything. My husband and I feel very strongly, even more so now, that you're the perfect fit fr our family." Your heartbeat picks up in your chest; you were sure you blew your chance to bits, but here she is, offering it all on a silver platter for you.

On your way back to your suite, you try calling your dad three different times, and each time the calls go straight to voicemail. For the most part, you've gotten used to getting his voicemail and can even recite it word for word- but right now, him being here for you is crucial. Even though your mom couldn't make the time to actually be here, at least she shows she cares, even if it is through blowing up your phone every hour; at least it's something. She even helped pick out the gifts for the Jeons: gold cuff links for Mr.Jeon, a lovely pair of jade earrings for Mrs.Jeon, and a silver chain with a medallion fo Jungkook. All your life, your dad said he couldn't wait to be there for when you would finally sign the agreement that they'd spent years tailoring and planning, only to cancel last minute because of work. Well, if he wants to leave you out in the cold to figure this out by yourself, then you're gonna do it your way.

Once inside the suite, you peel off the pretty little outfit you'd carefully put together for tea and toss it onto the bed, switching into a pair of baggy sweats and an oversized sweater, and the warmest socks you packed. You're finally going to dive into the manila envelope. You plop yourself into bed and take out everything, ignoring the initial feeling of being overwhelmed at the sight of the busy papers, looking past the legal jargon to find the bare bones of it all. In a matter of twenty minutes, you're completely locked in; you highlight, circle, annotate, even cross out some parts. You slowly realize how little your parents are settling for in this "partnership", as your dad likes to call it. According to this contract, their precious daughter is only worth 15% of the 'Jeon Empire', while Jeon Jungkook will be the majority owner of June Company, including hotels, restaurants, as well as owning shares in your parents' company and other smaller endeavors. Well, that just won't do. If you're going to be committing yourself to a marriage, it's for the long haul. All of your adolescent and teenage years were spent avoiding boys like the plague for fear of getting too attached and ruining your parents' dream for your life. Even your college years have been all about work and climbing up the ladder to get to this point- 15% is horse shit.

After three agonizingly long hours, the contract looks like a Frankensteined version of itself; torn apart and put back together. You hold it up in triumph- you almost want to take a picture just for the memories. "Proud of you," B/f/n says through a loud yawn. You had to call her about an hour in for moral support. "No, don't be tired. You can't be tired. It's still early!" "Hun, it's 3AM here." "Oh right..." You sigh, stuffing the contract back in the envelope, "I forgot about the time difference... ugh, I'm just so bored here. I have nothing to do." "Girl, you're at a whole luxurious hotel, all expenses paid- if I were you, I'd be doing a spa day, visiting the restaurants, drinking up all their liquor- you just don't like being alone." You roll your eyes. She's right, of course, but you're not gonna give her any validation. "I guess I'll just try to get some sleep...I have a big day tomorrow." "What time are you meeting them?" "We're meeting for brunch at 11." "First it was 'high tea' and now Brunch," She echoes with a sleepy smile, "How classy." You roll your eyes, "Good night, B/f/n," You laugh. She waves lazily and then you hang up the phone. "Well, since this is an all expenses paid hotel..." You bite your lip and look over at the door, "...I'm gonna go use their copier."

AT 6AM, your alarm goes off scaring you violently awake. It had taken you hours to finally fall asleep in the first place. You'd tried to close your eyes after your face time, but ended up tossing and turning until 2AM. This jet lag is something else. Or maybe it was stress for today; I mean, you are preparing to sign a contract to marry a man you hardly know (and also kinda hate), which was essentially created when you weren't even a thought in your parents' mind yet, which will, in turn, lead to lifelong stability for you and your family as well as further growth for your family's businesses so everything is kind of on your shoulders and will all fall apart if you don't do your respective part- oh God, you might have a panic attack and you haven't even gotten out of bed yet.

You speed through your morning routine so that you can look over your edits again, though as soon as you sit down, your phone begins to buzz with all your incoming notifications. You scroll through, ignoring some texts, answering a few emails- and then you come across one from your dad from an hour ago. You take a sip of your coffee as you open up the message and, when you do, you almost spit the coffee out against the pretty clean white hotel wall. Staring at you is the "finalized contract" (or so it's entitled) that your dad made 'edits' on for you to print out and sign. You look over the entire thing and with every sentence you read, you feel the anger rising in you. The "edits" he made didn't even make the deal that much better for you, not to mention, how can your dad flake on you in regards to coming on this trip, ignore your calls and texts, but still have the nerve to send me this shitty contract at the asscrack of dawn on the DAY OF the supposed signing? Fuck that. You're gonna send them your draft and your parents can cry about it. You're done doing things their way. You open up your laptop and quickly go to your saved files, opening up YOUR finalized version that you'd scanned and re-typed. You cue it up in a message and type in Mr. and Mrs.Jeon's email addresses, along with their lawyer's email. For a moment, you hesitate, letting the mouse hover over the 'send' button, but then you count how many times your parents have made you feel completely alone in just the duration of this trip, plus every time you've had to make yourself small for others to be big- "Fuck it." You hit send and then close your laptop to put your outfit together for brunch.

Brunch is held on the balcony at their hotel restaurant, Juniper. The vibe is definitely upper class, and you see it's bustling with guests. "Hello, Miss; will you be dining alone?" The hostess asks. You shake your head, "No, actually- I'm with the Jeon party." Her eyes widen for a second before she bows, "Oh yes, Ms.L/n, allow me to show you to your table. You smile and bow in return, feeling slightly embarrassed that she clearly felt the urge to kiss your ass a little extra just for being associated with the Jeons. She leads you around the corner to a wall of windows, much like the ones on the roof top when you'd gone for tea. As she opens the double doors, you see Mr. and Mrs.Jeon sat at a table straight ahead, Jungkook's back facing you. Your heart starts beating rapidly in your chest; it's happening. This is it. The entire ride here, you were psyching yourself up saying you'd be confident and strong and that if they didn't like the changes you'd made to the contract, they could kiss your ass- but right now, you feel your legs might turn to Jello. "Y/n!" Mrs.Jeon calls out excitedly, getting out of her seat and running over to you. Mr.Jeon and Jungkook look over in your direction; one giving you a big smile and the other...with a rather unreadable expression on his face. You smile and bow, "Good morning everyone." She politely dismisses the hostess and guides you to the table, where Mr.Jeon and Jungkook are standing to greet you. "Annyeonghasimnikka," You bow again. "So polite, isn't she Jungkook?" Mr.Jeon says, lightly hitting Jungkook's shoulder. You bow slightly, "Hello, Jungkook." He nods, "Hey." "Please, sit," Mrs.Jeon says. You immediately notice that Mr.Jeon is wearing the cuff links you'd gotten him, and Mrs.Jeon is wearing the earrings; Jungkook seemed to be the only one not wearing his gift. Figures. "We haven't ordered just yet so you have some time to think about what you want." "Oh that's okay, I'll take whatever you recommend." "Oh, I love that. I'm getting you my favorite- the praline french toast is so good paired with the fritata and...the eggs benedict with salmong." "Sounds good," You laugh, finding it endearing how excited she is. You wonder if she ever chews Jungkook out like your mom does to you You spend most of the time talking to Mr. and Mrs.Jeon; basic chit chat about life, how the food was, and other pleasantries- until Mr.Jeon receives a call and excuses himself from the table for a moment. Then, Mrs.Jeon says she wants to check in with the chef about something really quickly, leaving you and Jungkook at the table alone. You take a sip on your mimosa and then turn to him, "How are you, Jungkook?" He straightens up a bit and clears his throat, "I'm fine. How about yourself?" "I'm good...I- I'm hopeful that today's meeting goes well." He nods slowly, seeming deeply pensive about what you've said, "Well, it should be quite lucrative for you if it does." His tone is almost bitter-sounding. You furrow your brows, not liking how he's making it seem that you'd be the only one benefiting. "Well, according to the contract, it should be quite beneficial for the both of us, wouldn't you say?" "Oh, please. What are pennies to bills," He scoffs. "I mean, considering you can't even get a penny of mommy and daddy's money unless you get married, I'd say we're in the same boat," You lean back, deciding you're done with the niceties. He wants to be a jerk? Two can play. He glares at you, knowing you're right but, of course, refusing to admit it. "Don't you ever get tired?" "Of what?" He asks, face scrunching in annoyance. "Of the stick up your ass?" You smirk, crossing one leg over the other as your swirl your glass from the stem. "This whole thing is fucked and you know it," He says, throwing himself against the backrest of the chair in defeat. You nod slowly and thoughtfully, "Maybe, but as I always says, 'Anything worth having is worth fighting for.'" He rolls his eyes, "Whatever."

"Sorry, Kids. I just had to get that done before I forgot. Is your father still not back yet?" Mrs.Jeon asks, sitting back down at the table and looking around. "No, I guess he's still on the call," You say, "He sounds like my dad." Mrs.Jeon laughs, "Well, birds of a feather flock together." "I'm sorry everyone- Y/n, I just got off the phone with your father. Goodness, it's such a shame he couldn't come," Mr.Jeon says, a big smile on his face as he sits down. "You- you spoke to my dad?" "I sure did. I'd called him this morning about the finalized contract he'd sent me last night but he didn't get back to me until now since he was on the golf course." It takes everything in you to keep your eye from twitching. The golf course. Priorities. You plaster a fake smile on your face and clear your throat, "Actually, Mr.Jeon, the one he sent you is not the finalized version." He looks up confused, "No?" You shake your head and reach into your purse for the crisp new manila envelope, "I had to make some edits of my own." They all look at each other and then back at you, "Oh- alright," Mr.Jeon takes the envelope and he and Mrs.Jeon look over it together. You can practically see the gears in their heads turning, meanwhile, Jungkook is looking at you with his eyes narrowed wondering what it is you're up to. "Y/n," Mr.Jeon laughs nervously, "This is...substantially more than what your father and I had previously discussed." You nod, "Oh yes. 40% more, to be exact." "Mhm..." Mr.Jeon hands the paper to Mrs.Jeon who continues reading. "I believe the 15% we'd originally agreed upon was quite generous as even a fraction of the money we receive from the various businesses would be quite a profit for you." You purse your lips as you listen, trying your best to be as respectful as possible, "Yes, that's true. It would be quite a lot, however, I think it's reasonable to divide assets 50/50 between spouses, seeing as how I'll not only be a part of June Company itself but also be behind the scenes as a wife. Not to mention, when I have kids, there is no longer incentive for Jungkook to stay married to me, is there?" Mr.Jeon looks at his wife, who is looking back at him with the same concerned expression. "Y/n, our motivation for having you marry our son isn't to...produce an heir," Mr.Jeon says, "It's to help him mature and give him something to work for." "Dad, I don't need to get married to mature. I'm capable and I'm ready to run the company. Please, just let me show-" "You shut your mouth. With all the debt you've gotten me in with your incessant partying, the charges in property damage-" Mr.Jeon's face is turning more and more red, while Jungkook just looks away. He's completely quiet as he his father continues hurling criticisms and but Mrs.Jeon puts her hand on his chest to keep him from saying any more. "Mr.Jeon, I want to be able to help all of you- but I think both I and Jungkook are sacrificing a lot, and a large portion of that sacrifice is on yours and my parents' behalf. He and I will both be turning our lives around for the sake of our families. I just want to make sure we're both getting what we need from this." Jungkook turns slowly to look at you, his expression softening, along with his father's. Mr.Jeon is silent for a little while. "I understand if this is something you and your family cannot get behind and if that's the case, we can rip up this contract and put it all behind us, no harm done- but if you all want this as much as we do, these are my conditions," You say as gently as possible. You glance at Jungkook, whose eyes are fixed on you- causing for you to quickly look back at Mr. and Mrs.Jeon. "Well...I think we'll need some time to think this over. I'll have my lawyer look this over and we'll let you know what we've decided by tonight. How's that sound?" Mr.Jeon asks, giving you a tired smile. You nod, "That sounds just fine, Mr.Jeon. Take all the time you need."

You grab your bag and stand up and everyone else follows suit, "I had a lovely brunch. Thank you so much for putting it together for us to have this meeting." You turn to Jungkook, "I hope we're able to move forward together," You say with a bow and, for the first time, he bows in return. "Please have a good rest of your day," Mrs.Jeon says, stepping forward and hugging you goodbye. "And as always, please let us know if you need anything," Mr.Jeon says with a genuine expression. You nod, "I will."

Of course, not two hours since your brunch with the Jeons, and your dad was already blowing up your phone. How interesting the way that works, isn't it? Your dad only calls when you don't do things exactly as he asks. You sent every single call to voicemail until they stopped coming in altogether- though he'll most likely call right before bed. You'd spent the rest of the day out and about near the hotel; something you thought you wouldn't get a chance to do this time around. It helped to get your mind off things for a minute. You'd even gone to a cute little cafe and answered some of your work emails (you can't ever completely disconnect, though it doesn't hurt to at least have a change of scenery).

By the time you come back to your suite, it's already 8PM, though of course you're not even a bit tired, so you decide to bother B/f/n for a bit. "Mm...hello?" "Hello," You practically sing into the phone, "did I wake you?" "Mhm..." "Well, wake up- I gotta tell you what happened today." "Y/n, look, I promise I'm interested but I do not have the mental capacity to receive any new information right now..." "You're no fun." "Hey, I already told you, you have other options for entertainment." "The spa's closed right now, I've already gone to the eateries inside this hotel, I've used the free wifi and even the copier. I've done everything, there's nothing left, B/f/n," You whine. "Not everything..." She says, sleepily eyeing you. You instantly know whatb she means and you violently shake your head. "Nope. Uh-uh. I am NOT getting a drink by myself." "Oh come on, if you wear one of those skimpy little dresses you packed, I promise you won't be alone for long." You narrow your eyes at her, "How do you know I packed skimpy dresses?" "You just told me," She smirks. How does she do that? "And what am I supposed to do if a man walks up to me and offers me a drink thinking he's gonna get some?" "Oh come on, you're not even engaged yet. Live a little." You roll your eyes, "Clearly, you're very sleep deprived and that's why you're talking crazy. Call me when you're rested." "Sounds like a plan," She says before abruptly hanging up the call.

You sit and look over at your suitcase, contemplating your next move... "I guess a drink won't hurt."

The hotel bar is nicely tucked away on the first floor, a small ways away from the lobby. It's decorated with gold trim and pretty golden flowers along the cherry-wood walls. The vibe is definitely dark and sultry- you suppose you dressed appropriately: off the shoulder a-line mini dress and some simple strappy heels. You put a lot of effort into looking effortless tonight. It's not as packed as you expected, though it's definitely not empty; people are sat at various tables, holding conversations, the occasional stray laugh reaching your ears over the soft music. You'd hyped yourself up before coming down, saying you weren't gonna worry about who was or wasn't looking at you; you were just going down to have a drink and then go right back up- but when you realize the room is full of mostly men, you hesitate to take a seat. "Welcome in- can I get you anything, Miss?" The bartender, a kind-looking older gentleman, asks when he sees the lost puppy look on your face. "I-uhm, yes. I'll take an espresso martini, please?" "Of course." You set your clutch down on the bar and then take a seat. "Meeting anyone?" The bartender asks. You laugh sheepishly, "No, just...wanted to get out of my room." "I suppose that's a good thing," He says. You furrow your brows, wondering if he's gonna take the opportunity to be creepy, "And why is that?" "Because that young man over there has been watching you since you walked in," He says, nodding behind you. Your heart flutters a bit, and you feel flattered by the possibility of someone actually checking you out.

You turn slowly to where he'd nodded and scan for a moment before finally seeing him. How did I not notice him before? "That's the hotel owner's son, you know," The bartender adds. Jungkook's expression is a bit unreadable, but he's definitely looking at you. His eyes are completely fixed. You turn around quickly and bite your lip. You can't leave now, he'll know it was because of him and you can't stand the idea of him feeling like he drove you out of that bar. No way. You straighten out your back, forcing your body to relax as much as possible- or at least have the appearance of relaxation. The man puts your drink in front of you, and you gingerly take your first sip. "How can you drink those things?" Jungkook's unmistakeable voice says from right behind you, causing you to choke and spit some of your drink back into the glass. Your eyes widen in horror. "Bless you," He smirks. He looks over at the bar tender and signals holding up two fingers, to which the man nods. "Jungkook," His name feels so strange on your tongue; up until this trip, you've just refered to him as 'the Jeon's son', and using his name still feels so...intimate, somehow. He leans back in his seat, looking at you as though he's sizing you up, "And who, might I ask, did you dress up for tonight?" "Myself." You say, side-eyeing him. He's very brazen for someone you've only just met again after so many years. "Hm." "Hm, what?"

"Oh nothing...it's just, well, humans are performative beings, you know? Everything we do, whether consciously or not, is to attract." "Oh? And you're saying this to imply that I'm trying to attract someone?" You take another sip of your drink, trying to hide your unexpected nervousness. He shrugs, a cocky smile spreading across his face. "And who do you think I'm trying to attract, Jungkook? You?" You scoff. "Hey, you said it." You blush slightly and look down at your drink, your fingertip running up and down the stem of the glass. He definitely smells like he's been drinking- a lot- but you also catch hints of musk and wood- even burnt cinnamon. Shitty men shouldn't smell this damn good. You glance down at his neck and squint your eyes; is that-? "You're wearing the necklace?" He furrows his brows for a second in confusion before the realization sets in, "Oh- yeah. I look good, don't I?" His lips turn up into a coy smile. You clear your throat and shrug, "I think I'm just good at picking out jewelry." He chuckles and shakes his head, "Your disdain for me is quite amusing." "Almost as amusing as your insistence on flirting with me." "Well, don't get too flattered, you might fall in love." "Ha," You scoff. The bartender sets two shots down in front of Jungkook, who then slides one over to you. "What's this for?" You ask, immediately suspicious. "To celebrate." "Celebrate what?" "Us, of course." "Oh please," You roll your eyes, "Just the other day you were yelling at me and accusing me of attacking you, then you implied that I was some sort of gold digger and was just trying to mooch off of you." He nods thoughtfully, "Yes, that's true, I said some pretty...crass things. I suppose I should apologize for that. As far as the shot, well- I've decided to accept it." "Accept...what?" "The fact that this train is leaving with or without our 'yes', so we may as well enjoy the ride along the way, right?" As he says this, his eyes fall slightly, and only for a moment. You almost wonder if you'd seen it at all. "And what's caused this change of heart?" "Truthfully...this entire arrangement has been hanging over my head all my life. It felt like a noose slowly getting tighter and tighter. But seeing my father so stunned by your demands...it felt like my first deep breath in a while." You're surprised at how genuine Jungkook is being right now, though before you're able to respond to what he's just said, your phone buzzes in your clutch. "Excuse me," You say. It's a text message from Mr.Jeon. You quickly swipe it open and your mouth drops in shock. 𝙼𝚛.𝙹𝚎𝚘𝚗: 𝙷𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚘, 𝚈/𝚗- 𝙸 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞. 𝚆𝚎'𝚟𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝. 𝚆𝚎'𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝟷𝟸𝙿𝙼 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗 𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚊𝚠𝚢𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝.

You look up back up at Jungkook, who simply picks up the shot and holds it up in the air, "To the ride." Your shocked expression turns into a smile, and all you can think to do is pick your shot up as well. "To the ride."

[barbreypilled]

in subway au Drogo is just Dany’s weird gay babysitter that Viserys hired because he kind of had first aid training (he works at the stable where Barb and Domeric’s horses are and he had to get certified if he wanted to become the manager but some. fucking lady came in and put laxatives in his coffee before the interview and usurped the position herself. she doesn’t even have actual first aid training). Every time Dany gets in trouble for setting fires at school Viserys makes him pick her up so he has to haul ass all the way back into the city from the stable and Mirri is like woww I guess you don’t really need this job then. I guess I’ll have to FIRE you but then she can’t find the termination paperwork. JonCon keeps trying to put up flyers for the Golden Company’s production of Little Shop of Horrors and Barb won’t let him because he wouldn’t let her stage her all-native production of Jesus Christ Superstar at his venue back in ‘02 and every single time he gets so worked up because goddamnit Barbrey I thought u were a patron of the arts and she’s like I WAS until my filmmaking career flopped now I’m stuck here forever. Domeric overhears this and is like wowww Barb was so cool back in the day then he watches one of the documentaries she made and that’s how he finds out that she used to lez out with Cat. He tells Bethany and she’s like you are definitely the last to find this out I think even Theon knows. Theon didn’t. Theon gets very upset because he wanted to put the moves on Cat and he tries to poison Barb’s pasta-in-a-can but can’t figure out how to discreetly get it open. JonCon is trying to put up yet another flyer and Barb is prioritizing yelling at him about it over the lunch rush. Even though all the Dothraki characters do work at a stable the subway au stand in for Dothraki horse culture are those fuckass ebikes that every other person in Toronto seems to have nowadays. Rakharo just LOVES to ride his fast as hell on the sidewalk. Jhiqui’s on the back holding on having her little Lana Ride MV moment but she’s on an ebike delivering Ramsay’s Uber eats (from subway) (he likes to order them during the rush because he knows it’ll make Theon sweat) (Roose can hear him moaning on the other side of the door and just prays to god he’s jerking off and not doing weird shit with the sandwich, which he is). also Rodrik Cassel owns the most annoying craft brewery in all of Ontario. Jory wants to work at subway so bad but Barb hates his vibes. Viserys does not have a job. He used to be involved in Illyrio’s pyramid scheme but got fired because he was so bad at it.

[rockingyranch1]

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[bangrychannie]

My fanfics

Hello! Here is a masterlist of all of my published fanfictions. :)

thanks for calling (minsung | 1/2 | 9155 | T)

“H-hi, Is this the Soonie, Doongie, Dori show?” Jisung stuttered, immediately regretting it. He couldn’t even say hello like a normal person, for fuck’s sake. Obviously this was the Soonie, Doongie, Dori show! He went silent for a few seconds, before remembering that dead air is bad on the radio.

“It sure is. I can’t believe I have any listeners other than them,” Lee Know’s voice cut in, saving Jisung from the awkward silence.

“Yeah, I’ve been listening for a few weeks, actually. Your voice helps me sleep. I’m an insomniac, and nothing has really worked before I found your show.” Jisung rambled, his face flushing as he talked.

“So you called me to tell me I’m boring?” Lee Know asked, tone neutral.

Or: Jisung is an insomniac who's tried everything he can to get a good night's sleep. Nothing worked until he stumbled upon the Soonie, Doongie, Dori show on his college's radio station.

love at first lance (minsung | 1/1 | 6,480 | G)

Jisung got the pony he wanted, but he still felt a bit childish as he walked up the stairs and onto the ride, putting his platform Converse into the saddle and hauling himself onto the pony. Even though the pony was short, Jisung’s noodle arms barely got him onto it. A bit breathless, he looked at his little brother in front of him and smiled. The ride started moving around slowly, the up and down movement of the horse comforting. A merry tune sang in Jisung’s ears, making him smile and want to hum along. Suddenly the ride became faster and the fair around him began to blur. Jisung’s hands tightened on the saddle, and he was blinded by an explosion of sparkly silver stars in his vision. The music faded as well as the carousel around him, and the wooden horse he was on didn’t feel so wooden anymore. What was going on? Jisung blinked and almost fell from his now very real pony. He was in front of a gigantic castle, and it looked nothing like the medieval themed funhouse Jeongin had tried to drag him on a few hours ago.

Or: Jisung gets transported back to the Middle Ages after riding an amusement park ride, and someone here needs his help.

stupid for you (minsung | 2/2 | 10,768 | T)

“There he is!” Chan laughed, jumping and waving at someone on the other side of the pool. A man with purple hair waded toward them, rendering Jisung speechless. Chan forgot to mention an incredibly important fact: this man was the hottest bassist Jisung had ever seen in his life. He had enticing, feline eyes; a perfectly sloped nose; plush, kissable lips; and of course he was shirtless and showing off toned arms and a six pack. Jisung felt faint. “Hey, I’m Minho,” he said, smiling and waving like he wasn’t the hottest guy on the cruise. He had cute bunny teeth that were highlighted by his smile. Jisung might be in love already. Jisung lifted his hand to wave back, trying to give a polite smile that didn’t out him as being insane. “J-Jisung,” he stuttered, dread returning to his chest. Be normal, he begged himself. “I’m the drummer in Stray Kids.”

Or: Stray Kids win a contest to open for Day6 on an emo cruise. Minho is their fill in bassist.

Stuck (minsung | 2/2 | 5165 | E)

“God, you’re so pathetic,” Minho snarls, leaning in even closer. “I don’t know why you even work here. I didn’t realize this company was a charity that helps the less fortunate.” Jisung pretends that the insult doesn’t go straight to his dick, refusing to look away from Minho’s eyes. What is wrong with Jisung? Minho genuinely hates him and he has to suppress a whimper at the insults. Jisung starts to squirm, but Minho is too close. He accidentally brushes against Minho’s thigh, a high pitched groan leaving him before he can even think. Kill him now. This might be the most embarrassing situation he’s ever experienced in his entire life. What’s even worse is that Minho laughs at him. Jisung prays that the elevator drops to the basement and kills them in a fiery explosion.

Or: Enemy coworkers Jisung and Minho get trapped in an elevator together.

Dry Socket (minsung | 1/1 | 1765 | T)

Minho gets his wisdom teeth removed and Jisung comes along for the ride.

[oddduckthatgirl]

Title: Seconds Are Welcome

Pairings: Daemon Targaryen x Lannister!female

Warnings: period typical misogyny, arranged marriage, period typical gender roles

Summary: Everyone talks of girls coming of age. No one speaks of when the girl doesn’t desire to be less than who she is.

A/N: this is slightly AU-ish. For this story, Daemon was named heir, not Rhynera (not hate, just a plot). Changed some Lannister names. It’s just a story, let’s not dissect too much. This story will have multiple parts.

Casterly Rock was the ideal hold for any man to feel like a king in his own keep. Jason Lannister attended to his family home with all the devotion any lord would. He has four children. His two sons, James and Jonathon, are both married, each of them having apartments within the walls with their lady wives. Also within the walls are his two unmarried daughters, Jasline and Jaylon.

Jaylon Lannister wasn’t as she appeared. She looked every part a Lannister. Her eyes were such a light shade of blue that they appeared gray in a certain light. A long flowing mane of pale blonde hair. She had a very lean figure, but muscular. She had been tutored all the ways a proper lady should be. She also could read and write seven languages. She and her sister Jasline received the absolute finest instruction befitting their stations. While her sister had to work for every lesson, Jaylon found academics to be simple. As such she had time to learn other lessons.

She spent some afternoons learning about all things equestrian. After all, horses are what helped her family amass their fortune. She wanted to know everything. From an early age, her father Jason indulged her curiosity. He had even found it quite endearing. However, since she was now eight and ten years old and not married he seemed to be irritated by it.

What raised his ire more was her interest in sparring with her brothers. She often would sneak out with them in the evenings so they could instruct her. Until one evening they had been discovered by their father. He hauled her into his study and told her that was not her place as a future lady of a fine house.

“I’m your youngest child Father and your second daughter. I could only hope for a match so great.”

“You will still have a husband to protect you.”

“What happens if he is killed? Who protects me then? Or if he did save my life, now he’s owed a debt. A Lannister always pays their debts.”

Begrudgingly, he relented but insisted on having her train with her brothers. To give her the same teachings. In truth, she was a far more elegant fighter and understood how to use her femininity to her advantage.

Jasline was far more calm. The eldest daughter who had understood her role. She was the picture of a proper lady. Everything a lord could want in a wife. She didn’t argue, she kept her opinions to herself and she could smile all day while appearing to not have a thought in her head. With her temperament, one would wonder her connection to the Lannister name if not for the blonde hair. Most described her as quite pleasant company.

Dull. Jaylon thought of her sister.

She could never live that life.

Jasline had been married to a nice lord from House Blackwood. They had a longer courtship than usual due to some haggling over the dowry. During that time there had been a small uprising that was beginning to become serious. Eventually, it was decided that Jasline and her lord should be married quickly so he could set out with his lord Father to right their lands.

They were wed in a small ceremony. Jaylon was her attendant while he had his cousin. They didn’t even consummate the union before he had to set out.

Young Lord Blackwood never returned. Jasline was a widow before she even had lost her maidenhead.

It made it difficult to find a match for her. So many questions. During the months after, Jasline had occasion to make acquaintance with Thomas Baratheon. They appeared to have a genuine affection for each other, so Jaylon thought, however it would seem their Father didn’t think the young lord, a second son, worthy of his eldest daughter.

Jaylon almost wished her father had those thoughts for her. Once she came of age, her father had her see every eligible second or third son in all of Westeros. She would do her best to be a proper lady but then they would ask her opinion and she would always answer honestly.

“Jaylon, they are not interested in what a lady thinks.”

“Well Father, perhaps they should be.”

She would tell her father about these young lord’s opinions on battle or horses or wine.

“How am I, a Lannister, to sit there and listen to them be so mistaken? They would make a fool of me and by extension, you.”

Jason Lannister was a proud man. He knew his youngest was correct but he would never give her the satisfaction.

“Why must you insist on such obstinate behavior?”

“I believe it is inherent.”

This would most assuredly have her father avoiding her for days on end. Which was fine by Jaylon, more time to devote to sparring and to horses. More time to think of the many ways to make the next suitor for her recoil in disgust. If it wasn’t their misguided crowing about how honored she should be to be their wife and welp their children it was their leering. She even had the moment to strike a young lord who commented on how strong her thighs were from riding.

It was a quick reaction. Truth be told, it was probably the first broken bone the young lord had ever suffered. Judging by his lewdness, it wouldn’t be the last.

Every day is the same. Until it wasn’t.

There was a new tutor. Some Septa sent to them from King's Landing. He told Jasline and Jaylon they were to have lessons in High Valyrian. The girls exchanged a look and knew what that implied.

A Prince was interested in a Lannister wife.

Lucky for Jasline, even more lucky for Father, Jaylon mused. She was just enthusiastic about another language to learn. More than likely she needed to do her best to master it so she could help Jasline. It wouldn’t do her well to not understand it. Jasline focused all her attention on it, while Jaylon made sure to note her struggles.

Jaylon had heard the rumors as had her sister. She could even see the fear in Jasline’s face when people spoke of Prince Daemon. The girls spent hours at night discussing him, his temperament.

“I hear he’s roguishly handsome,” Jasline sighed.

“He’s a Targaryen. Of course he is. And a prince,” Jaylon collects herself, “I suppose if you’re attracted to that sort of person.”

Jasline smirks, “and he’s a wonderful fighter. Quite a quick wit as well.”

Jaylon nods, “much to the annoyance of the small council I hear.”

Jasline shifts to face her sister, “do you think the other whispers have merit?”

“Did you mean the piece about the street of silk or the piece about him murdering his lady wife?”

“Jaylon Lannister! That is treasonous,” Jasline’s face flush.

“Sweet sister. He is a prince. He does as he chooses. He was commanded into marriage, so the story goes. A young prince who didn’t want such a wife. So he did as he pleased. Perhaps he was simply bored.”

“Jaylon. I would bore him so,” she gasped, “you should put yourself in his way.”

Jaylon laughed loudly, “Father wouldn’t dream of that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not you, Jasline. I’m not the first born. I’m just the spare.”

Jasline sighed, “perhaps marriage to the Prince isn’t what I want.”

“Thomas.”

“I love him, sister.”

“I know you do. But we are just women in this world. We are at the whim of every man,” Jaylon reclines and gazes out the window, “and Father knows best for us.”

“That doesn’t sound like you,” Jasline settles herself in her bed, “I would suppose it’s easy to be so placid; the eyes of a dragon aren't fixed upon you. But they should be.”

“Oh Jasline, marriage is an arrangement. You smile, you nod, you bear his children. Everything else you will sort out.”

“I have sorted it. He needs to wed you. You are one of the greatest beauties in all of Westeros. You are intelligent, strong, cunning and most importantly you are not easily swayed by the opinions of others.”

Jaylon rolls her eyes, “sleep sister, you’ll need your strength.”

Jasline settles into bed, “yes I will. I need to convince His Highness of all your virtues.”

Jaylon leaves her sister to rest and makes her way to her room for the night. She laughs thinking over her sister’s suggestion that she be put in Prince Daemon’s way. Her father would never allow it. She imagines the look of rage that would take him over. How he would have to obey the command of his Prince, if he did want her instead. That would raise his ire even more.

She couldn’t help the smile at the thought. Fun but a fool’s wish.

She sat and brushed her hair, staring at her reflection. She wonders what it is about her that these lord’s find appealing. She’s just a young girl, who knows about horses and wine. That reads whatever she can so she wouldn’t be left behind in the conversation of men. Her understanding that information is the greatest and most valuable commodity.

This is how she gathered what she could on the Targaryen prince. She wanted her sister to have every advantage. She also didn’t want to displease the man herself and squander all the work that has gone into this endeavor.

Before she drifted to sleep, she imagined what a conversation with him would be like. Would he be intimidating? Would he be kind? She also hoped for the chance to see his dragon. That isn’t a sight she would soon forget.

[handeaux]

Cincinnati’s Kit Kapp Mapped Uncharted Waters, Popularized Indigenous Art & Was Forgotten By His Hometown

When Amor Smith “Kit” Kapp Jr. died in Florida at the age of 86 in 2013, not a single Cincinnati news outlet carried an obituary or, in fact, any mention at all. The oversight was remarkable since Kit Kapp had been featured in more than 60 Cincinnati news stories between the 1940s and the 1970s.

Almost every day of Kit Kapp’s long life was worthy of a news story somewhere. He was born in 1926 to Loretta and Amor Smith Kapp Sr. in Walnut Hills. His father was a lumber dealer and the marriage was rocky. Loretta sued for divorce twice. The second time, it took. Throughout high school and college, Kit lived with his father.

As a youngster, Kit was bedridden with scarlet fever. He told his father he wanted to build a boat, so Amor Kapp Sr. drove down to the Ohio River and took photos of a towboat. Dad told the Cincinnati Post [18 December 1955]:

“I put those pictures on a drafting board and we started to build. That darn boat took nine months to make, but Kit still has it. It has 144 miniature lights that work and a miniature paddle wheel.”

Inspired by the towboat project, Kit launched his own business, the American Model Company, to sell model boat kits to hobbyists while still a student at Anderson High School.

While living in Mount Washington, Kit walked down to Coney Island and pestered the concessionaires into letting him exercise their ponies and horses. He was just 15 when he signed up to work on a dude ranch in Oklahoma. The next summer found him at a “real” ranch in Arizona. Diving into the cowboy culture, Kit became fascinated by the guns of the Old West and managed to become, at age 17, the youngest person licensed as a firearms dealer by the U.S. government. He boasted that he owned more Smith & Wesson sidearms than any collector in the country.

Kit enrolled at the University of Cincinnati in 1944 but was almost immediately drafted into the Army. He served as a paratrooper in an airborne division based in Japan during the post-war occupation. While overseas, he discovered two new passions: mountain climbing and the Ainu, an indigenous people found in the far northern reaches of the Japanese archipelago. Typically, Kit located every book published on the Ainu – 15 in total, all in Japanese – and hired Japanese students to translate them. He amassed a significant collection of Ainu artifacts and set about connecting Japanese scholars at Hokkaido Imperial University with anthropology faculty at UC.

Returning to UC after his discharge as a sergeant, Kit convinced the Lambda Chi Alpha fraternity to climb Mount Whitney, the highest mountain in the contiguous United States. But, when the time came for the expedition to depart, Kit found himself alone. He told the Cincinnati Post [24 June 1947]:

“A couple of my fraternity brothers were going along, too, but they apparently thought it was just a lot of talk and made other plans for the summer. So I’m going alone.”

On his way west, Kit climbed Signal Peak in Utah and El Capitan in Yosemite National Park. He summited Mount Whitney, hauling a 63-pound pack, and then climbed nearby Mount Muir, not as tall but treacherously steep. According to the Post [29 December 1952]:

“He reached the peak, then gazed down on 1200 feet of sheer precipice. The descent was more a rock-grasping operation than anything else. Kit’s foot slipped and he went tumbling. The whole slope seemed to slide with him. In the best mountain-climbing manner, he stuck out his arms and spread his legs to provide the best brakeage possible.”

Kit ended up with a twisted right leg, a heel pried from one boot, and a determination to find another mountain to climb. Instead, he bought a cheap automobile and drove it through Central America. He blamed it on Burton Holmes.

Almost forgotten today, Burton Holmes was something like a Depression-era globe-trotting Rick Steves. Holmes filmed exotic locales and traveled the country narrating his movies in very popular and remunerative lectures. In April 1946, Holmes presented a filmed tour of Mexico at UC’s Wilson Auditorium, extolling the fine automotive route along the new Pan-American Highway, but warning his audience not to attempt driving further into Central America, because it couldn’t be done.

That sounded like a dare to Kit Kapp. Boasting, as he put it, a bankroll “just thick enough to see through,” Kapp bought a 1929 Model-A Ford for $64 in 1948 and drove it all the way to Costa Rica. As a friend later wrote:

“Claiming to be a journalism student, Kit succeeded in meeting and interviewing the presidents of both Nicaragua and Guatemala during his trip. His car survived the journey back to the US, despite suffering 18 bullet holes passing through a small revolution in Nicaragua.”

Kit changed 51 flat tires and somehow made it back to Cincinnati without the benefit of second gear just in time to enroll for his junior year at UC’s College of Business Administration. Soon after graduation in 1950, Kit sold his model boat company and his firearm collection and bought a 41-foot ketch he named Fairwinds and sailed for the Caribbean. The original Fairwinds was wrecked in a gale, so Kit acquired a 50-foot “bugeye” ketch and christened it Fairwinds II.

With St. Thomas in the U.S. Virgin Islands as a base, Kit launched a charter company, hauling tourists around the area, eventually wandering farther and farther afield. Along the way, he met and married his first wife, the former Lois Fatzinger of Palmerton, Pennsylvania. After a decade running charters, that marriage dissolved, and Kit decided that he would rather go exploring than stick to a charter’s set schedule. He told the Post [18 December 1965]:

“I decided to get out of the high rent district. Running a charter boat is like running a sea-going taxi.”

Instead, he offered expeditions to crew members who paid him for the privilege of exploring rarely visited islands and coasts.

“I make plans ahead of time and if anyone wants to go along they pay $200 for two weeks. They work, but not hard. They help clean up, aid in survey work, help carry equipment on the island beaches. We work about five hours a day, then we swim or loaf.”

Many of those expeditions were sponsored officially by the Explorer’s Club of New York. That organization designated Kit as a fellow of the society. Among his regular customers was physicist J. Robert Oppenheimer. Kit’s travels took him into previously uncharted waters near the coast of Panama, and it was here that he generated his most culturally impactful discovery.

Kit’s efforts to survey the San Blas Islands off the north coast of Panama led to a lifelong interest in the Guna tribespeople who lived there. The Guna (or Kuna) produced unique fabric designs known as mola, vibrantly colored and intricately layered fabric pieces worn by the Guna women. The process involved in creating molas is often described as “reverse appliqué,” in which pieces of fabric are cut away to reveal layers underneath. Kit was among the first outsiders to appreciate and study these dynamic artworks and to bring them to the attention of scholars worldwide. His self-published 1972 monograph, “Mola art from the San Blas Islands” remains the definitive introduction to the art form.

During dozens of voyages around the San Blas Islands, Kit’s quest for reliable charts inspired him to seek out, collect, study and sell antique maps. Some of the maps he found were quite valuable. One sold at auction for $34,000. By 1967, Kit had accumulated a substantial inventory, enough to mount an exhibition in Jamaica. During the opening reception for that exhibit, Kit met his second wife, Valerie, born on the Isle of Wight, who helped coordinate his buying and selling trips to England and the Continent.

As Kit and Valerie shared their discoveries in Guna art, their travels brought them to Cincinnati, where they coordinated a landmark exhibition of molas and ritual Guna statuary at the Studio San Guiseppe at the College of Mount St. Joseph in 1972. Enquirer [13 February 1972] art critic Owen Findsen was impressed:

“Leaving the ethnology to Captain Kapp, the Mola can be seen as a pure art form. One must be taken by the intense coloring of many of them which can set up visual vibrations to compete with the Op artists. And the designs are clever in the same way that the pseudo-primitive art of Paul Klee is clever, by its directness and its innocence.”

The colors and patterns of mola fabric art filtered into popular fashions throughout the 1970s. Women around the world wore clothing and carried handbags replicating Guna mola designs, usually with no awareness of the original source.

As a dealer in antique maps, Kit built a reputation as a discerning connoisseur and befriended several other influential collectors. British map dealer Simon Hunter was one such colleague. He recalled:

“Kit was a very astute buyer, but he was also a most entertaining character whose good humor and traveler’s tales made it impossible to resent the large discounts he invariably managed to obtain on his many purchases.”

All the while he was buying and selling maps, Kit earned acclaim as a formidable scholar who also had the expertise to create his own maps. His many academic publications include analyses of maps, inventories of known charts and monographs on native peoples. Worldcat lists more than 40 publications under his name, with at least a dozen publications being maps of previously unfathomed waters.

After 25 years devoted to collecting and selling maps, Kit and Valerie decided that their business, no matter how successful, was detracting from the time available for exploring their beloved Caribbean. They pivoted toward selling by consignment through other dealers, rather than issuing their own catalogs. The sheer volume of their collections necessitated buying a house with a large garage on land, and they settled in Nokomis, Florida.

Over the years, significant honors accrued. In addition to the prestigious Explorers’ Club, Kit was awarded a permanent card for the British Museum Reading Room and memberships in the Royal Geographical Society, the Adventurers' Club of New York, the Archaeological Institute of America and the American Geographical Society.

After Kit’s death in 2013, his widow discovered more than 60 cartons of uncatalogued Guna art that he had packed away since the early 1970s. While itemizing that substantial collection, she discovered a room covered by a false wall in the garage with even more fabrics and statuary. Much of this new inventory is now available through various auction houses.

[whump-me]

Ashes: Chapter 4

Chapter 4 of Ashes, a dark and extremely whumpy Cinderella retelling where the handsome prince is a sadistic villain and his former bride is out to get her revenge… before he can choose a new victim at the ball.

Masterpost | Read the complete novel on Patreon

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Elle didn’t wait for the poison to wear off. She wrenched her hands behind her to pull the arrow shaft from her leg, biting her lip to hold in the mewls of pain as the barbed shaft came free. She had no fear that she would bleed out—Alexandre wouldn’t have left her to handle the wound herself if there had been any danger of that. He wouldn’t risk losing his favorite toy. She should be so lucky.

Sure enough, whatever poison was responsible for the numbing effect also seemed to slow her bleeding. There was an initial gush, but it faded quickly to a trickle. The blood congealed on her skin, hardening into a scab with unnatural speed.

Elle watched the wound close. Then, leaving the arrow behind, she dragged herself on hands and knees across the rough forest floor toward home. Her numb leg dragged behind her, slowing her down. But better to crawl back now on one working leg than wait until the poison wore off and risk her stepmother or stepsisters waking before she returned. The scrapes she was accumulating on her hands and knees were better than she would get if she didn’t have hot water waiting for tea when they woke. As for her tattered rags, there wasn’t much she could do to them that hadn’t already been done.

When her slow and painful crawl finally brought her back to the front door, she saw the prince’s carriage still there. The horses shook their heads restlessly at the sight of her, and nosed at her like they were searching for carrots.

She shook her head at them. “Sorry, fellows. You probably eat better than me these days.” Grasping the doorframe, she hauled herself to standing, placing all her weight on her leg. She eased the door open a crack and listened.

The warmth of the hearth drifted out from the mansion, followed by the faint tinkle of Aliette’s artificial laughter. “Oh, Prince Alexandre,” she cooed. “You have such a sense of humor.”

“And everyone knows a man with a good sense of humor prefers a woman who can match wits with him,” came Violaine’s voice. “A pity you were dropped on your head as a baby, or you might qualify.”

Aliette sputtered. “I… oh, how dare you, Violaine! I was not!”

“Now, now, girls,” Mathilda said in the buttery-smooth tones she used only for company she wished to impress. “The prince didn’t come here to listen to you squabbling.”

“No,” Alexandre agreed, “I came for this delightful bread. Which of you lovely ladies baked this loaf?”

Elle had—and had burned her fingers pulling it from the oven, too. But Violaine quickly jumped in with, “I’ve been trying to improve my baking. I’m so glad you like it.”

“Let me fetch you another slice,” said Mathilda—which meant she would be heading for the kitchen, in the opposite direction of the front door. Elle risked opening the door a little wider, and dropped to her hands and knees again to squeeze through before sliding it silently shut.

With small, furtive movements, she hauled her numb leg across the hall and up the stairs. There was a chance they would hear the thumping, but if she hurried, by the time they came to check she would be a sound asleep in the attic. Exactly where she should be.

At the foot of the attic stairs, she froze. An orange light glowed under the door to her room, like the firefly-men but fainter. It looked like the glow of a candle. A candle, in her attic room, where she wasn’t permitted any lights.

A trap laid by one of her stepsisters, perhaps, to get her in trouble with Mathilda. She hurried up the stairs on hands and knees to put it out. But when she pushed open the creaking door to the attic room, Torin was leaning against the wall, waiting for her. The window was closed, a single candle burning on the sill. Her makeshift rope was bundled in his arms.

Elle glared up at him. “What are you doing here?”

“Your wounds need tending.” He held up a jar of thick ointment. “Stay still.” Without so much as asking for permission, he knelt beside her and began spreading it over the scab of the arrow wound.

She tried to jerk away, but the leg was still dead weight. “What do you care about my wounds?”

“Prince’s orders.” He didn’t meet her eyes, and his hands didn’t stop their movements. As he rubbed the ointment in, warmth spread through her poisoned leg, chasing away a little of the cold. The nerves closest to the wound prickled back to life.

Prince’s orders. Of course. So he could have more fun with her later. Alexandre knew breaking his toys past repair meant he wouldn’t get to play with them again. Sometimes he didn’t care. But he wanted to keep Elle around for a very long time.

“So he sent his dog to patch me up,” Ellen spat. “His spineless, whimpering dog.”

Unlike when Alexandre was with them, Torin never changed her words to sweeter ones when it was just the two of them. Instead, mostly he pretended she hadn’t said anything. This time was no exception. He removed his hands from her leg and moved on to her scraped knees. Without the poison to numb the sensation, the ointment burned as it hit torn flesh.

She hissed at the pain. “At least Alexandre enjoys what he does,” she said. “You, on the other hand… you’re too much of a coward to disobey his orders.”

“You should stop all your fighting,” he said, rubbing in the burning ointment with merciless circles of his hands. “Your life would be easier for it.”

“I couldn’t do much fighting out there, thanks to his poison,” she said. “And thanks to your magic.”

“You still fight with your words,” Torin said. “And you fight inside your mind. Every day, I watch you chafe against your role, even as you outwardly obey.”

“My role as what? My stepmother’s maid? My stepsisters’ punching bag? The prince’s toy?”

“Yes.” Torin took one of her hands in his. Before she could snatch away, he rubbed more ointment into her scraped palm. The burning made her throat close. “You fight against it every day, even if only in your mind. Even though you know by now that there’s nothing you can do about it. And even though it’s your own fault you’re here.”

She tried to pull her hand free. He clamped her wrist in an iron grip while the other hand kept spreading ointment into her palm. “My fault? I didn’t drag myself to my stepmother’s door in chains.”

“You betrayed the prince. You had to know there would be consequences.”

“You would know what I actually did, and why, if you didn’t change the words every time they left my mouth.”

“Don’t make yourself suffer more than you have to,” Torin advised. “Accept your fate. Keep your family as happy as possible so they don’t have a reason to punish you.”

“If they don’t have a reason to punish me, they’ll find one. Have you figured out that’s half the fun for them?”

“Savor your scraps from the table, and this little space you have yourself,” he said, gesturing with his chin to the attic room. “Give thanks for the small blessings of still being alive and in your childhood home. Things could be much worse.” His eyes took on a faraway sheen, as if he was no longer seeing her but something quite different.

“And should I enjoy the occasional torture session, too?” Elle asked archly, raising one eyebrow.

“All I’m saying is, you could make it easier on yourself if you didn’t fight so hard. Even with the prince. He likes it when you fight. He thinks it’s fun. You heard him—he enjoys a challenge. Make it boring for him, and maybe he’ll come around less often.”

“You’d like it if I lay down like a meek little kitten and made it easy for him, wouldn’t you? It would make your own life easier. You wouldn’t have to twitch your little finger, or whatever it is you do, and make the hedge dig thorns into my flesh. It must be such a hardship for you.”

Torin released her hand. Elle thought about hiding the other behind her back before he could grab it, but the gesture seemed juvenile—a child refusing to swallow the necessary medicine. The palm he had treated already looked less red, and the cuts had begun to seal shut. She held out the other hand to him, and clamped her lips shut as he spread the ointment over the scraped flesh.

“It would make both our lives easier,” Torin said quietly. “Do you think I enjoy seeing you like this?”

Elle made a disgusted noise. “Don’t act as if you care.”

His fingers stilled in the center of her palm. “You don’t know what I feel.”

Elle looked up sharply at that. But his face was empty as ever, his voice emotionless.

“But I’ve accepted my fate,” he continued. His fingers resumed their circling motion. “You should do the same. I know from experience—it makes it easier.”

“Don’t act like you’re a prisoner here,” said Elle. “You can walk away at any time. You’re doing this because you choose to. He pays you handsomely for your services—I’ve seen the fat pouches of gold he gives you.”

His fingers pressed painfully into her palm. “The gold? The gold is a game of his. It amuses him to see me take it. The gold is nothing.”

“Only people who have gold in abundance can call it nothing.” She had been one of those people once, pampered by her merchant’s father and never knowing she lived in luxury. She tried to pull her hand away from his punishing grip. “Are you treating my wounds, or making them worse?”

His fingers pressed harder, until she had to bite her lip to hold in a scream. Then, abruptly, his grip released. “He has my sister.” Torin’s words were tight, strangled. His voice didn’t sound like his. Caged fire flared in his eyes—and was gone. His eyes were dull again, his face blank.

“Your sister?” Elle prompted, stunned at the brief glimpse of an actual human being under Torin’s stone exterior. She still wasn’t convinced it hadn’t been an illusion. “What did Alexandre—”

Torin gave his head a single sharp shake. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“I know what Alexandre does,” said Elle. “What he’s capable of.” Sympathy for her keeper, unexpected and unwanted, rose in her like bile. “I’m sorry.”

“He’s done nothing,” said Torin. “He will do nothing. As long as I’m here. With you. Do you understand?”

She searched for another glimpse of that fire in his eyes. That hint of humanity. But he wouldn’t look at her.

Elle might have responded, but footsteps on the stairs made her freeze. “The candle,” she hissed, and moved to blow it out. Torin pinched it out with his fingers before she could. Then the wall seemed to bulge outward, swallowing him. He disappeared, the only sign of his presence the oddly shaped wall, which was barely noticeable in the darkness.

Mathilda’s face appeared in the doorway. “Prince Alexandre,” she said, her voice caressing the syllables of his name, “says you tried to run. Is that true?”

To say yes invited punishment. To say no meant contradicting the heir to the throne. Elle said nothing.

“You know if the prince comes looking for you one day and you’re not here, it’s us—your family—you will pay the price,” she said. “Your long-suffering family, who took you in after your unspeakable crime. The ones who feed you, and shelter you, and provide you with honest work. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I never did what he claimed,” she started to say. “I never tried to take the throne—” But between her mouth and Mathilda’s ears, her words became a cowed, I’m sorry, Stepmother.

Mathilda sniffed. “That’s the fourth time you’ve tried to run. One more time, and I’ll keep you chained to the wall when you’re not working. Would you like that?”

Elle tried to tell her stepmother who she’d like to see chained to the wall. She didn’t know why she bothered. All she and Mathilda heard was a soft, No, Stepmother.

“Get some rest,” Mathilda ordered. “I’ll expect you to do your full amount of chores tomorrow, lack of sleep or no.” About to turn on her heel, she paused to sniff the air. “Is that a candle I smell?”

This time, she gave the only acceptable answer before Torin could change her words. “No, Stepmother.”

“Good,” said Mathilda. “You remember what happened the last time I caught you with a candle, don’t you? Next time, your hand will stay in the flame for a count of ten, not five.” She spun away, dismissing Elle with a flounce of her hair. “I expect my tea to be ready before dawn,” she said, and slammed the door.

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