#horses skulls are so hard to draw ????

[dumvixerum]

The last panels of the season were kinda funny tho 💀

Ref:

[ceilidho]

prompt: simon notices you in the stands (welder/amateur rugby player au). (nsfw, 1.9k)

-

She’s in the stands again, and he doesn’t know who for. 

The same bird as the time before, and the week before that. Always a few minutes into the match, like she snuck in through the backdoor. She always leaves in a hurry, up and out of her seat with her jacket already tugged on, her strides quick on her way out the main doors. 

In the years since joining this amateur league, Simon’s never been tempted to talk to any of the people in the stands. For the most part, they’re there for one of the other players anyway. Wives, girlfriends, sisters—the odd cousin or fuck buddy, those girls dipping in and out, replaced by newer, sparklier versions of each other, the older ones licked clean. 

His focus narrows when he steps onto the field anyway, shrinks like horse blinders sunk down over his skull. Hardly a reason for him to spare more than a glance towards the stands.

Rugby’s not a sport for spectators. At least, not such a low level league. Barely amateur—just some of the locals with a bit of built up stress and aggression to work off. It’s why he’s here after all. Simon spends the hours of his day hunched over sheets of metal and carbon steel, sweating into the metal mask pulled down over his face and staring without blinking into the heart of the flame just inches from his face. 

His nerves are a closed fist in his chest and it grows and grows until he steps out onto the field of the local rec centre and hears the timer overhead start to count down and feels someone’s chest cave in when he drives his shoulder into their solar plexus, hears the breath whoosh out of them, their next breath in thin and febrile. 

It sets his head right. Violence with no consequences. At the end of the game, he looks the man he just bruised and bloodied in the eye and shakes his hand. Puts the world to rights. 

And he needs nothing more than that. His bills are paid, bloodthirst sated, thirst quenched when the team hits up a pub after the match, after which he slinks off into the night to head home with his hood drawn over his head, the size of him rarely inviting more violence. Occasionally it happens that someone with the bad luck of choosing him to mug wants to prove that they have the bigger cock, but that never ends well. Not for them at least.

Simon would fight for a living if welding paid him less. As it is, he satiates that beast in him on the field or the occasional back alley, and it keeps him in check.

But now there’s a bird in the stands drawing his eye and distracting him from the match. It rubs him the wrong way. The blood pumps through his veins more viciously, and the pretty thing in the stands watches the game completely unaware, a serene smile on her face. His gaze keeps being pulled towards where she and a couple clusters of fans sit and nurse paper cups of tea.

She cups both hands around her tea and he wonders absently whether she’d have to hold his cock the same way. 

It’s Gaz who calls him out on it first, panting hard after the first period and frowning at the scoreboard. “Not to be a dick, but that was bollocks, Simon. Never seen you miss a pass like that.”

Few people could get away with speaking to him like that, but Gaz is right. He’s been playing like shit, too preoccupied by the bird watching him with wide, rapt eyes. 

He doesn’t know how to apologise though, so he doesn’t. “Graves is a useless twat. Can’t throw for shit.”

Gaz rolls his eyes. “Not saying he isn’t, but you’re distracted. Where’s your head at?”

“Stay out of it, Garrick,” he says, not even bothering to meet his gaze, the warning clear in his voice. 

“Sorry for caring,” Gaz shouts after him as Simon jogs away.

He asks around at first, trying to find out if she’s someone’s relative or girl, but all the guys just shrug, no answers. If she’s someone’s, they aren’t staking a claim on her. It’s good news for him. Bad news for anyone else taking an interest in the girl that comes to their every match to cheer them on.

His urges sit deeper than the abyssal plain.

She’d probably turn tail and run if she knew the hunger festering in his belly. She sits sweet and innocent in the stands cheering him on and all Simon can think about is pushing her knees up to her ears and feeding his fat cock into her pussy. Shoving his tongue into her cunt, licking her from hole to hole. Sucking each puffy lip into his mouth until her moans go garbled, eyes unfocused. 

No, Simon thinks when she jumps to her feet enthusiastically at the end of the match, she probably wouldn’t like that. Women rarely do. Objectifying them and all those other terms that Gaz likes to wax on about, Johnny nodding along like he isn’t the same kind of mutt as Simon. 

Even during the day, she troubles his thoughts. Troublemaker. He thinks of her when he cleans and buffs in between passes, mind not lulled into the rhythmic emptiness of usual. Even the sound of steel sizzling in his ears doesn’t clear her from his thoughts. Instead all he can think of is her walking into the shop in a little skirt and top, and dragging her to the back where he’d bend her over the closest desk and pull her panties to the side before sinking in to the hilt, mask still on. 

He’s never gotten his cock wet on the job—never been tempted to. For her though, he’d make an exception. 

By the next match, Simon’s made up his mind. When he sees her sneak in after the match has already started, he feels his blood pump harder, his tackles extra rough. His opponents walk away wincing and cursing him under their breath, but it only makes him preen when he glances over to find her watching him, hardly able to pull her eyes away. Price would call it peacocking. He wouldn’t be wrong. 

He approaches her himself at the end of the match before she’s had time to pack up and leave, leaning over the railing separating the field from the stands, covered in sweat and grass stains and bleeding from his right eyebrow.

She stares up at him wide eyed, looking a little lost for words. “Hi?”

“Got somewhere to be?” he asks, blunt. He’s never had it in him for pleasantries. Why waste time when he can see even now the way her eyes rove over his chest appreciatively? 

“…No,” she finally answers, shaking her head. “Just home for supper.”

“Look like you could use a good fuck. Come round back with me?”

The blatant proposition makes her eyes widen, but Simon doesn’t see the problem. Figures if she doesn’t have a man, there’s no issue with him trying out for the part. He waits her out though, vaguely admiring the pert shape of her mouth, lips round with shock. 

Finally they come back together and she chews on her lower lip nervously, caught off-guard but considering it. He doesn’t hold it against her. His bird’s pretty enough, but he doubts she ever puts herself in the position to be asked. He sees the yes in her eyes before she says it.

Still, he enjoys the way she stutters it out softly, eyes downcast. Simon doesn’t bother with his goodbyes to the guys still on the field before ushering her out of the arena and down the hall to the locker rooms with a hand on her back. He drags her into the first empty supply closet he finds, locking the door behind them. She breathes a bit heavily, almost stumbling over her feet, and that’s the eagerness he’s been looking for. Proof his bird’s just as hungry as him. 

She definitely is, Simon thinks, smug when he hoists her up and her legs wrap around his waist without a second thought, her eyes already glazed over. Like she’s been waiting for this for weeks, cunt already sopping wet when he nudges her panties to the side with his knuckles and buries his cock into her. She grips him like a vice, slack jawed and whimpering into the stretch. He likes that. He likes it more when she digs her nails deep into his back, leaving her mark behind. 

“C’mon, don’t get shy on me,” Simon huffs into her neck when she tries to grab his hair instead, what little of it she can. He stares with eyes half-lidded at the way her tits bounce with each thrust. “I like it rough.”

She clenches up at that, dripping wet. Almost a shame that he couldn’t get his mouth on her first. He’ll have to follow her back home like the mongrel he is, mess her pretty bedsheets up and make her scream until she can’t even face the neighbours the next day. 

He doesn’t need her to tell him to know that she’s a good girl, doesn’t do this ever. Only for him. He can tell by how tight of a screw she is, practically purring in his arms; it’s a fight to bully his cock into her. It’s nice when she stutters it out though, strokes his ego the right way. 

“D-didn’t think you’d notice me,” she says, all shy even with her legs spread. 

“Hard not to, pet,” Simon teases, endeared by her soft edges. His slot right in, if not a bit jaggedly. “Been panting after it for a while, haven’t ya?”

“I just wanted to get out of the flat for a bit,” she whispers.

That shifts his perception of her a bit. Infinitesimally so, but still. He didn’t expect the bird to have a lonely flame in her heart. 

“Well, I noticed,” he grunts, and then bends to suck at the salty skin at the crook of her neck before pumping a load into her.

She’s a real good girl. Comes nice on his cock and muffles her whine by biting into his shoulder. He can’t wait until he’s covered in her bites, until his nipples hurt from making her chew on them and his neck is littered with hickeys like a schoolboy. 

Taking her home is easy enough after that. She lets him drive them both back to her place, handing him the keys with a little yawn when he tucks her into the passenger seat of her own car all limp and pliant. 

And he’s right, of course. He makes a right mess of her bed come morning. 

When he leaves after a morning fuck in the shower and breakfast, the cold sinks into his stomach like a lead weight. The fist in his chest is clenched as ever; Simon hadn’t noticed it loosen in the bird’s presence, but he feels it now drawn tight again. Maybe he thought fucking her would finally shake her from his head, but instead it’s made it worse somehow. The lonely flame in his own chest flickers.

He stands in the middle of the sidewalk and thinks it over while angry nine-to-fivers snap at him before really taking him in and scurrying along. Then he turns back around, heading back the way he came.

The next time Simon sees her in the stands, he feels his smile like a phantom limb. He doesn’t have to ask to know she’s there for him.

[theplumsoldier]

sore loser

summary: the scales of your rivalry with joel miller tips in his favor as he calls out your mistake and you end up a loser. the classic "you hate your partner but fucks him anyway"

pairing: mean!joel miller x afab!reader

warnings: 18+ please and thank you, hate sex, rough vaginal sex, spitting, slapping, choking, fingering, squirting, sloppy/rough blow job, degradation, age-gap, begging, biting, mean!joel, forced orgasm & multiple orgasms, tasting joel's blood?? no aftercare please let me know if i missed anything!! (. ❛ ᴗ ❛.)

You hated everything about him. You hated the way he looked, the way he spoke, and the way he walked. You hated how he was always confident, how he was always right, and the fact that he always knew which buttons to push. You hated how he was a better shooter than you, how he was better at finding supplies than you, and how he was better at tracking than you. You hated his salt-and-pepper beard, the curls in his hair, and his sun-kissed skin. You hated his brown eyes, his deep voice, and his large hands. You hated how he treated you like a child, how he called you "kid", and how he looked after you.

Most of all, right now, you hated that he shot the clicker before you managed to put a knife to its skull, how he made it look like you couldn't save yourself. He took the win and he got the point.

It was a game and you were losing this battle for dominance, and you hated losing to Joel Miller.

You had been biting your tongue so damn hard to keep yourself from stooping down on his level and the taste of blood lingered in your mouth for about 4 minutes before the last straw had been drawn.

Joel just couldn't stop himself from being an ass and work in yet another one of his snarky remarks.

"Get over yourself, Miller. I had it handled," you grumbled.

"Sure looked like it," he retorted sarcastically, making scattering noises as he dug through a crate in the warehouse.

The way he didn't even bother looking at you only made you more furious. "How the fuck do you think I survived this long on my own, huh? I've been—"

"Ask myself that every time I save your ass," he interrupted mockingly.

Your blood was boiling in your veins. He felt so fucking superior and it was driving you insane. You knew your worth, but for some reason, you had this crippling urge to prove yourself.

"Somebody needs to knock you off your fucking horse, Miller."

Joel chuckled grimly. "S'that right, sweetheart? Wanna give it a go?"

His infuriating words made you stand to your feet, and frankly, it excited Joel to see you acting like you might just do something about it.

With a groan he got up himself, easily towering over you. You swallowed harshly, jaw clenched.

Joel's face was set in a firm expression, dark eyes analyzing your face to predict your next move. It was a face-off.

There was a subtle smirk and you wanted to wipe it off so badly. This was entertaining to him—a challenge he joined, a game he played just for the kick of it.

You couldn't win a fight against him, you were smart enough to recognize that fact (at least for now). So you breathed out, your nervousness drawing out a shaky laugh.

"I hate you," you spat and turned around, sure you'd only dig a deeper hole for yourself if you looked at him any longer.

"That what you tell yourself when you dip your little fingers down between your legs?" he wondered aloud, not even testing the waters but diving head first into the lake of all your buttons that he planned to push: "Don't think I don't hear you moaning my name when you get off in the night."

Your eyes went wide and shame colored your cheeks pink. You hoped he wouldn't notice as your eyes shot daggers, completely dumbfounded, hoped your anger had already made your face red. You were at a loss for words, completely and utterly embarrassed.

The mixture of emotions compiled a message to your brain for you, and before you had a chance to regret it, you lashed out. Your hand stopped clenching and raised to deliver a well-deserved proper bitch-slap, but Joel caught your wrist. It all happened quickly, and it felt like you were watching on rather than being forced back against the wall, arms suspended against the cool and rough cement in his grasp.

Joel's head cocked, eyes blazing down at you. "You wanna try that again, sweetheart?"

The sudden close proximity made you involuntarily grind your hips forward.

"So that's what all this s'about, huh? You’ve been givin' me that bratty attitude 'cause ya got your panties in a twist?"

"Fuck you!" you snapped, the words seething through your grit teeth, leaving a bad aftertaste on your tongue.

"But that's what you want, innit sweetheart? Goin' around acting like I'm the devil's spawn, but really you just want a good fucking, yeah?"

You hated how he was always right.

Your arms strained in his grasp, writhing to get loose though the heat pooling between your legs protested. You enjoyed having him this close. You could smell him, see him.

"You're so fucking full of yourself, Miller," you snarled but had stopped trying to fight off his grip.

Joel chuckled down at you, tutting: "F’you wanna be full o' me, too, darlin', all you gotta do is ask nicely."

There was no fucking way he was actually offering to fuck you. It had to be a dream. A nightmare. But it wasn't. And he was offering exactly that, you realized as his head tilted. He was dead serious.

You knew it wasn't out of the good of his heart, so he must be wanting this, too. And if he needed it as much as you did, you were going to make him work for it.

You ground your hips into his again, this time very much on purpose.

"Tell me you don't want to bend me over right now, Miller," you leaned forward and whispered in his ear, letting your lips graze the soft flesh of his neck. His cock was hard against your cunt and he didn't do a thing to push you away. "Tell me you haven't just been dying to try out this tight pussy. An old man like you can't have had a proper fuck in ages."

He laughed. "Swallow your pride, sweetheart. You've never even been with a real man before, have ya? Always waltzin' around in your short skirts at the Byson, whoring yourself out for attention from those boys."

"Knew you'd been checking me out," you smirked, the movements of your hips now a consistent grind against him. "But you're right. And those boys can't help, they dunno how to handle me."

"I don't do charities, darlin'. F’you want me to fuck that shitty attitude out of ya, you're gonna have to prove yourself."

This time around, Joel pushed his clothed cock against your pussy and you knew what he wanted.

You wriggled your hands, inching closer to his face but never letting your skin touch. "Kinda difficult to get on my knees when you’re holding me like this, innit?"

Joel let go only to force you down on the ground, but you didn't protest. You had lost all filters, all of your arrogance as you were faced with his cock prodding at the zipper of his jeans.

Looking up as you eagerly undid his belt, you were pleased to see him inhaling deeply, proudly as he looked down on you. You pulled the zipper down, and your breath hitched as his cock saluted. He wasn't wearing underwear.

His cock was thicker than you had imagined, girthier than what you had felt while fingering yourself that night which he had so mockingly reminded you of. Long with a slight curve and a purple mushroom head unscathed. A drop of pre-cum covered the slit and you imagined it was crying for you.

"You gonna put that bratty little mouth to good use or do I gotta do that for you, too?"

Instinctively you glared up at him, giving him a look but it was washed away a second later as he took charge.

Grabbing a fistful of your hair, Joel forced you onto his cock, not giving you a second to wet your lips or spit on it. Harshly pushing you down on his cock, you found that it wasn't needed, there was plenty of saliva in your mouth to lubricate him. A whimper left you when his head hit the back of your mouth, your throat automatically constricting at the sudden intrusion. You felt your cunt mimic the reaction and clenched around nothing.

Joel was heavy in your mouth, the thickness making you worry the back row of your teeth would scrape him. If they did he didn't care, for when you looked up at him through teary eyes he was unconcerned.

He forcefully prodded against your throat, slipping in just enough to push further and you gagged.

Joel inhaled sharply. "S'a tight little throat you got there. Guess you haven't been whoring around as much as I thought," he chuckled, holding your face pressed firmly against him, your nose nuzzled in the patch of curls.

He held you there for a couple of seconds, allowing your throat to get adjusted despite acting seemingly careless about how you felt. A moment later he pulled you off by your hair, and you gasped hoarsely, blinking up at him through the tears slowly blurring your vision.

Hovering over you, Joel cupped your cheeks and lifted you slightly, bending down as he did. For a second you thought he was going to kiss you, but his fingers dug into your face, forcing your mouth open for him and he spat on your tongue, an obscene look on his face.

"Eyes on the price, sweetheart," he chuckled and landed you back on your knees.

With his hand holding you tightly by a makeshift ponytail, Joel pushed his cock back into your mouth and without warning, set a brutal pace sure to give you a headache. As slick gathered between your legs, a migraine was the least of your worries. You snaked a hand between your legs to relieve the tingling strain.

The breaths you were granted came in between the thrusts and you squeezed your eyes shut, feeling dizzy, prompting him to yank at your hair.

"Look at me," he grunted coarsely, voice going straight to your sex and you ground down hard on your hand, gasping for air. Joel admired your puffy lips, smeared with saliva, strings of drool connecting your mouth to the tip of his cock. "You look like a fuckin' mess, sweetheart. This what you been thinkin' about, hm? Been thinking 'bout acting like a little slut f'me, huh?"

His degrading words fueled your fire, both making you want to bite back at him and make him come down your throat. Opting for the latter, you tried to take him back in your mouth, wanting to put your adjusted throat to good use, but he yanked you back. A whimper left your lips and he slapped your cheek, forcing you to look at him.

"F'you know what's good for you, you'll answer when I ask you a question."

Wet and needy, you didn't hesitate. "Yes! Yes, Joel," you cried, one hand on his hip for purchase, the other hid between your legs, fervently toying with your clit. "Wanted you to treat me like a whore! Wa—wanted you to fuck me stupid!"

That's when he noticed your hand between your legs, eagerly seeking out friction. His brows connected in a crease of anger, and he had you on your wobbly legs one moment and hurled you onto a dirty surface the next.

"The fuck you think you're doin', huh? Touching yourself without permission?" Joel growled and for the first time his disappointment got to you.

He held you by your throat and you could feel the calluses in his palm scrape your skin.

"M'sorry—couldn't help myself," you babbled feverishly as he shoved a hand down your undone pants, feeling just what you had been so disrespectful to touch.

A guttural moan escaped him and you could have died just then, knowing you did that to him.

"Christ, sweetheart. You got this wet from chokin' on my cock, huh?" he mused absent-minded and you couldn't decide which you liked more; Joel calling you "sweetheart" or— "such a fuckin' slut.”

You were startled but thankful when he pulled down your jeans in one swift movement, exposing you to the cold air in the warehouse.

He didn't give you a warning before he plunged two fingers into your cunt, curling them against the velvety roof of your wet cave. Clawing onto his shoulder with a gasp of surprise, you instinctively tried to lift yourself and relieve the overwhelmingly intense feeling.

"Where you goin', sweetheart? This not what you wanted?" You desperately wanted to slap the grin off of his face, but he had you completely wrapped around his finger. Literally and figuratively. "Didn't you wanna be used like a little slut, hm?"

"Please," you begged, drawing the word out with a rugged moan and clutching to his shoulders. "Ff—uck!"

He fingered you at an unforgiving pace, three fingers and his palm slapping against your cunt each time. The squelches from your pussy resonated off the bare walls and if you hadn't been so focused on the pain mixing with pleasure, you would have been ashamed Joel was the one making you this wet.

"Joel!" you cried, tugging at the front of his shirt. "Plea-please! Need your cock!"

He choked you with his unoccupied hand, forcing your face inches from his. "Quit whinin' or I'll leave you 'ere," he threatened.

You looked up at him through hooded eyes, unable to comprehend your increasing lust for him from being this close. Joel's breath was hot on your face, breathing his air, you became dizzy from a mix of him and your impending orgasm.

"That's right, sweetheart, cream all o'er my fingers," he beckoned, feeling your contracting walls squeeze his fingers. Your legs were trembling, wanton moans spilling from your lips as Joel pulled an orgasm from you.

You incoherently begged him to fill you up, wanting nothing more than to milk his thick cock, but when he caught sight of your pleading eyes, he applied pressure to your clit instead. It was sore from the heel of his palm having slapped it repeatedly and it made you unable to come down from your high properly.

Your legs spasmed as his torturous fingers brutally skirted across your bundle of nerves. Before you could process what happened, a gush of pleasure sprayed from you.

Your cheeks flushed pink, realizing Joel had just made you squirt. You had never done that before, and you looked at him with an expression of surprise mixed with confusion. He looked proud.

Joel groaned as he stroked his throbbed cock, smearing the precum over the head while his other hand pushed down hard on your belly, holding you just at the edge of the table.

Stammering his name, your attempt at any sort of coherent sentence was foiled as he slid his girthy cock into your cunt.

Your eyes fluttered shut, walls clenching around him. You had never felt so full. "Joel—" you shuddered, gripping his bicep for purchase.

A string of curses left his lips, a crease knitting his brows together in concentration. "Fuckin' hell, sweetheart, s'a tight lil' hole ya got 'ere."

Joel wanted to take a moment just then, revel in the sweet clench of your pussy, catch his breath but he knew you would notice. As much as he had a hidden desire to ruin every other man for you and have you tail him like a lost puppy, he refused to acknowledge how overdue this was.

He didn't give you another second to adjust before he rocked his hips back and slammed his cock back into you. If you thought his fingers hit a spot, his cock fucking destroyed that.

You couldn't even form moans properly as his hips rutted at a bruising pace, expertly molding your cunt to fit him. His face contorted and he grumbled something under his breath, but you didn't care to ponder what as he filled you up. You were still dazed from the previous orgasms and it was like he wouldn't allow you to come down. Your ragged breaths, his grunts, and the wanton sounds of skin slapping filled your head as you soared around on cloud nine.

A large hand snuck under your shirt, the calluses on his palm rough against your skin but you loved the feeling as he squeezed your breast, thumb and index pinching your nipple.

Your knuckles turned pale from clutching down hard on his shoulders, fingernails clawing indents at the exposed skin on his neck and collar.

You hoped the crescents would outlast this moment, that Joel would curse at the sight the next time he looked in a mirror. You hoped he wouldn't be able to get this moment out of his head then, not ever, thinking back to this moment whenever he would see the scars you left on him.

A hiss escaped you and tore the thought of making your mark out of your mind. His deft fingers were rubbing your sore clit once again.

There was determination on his face and animalistic hunger in his dark eyes—he looked as if there was no getting through to him, like he was stuck in a world of his own.

Whether he insisted on drawing orgasm after orgasm out of you for your pleasure or his ego, you did not know. Joel always had something to prove—to himself or the people around him, it was another thing about him you didn't know. In this moment, as he chased every high for you, you didn't care either.

You hated him for making you feel this good. Hated him for making you moan in pleasure, hated him for making your legs shake uncontrollably. You wanted to taunt him, crack a spiteful comment about his age or something, let him know he wasn't doing as well as he thought—but he was. You could lie, but your body would betray you.

There was no snide comment left in you as Joel's hips pistoned into yours. It felt too good. He felt too good.

"S'too much," you gasped and held onto his shoulder, not pushing him away but not pulling him any closer either. "I can't."

The pressure on your clit was too much. The frantic rubbing, the harsh pads of his fingers, mixing pleasure with pain in the most unforgiving way. It hurt too good to want to stop him, though.

Joel surprised you, pressing his forehead against yours. His eyes were heavy, and his jaw was slack, the blissful expression ruined by a smug chuckle.

"You can. C'mon, sweetheart, I believe in you," he tutted like one would to a child riding a bike for the first time.

It spurred something inside you, the degradation. Your hooded, watery eyes caught sight of his plump lip through the blur and without a second thought, you lunged forward and bit it, your teeth piercing the soft skin.

It was the closest thing you would get to feeling them, you knew it, and you weren't about to beg for a taste.

A slap landed on your cheek, sharp and stinging, but he kept his hand there on the side of your face, cupping it in an almost endearing way.

Joel hissed at the taste of blood—surprised but not disgusted. The hand cupping your face in the sweetest way turned to force your mouth open, and you grinned bitterly when he spat on your tongue, tasting his blood.

His thrusts became more frantic, the pad of his thumb sloppily skipping over your clit as he draws your pleasure out. Forcing you to look into his eyes while you come around his cock, Joel's too far gone watching you to notice the way his balls tightened.

"Fuck—"

Slick with your juices Joel slips out of your clenching pussy, jerking his cock a few pumps as he hisses, strings of milky sperm decorating your abdomen.

Your heavy breaths hang in the room like thick syrup, bodies sticky, tension at a maximum as the lust turns back to hatred.

Joel moves from you with a grunt, a sly smirk on his lip as he moves his gaze from the mess on your stomach to your eyes. He leaves you to clean yourself up and tucks his softening cock into his pants, the zipper resounding comically loud through the silence. It reminds you of a secret between children, zipping your lips close as a solemn pledge.

It was over and it would never be brought up again. As you did your best to clean up, get back into your clothes, and comb your fingers through your hair, your eyes were trained on Joel's back—if eyes could kill and all that.

At once, you were back to hating one another. You hoped your nails had dug deep enough into his shoulder, hard enough to leave scars.

[nataliasquote]

Mustang | cowgirl nat au

Summary: The mayor’s daughter. A bounty hunter. One has freedom, the other does not. But will one fleeting night be enough to convince Natasha to leave everything she’s ever known behind?

Warnings: Natasha is a hot cowgirl, cowboy slang

wc: 4.3k

note: this is for all the cowgirl Nat simps out there (yes you know who you are @katyaromanoffpetrova ). And also for @milfs69420 who drew the inspiration for cowgirl Nat in this scene (i’m obsessed with that drawing no joke). I hope this lives up to expectations!

-⧗-

A loud yell echoed across the grassy plain, rising above the sound of thundering hooves and the distant shriek of a stream train whistle. One lone rider, racing across fields she knew like the back of her hand. Strong thighs squeezed the flanks of the midnight horse beneath her as she raised her arms above her head and tilted her face up to the sky, letting the golden rays of the sun soak into her skin. Not once did her balance falter, years of riding making her feel like an extension of the steed beneath her. Her cheeks started to burn with how hard she was smiling, so she placed both hands back on the reins and kicked her horse to speed up.

There really was nothing that Natasha loved more than riding. It was her escape, her outlet, her way of breaking away from her usual daily duties. Was she out on her horse a bit too often? Her father would say yes. But if there was one thing Natasha Romanoff hated, it was being told what to do.

She’d caught up with the train rolling steadily along the tracks and Natasha leaned forwards, scarlet hair, tied in a single braid, flying behind her from under her hat as she raced beside it, trying to keep up. She could feel the muscles of her horse flexing with every stride they took and the rusted green walls of the carriage were almost in reach of her fingertips if she stretched out towards it. The smoke puffing out of the chimney tainted the air that she breathed in, but she barely noticed it through her euphoria. She knew where this train was headed, towards the larger cities, so she broke away and turned back to her hometown, slowing up as they trotted under the town’s welcome sign.

Most walked their horses through the streets on foot, but Natasha stayed seated, guiding her horse through the swarms of townspeople and down to the large house at the end of the main street. She hopped down and tied him to the fence temporarily, making sure he had enough hay and water before she strolled into the house.

Not even bothering to take her boots off, Natasha waltzed into the kitchen and flopped down on a chair. She tossed her hat onto the table and let out a sigh, staring at the small red symbol on the front of her hat.

“Natasha,” a gruff voice called after her. She rolled her eyes. “Where the hell were you?”

“Out,” was all she replied. She didn’t turn around but could feel her father’s eyes boring into the back of her skull. And his disapproving tone was nothing she wasn’t familiar with.

“You were supposed to be home two hours ago, for the opening ceremony.” Without looking at him, she knew how he was standing. Arms folded across his chest as he took up almost the entire doorway. “Yelena was upset you weren’t there.”

Natasha scoffed. “No she wasn’t, she couldn’t care less.”

“I felt betrayed, actually.” Great, now her sister had joined in. “You’re always choosing Liho over me, don’t you feel my pain?”

“I’m sure you’ll live,” Natasha deadpanned, wanting nothing more than some peace and quiet.

But that was a rarity as the mayor’s daughter. Her whole life was scrutinized, and many people disapproved of her non-traditional ways. “Is there anything else required of me? Or can I leave now?”

Yelena appeared in the corner of her vision, leaning against the kitchen countertop. “Well, I was going to ask if you would come by the range, seeing as you-“

“Ok, so that’s a no.”

“Natasha, be nice to her please. It’s Yelena’s big day!” Alexei’s voice seemed to be in constant ‘public speaker’ mode, which was fine for pretty much everything except quiet conversations in the kitchen. He was too close, and Natasha scraped her chair back and reached for a glass to fill up from the pitcher of sweet tea on the table. Reluctantly, she offered one to Yelena, who accepted with a soft smile. Alexei took their ignorance of his statement to disappear back to his office, and Natasha breathed a small sigh of relief.

“I knew you liked me really.” Natasha deadpanned her comment but Yelena only stifled her giggle behind a sip, the sweet beverage coating her tastebuds deliciously. “I’m not mad, it’s fine. But promise me you’ll shoot this week?”

“I was planning to anyway,” Natasha admitted. “Do you have riding targets too?”

Yelena let out a ‘ha’ and leaned back in her chair, chin tilted towards the window. “What do you take me for, an amateur? That’s like asking if Barton sells beer.”

“Speaking of, fancy a drink?” Yelena gestured to her half full glass with an eyebrow raised. “I was going to go down to Barton’s if you want to join me?”

Yelena thought for a moment, watching a lone ice cube float around her glass. “I would, but I promised Kate I’d meet her at the stables and you know what she’s like if I cancel on her.”

“Suit yourself,” said Natasha. Ok, so maybe she did feel a little remorse over missing the ceremony, but never would she admit that out loud. “I’ll see you later. Oh, and tell Ma to not wait up for me at dinner. I’ll sort myself out.”

“Roger that,” Yelena gave a mock salute and Natasha just rolled her eyes in jest. She grabbed her hat, slipped it on her head and wandered back out of the door, but not before she slipped a few snacks for her horse. Liho was still waiting patiently for her and he swished his tail as he approached, rather fed up of just standing around in the sun.

As Natasha brushed him down and gave the stable a quick tidy, her mind wandered back to the open grassland. What she’d give to never return home, just riding to her heart's content and staying in whatever town she came across. Or just sleeping under the stars, listening to the howls of the coyotes and the thundering hooves of wild horses echoing behind the mountains on the horizon. She craved the freedom that the cowboys had and the small taste she could get would never suffice; she lusted for more.

With a small threat to Peter, the stablehand, to not hurt Liho, Natasha wandered back into the town centre, stopping off at the ammunition store on her way for a magazine refill. She shot the test targets to pieces purely for the fun of it, knowing her aim was impeccable. The owner just rolled his eyes but let her continue; this behaviour was expected. After all, Alexei was a well respected and slightly feared man, which rubbed off onto his daughters too. And Natasha’s fiery temperament was almost as famous as her father was. No one with any brains would ever challenge her to a duel if they wanted to keep their life.

The redhead’s eyes cast over the centre-most building, the brim of her hat concealing the sign on the front. But she didn’t need words to tell her what it was- she knew her second favourite place like the back of her hand. The heels of her boots clicked against the tiled floor as she pushed the wooden saloon doors to swing open, hitting the walls beside them with a crack.

With her hat still dipped low, she paused, surveying the entirety of the room in one fast sweep. Partially content with what she saw, Natasha tipped her hat from her head and tucked it under her arm, feeling strands from her messy braid to fall and frame her face. Green eyes darted across every familiar face, occasionally leading to the subtle tug of a smile to play on her lips if she felt particularly fond of someone, but not many had that blessing. She didn’t pay two minds to the rest of the townspeople once she’d locked on the one person who didn’t think she was completely crazy.

Wild yet utterly desirable, Natasha somehow held every single person captive within her presence. The general chattering subsided as she moved between the tables, even the men who spent their days airing their lungs over bottles of brandy and rum paused their drinking to take a good look at her. If Natasha even cared, she’d be repulsed, but noticing the way the men of the town looked at her had become a thing of the past. She would never settle down so why bother?

The red velvet-topped bar stools were smooth under her jeans as Natasha slid onto one, her hat coming to rest atop the wooden bar. She unbuttoned the cuffs of her green plaid shirt and rolled her sleeves up to her elbows, exposing her forearms with a sigh.

“Didn’t see you at Yelena’s gun range opening today,” the bartender commented as he slid an open bottle of beer in Natasha’s direction. He knew her well, and he should, as her childhood best friend. And Natasha may be unpredictable but her beer choices never wavered.

“Oh don’t tell me you were there too. I swear, if one more person asks me about that I’m going to put a bullet in someone’s head.” Her hand fell to her holster for effect, making the bartender step back, hands raised in surrender. Natasha rolled her eyes and smirked before taking a sip of her beer. “My Pa gave me an earful when I was barely through the door. I don’t see why it matters, Barton, it’s just an opening.”

Clint threw the tea towel he was holding into the sink over his shoulder. “I’m just talking, but she’s your sister, so isn’t it in your duties to go to that kind of thing?”

Natasha shot him an unimpressed look, her brow bone casting a shadow across her eyes in the dim light. “You mean that as her sister, or as the mayor’s daughter? I plan on using the range anyway, so why do I need to show my face now? It’s not even about me.” She puffed out her cheeks and rested her chin on the hand that was placed on the beer bottle rim. “If I was Lena, I’d be happy my sister didn’t show up. She can have the spotlight for a change.”

“Where did you go, exactly?” Clint was the only one who would listen to Natasha’s tales, so he just let her talk whilst he worked. Gave him something refreshing to think about instead of his unruly customers.

“I caught wind of a new group riding out by the Ridge yesterday, so I wanted to check it out. Saw nothing but Ol’ Joe moving his cattle. Swear that man digs for his cannon ev’ry chance he gets.”

“Well, he’s not the best with people,” said Clint, only realising afterwards that he’d just stated the obvious. “Is that what you want though? A group like that?”

Natasha pursed her lips. She hadn’t thought through the logistics of what her future looked like, she knew it involved a lot more open space and a lot less… people. “Not a group, I couldn’t handle that.”

“Nat, you know it’s not safe out there on your own. You need your home, a family.” Clint was family orientated to the core, but the same couldn’t be said for Natasha. “You know it’s even worse for women.”

“I can handle myself,” Natasha scoffed, feeling rather put out by his insinuation. “I don’t need a bunch of asshat guys telling me what to do!

“I know, but-“

“If I wanted an argument, I would have stayed at home,” she pointed out. Clint’s mouth opened before he closed it with a huff, thinking better than to protest again. Natasha’s hands tugged her hair out of her braid, reveling in the feeling of it falling loose around her shoulders.

She chewed on her lip, trying to suppress the anxious feeling bubbling low in her stomach. With each passing day, the small town life rattled her and the walls of the village seemed to close in. It had taken root in her chest since she was a child, that feeling of longing never quite subsiding.

Clint moved off to serve customers further down the bar, leaving the redhead lost in her own mind. Slender fingers tapped rhythmically on the glass bottle.

What did she want? Natasha knew how her dreams played out, but Clint was right; where was her stability? The thought of being alone was heavenly, but that was coming from someone who had never truly experienced it. She’d been surrounded by people since the day she was born, and those fleeting moments of freedom with just Liho for company were the best she’d felt.

But what did a future full of that entail? She’d idealised it to the point where she was biased, getting defensive whenever anyone tried to make her see sense. She may not see eye to eye with her father anymore, but the stubbornness she inherited from him was a clear determiner of her roots and more importantly, her home.

A cacophony of whistles erupted from the tables behind her, snapping her out of her spiral and Natasha turned on her stool to take a look at the source of the commotion. A woman stood in the doorway, dressed similarly to Natasha, which was rather uncommon in this town. Most of the women wore skirts, so seeing another in jeans that wasn’t Natasha, Yelena or Kate had heads turning.

Natasha watched the way the stranger’s hand instinctively flew to her holster as her eyes adjusted to the darkened room, a bitter contrast to the sun blazed street just outside. The saloon was always kept dark, just the way Natasha liked it, but it did look a bit intimidating from an outsider’s perspective.

Ignoring the outstretched hands of drunk men that grabbed at her from their seats at the closest tables, the woman picked her way through the crowd, her hips swaying in her jeans and brown fringed chaps as she rounded the final table and slumped down onto a stool. Natasha peered at Clint out of the corner of her eye and tried to hide her smile, taking a long sip of her beer bottle as the stranger sat four seats over.

“What’s the strongest stuff you’ve got?” The stranger asked Clint, her hat still sat squarely on her head. A strange move in Natasha’s eyes, but it added to the air of mystery around her and the redhead couldn’t help but watch her reflection in the glass opposite.

“I’ve got a couple bottles of whiskey if that’s what you’re after?”

“I’ll get a glass of that, thanks.”

Natasha pulled a face, impressed. “Going for the hard stuff, I see.”

The stranger didn’t turn her head, keeping her eyes down and focussed on her hands that rested atop the bar. “Something like that.”

There was something different about her, something refreshing. Natasha stood up, grabbed her beer bottle and wandered down the bar, now appearing on the seat beside the stranger. She leaned on the bar, one leg crossed over the other, accentuating the curve of her hips in her jeans. The stranger’s head moved slightly, trying to get the best view of Natasha that she could.

Clint read his friend’s body language like he was fluent, and quickly swapped her bottles so she was presented with a fresh drink. Natasha waited a couple of seconds before striking up conversation again, not put out by the stranger’s lack of enthusiasm.

“Is this seat taken?”

The stranger shook her head and scooted over, nursing her glass of whiskey with both hands. She was nervous and guarded and Natasha saw the twitch of her fingers that seemed uncontrollable.

“I’ve not seen you before. You not from around here?” Her southern drawl was laid on thick, emphasising the rasp in her voice that came out when she spoke properly. Natasha’s skill set didn’t stop at shooting. She was incredibly proficient at flirting and Clint loved to just stand back and watch her pick her next target that wandered into his bar.

The stranger finally turned to Natasha and lifted her hat from her head, revealing her face and piercing eyes that bore into Natasha’s. “Is it that obvious I’m not from around here?”

Natasha laughed around the rim of her bottle and readjusted her stance, using her movement as a way to take in the woman with a quick flick up and down. “I know my people,” she replied, gesturing to the full tables behind them. Her eyes fell to the stranger’s lips. “And I’d remember a face like yours, darlin’.”

The mysterious woman’s cheeks flushed red and she took a swig of whiskey, welcoming the burn that flooded her chest. The hot feeling racing through her body was purely alcohol induced… wasn’t it?

The brunette ducked her head down, embarrassed. “I’m only passing through. Had to stop off at the stables to get my horse’s hooves checked. Ran across a thorn patch, she did.”

“Well, Bishops’ will take good care of her. And in the meantime, does the gorgeous woman have a pretty name to match?”

Whiskey was by far the best choice she could have made- it could account for the now permanent flush that took residence in her cheeks. The woman turned on her stool and let her knees fall open loosely, her body language much less guarded.

“I’m Y/n. And you are..?”

“Natasha Romanoff, at your service.” The redhead quickly put her hat on and tipped it forwards, eliciting a laugh from the woman opposite. Clint eyed their interaction as he dried some glasses, grinning to himself at how effective Natasha’s charm truly was. She turned it on with the tip of her hat and a flash of her smile, making men and women alike stop dread in their tracks.

“You’re the mayor’s daughter?” Something flashed across Y/n’s eyes but it was gone as quickly as it came and Natasha couldn’t decipher it.

“Yeah,” she trailed off, frowning slightly. “Is that a bad thing?”

“Not at all,” Y/n gave her a smile, nodding to the stool beside her. Natasha sat far too quickly, like an obedient dog. One glance from a gorgeous woman had turned her to mush- what was happening?

A couple of loud thuds resonated from the back of the room and Natasha rolled her eyes, knowing exactly who sat there regularly. “Hey, Romanoff, give us a dance, will ya?” A leering voice echoed above the general hum of conversation and Y/n watched as Natasha rolled her eyes and adjusted her gun that sat in a holster on her hip.

“Give it up, Stark, you’re barking at a knot.” The man in question jeered at her and banged his beer bottle on the barrel table, several men around him doing the same. “If you wanna watch me dance, you better pay me for it.” This only gained her more nonsensical yelling and a man on Stark’s table threw a dollar bill in her direction.

But Natasha just stood up, squared her shoulders and fired her handgun in their direction, the bullet slamming into the wall mere inches above Stark’s head. She blew the smoke off her gun with a cocky smirk and shoved it back in the holster. The entire saloon fell silent, aside from Clint’s mutterings about yet another hole to fix thanks to his fiery friend.

Natasha waited a second longer, almost daring Stark and his guys to test her again. But they didn’t, now only watching her warily as she turned back to her new woman who was watching with a slack jaw. Natasha felt a burst of pride surge through her chest and she puffed it out slightly, sinking down into her seat with one foot up on the footrest, her legs manspreading.

“I’m sorry about that, that was no way to treat a new lady.”

Y/n snickered, shaking her head. “Oh please, I ain’t a lady. I’ve seen worse men than that in towns over, they really never change.”

Natasha’s gaze had drifted to the way the brunette’s hair fell over her shoulder, and how soft it looked despite being so exposed to the elements. But at the mention of different towns she snapped, eyes wide.

“You’ve visited other towns?” She tried to keep her cool, but there was truly no hiding her excitement. This woman had everything Natasha wanted and more.

“I’m a bounty hunter,” she admitted, watching Natasha’s face change. “But I ain’t got much work at the moment. There’s not many people that trust a woman to do what a man can do.”

“So you’re just… floating between towns?”

Y/n nodded, taking a sip of her whiskey. “Yup, it’s just me and my girl. And the occasional over-friendly landlord who tries to get up in my business.”

Natasha’s mind was racing like a mustang. She felt almost childish, wanting to hear stories of her travels and what the world was really like. Y/n could see her curiosity, it was too apparent to mask, and it was like a breath of fresh air. All too often she was met with disapproving glances and was often the butt of circulating gossip, housewives and prostitutes judging her uncommon way of life. But she was happy, and no one was about to take that away from her.

“Where are you from?”

Y/n’s smile faltered and she traced the rim of her now empty whisky glass. “I don’t think about that. Doesn’t matter where I’m from, I’m never going back. There’s nothing for me there. My life is out here now.”

“I wish,” Natasha muttered, more to herself than anyone else. Y/n heard it but didn’t comment. After all, they were just two strangers in a bar, nothing more.

“So, if you’re the mayor’s girl, you must know what there is to do around here.” Her words had an element of teasing to them, which didn’t go unnoticed by Natasha.

Natasha shook her head with a laugh. Ten minutes in and already poking fun at who she was. Why was that so attractive? “There’s a barn dance later if you want to come?” Natasha suggested. “That is, if you’re sticking around for that long.”

“I’ve got a compelling reason to now,” Y/n teased, toying with the hints Natasha had been sending her way.

Natasha quirked her brow and raised an arm behind her head, her bicep flexing slightly under her scrunched up shirt sleeves. “Well, I never turn down the chance to take a pretty girl to a dance.”

“Sounds like you have experience.”

Natasha narrowed her eyes in playful accusation “Is that a problem to you?”

“Not at all. I like a woman who knows what she’s doing.” Her words were heavy and even Clint raised his eyebrows, having been listening in to their conversation whilst he polished glasses.

“Then you’re in for a real treat, darlin’.” Natasha held eye contact and took a swig of her beer, licking her lip as a drop escaped. Y/n stared back at her and then coughed, using that as her excuse to look away. Anyone could feel the air shift and Clint walked away, shaking his head with a smile. God, Natasha certainly knew how to play this game.

“Where did you say you were staying?” Natasha continued, probing yet more information out of the poor woman.

“Here, actually,” Y/n answered, gesturing towards the door that led to the small assortment of lodgings that the saloon housed “ ‘S the only place willing to take someone like me.”

“Barton!” The man in question looked around guiltily. “Keeping things from me now, are we?”

“You were out! When was I gonna tell ya?”

Natasha grunted and jutted her chin out at him, furious that he’d watched their interaction knowing exactly who this woman was. And Y/n found the whole ordeal rather funny, having made the connection that they knew each other a little while ago.

“Well, if you’re stayin’ here, I know where to pick you up later.”

“Inviting me to a dance and picking me up? Do all foreign girls get this treatment from you?”

Natasha winked coyly, sliding her hat along the bar where she’d left it. “Only the special ones.”

“Oh you’re flannel-mouthed!” Y/n exclaimed, to which Natasha only shrugged cockily. “I’ll be waitin’. Right here, so don’t be late.”

“Roger that,” Natasha responded, mimicking Yelena from earlier. She stood up with a flourish, placed her hat on her head and took Y/n’s hand to place a kiss on the back of it, treating her like a proper lady. Clint wolf whistled her, receiving an insult thrown his way before Natasha had disappeared back through the doors she’d come through, leaving them swinging back and forth with the momentum.

“She’s a wild one, watch out.” Clint nodded after the redhead, silently laughing to himself at her dramatics. Always one for the exits, she was.

But Y/n didn’t even notice his amusement. She was gazing at the gunshot hole left in the wall across the room, and more specifically, thinking about the woman that put it there.

“The wilder the better, I always say,” was all she replied, her mind now miles away. Sure, she said that about horses, but Y/n was starting to think that applied to the women she surrounded herself with too.

[babybinko]

My second batch of venture bros genderbends are finally done! :D [first set here]

PLEASE LOOK UNDER THE CUT!!! I made all these nice drawings and doodles of them and I want people to see them without this post being super long! :') [My thoughts on the designs and doodles will be under the cut as well]

Okay NOW I'm going talk about my thought process on some of these:

Baby Rusty: I love the baby Rusty, the frilly socks and sleeves were a must. I actually drew her with the original set of genderbends but I turned off her layer and forgot about her 💀

Jonas Jr: not much to say about her, I tried to make her like Rosie the Riveter. Her little bandana has the Venture logo on it :)

Jonas Sr: I wanted her to be a hot bitch, her outfit is maybe a little scandalous for the time era they were in but I think it fits, canon Jonas is a whore. I think everybody would want her and that every celebrity, politician, and anybody with any power would chase after her so badly.

Blue Morpho: I made her so incredibly slay. I fucking love her outfit, I found the inspo for the outfit on Pinterest but I changed it up a bit. Also her gun has the bayonetta butterfly wings on it as a charm because I HAD TO.

Colonel Gentleman: Not a lot to say, I wanted to give her like horse riding esque boots and I gave her a purple flower cause she likes the ladies. I know generally WLW flowers are Violets and Lavender but I wanted to draw a rose so, Purple rose compromise <3

Dr.Boyfriend 2: With my last round Dr.Boyfriend was the only one people had complaints with. I think people wished he was more Masculine and I agree but if I switched up the design too much it wouldn't look like Dr.Girlfriend. I hope giving him armor and making him look like a knight helped him look more masc. I made the sheer wings cross over his chest to make it look like it was holding up the shoulder armor. Also his guild book is insanely high quality because I was procrastinating drawing his armor.

Goofy and Goober (Watch and Ward): I think they ended up really cute, I tried to make their hair colors close to Doc and Jacksons since I heard they are supposed to be like their "main" self inserts. With Ward I had a really specific idea for her hair, I kept thinking about this haircut from my sims and had to do it. It might be hard to see but her ponytail holders have skull charms on them. I also purposely gave them both some sort of ponytail hairstyle so they would match but be slightly different :) (They are absolutely prank calling or trolling their clients on that phone btw)

Shoreleave: OH MY GOD I LOVE SHORELEAVE. I kept turning her folder back on just to keep looking at her when I was drawing the other characters. She is so captivating to me, she looks so soft and human. I want to take a bite out of her thigh. My biggest inspo for her was Cammy from Street Fighter, I felt like her dressing a bit skimpy works for her since canon Shoreleave kinda does. The girls out for the girls.

Alchemist: I love her design so much too. I wanted her to look like some kind of nun or priestess. She looks like if a Zelda fire temple was a person. I kinda gave her like a weird little hime cut under the hood. Also I put the Triad logo on all three of their designs (+ Triana).

Jefferson: Had a lot of fun with her, I didnt change her design much from canon though so there's not much to say. I did give her more flared pants though. Drawing her hair was a really fun change of pace, I very rarely get to draw textured hair.

College Rusty and Monarch Drawing: I love this one, Monarch turned out so hot dude. You can tell what character I like more LMFAO. I made rusty very obnoxious 80s while keeping the colors of the original college rusty outfit. Monarch kind of looks like postal dude but its fine because shes slay.

Hereditary Venture Family Dinner Drawing: This was one of the first drawings I started but the second to last one I finished. I wanted to draw the family doing something together but I think I really truly just wanted to draw Dermott again. 😭 Nobody has said anything if they noticed but I did give hatred the shirt from these edits. (I believe the one on the left is from reddit and the one on the right is by SquashFold on Twitter)

Dermott piercing Dean's ears drawing: Even though its messy its in the top 3 favorites I did, It was also the last one I did. I just love the idea of Dermott giving goth Dean at home ear piercings. At first I didn't know if I wanted to make Dermott giving her piercings at the mall where she works or at home but the mall idea was too much work for a last minute sketch. Dermott is so mean older sister who shoplifts and works at the mall.

Drug bathroom drawing: Another one of my favorites, its based off a specific deleted scene from Invisible Hand of Fate where Pete and Rusty talk at the bar but Pete comes out of the bathroom sniffling at the start. I love the way I drew Pete pushing the hair out of her face and both of their expressions.

Bdsm 21 drawing: Okay first of all, The little devil Monarch was so cute I was screaming, crying, and throwing up while drawing her. I fucking love her, shes the smallest part of the image but my favorite. I also am quite fond of the bdsm 21.

Quizgirls Pete and Billy: I tried looking up Vanna White dresses to base Pete's outfit off of but I couldn't find one that Pete would actually wear so I just had to make shit up. Billy's design is really basic but the bow in her hair is actually from one of my rejected main Billy genderbends.

Me and The Bestie: I put a lot of effort into this one for no reason. Literally the moment I saw Jonas in the problem machine I thought he should be made of like blue slime. When I was working on this I kept thinking about Momopatchi's Hatsune Microbe drawing so this Jonas was definitely inspired by that. I gave Jonas makeup because she was having a party movie night on gargantua and I felt like she would still have makeup on thats like completely fucked up and deteriorating on her face after many many years. Vendata's outfit was partially based on Marguerite Chapman's from Flight to Mars, never seen it but I was looking up old sci-fi movie costumes to work with and I thought it would look good :)

[lesinquietes]

Bandit!All Smite is a hulking, muscular man. His biceps are the size of a human skull, and his physical force in combat is spoken of vastly across the land — he is wanted for murder, after all. Hearsay dictates that thick blonde tresses remain slicked back on his head at all times. He bears a sly grin that seldom falters. He can be identified from miles away, yet he’s confident he’ll never be caught. Factually, there isn’t a jailhouse in the country that can secure him. He’s been running rampant for decades.

When he isn’t spending time dodging the authorities he has a favourite bar. He doesn’t go there too often, but he steps in whenever he can. It’s a rundown little shithole, offering drinks that taste like piss and girls with smeared makeup. But it has something he’s had his evil eyes on for a while, now: a woman like you. He’s been lonely; to alleviate that ache, he’s willing to sacrifice a bit of hard earned cash and dignity.

You’re a harlot. He doesn’t know what circumstances brought this sorry life upon you, though it’s evident you’ve grown used to your profession. You do your work with a simper. Your pimp — the grimy bar owner — calls you and the rest of his flock ladies of the night. There are a host of rooms upstairs that customers can rent, provided they buy one of his fallen angels for the evening. Bandit!All Smite is happy to choose you every single time. The precise moment he laid eyes on you, he knew he was going to get hooked.

It’s good to see you, my beautiful girl… come here.

You’re incredibly obedient. He asks you to take everything slow. When you open your mouth wide, to pop the shell of his cock past your glossy lips, you do so at a gradual pace. It makes him harder when he finally feels your soft tongue against his shaft, hugging him with a passion that’s rooted in financial gain. He tips extra if you cause him to bust a nut more than three times in a night. You don’t fail to earn your dollars.

For months, he keeps biweekly contact with you. Nothing much changes, save for the pining in his chest when you’re absent. It’s strange; you’re nothing more than a whore, and still, he finds himself wanting you all to himself. He denies his attachment. He denies, and denies, and denies; until finally, his possessiveness is exemplified when he enters your establishment and asks for you. Your pimp says you’re entertaining another man. Worse yet, it’s the fucking sheriff. He laughs humorlessly.

You’ll be lucky if I don’t shoot you, too.

He kicks in the door of your bedroom and catches you, about to strip for the bastard waiting on your soiled mattress. Your bra is already in a mess at your heeled feet. The villain grits his teeth, ruled by a vicious form of jealousy. He doesn’t waste a second. He draws his pistol and shoots. The bullet makes contact with the officer’s forehead, puncturing through his brain. Blood covers your face and torso. A scream rips from your throat, as he yanks you into his grasp and flings you over his shoulder. You’re kicking and crying and cursing at him to let you go. He snickers in retort. You’re adorable when you’re upset. He’ll let your tantrum run its course for the time being. He knows how uncomfortable it is to be filthy with blood. He’ll ensure he gets you back to his hideout so you can shower, pronto.

Shhh… quiet down, sweetheart.

The other girls — your former colleagues — scurry around and stumble out of his path. No one tries to stop him from leaving the bar. Your pimp cowers in horror behind the counter, peeping over the taps to get a glimpse of the villain making off with one of his money makers. You were the hidden treasure of this cesspool of dirt. Bandit!All Smite is glad he found you before someone else could taint you.

He pats your bare ass as he carries you towards his horse. All you’re wearing is a skimpy bra and thong. He mounts the steed with some effort, keeping your exhausted figure secure. With a devious smirk, he shifts your panties to the side and dips two of his meaty fingers into your damp hole. You gasp and wriggle, complaining about his intrusion. Ah, pretending you’re scared of him when you’re truly wet and aroused — that’s a silly game he won’t tolerate from a grown woman.

He keeps his digits screwed inside you as he embarks on the lengthy excursion to his hideout. Every jerk and bump of the horse causes his fingers to rub and caress parts of you that make your cunt pulse. Your eyes roll back. This probably has something to do with that aphrodisiac your pimp slipped into your water this morning, in prep for a busy day of clients. He only told you afterwards, when you had no say in the matter; now, his exploitation is coming to back bite you. Regardless of the source of your arousal, it makes Bandit!All Smite pleased with the image of slamming you down on his bed and claiming you once and for all. His grin — dark and sinister in the twisted throes of his lust — noticeably widens.

Next l

𝔉𝔞𝔯𝔪𝔢𝔯 𝔞𝔲

[1caru]

Please! Can you give us more LU in twilight’s hyrule?

More ancestor and descendant relationship between time and twilight! 🥹 *cries*

hehe I'm honored that you like my work so much and want more <3

unfortunately I already have a ton of other projects lined up, so I can't promise anything yet, but you did remind me that I wanted to write a bit of a second part to my Time and Skull Kid comic, so I whipped this up for you. it's not really edited or anything but hopefully you enjoy it anyway~

(here's the link to the comic that comes before this for anyone who hasn't seen it yet, please read it for context:

"Hold on, where's the old man?"

Twilight turned around sharply, drawing a surprised yelp from the sailor sitting on his shoulders. "What?"

"He was just here," said Four, "Did he just... wander off? That's not like him."

"Maybe he got grabbed by something!" Wind exclaimed, searching the dense foliage for any signs of monsters.

"We haven't seen any monsters since we arrived here, though," Hyrule said thoughtfully, “And we would have heard him put up a fight.”

Dread began to build in Twilight's chest as his wolfish senses caught the faintest sound of an ocarina. He lowered Wind from his back and approached Legend, pulling his map out and offering it to the veteran. "I'll go look for him. There's a Spirit Spring not far from here, wait for us there," he explained, tracing the path with his finger, "The tunnel up ahead is dark, so you'll need a lantern, but the tunnel after that is well lit and leads right to the spring. I'll be back soon."

"Hold your horses, rancher," Legend said, grabbing Twilight's shoulder with his free hand before the man could run off into the woods, "Shouldn't one of us come with you, just in case?"

"I... I think I know where he went," Twilight said softly, "Don't worry, I know every corner of these woods. Trust me."

Legend released Twilight's shoulder and watched as he almost immediately shifted into wolf form and darted back down the trail they had been following. He sighed and motioned to the rest of the group, glancing back at the map in his hand. "Well, come on then, guys."

*

Twilight raced along the scent trail, muscle memory carrying him effortlessly over tree roots and through small tunnels left by local wildlife. His ears flattened against his head in panic when he picked up Time's trail, heading in the exact direction he had predicted. Would he reach his mentor in time? Or had the man already discovered that which he should not see?

The plaintive whistle of the ocarina, which had been gradually increasing in volume, came to an abrupt halt, and Twilight's heart jumped in his chest as if to mimic it.

He was too late.

His paws slowed to a defeated trot as he approached the quiet clearing. He shifted back into his Hylian form, then silently crept through the bushes, bracing himself for what he would find.

Time knelt in the clearing with his back to Twilight, his arms wrapped around a very familiar little spirit. Just beyond them, a simple gravestone sat nestled in the mossy ground, the inscription on it as clear as the day it was chiseled:

Link, Hero and Mentor.

The spirit in Time's arms lifted his face from where it had been buried in the man's shoulder. Little yellow eyes met Twilight's pale blue ones, and the spirit gasped. “Link! Doggy Link is here too!”

Time turned in surprise, as if just remembering who he had been traveling with until ten minutes ago. He smiled at Twilight for a moment, but suddenly found it hard to make eye contact when he noticed the expression on his protege's face.

“Um, Skull Kid, would you give us a moment?” he asked softly, looking down at the spirit that was still clinging to him.

Skull Kid held on tighter, suddenly looking very scared that Time might simply vanish if he let go.

“I'm not going anywhere, I promise,” Time soothed, “I just need to talk to him. I'll stay right here, okay?”

Twilight nodded behind him.

Skull Kid studied Twilight for a moment, then looked up at Time. “...Okay,” he murmured. He picked up the ocarina he had dropped earlier and pressed it into Time's hand. “Play this when you are done, okay? You better play it!”

Time smiled. “I will.”

He watched Skull Kid hop off into the trees, then rose to his feet, cradling the little tan ocarina in his hand. His thumb ran over the polished surface, the texture so familiar yet such a distant memory. He looked back at the gravestone, suddenly regretting that time their little group had taught each other how to read their different Hylian scripts.

“Seems I've wandered somewhere I should not have gone, haven't I?” he sighed.

Twilight walked into the clearing and stood by Time's side, somberly following his mentor's gaze. “Did Skull Kid tell you anything?”

“No,” Time replied, “But actions often say more than words can.”

They stood there in silence for a moment, unsure how to approach the subject at hand.

Twilight opened his mouth to speak, but Time quickly raised a hand to stop him. “Pup, I will not ask for an explanation if you do not want to give it. The flow of time is all too easily altered after all, one little word can completely change the course of history. However,” he continued, turning towards the young man, “I've seen the way you look at me, especially when our journey began. Someone your age should not have to look so sad. If telling me about this will ease some of the burden you carry, then I am more than happy to listen.”

Twilight looked up at him, his thoughts tripping over themselves in an effort to reach a decision. He desperately wanted to tell Time everything, how he had met him, what he knew of his mentor's fate. He wanted to tell him that changing the flow of time was his greatest desire, that he wished every day for a way to save Time from a death filled with regret and sorrow. And yet, his mind always wandered to that moment, when he had dealt the final blow to Ganondorf. The blow that Time's spirit had taught him. Would he had been able to defeat the Demon King if his ancestor had not been there to guide him? Would “saving” Time ultimately mean dooming Hyrule? Would it mean dooming more young heroes after him to take up the sword and attempt what he could not accomplish?

The rancher closed his eyes and leaned forward, resting his forehead on Time's breastplate as his shoulders sagged and tears threatened to form. Time held him close, rubbing gentle circles on his arm with one hand and wrapping the other around his upper back, still clutching the ocarina.

“It's more of a memorial than a grave,” Twilight eventually spoke, "I met your spirit during my journey. You taught me your sword techniques. I suppose I just wanted to thank you by honoring your memory."

Time hummed in response. “I must have been a good teacher then. Your skills are amazing to watch in action.”

Twilight let out a watery chuckle. “They saved my life more times than I can count.” He rested in Time's arms for a moment more, then pulled away with a small smile. “I think that's all I can say for now. Go ahead and spend some time with Skull Kid, I'll tell the others you'll catch up later. Ask Skull Kid to lead you to Ordon Village when you're done.”

“Thank you,” Time said gratefully.

Twilight nodded and headed back out of the clearing.

“...You know,” Time continued, looking at the ocarina thoughtfully, “That song he was playing, it's not from Hyrule.”

Twilight paused.

“It holds a very powerful magic, one said to put the sorrows of the departed who hear it to rest and allow them to pass on peacefully.”

Pale blue eyes widened as another memory floated to the surface. A stone sitting on a mountain path, howling a song that he had mimicked without wondering what it meant. A song that had been answered by a golden wolf with a single eye. A Shade, uttering words that Twilight had almost forgotten in his worry over Time.

At last, I have eased my regrets.

Perhaps things would turn out all right in the end after all.

[aoiveae-monsters]

HALLOWEEN WITH THE MONSTERS!

Including Mothman, Dullahan, Yautja and Khonshu

Edid: Finally a real note. Just a Post of my beloved silly skrunkles. Also for Khonshu's part I used witch reader from the headcanons I wrote for him before because I just felt like it.

Mothman

- He has seen humans celebrate halloween before but didn't quite understand it, always wonderd why humans tried to mimic other monsters.

-Once you properly explain it to him, and talk about free food- he's hooked. His antenna stand straight and he goes to put on a white blanket to go as a ghost Trick or Treating.

-He could already go without a costume but he looks so cute and happy in his little white robe, you couldn't bring yourself to tell him.

-You go around everywhere and he does the most adorable chirb when he says "Trick or Treat", almost everyone gives him extra candy because it's that cute. The sweet old Lady next door gave him a full bucket of candy and his antenna did a cute little wiggle.

-He munches himself into a sugar rush with all the candy he eats. Also he hand feeds you candy. Still in his costume too. By end of it all you got a chonky moth in a ghost costume, happily purring as you rub his belly.

Dullahan

-Come on, Halloween is one of his fav times of the year. He get's to walk around freely, get candy and scare people shitless! He even made you a matching outfit to his.

-You'll both be riding on his steed, scaring unasuming mortals. Sapphire Flames erupting as he let's out a wicked laugh, terrifying anyone he sees.

-Sometimes he'll put his head somewhere for a person to pick up and then igniting his eye sockets, giving the poor someone a heart attack.

-Other than that he'll gallop the streets with you, drawing the attention of other halloween goers, drinking up all the praise he get's for his "costume". Will do tricks like taking his head off in front of everyone. Let's the children even play with with, creating dancing figures with his flames.

-In the rare event he meets another Dullahan, he'll talk for ages with them and do some duo pranks. The horses will just chill with you, judging their riders.

-Like a real Gentleman he comes back with his head filled to the brim with the candy, all for you. He won't answer any questions about how he got it...

Yautja

-It was suprisingly easy to get your mate to celebrate halloween. He's mostly excited to adorn you in the bones of the beasts he hunted.

-He's purring the entire time you put on your costume, the skull of a xenomorph being your mask.

-He himself puts on something, some giant jagged bones. Sharpening his claws and showing off his face. You two will have all the eyes on you.

-If you wanted candy however, you could have simply asked him to get you some, your mate loves to spoil you, but if Trick or Treating is what you want than you shall have it. He can never say no to you.

-With him by your side, you get aalllll candy. After getting the sweets going to horror maze is a MUST. He doesn't get scared but he puffs up with pride whenever you get spooked and cling to him.

-Lowkey he scares the workers there. Some other people there think he works there and fan over him.

-By the end of it all you turned him into a halloween fan, he cannot wait for next year, but before the night ends there is one last thing you two need to do...going on a hunt!

Khonshu

-The God of the Moon wasn't too interested in your mortal holiday. Yet somehow, you managed to convince him to go with you, manifesting him in a corporeal form. So that's why you asked him to teach you the magic to invoke entities...

-But you did go through all the hard work to summom him into the material plane, he can't bring himself to say no to his favorite human. And it has been centuries since he last walked the earth with mortals.

-Okay fine, you did it, you got your oh so great and benevolent god to acompany you during this wicked night. Steve and Marc are beyond impressed with your skill to make Khonshu do anything you want.

-Surprisingly enough though, you didn't have to say anything about Khonshu needing a new look, all his idea. After all, the god has decided that since he'll walk among mortals after so many years, he might as well dress for the occasion.

-Pale bandages and golden crescent moons get replaced with black robes that shine like the stars and are adorned with blood red moons. He looks a little like a Vampire.

-Old Birb Man mantifests some fangs after you said that, threatening to take a sip out of you.

-He even dresses you up himself, whatever costume you had before will be changed to make you look worthy to be a god's consort. All will look upon you with awe. Only the best for his beloved star.

-You walk the streets together, the witch and their terrifying patron drawing the eyes and adoration of everyone.

-Daddy Khonshu decides to go even extra and cause a Blood Moon, with a jack'o-latern face filling the celestial body.

-He puffs up when people compliment him, ah yes, how he missed the worship of mortals. Hand feed him the candy you got and he'll coo about how a perfect human you are, his best accolyte. That's how you find out about Khonshu's massive sweet tooth

-However manifesting Khonshu for so long takes it's toll on you, invoking a deity upon the material plane is quite a lot of work. Khonshu already plans to reward you plenty for not only for letting him walk among the earth again but also feel the joy of halloween.

-The night ends with you getting usherd to bed, face lovingly carresed before Khonshu dematerializes.

-While all gaze upon a grinning blood moon.

[scaryscarecrows]

Ownership

Arkham City is the latest bad idea in a long, long line of bad ideas. Jason’s really not sure why, exactly, this was allowed to happen (well, money, but still), but it was and it’s making keeping tabs on the Batman a lot harder.

But Jason’s not here for the Bat tonight. He’s here because of the very persistent rumors that something’s wrong with Joker. Morbidly, he’d like to know. Practically, he needs to know; Joker, out of all the freaks in here, is likely to intervene in any of Jason’s plans. His obsession with Batman makes him a dark horse, and while Jason is inclined to kill him, that operation must be handled delicately. Joker’s the sick sort of bastard to booby-trap himself and if Jason never gets another faceful of laughing gas, it will be too soon.

Joker’s hideout is not hard to find. Even a complete fucking moron with no eyes and no ears would find it. It’s quiet tonight, only a few guards and–thank God–no sign of Harley. The guards go down easy, no bullets required, and soon enough he’s slipping into Sionis’ old mill.

…

Huh.

Penguin’s got a big sonofabitch on his payroll now, with one arm. One half of a pair of conjoined twins, apparently. He hadn’t realized the twin had come here. Somehow, the sigh of a ginormous clown is…a lot scarier than it should be. He’s just gonna leave that guy alone. He’s not here for him anyway, he’s just here for a little investigation. He’s even in civvies, to blend in a little better.

Creak.

He hears it too late; before he can turn, there’s a wire wrapping around his throat and pulling, bringing him to the ground and digging into his skin and he can’t breathe–

“Baby boy!”

Nononononononononononono–

Joker leans over him. Flesh is peeling off his skull and there’s pustules and he stinks like somethin’ Croc threw up. But dark spots are dancing in Jason’s vision now and all he can think is, I don’t wanna die here, please–

All at once, the wire loosens and Joker’s straddling him, those purple leather-gloved fingers stroking the brand lovingly.

“I’ve missed you!” He cackles, and it quickly turns into a nasty cough. Jason’s just frozen, gasping for breath and caught in a loop of don’t make him mad don’t make him mad. “Naughty, naughty, running away like that! But now you’re heeeere again, with meeeee.”

NO!

Jason elbows him the face, bursting a pustule and peeling a chunk of skin off. He intends to follow it by clawing the rest of the bastard’s face off, but Joker’s stronger than he looks, even now, and he lunges forward with one arm pressed against Jason’s throat. The other hand opens a switchblade and traces it under his eye first, then down towards his lips, and then back up again–

–and cuts the brand back open.

It’s not fully healed. Jason’s not sure it would matter. He can’t tell if the pain is physical, psychological, or both. It doesn’t matter, anyway: Joker draws the bloody knife back with a wide, wide smile, wipes the blade across Jason’s lips, and tucks it away.

“You’re mine,” he rasps. “Don’t ever forget that, Todders.”

Jason swallows. Old conditioning is pushing him to submit, to nod his head and whisper yes sir, m’sorry, sir, please don’t do it again.

The Arkham Knight, however, isn’t having being a goddamn chew toy. And that’s the side that wins out.

Mostly.

He brings his knee up to the bastard’s crotch and takes advantage of the immediate recoil to shove him to the side, scramble to his feet, and run.

He’ll tell himself, later, that he let the bastard live so he could die slowly and painfully. He might even believe it, after a while. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is that he’s not going back, he’s not doing that again.

He can’t live through that again.

THE END

[shadowglens]

like kerosene (on a flame of doubt)

fandom: read dead redemption 2 warnings: canon typical violence, blood and gore characters: alma mcarthy (oc), john marston, dutch van der linde, arthur morgan, assorted original side characters word count: 7,826 overview: alma mcarthy joins the van der linde gang, circa 1891 BEFORE READING: please open in a new tab as it's very long and tumblr formatting is terrible on dash 😭

1891, Wyoming

“I want those stalls all mucked out before lights out, you hear?”

Alma rolled her eyes so hard she thought they might disappear into her skull. “I ain’t your servant, Jeremiah. Do it yourself.”

“Listen, girl.” The slapping of his boots through mud bounced between the walls of the livery as he stormed towards her. “While you are under this roof, taking my gold and tending my horses, you will do what I goddamn fucking say.”

Evening was drawing near. Distantly, if she strained her ears over the sound of her associate’s - sorry, boss’ - incessant droning, Alma could hear a pair of coyotes calling to each other in the nearby hills. One of the horses in the stall closest to her stamped it’s foot with a huff, whether at the threat of wildlife or Jeremiah, Alma wasn’t sure. She absently reached to hush it as the man’s squelching boots finally brought him to stand before her. 

His cheeks were crimson, a vein popping on his forehead and disappearing all the way up into his receding hairline. The horse, a beautiful roan mare, was now at the front of her stall and huffed sharply enough that Jeremiah’s neckerchief fluttered. “Wasn’t I fucking clear, girl? Pick up the goddamn rake and get to work.”

Jeremiah Owens wasn’t a particularly kind man, in the grand scheme of the things. He only knew how to yell or curse, smelt not-so-faintly of manure, and Alma was fairly sure he had never bothered to remember her first name. Girl this, girl that. Still, she fought the urge to stamp her foot like a petulant foal. He had never laid a hand on her, for starters, and shouting aside, he had given her free use of the small loft space above his office. Right now, he was the only thing separating her from the warmth of this livery and the rain-soaked emptiness on the horizon outside. 

“I’ve gotta do up the papers for those mustangs,” she snapped, biting down the fire in her gut. “Mr Darlington was due to send one of his boys tomorrow mornin’ for them, or did you forget?”

That was the other reason she liked Jeremiah. When she’d turned up on his doorstep just under nine months ago, looking like a starving rat no less, he hadn’t just offered her a job - he’d brought her in on the less-than-reputable side of his operation. More than that, he’d let her help with it. Storing and feeding horses was one thing, but a horse fence was an entirely different beast. A lucrative one, too. She knew he had a few hundred gold stored somewhere in the basement of his house, she was sure of it. 

“I ain’t smooth-brained, girl.” Again, she rolled her eyes. Again, he glared. “The papers are already organised. Just muck the stalls out.” At that, he stormed back the way he’d come, no doubt to the comfort of his small house up the way. 

“O-kay boss,” she sing-songed, mostly to piss him off. 

To his credit, he didn’t bother turning back around. 

In truth, Alma didn’t mind the cleaning. It was mindless, sure, and it left her muscles aching every night in her sorry excuse for a bed, but at least it kept her busy. Didn’t give her too much time to think. If she had time to think, she started remembering, and that led nowhere good. 

She worked her way through the stalls as the daylight finally slipped away below the horizon. The roan mare was a legit purchase on Jeremiah’s part, currently the only one in the livery. A group of men had brought in a trio of mustangs a few days ago, beautiful beasts captured from somewhere over the mountain, and then there was the stallion. 

He was a huge Thoroughbred, proud, a striking blood bay colouring. Alma was sure he’d been nicked from one of the local ranches, but it wasn’t her or Jeremiah’s jobs to ask those kinds of questions. Either way, she’d be sad to see him go, even if he would fetch them a fortune. He was magnificent. 

Alma had reached his stall, and was about to sneak him a sugar cube, when something clattered to the ground at the opposite end of the stable.

The stallion jerked away from her hand, startled, as Alma too spun on the spot. 

Her hand went to her hip on instinct. Her revolver, as always, was holstered. Jeremiah had fought her on it for about a week before a wannabe gunslinger had held them both up over ten dollars. She’d been armed while working ever since.

The livery was deathly silent. 

Most of the lights were off by this time of night, only one illuminating her end of the stable and one in Jeremiah’s office. The office where the sound had, undoubtedly, come from. Alma crept in that direction, keeping her shoulder tight against the stall doors and the shadows they cast. There was only one place Jeremiah ever was at this hour, and it for sure wasn’t working. Lazy bastard.

A shape darted past the office window. 

Fury, at being robbed, at being stolen from, gripped Alma, and before she could think of any common sense she was sprinting for the door. 

The hinges were always loose and creaking, and even her slight frame sent the door slamming open as she barrelled into it. The shape turned out to be a person as the door also slammed into them, sending them careening into the far wall with a shout. Alma twisted, revolver drawn.

It was a man, scrambling to his feet while one hand gripped his nose. There was blood covering his chin and throat. She couldn’t see much of his face through his curtain of dark, greasy hair, but she could hear him cursing under his breath.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Alma snarled, gun aimed between his eyes where he was leaning back against the far wall. 

“You broke my fucking nose!”

She took a step towards him, gun still up. “You were trying to steal from us!”

He shifted, spat a glob of blood in her direction. He spoke like a street rat, kind of looked like one too, but his clothes were just a little too nice to be one of the petty thieves Alma was used to seeing around town. The leather of his boots, though now muddied, was clearly well looked after, and the holster for his own revolver looked well made. Maybe he was from a gang? Jeremiah had grumbled that there were a few that rode through every so often, but usually they brought good business to the livery.

“What do you want?” she snapped. Back in the stables, she could hear the mustangs cracking a fuss at all the commotion. 

He scoffed. “Your money. What, are you simple?”

“Fuck you!” Alma glanced quickly at his gun - still holstered. “Give me back anything you’ve taken. Now!”

Despite the gun pointed at his forehead, he had the audacity to laugh. “Or what? You probably don’t even know how to use that thing.”

Oh, this greasy fucker. 

The Alma from five years ago would’ve baulked at even holding a gun. Her Pa had taught her how, of course, but she’d been a proper little girl back then, with parents who loved her, and a warm home to run back to if things got too hard. 

Five years was a long time.

The man’s left arm, the one not gripping his broken nose where it was still streaming blood down his face, twitched closer to his holster.

No you don’t.

Alma shot him.

“Fuck!” he screamed as the shot rang out through the office and livery and the land surrounding it. The horses cried out, an owl scattering from the rafters and into the trees beyond at the sudden noise. His body slammed back against the wall, broken nose long forgotten as he clutched helplessly at his shoulder and the rough line the bullet had drawn through his skin. He was lucky she’d only grazed him and not put it between his eyes.

Alma stormed up to him, lunging, and before he could react she had his revolver in her free hand. “I said, give me back anything you’ve taken!”

She could hear Jeremiah shouting for her up at his house.

The man dropped to the ground, one shaking hand held palm-out as the other tried to stem the bleeding. Alma was close enough that she could see the sweat on his brow and the wide-eyed look on his face, like a startled filly. It was barely a flesh wound. He really hadn’t thought she’d shoot him.

Belatedly, she realised he was barely older than she was, maybe even the same age. More a boy than anything. Just like she was barely anything other than a girl.

“ - all of it!” he stammered. She hadn’t realised he’d been talking. “Get away from me, you psycho!”

He’d emptied the small satchel at his hip, sending an assortment of trash and stolen goods scattering to the floor. A few wads of cash, a stack of fraudulent papers that Alma had hand-written herself, a pack of cigarettes, a few twigs and rocks, a tin of gun oil that looked like it was nothing but dregs, and a little pocket knife. She took the cash and papers, thought for a moment, then pinched the cigarettes too even though she didn’t smoke.

She glared at him, raising both guns again. “I’m the psycho?”

“You shot me!”

“You deserved it,” she said, backing up to slam everything back onto the desk. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the drawers all sitting wide open. Subtle. “Now get -” she started, breath caught at the adrenaline coursing through her veins, “now get the hell out of here before I really shoot you!”

The man - the boy - just stared at her. His nose, thankfully, had stopped gushing blood all down his front, although now his arm was stained russet too. His shirt was well and truly ruined.

Alma marched over to the window he’d apparently crawled through and slammed her hand against the frame. “Are you deaf?! I said go!”

That seemed to shake him out of whatever daze he’d fallen into. She tracked his every movement across the office, guns still razed, and simply glared as he awkwardly tried to clamber back out the window with only one good arm. She slammed the butt of his own gun against his back as he went, sending him tumbling into the mud outside.

He cursed, stumbled and slipped, before righting himself and sprinting for the edge of the property. If she squinted, she could make out the shape of a horse hidden just beyond the treeline. 

“And don’t come back, you bastard!” she screamed after him. 

Jeremiah chose that moment to burst into the office, door slamming open the exact same way it had moments before. “Alma!”

She leant back against the wall beside the window, a gun still gripped in each hand, and raised an eyebrow at her boss. “So you do know my name.”

“What happened? Did I hear a gunshot?” He eyed the leather-wrapped revolver in her right hand. Alma almost laughed when she realised he was only in sleep pants. Maybe the old geezer did care after all. “Where did that come from?”

“A gift from a thief. Don’t worry, I chased him off cause, unlike you, I care about this business.” 

Jeremiah just gawked at her. “You shot him?”

“Would you rather I let him take all your cash and papers and everything not nailed down?”

“Well, no, but …” he only then spied the blood smeared on the wall and floor. “Hells, girl. How many times did you shoot him?”

Alma scoffed at him as she inspected her new revolver. “Just once, barely. I’m not a monster.”

...

One of Jeremiah’s cousins, Gregory, came by the next day to help shore things up in the wake of the attempted robbery. The man was Jeremiah’s opposite - tall, rotund, intimidating - which Alma supposed was a good thing. It’d hopefully scare any other would-be thieves off, at any rate. 

Not that they had to worry. The next few days were entirely uneventful. Mr Darlington sent a few boys down to pick up two of the mustangs, and paid triple what they were realistically worth without batting an eyelid. Jeremiah had made her hide the Thoroughbred out back before their arrival, just in case their suspicions rang true.

Alma had also convinced Jeremiah to let her man the fence after her little display the other night. That’s where she was that morning, perched on a stool behind the cut-out in the wall with her head propped up on one hand, when a man on a beautiful white stallion came trotting down the path. Even from a distance, she could tell she wouldn’t like him. The moustache alone put her off.

“Why, good morning to you miss!” he cawed. In the morning sunlight, the red of his waistcoat shone like rubies. “Fine day, isn’t it?”

Alma just stared at him. “I suppose.”

“Quite an establishment you’ve got here.” He hitched his horse by the post at the livery entrance, then waltzed over to where she was perched around the side. For a new customer, he sure knew his way around. 

“It ain’t mine, sir,” she said, fighting to smooth her brow against a brewing frown. “Can I help you?”

He was right before her now, smiling with too many teeth and his silly slicked-back hair. “Forgive my manners. Dutch van der Linde.” The hand he held out was tanned, roughened, yet adorned with rings of all metals that glinted as he moved. An unusual combination. When she simply looked from his hand to his face and back again, the man - Dutch, apparently - simply smiled and shifted to clutch at his gun belt with a hip cocked. “I was hoping to discuss a proposition with you, if you’d be amenable?”

Oh boy. “Unless it’s to sell that pretty horse of yours, sir, the answer’s no.”

“Now, now miss, don’t be so rash.” Alma felt herself tense, toes curling in her boots where they were hidden behind the counter. She could image Jeremiah in her ear, insisting that she be amenable to all customers lest she drive away business. She forced herself to breathe as Dutch kept yapping. “I’m here to propose an offer to you, specifically. You see, one of my boys said he ran into you a few days back, said you had a bit of a … disagreement?”

Any pretence of her being a good salesperson flew out the door at that. So the greasy fucker was back to haunt her then. She pulled her revolver from the holster at her hip before she could stop herself, jumping off her stool in the same moment. Trust her luck that the moment Gregory was nowhere to be seen was the moment she needed him. 

Dutch, to his credit, didn’t even flinch. Instead, he held up both hands in surrender. Still smiling. Still too many teeth. “Easy miss, I’m not here for what you think. Like I said, I have a proposition.”

Alma scoffed. Kept her revolver raised. “My mumma didn’t raise no fool.”

“I can see that. But I truly mean you no harm.” Dutch breathed out a laugh, or maybe it was a grimace? Alma could quite read the way his face twisted. “From the looks of John’s nose and shoulder, she apparently also raised quite a fighter.”

Was this the boy’s - John’s - father, then? Uncle? Alma supposed there was a bit of a resemblance with the dark hair, but it had been nighttime. Maybe she was misremembering. “Yeah well maybe you need to teach your boy some proper manners. Didn’t you hear it’s rude to accost a lady in the night?”

Dutch laughed properly then, glancing to his feet for a moment as if to collect himself before lifting his gaze back to Alma. His brown eyes assessed her. “Now, there is fire in you, miss. I knew I’d like you. ”

“The feeling’s not mutual.”

Another laugh shot from him, short like gunfire. “Hah! Now, where was I? Oh yes, I came to thank you for not killing John on sight, the boy was foolish to steal from such a … reputable establishment such as this one.” He waved his hands at the livery in question with an eyebrow raised. “I’d also like to offer you a job, of sorts.”

“Sorry to disappoint, but I’m already gainfully employed, if you couldn’t tell.” Alma glanced behind her, hoping fruitlessly that one of her associates would actually be found in their place of work when she needed them. Alas, all that greeted her was the beautiful Thoroughbred with his ears perked in her direction. She kept her revolver gripped.

Dutch, apparently oblivious to her distraction, or perhaps not caring, soldiered on. “But does this place truly bring you satisfaction? Purpose? You’re clearly an intelligent young lady and have a mind for business and horses, and I just happen to find myself in need of someone with such talents.” He reached into a pocket of his coat, slowing as he saw her grip on her revolver tense, before producing a few pieces of paper. He gently placed them on the counter between them. Alma couldn’t help but gape a little when she recognised her own handiwork. “I’ve seen how you operate. Smart idea, faking the papers to get a higher price. I bet you’re making a killing out of the rich fools around here.” He paused again, for dramatic effect or to assess her reaction, Alma wasn’t sure. “Wouldn’t you rather put your skills to better use? Me and mine can offer you that and more.”

Alma fought the urge to ask where he’d got the papers from. “Let me guess? By ‘better use’, you mean scamming people for you, rather than this business? You must think me a proper idiot, just like that John of yours.”

It was an insult, and she’d meant it as one, but Dutch only kept smiling. Something in his eyes had sparked. “Think bigger! The government would see us civilised, chained up, would see our freedoms taken away. The rich folk around here no doubt deserve to lose some cash to you, sure, but a woman with your talents could be doing more than taking coin from a few oblivious ranchers. You and me and the others in my community? We can make a real difference.”

Surely he was a fool. The government? His community? Alma had seen how the law and the government treated people who didn’t fit in, people who lived outside the confines of society, and it weren’t pretty. As much as she hated the system sometimes, she had no desire to slide back into the fear she’d only just managed to crawl out of. 

Then again, what had her parents gained by being dutiful citizens? They’d been happy, for a time she supposed, but what were they now other than six feet under with no gravemarkers for Alma to visit? They’d done what they were told, had tried to live the great American dream, and it had torn them up and spat them back out like they were nothing. 

Worse than nothing. 

Still. Going in guns blazing surely wasn’t the solution either. No matter how many big, pretty words people like Dutch used to decorate it.

Gregory had apparently decided to finally do the job his cousin had asked him to, and Alma could hear him trudging through the stable in her general direction. She forcibly shook herself from her thoughts and perched back on her stool. “If it’s all the same to you, I’m mighty fine sticking to scamming the rich folk around here. Thanks, but no thanks.” She rested her revolver on the counter between them. “Now, if you don’t have a horse to trade, I think it’s time you left, sir.”

If Dutch was disappointed, he didn’t let it show. He simply smiled and held his hands in mock surrender, rings glinting again. “Well, if you change your mind, my associates and I will be in town for the next few days. We’ll be in the saloon, or nearby at the very least. You have a good day, Miss …?”

Alma bit the inside of her gum. Threw caution to the wind. “Alma McArthy.”

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss McArthy.” Dutch started walking backwards to his pretty horse with his pretty waistcoat and perfectly styled hair, and smiled. “Think about my offer?”

“Don’t count on it,” she called after him.

Gregory was beside her now, leaning over her shoulder to glare at Dutch’s receding form. His horse was small, fast no doubt, but he took his time trotting back up the path and over the rise. Alma kept her gun out until he was fully out of view.

“He give you any trouble?” Gregory grumbled, arms crossed. They were as thick as small trees.

Alma sighed, rubbing at her forehead. “Nah. Just … wanted to sell me something. I told him to sod off.”

“Hmm. Good.”

...

Alma was tossing and turning up in her loft above Jeremiah’s office, as she had been for the past few hours, when the gunfire started.

She tumbled from her cot, landing with a thud while her eyes adjusted to the near-pitch darkness. 

Another gunshot. Glass shattering. 

She fumbled across the small space for her gun belt, her revolver and the boy’s still tucked in their holsters. Lunged, then, for her coat where it hung on a hook haphazardly nailed into the far wall. The off-white of her sleep shirt near-glowed in the dark; even with her coat tugged on, her knees were still exposed. 

Another gunshot, another, another. Screaming. The horses were whinnying. 

A bullet shot through the wall of her loft, sending a spray of splinters towards her. Alma threw herself backwards on instinct, heart a drumbeat in her ear, and almost tripped over her boots where she’d left them scattered at the end of her shift. The whole livery was writhing as if in pain, had come alive with screams and gunfire. 

“Serves ya right!” someone - not Jeremiah or Gregory - was shouting over the cacophony. “Thieving scum!” 

It had been a relatively quiet few days, besides that boy trying to rob the place. Surely Dutch hadn’t returned? He had been a pompous ass with a stick a mile up his ass, but he hadn’t seemed to have any ill-feelings towards her or the stable. 

Alma went to make for the door, thought better of it, and tugged open the window instead. It was still at least a few hours before sunrise, the sky more stars than anything, and her eyes were still stuck with sleep. She couldn’t spy movement in the nearby treeline, but from this angle she could see figures darting about towards the front of the livery. 

“Come out here, you fucking coward!”

“Burn the place to the ground!”

“Flank them!”

It wasn’t too high of a drop, maybe a few metres. 

Another spray of bullets cut through the loft floor.

Alma jumped.

The grass and mud cushioned her fall enough that she didn’t snap both ankles on impact, and she never thought she’d be praising mud in her entire life. She made to run, slipped, fell flat on her front, and her sleepshirt was well and truly soiled now. Her mind unhelpfully supplied an image of the boy as he’d fled, bloodied and muddied as he’d been, as she now half was, and she cursed at herself. She could taste manure.

“Get the fuck outta my property!” That was Jeremiah. Alma raced to peer through a ground floor window, the glass shattered by bullets, and spied him crouched behind a stall with his rifle gripped in shaking hands. He was in the same state of undress as she was. “You good for nothing inbreds!” 

The remaining mustang was rushing its stall, as if in hopes of breaking free, and Alma could hear the roan mare crying out at the top of her lungs. Movement caught her eye towards the entrance, and she caught sight of the Thoroughbred’s tail disappearing out the stable doors with someone atop him. 

Her heart dropped into her stomach.

Alma left her window behind and crept further along the outside wall, until she could just make out one of the men that had been decorating the livery in bullet holes. He was tall, criss-crossed with scars and looked as if he too had slipped in the mud at some point. Even through the grime and the black dots of her panic-riddled vision, she would recognise the family crest stitched into his coat collar anywhere.

The Darlington’s.

Well, shit.

The quickly-receding outline of the Thoroughbred disappeared over the rise. Alma wanted to punch something, shoot something, wanted to set the whole damned lot of them on fire. It was their own faults for being so complacent in guarding their property. Now, not only had a couple of hundred dollars worth of gold just run out of the livery, but it had left a trail of bullet holes in its wake. 

“ - pay for this!” The Darlington’s, those who weren’t in the process of also stealing the remaining horses, were still exchanging gunfire with Jeremiah. The mustang was giving them more trouble than it was worth, but a duo of fools were trying helplessly to muster it into submission while also avoiding getting a bullet between the eyes. 

“Darlington’s just lucky his whole goddamned stable isn’t here!” Jeremiah shouted. “Ain’t my fault he can’t keep his own things nailed down.”

“Speak for yourself, asshole!”

The roan mare was halfway out the door now, a rider grasping for her mane as they hoisted themself atop her. The swarm of gunmen was actually less than Alma had initially thought. She pulled her revolvers, crouched, aimed for the nearest idiot’s forehead.

Gregory was tackling the man into the muck before she could fire.

The two men went flying. Gregory was twice the man’s size, if not more, and easily had his opponent straddled with a fist flying towards their face before Alma could even blink. Once, twice, he slammed his fists down, spit and blood flying with every impact. Once, twice, she heard something crunch. 

Alma shifted her focus to one of the men trying to tame the mustang. Breathed. Fired. Unlike with the boy, she aimed properly this time, and the man crumpled satisfyingly as her bullet tore through his chest. The mustang reared back at the sudden freedom, sending the other man scattering away to avoid a hoof to the temple. 

Jeremiah seemed to be gaining ground too, his rifle picking off another Darlington. Alma should try to flank, get behind - 

Screaming.

Distantly, she recalled a gunshot. 

When she twisted, Gregory was looking right at her. He was still straddling the now-twitching corpse beneath him, his fists mangled messes, and his entire front was drenched in crimson. Not from his victim, though, she realised. Alma jerked forward on instinct, her body no longer her own, as she watched half his internal organs pour out of the newly-carved hole in his gut. She wasn’t sure if she was screaming. It didn’t matter. The thud of his body toppling to the mud forced her to her knees.

“You fucking bastards!”

Laughing. “Payback’s a bitch, Owens!”

“You fucking bastards!”

Hooves thundered past. The mustang, maybe. Alma forced herself to move, to throw herself behind the cover of a stall, as the gunfire kicked up again. Jeremiah was still cursing, still shouting, still firing.

She shouldn’t care so much. She’d known the man for barely a day. Her fury built, threatening to swallow her whole. He’d barely said two words to her. She wanted to kill something.

All at once, the sound came rushing back to Alma. The livery felt as though it was falling down around them. She spat out the taste of bile that had thundered up her throat, adjusted her grip on her revolvers, before standing and picking her next target. Most of the Darlington’s had fallen back to the stable entry, what with all the horses now having been properly stolen. There were still enough of them to be a threat though. Alma managed to clip one man’s shoulder, almost got another in the chest before he dived for cover, sent one falling back with a hole between the eyes.

Jeremiah cried out, deeper in the stable. Alma spun; despite the carnage, she could just make out his balding head through a hole that had been blasted through the stalls. A shadow was looming beside him. Seconds later, she could fully make out the man that had crept through the back door. 

The gunfire stopped as Jeremiah clearly struggled against his attacker. Alma, any hope of stealth long abandoned, sprinted for the pair. Gregory’s corpse. The rancher’s corpse. Her parents' corpses. Gregory’s corpse. The rancher’s -

She’d almost made it to them, had her revolvers raised, when someone slammed into her. 

Manure came rushing up to her, and for the second time that night she was rolling in it, hay and shit caught in her hair and coat. The bare skin of her legs tore against the debris of the livery floor. Her attacker, a wiry man with copper hair, immediately flipped her. She opened her mouth to scream, but the sound died before it could erupt from her throat as he slapped her hard enough that the stars were suddenly inside the stable.

“Now, now, who’s this, Owens?” the wiry bastard asked, smiling as he grappled with her flailing arms. Not again, not again. “She’s a little young for a whore, ain’t she?”

Jeremiah had slumped back against the stable wall, but the fury in his eyes could have burnt them all to the ground. “Get off her, you sick inbred!” 

Her wrists were now pinned above her head. Alma could feel the cool evening air on her legs as her sleep shirt rode up. Someone else had moved to grab her feet where she had been kicking them. Not again, not again.

The man that had attacked Jeremiah now leaned over her boss. He had a bloodied knife in one hand. “I was gonna put this little lady out of her misery, but I think I’ve changed my mind. After all, who’s gonna keep this place running, once all that blood catches up to you, huh old man?”

Alma screamed, writhing, and earned herself another slap. 

The man with the knife wandered over to Alma then. Dark hair swung in his face as he crouched beside her and held the butt of his knife to her temple. His breath smelt of tobacco when he said, “We’ll be seeing you mighty soon, little lady. In the meantime, lights out.”

Darkness.

...

By the time she woke the next morning, her head was pounding so hard she could barely see straight, the livery was burnt to its foundations, the horses were all long gone, and Jeremiah was a cooling corpse laid out beside her.

...

Everyone stared at Alma as she burst into the saloon.

The place was quiet, which she supposed was to be expected given it was barely midmorning. Too early for the nearby ranch hands, too late for the drunkards. A small gaggle of men were half-heartedly playing poker in the corner; the sight of her dripping blood and stinking of manure in the entry grinded their conversation to a halt. 

She wasn’t sure if she recognised anyone. She didn’t care. This town, and these wretched people, would soon be lost on the horizon behind her.

“Jesus,” the barkeep shouted at her across the room, “get lost, girl, before I throw you out myself.”

Alma ignored him.

She hadn’t bothered to change out of her soiled sleep shirt. Couldn’t, not with the livery burnt to the ground along with any of her belongings. They’d left Jeremiah’s house standing, for some reason, but the place was better left to be the mortuary it now was. The rifle slung over her shoulder was the only remnant of the place she’d had the heart to grab before making the long walk into town. Her hair was a matted mess down her back, and her knees were still lazily oozing blood where they’d been scraped raw on the stable floor. A drowned, beaten rat likely looked better.

Her heart was still pounding in her chest. Alma was sure her jaw might snap in two at any moment with how hard she had been clenching it since waking up a few hours ago.

It wasn’t the first time she’d been forced to flee after a massacre. Any respectable, well-mannered girl of society would scarcely be seen in public alone, or at least without a good reason, lest it bring scandal. For Alma, she felt almost called to it, like a compulsion she just couldn’t shake. Always catastrophe. Always running. Always one. One day she was sure she’d run out of horizon to swallow her up. Either that, or her own fury would do it for her.

“Did ya hear me, girl? I said get lost!”

She had the rifle pointed at his forehead before he could blink. “Shut up,” she snapped, even as the sound of guns suddenly being drawn ricocheted through the saloon, “before you make me lose my goddamn fucking temper.”

“Put the gun down!” one of the patrons yelled.

The barkeep raised his hands, leaving his dishcloth to fall forgotten to the floor. “Woah, easy there missy.”

Alma chewed on her gum to still her raging thoughts. “There’s a man in town, said he’d be nearby for the next few days. Dark hair, moustache, fancy clothes. Goes by Dutch. You know him?”

The other patrons were still shouting at her. The barkeep’s eyes kept dancing between her, the rifle, and undoubtedly the guns pointed at her own head. “I ain’t answering no questions with a gun between my -”

“Do you know him?” A piece of her spit landed on his cheek.

“Who’s asking?”

Alma risked glancing to her right, towards the back of the saloon, and there in all his pretend finery was Dutch Van der Linde. The pomade in his hair was still stiff as bricks, and his outfit remained largely unchanged from when she’d seen him a few days ago. His boots were muddied at the edges, but at a quick glance he didn’t seem any worse for wear. Definitely not like he’d been involved in a major shoot-out or arson attack. 

Dutch’s gaze was cold where it landed on her. One of his hands was gripping his gun belt casually, although she didn’t doubt he was quick on the draw. It took him a moment, his eyes bouncing around her face, before they sparked in recognition. “Miss McArthy, is that you? By God you look miserable.”

“It’s been a long day.” Alma glared back at the barkeep, her nose scrunched, before begrudgingly lowering the rifle. “I’d say thanks for the assist, but I figure you probably deserved the bullet.”

The barkeep, for his part, seemed less phased without a gun in his face. “I weren’t lying, girl. Get the fuck out of my establishment. You ain’t welcome here no more.”

“Or what?” she spat, Dutch forgotten for the moment. “You’ll call the sheriff down on me? That good-for-nothing asshole couldn’t even jerk himself off if he tried .”

Someone coughed out a laugh by the stairs.

“Now, now, what Miss McArthy means to say,” Dutch said from where he’d suddenly walked up beside her, “is thank you for your incredible hospitality. We were just going, weren’t we my dear?”

“Don’t put -”

Dutch gripped her forearm. “Weren’t we?”

There were too many guns surrounding her, and she wasn’t a total fool. She’d have to find someone else to beat her anger onto. Maybe Dutch and his perfect little waistcoat would do. The look he was sending her made her insides boil enough as it was, but she eventually relented and let him drag her towards the back door.

They passed the stairs and another soft laugh escaped one of the two figures leaning there. Dutch wasn’t even looking at her as he led them outside, but called over his shoulder, “Come along, boys.”

“Real charmer you’ve got there, Dutch. I’m surprised you two didn’t get along better, Marston.”

“Oh fuck you.”

Alma waited until they were outside proper before wrenching her arm free. She still had the rifle gripped in one hand, and spun with it loosely gripped to glare at the trio. Dutch had stopped to assess her with his arms crossed, hip cocked as usual, and despite the commotion inside there was the ghost of a smile on his face. The young man beside him was as tall and broad as an oak tree, with hair like dirtied sand and a healthy spray of stubble across his jaw. He was in the process of jabbing a younger man beside him, who was all wiry limbs, dark hair and - 

“You?!” Alma shouted, stomping a step forward. 

The boy - John, if she remembered Dutch correctly - flinched back on instinct, which just seemed to make the tall man laugh. 

“Stay the hell away from me!” John shouted in the same moment that the tall man laughed, “Watch out, Marston, or she’ll skin ya alive.”

“There will be no skinning,” Dutch said with a sigh as he stepped between them all, and Alma wondered again if he was the boys’ father. “Miss McArthy, this is Arthur Morgan.” He indicated the tall man, who was still laughing under his breath. “And we all know you’re well acquainted with young John Marston.”

She just glared at them. John glared right back. Alma didn’t miss the way he rubbed absently at his shoulder.

Dutch apparently took that as an invitation to continue. “Introductions aside, I must ask, Miss McArthy, what brought you to be in such a state of disarray? I’m understandably thrilled that you’ve come to discuss what I offered but, I’ll admit I wasn’t convinced I’d ever see you again.”

There wasn’t any pretty way to describe a slaughter, she knew that from experience. Judging from the copious weapons strapped to the three men before her, she figured they weren’t squeamish. Still, she’d rather not think about it. “People change. It’s human nature, in case you weren't aware.”

He laughed. “That fire’ll sooner get you into trouble you can’t fight your way out of, miss.” He took a step towards her, hands in his pockets. “The truth?”

She glanced at John and Arthur, but they were both leaning against the back of the saloon, spectating. Fabulous. 

“You said you and your ‘community’ were out to make a difference. That you help people, take from the rich, that kinda thing.” She swallowed the bile and fire in her throat. “Turns out those oblivious ranchers you were talkin’ about weren’t so oblivious after all.”

Dutch, for his part, did look genuinely struck as the truth settled in his mind. “The stables?”

She shrugged, indicating her ruined form. “What’s left of it is standing right here.”

“I am sorry, miss. Truly.”

Alma scoffed. Began to pace, rifle still white-knuckled in front of her. “I ain’t here for your sympathy. I came for your help.”

“Dutch is many things, Miss McArthy, but he ain’t a god.” Arthur leaned forward as he spoke, his face half obscured by his hat. “Can’t turn back time, I’m afraid.”

She fought the urge to walk up and hit him. “You think I’m simple? I’m no fool.” He held up his hands in mock surrender as John snickered beside him. She turned her gaze back to Dutch, who hadn’t entirely dismissed her. “I know who did it. I know where they live. You help me settle this debt, I can make it worth your while.” 

“As sorry as I am to see you in such a state, Miss McArthy, my people and I don’t operate on revenge.”

“Bullshit you don’t!” she snapped, stepping so close she could smell Dutch’s cologne. “You’re outlaws, aren’t you? A gang? Don’t think I don’t know exactly what you lot are. ‘Community’ my ass.”

Arthur took a tentative step away from the wall, the line of his shoulder suddenly sharp. Dutch simply held her gaze, and when he spoke his voice dripped of barely-contained venom. “You’re walking on mighty thin ice, miss. Best you don’t stomp too hard.”

“I ain’t judging you. We all do what we need to get by. Hell, I’m not saint.” Alma indicated her blood-stained clothes. “I know what you are though, what you do.” She jabbed a finger into his chest despite the way he towered over her. “You said you like sticking it to rich folk. Help me do that and I can guarantee you coin for your trouble.”

The little patch of grass behind the saloon was quiet for a long moment. John had started pacing a little, still scratching at his shoulder. Arthur was watching Alma’s hands where she was gripping the rifle.

She knew she had Dutch hook line and sinker when he tilted his head, all predator. “How much coin are we talking, exactly? And from who?”

“At least a few thousand, probably more.” Arthur whistled at that. “The Darlington’s own a big ranch west of town. Follows the river, has the big fuck off homestead planted in the middle. You’ve probably seen it. They took all our horses before sparking their matches, and I’m sure there’s a few more on the property worth pinching. Their Thoroughbred stallion alone would fetch you seven hundred.”

Dutch raised an eyebrow at her with a hand on his hip. “So you expect us to not only break into a heavily guarded ranch, but also walk out of there with multiple horses that we’d then need to resell? And the establishment where we’d do such a thing just got burnt to the ground.”

John was looking at her like she’d hit her head.

“You’re outlaws, aren’t you? Surely you do this sort of thing all the time?”

“Not exactly,” Arthur said, but he was scratching his chin in thought. “I know the place, Dutch. Hosea got talking to one of the ranch hands yesterday at the store. Could be worth our time.”

“Of course it’s worth your damned time!”

 “I’ll be the one who decides that, thank you miss.” Dutch planted a hand on her shoulder. “After we do this, and it pans out, what do you say about my offer? A young lady like you would be wasted on the streets in a backwater dump like this, and I’d hate to see you suffer.”

The man was as slimy as a snake and half as pretty, but Alma wouldn’t pretend that the offer wasn’t … tempting, especially given her current circumstances. Her mumma had always warned her away from trusting powerful men, especially those with only illusions of it, but what choice did she have? She’d been burned before, and she’d likely be burned again. If they didn’t do it, she’d surely just do it to herself.

His questionable company and fashion taste aside, Dutch didn’t seem entirely insane. Arrogant, prideful - sure. At least in that regard he was honest about his intentions. Jeremiah had been a weak man, at his core, and Dutch seemed as far from weak as you could physically get. Arthur, too. John … well he didn’t count.

Alma looked at Dutch and sighed. “So you’ll go to the ranch?”

“Let’s just say you’ve sold me on the idea,” he said with a smile, squeezing her shoulder where it was still gripped in his hand. “Besides, you were right. I do like knocking rich folk down a peg or three, especially when we profit from it. It’s good for my soul and pockets.”

A chill wind rushed between the buildings. Alma remembered her state of undress, and ached for warmth and a home that no longer existed. When she met Dutch’s eyes, she saw burning. 

“If it pans out. We could all be riddled with bullets in a few days.”

“That’s the spirit, Miss McArthy!” Dutch laughed, clapping her on the back. “Arthur, see about getting the young lady cleaned up and fed, won’t you? We’ll head back to camp and start talking out this plan.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” John shouted, eyes wide as saucers. “You’re letting this psycho stay, just like that?”

Alma spat back, all venom, “Says the greasy rat who smells like he crawled out of a gutter. What are you good for anyway, besides annoying everyone?”

Dutch just rolled his eyes and walked off, calling after John over his shoulder. Arthur met Alma’s eye with a smirk, before turning to ruffle John’s dark hair where he still stood, gawking. 

“Oh, little Johnny Marston here is good for lotsa things. Failures of plans, entertainment, target practice -”

“I hate you both,” John grumbled as he stormed off after Dutch, who had already disappeared around the corner. 

Alma couldn’t really find it in herself to laugh, not crusted with blood and manure as she was, but in another life she would have. As it stood, she just slung the rifle back over her shoulder and winced as the movement caught on her bruised side. The pain made her remember Jeremiah and Gregory, slaughtered and left to rot in the sun, and she had to swallow bile for the third time that morning.

If Arthur noticed, he thankfully didn’t say anything. “I think you and me are gonna get along just fine, Miss McArthy.”

In the almost-midday sun, the blue of his eyes glinted. “I wouldn’t be so sure, not with the company you keep.” He laughed under his breath. “And … just Alma is fine, if it’s all the same to you.”

He waved a hand in the general direction of the main street, and Alma down a nearby alley beside him. His shadow engulfed her. “‘Course. Let’s get you cleaned up and pretty before we all get shot by your ranchers tomorrow.”

“Don’t blame me for being realistic. And they ain’t my ranchers. I’d sooner see ‘em gutted like pigs for what they did.”

Arthur looked at her with a raised eyebrow, shaking his head, but kept pace with her as they headed towards the local hotel. “Miss Grimshaw is gonna love you.”

...

Two days later, Alma was fleeing the Darlington ranch with a few hundred dollars in her pockets and a freshly stolen mustang mare underneath her. A week later, she was halfway across the state with a gang of outlaws known as the Van der Linde gang. 

And that, as they say, is that.

...

TAGLIST:

@nokstella, @celticwoman, @florbelles, @zahra-hydris, @arborstone

@kibellah, @carrionsflower, @fenharel, @daerans, @fashionablyfyrdraaca

@loriane-elmuerto, @imogenkol, @knakrack, @roguecritter

[lanryui]

arcane jasico au

where nico is jinx and jason is either jayce or ekko (U HAVE TO HEAR ME OUT ON THE JAYCE PICK FOR JASICO)

where characters have the same roles BUT don’t have the same relationship dynamics

SPOILERS for arcane (season 1 and 2)

we have either:

biana (in jayce-jason) or percy as vi (ekko-jason)

bianca: older sister of nico ofc, i think her huntress joining would be similar to like powder accidentally being left behind by vi, i think it’s a bit hard to put bianca in a major character position since you have to do a lot of the writing yourself and there’s less to base off of. i also think it’s harder seeing her embodying vi’s tough archetype but bc bianca is sort of clean state you could just make it up

OR

percy: older brother figure to nico, has to see him go from innocent kid to like suffering a ton, trying to reconnect w/ him constantly and feeling a lot of guilt for the past but also hugely distrusting him like vi to jinx. i think vi’s post-prison arc feels similar in vibes to percy in son of neptune trying to return to his old life, in a new environment, hostile of other things

annabeth as caitlyn

she just reads so piltoverian and i think they have a similar sophistication and intelligence. also somewhat enemies to lovers percbeth caitvi makes a lot of sense. ik annabeth typically fights w a dagger but she also makes a lot of sense as the collected sniper type. i think she is gonna be seen as capable and fit for leadership in universe while also getting babied for a bit by the other characters similar to how cait does and annabeth does like in the first series

nico as jinx

i really like this one. i think like, nico’s arc of being the innocent bright-eyed kid to being jaded, grief-struck and someone percy can’t quite trust really clicks well w/ jinx’s. instead of pink and blue and smiles and whatever i think he would draw w/ like, white & green. he’d draw skulls and ghosts and skeletons. and jinx’s voices kinda match nico’s talking to the dead. ALSO nico having a braid like bianca’s… whether she’s dead or still living… and him both feeling like feelings of betrayal and abandonment from percy & bianca. self-imposed feelings of doubt and like isolation i see it

hades as silco

ok while its kinda diff cause hades is technically nico’s biological father i think nico’s time in the underworld after bianca’s death and connecting w his roots kinda matches how jinx is shaped by silco. also hades has that whole like cast aside by his brothers and becoming the underworld leader thing. he has both enough redeemability and antagonism in him. ALSO leader of the undercity. king of the underworld. DO YOU SEE MY VISION.

chiron as vander

like how vander is the father figure to a misfit band of kids chiron is their mentor and stuff and i think it would make sense. also he would be a strong leader type holding the undercity together and uh. when he dies and gets experimented on singed he comes a mutant horse instead LOL

reyna as mel

reyna has that same sophistication and leadership and capability that mel has and i think she is also linked w/ gold in her whole like praetor thing & so i could def see her being a councilor of piltover also as a daugher of war:

bellona as ambessa

uhhh this one is a little hard bc bellona isn’t rlly developed but like bellona goddess of war and ambessa is a warmonger character. yeah

jason OR piper (ekko-jason) as jayce

jason seems almost a little too perfect. i mean, jayce-on, and like, son of zeus electricity = hextech. himbo w/ charisma but also intelligence and leadership. OKAY to make this jasico i think jason would be like close best friends w/ leo but they wouldn’t have that huge homosexual tension that jayvik have going on. also mel-jayce is fitting w/ reyna-jason although i don’t think they’d be together romantically but reyna would see jason’s potential and lift him to councilor status

piper is to keep the jayce role have a incredibly strong relationship w/ leo who is viktor. i don’t think she’s the inventor type quite but she would have jayce style charisma and reyna/piper together now i could see that.

leo as viktor

it just seems super fitting. the overlooked inventor guy who’s scrawny but super intelligent and capable. my friend and i discussed skye-calypso and perhaps some of his venture into hextech becomes like, him mourning calypso’s sacrifice and him becoming one w/ the hexcore he is together w/ calypso again and stuff

alecto as sevika

alecto would work as hades’ right hand like how sevika is silco’s it js makes sense yk. while alecto isn’t too fleshed out i think she could become an independent sevika character that would take up hades’ mantle in the end

daedalus as singed

this kinda messes things up a little because it messes w/ daedalus’ myth but daedalus fits so well as the ethically questionable scientist. i think he’d be trying to revive orianna-icarus, and instead of icarus having a bunch of ballerina morif, he’d have a bunch of angel motif.

hephaestus as heimerdinger

this one was SO hard. but he’d be very techy and i feel like haphaestus would be written to be silly here . i guess he’d be a yordle?

percy (jayce-jason au) or jason as ekko

percy as the boy savior idk just clicks. i think he could have an older brother dynamic with powder-nico and s2ep7 for him would be seeing nico as grown up and healthy and his little brother still. also the way that ekko is aggressive towards jinx until he sees what she could be in s2 kinda matches percy’s distrust of nico in the first series.

OR

jason’s leader of the fireflights thing and hoverboard thing fit pretty well. also timebomb is canon and this would probably easier to write than having jason as jayce cause then you gotta shift a bunch of plot elements around to write it jasico

for more side characters

jayce-jason au:

benzo - sally

percy’s mom <3

isha - hazel

just how hazel grounds nico in HoO, her being the golden-eyed little sister figure makes sense

salo - octavian

washed up blonde boy jealous of mel/reyna

marcus - luke

deal w/ the underside. betrayal

grayson - thalia

mentor for annabeth and a figure she looks up to. also ties jayce-jason w/ annabeth. she’s both their older sisters.

cassandra kirraman - athena

annabeth’s mom. dies

skye - calypso

more romantically implied with leo than skye/viktor

orianna - icarus

(mylo and claggor aren’t here in this au bc idk who they would be tbh)

ekko-jason au:

mylo - grover

it would fit rlly well w/ being percy’s childhood friend

claggor - bianca

i think this could fuel jinx-nico’s grief and make sense for like. his guilt

benzo - lupa

ekko’s dad basically. jason’s mom basically.

isha - hazel

salo - octavian

grayson - thalia

uhh. idk how jason and thalia are related in this one but she’s still like annabeth’s older sister figure who dies

cassandra kirraman - athena

skye - calypso

orianna - icarus

maddie - silena

the way silena is kronos’ spy like maddie working for ambessa. also imagine the silena-annabeth affair LOL

deckard - clarisse

the bully guy from s1 like how clarisse bullies percy in pjo

loris - frank

like how frank was percy’s new friend and rock in son of neptune, like how loris was vi’s friend in the enforcers . also he is big and buff and it matches. no frazel unfortunately

that’s all my bestie and i cooked up for now but i have a lot more cooking in my brain including a jinx nico design . I HOPE YOU GUYS SEE MY VISION.

ALSO for jayce-jason and jinx-nico to work out in my head jason, inventor of hextech sees this person in zaun making hextech work by themselves and is like. wait that’s so interesting and so he himself goes into the undercity to like check it out and that’s kinda how they meet. maybe there’s like nico threatening jason and jason to save his life is like “wait let me show you how you can make your hextech stuff better” and nico keeps him around and befriends him bc of it. i would then see like nico and jason joining forces to defeat machine herald leo but i’m not quite sure how the ending would look tbh

i think in ekko-jason i would give jasico a happy ending where nico becomes a firelight and helps jason rebuilds zaun. using his powers to build instead of destroy. it would unfortunately be at the expensive of piper and leo.

we also discussed like a jinx-luke and a silco-kronos. i could see a jayvik jasico but nico isn’t too much of the viktor type. but that kind of like saving each other from death and being so intertwined i could see that for jasico….

[bakiuwu]

After a while, I've finally decided who would be what in this au (these MIGHT change depending on how I feel about it in the future also everpony isn't listed lol)

Earthponies:

Baki

Kouze

Emi

Diane

Shibakuwa

Skiorsky

Yangi

Gaia/nourma

Ando

Tobe

Muhammad Ali

Spec

Yucchiro

___________________________

Unicorns:

Tokugawa

Kurhea

Jack

Motobe

Shiba

Strydum

Dorian

Igari

Jr

Natsue

___________________________

Pegasus:

Kosho

Hanayama-peagus/alicorn?????(I'll explain in a min)

Katsumi

Katou

Sudeo

Restu (he has no feeling in his wings)

Dolye

_______________________

Alicorn(yall already know )

Yujiro

Oliva

Guv

______________

Horse

Pickle(I will explain)

___________________

Musashi???????

Alright time for me to ramble about all the shit I came up with

Pickle is actually a horse, not an earthpony

Instead of him being referred to as a cavepony/earthpony, the accurate terminology for him is "Horse." Earthponies are descents of horses, The difference between the two is horses are stronger, taller, and more built while earthponies are way smaller and weaker

the term Horse was replaced with "earthponies." Due to how everyday earthponies dont share much resemblance to its ancestors so the term earthpony was invented, while Horse is used to refer to the species that came before.

Some earthponies still referred to themselves as "horses," even though they're not really horses....they're earthponies, but its very rare to hear the term used in everyday society.

Pickle's way of trying to communicate is speaking in horses vocal language,.....which is a forgotten language that no one can understand/speak, but Pickle is able to communicate with body language, which everypony is kinda able to understand

Yes, pickle is considered a carnivore. In this au, even tho I made it to were ponies,peagus, and unicorns are omnivores (this au goes against all facts of ponies/hores)

Just because some characters are peagus or unicorn, that does mean they themselves either use their magic or wings

Jack is a unicorn, but he purposely broke his horn off as a colt( just pretend that drawing i did of pony jack has a broken horn), to differentiate himself from Yujiro and to look more like an earth pony like Diane( just think of it as my one Jack au)

The reason yujrio and guverva fail to break theirs off is because alicorn horns are way stronger than a unicorns horns. The same can be said for the wings

When Yujro does his signature pose, yes, his wings do shoot out, making him look even more threatening( he hates that wings do that). Also, whenever he gets piss his wings shoot out as well

When yujiro was seeking out women to have his child, he specifically was looking for earthponies he did not want his child to be a peagus/unicorn. If baki would had come out as either(or god forbid a alicorn) he would have abandoned him on the spot

Yujiro has deep respect for earthponies, especially Pickle, due to him being a horse

Shiba has a broken horn due to being slammed in the head with a motorcycle

Retsu isn't able to use his wings, He has no feeling in his wings due to them being "dead," theres no blood flow or nerve movement in his wings, which doesn't bother him

Ok, let me explain hanyama kinda being an alicorn thing, so when hanyama was born, of course at first view, he's a peagus, but the doctor realized a werid bump in the middle of his head where a horn would be located at. After an x-ray, it was in fact a small ingrown horn.

The doctor wanted to remove it, but it turns out that if removed, it could fracture Hanyamas skull. With the risk of this happening, the doctor agreed to just leave it alone. He didn't tell his parents out of fear of Hanayamas father being the head of the Hanayama gang. Luckily, the ingrown horn never grew along with Hanyama. The bump is only noticeable if you're looking really hard at his forehead (so in a werid fucked up way being an alicorn is like a rare birth- defect)

Hanayama back tattoo also extended to his wings

Katou rides a motorcycle cause he doesn't know how to fly. He gets really defensive if you bring up his lack of flying, only doppo, sudeo,katsumi, and restu know.

Katou is afraid of heights, so there's that too

Doppo prefers walking over flying. The only time he flies is when he is taking Natsue for a lift around the city (she loves being high in the sky)

The characters who are all unicorns not use their magic for fighting, only for mundane things like holding and moving things

Using magic and your wings are prohibited in the underground arena

At times it's recommended for unicorns/peagus to cover their horns/wings because most fighters will attack thoes areas

Many peagus have gotten their wings torn off during a fight. the same goes for horns being broken

The sand of the arena is a mixture of teeth,parts of broken horns, and wing bone fragments

Most ponies walk/stand on their back legs, not everypony is able to do it, mainly only being able to doing it while fighting

Yangi is the only pony out of the convicts who stand/ walk with his back legs due to his posion hoove ( ok so I basically made up that if he was to stand/walk on all fours the posion in his hoove would travel up his leg and start to slowly infected him, so to prevent this he only walks on this two back legs) most ponies aren't able to do for a long periods of time except for yangi who had master it perfectly

Pickle also walks/stands on his back legs, which makes him even bigger

In the drawings of Musashi, he appears to be an earthpony, but when he passed, his body showed that he, in fact, had wings. He was a peagus the whole time who chose not to use his wings. This was kept a secret for years, even tho some rumor that he was a peagus, but it was always claimed as false.

Until he was clone, it came as shocked to Tokugawa and the others that he was a peagus. When asked about keeping his wings hidden, he answered that he didn't want to be viewed as having the upper hand on his enemies for being a peagus, since he didn't used them even in youth, he wished to view as an earthpony so he kept them hidden

Musashi also walks on his back legs

Ok.....that all I got for now......man, there's something wrong with me.

[hekateinhell]

Vamptember, Day 7: Reverse AU

adult vampire!Claudia and little mortal!Lestat | M | 1.3k | tags: abuse and SA mentions/references, gore, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.

New Orleans, 1808

Winter in New Orleans makes the evenings draw on longer. 

Meaning that Claudia has to create her own entertainment lest she go mad with boredom; she takes what she wants and does as she pleases. 

How many other women can say that? 

Sitting in front of the vanity, turning her head from side-to-side, pondering which role best suits her temperament tonight.

Pity she had been a poor white’s daughter at her death, malnourished to the point of missing her menses at the mature age of twenty. Oh, how utterly brutal the beatings were when her father and brothers caught on and arrived at the wrong conclusion! 

Whore. Slut. Witch. 

Such a rabid pleasure to crush each of their skulls between her hands the night she’d returned to the dingy little shack by the river. A giggle escaping her at each agonizingly slow crack of bone, delighting in their futile struggles. Dark torrents of blood igniting the demonic thirst inside her, and finally, the gelatinous messes — more fun than mud pies — gushing as she digs her thumbs into their eye sockets. 

Eyes that had violated her long before their ever hands did. 

“Witch!” 

“And yet it’s you that shall burn at the stake tonight, father dearest! Fancy that!” 

She beams at her reflection at the memory, the blonde ringlets that cascade over her small breasts bouncing as she trembles with poorly suppressed anticipation. Not a wasteful eater, no, but she does enjoy playing with her food. 

Finishing touches, a robin’s blue ribbon in her hair, her corset cinched tight to create the hourglass figure she most certainly did not possess. 

Childbearing hips that would never bear onto her a child, the son that the Lord she once prayed to for deliverance had sent to her in her dreams. A promise that one day she would have final dominion over the male sex. 

Flesh of her flesh, blood of her blood. 

Holy Mary, mother of God.

It’s humid when she sets out, but then again, it’s always humid in New Orleans: a sinner’s city, a gambler’s paradise. Fragrant roses combine with the stench of urine and decay as she makes her way down the cobblestone streets, taking in the sounds of the night. A child cries, a man yells to his wife: You stupid bitch!; a horse and carriage trot by, the mud almost reaching her shoes; a drunkard’s piercing laugh. 

“Hey, pretty lady, what are you doing all by your lonesome? Don’t you know what happens to dainty little things like you in places like these?”

Sounds like a tramp but means well. He has two sisters at home; one older and one younger. Claudia reminds him of the youngest. 

“Oh, I didn’t know! I’m new to the area, you see, and terribly disoriented! I don’t mean to trouble you Sir, but it is awfully late and now I am awfully frightened… If you could please escort me to my home, I have been trying to find my way back for hours to no avail!” She knows what men like to hear.

She can be demure.

Helpless. 

“Of course, darling,” he proffers her his arm which she graciously accepts, “I know this city like the back of my own hand.” 

Perfect. 

A quick, satisfying break of his elbow and his knees soon follow before she takes her first drink of the night, the gambler’s luck running dry as his sweet blood runs down her throat. His heart pounding on her tongue, the glorious resistance she craves gradually fading. No, no! Fight me more, handsome. Fight me just as hard as I fought them! Alas, it is finished and Claudia pulls back, wiping her mouth on her lace glove. 

She stands in the shadows, still clutching the body, savoring the aftertaste. Not an evil soul, merely one made unfortunate by virtue of his sex, as she had once been.  

A hunter as shrewd as she, a woman who’d been raised to have the survival instincts of a prey animal in the jungle, shouldn’t have been caught off guard by sudden wailing so high-pitched, Claudia cringes into herself. Relentlessly loud and surely bound to attract attention!

The body hits the ground with a wet thud as another, much smaller body barrels into her skirts, clinging to her legs. 

Images flash through the child’s mind; he can’t be older than five. A brute of a father raising his fists. A mother cold and impassive, her nose in a book as her children wept for her affections, even her scolding lacked interest. “Quiet down, Lestat.” Blonde and beautiful yet gaunt — Claudia had she lived another ten years, perhaps. Lived the wretched life she was destined to have, like her mother before her and her mother before her. 

This woman doesn’t want her child, and the decision is made. 

“There, there,” she drops to her knees to embrace the boy. His hair tangled unkempt, a shade strikingly similar to hers. His face covered in dirt, the scrapes along his arms and legs still oozing blood. Delirious from terror, hunger, and exhaustion, and in the darkness, he thinks she is his mother.

Claudia swallows back her thirst. 

“I didn’t mean it!” he sobs as he presses himself flush to her chest, burrowing into her sharp collarbone. Tears, dirt, and mucus smear all over the cotton of her dress, her hardened skin. “I didn’t mean to run! I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I want to go home! I’ll be good! I’ll listen, I promise!”

Yes, Claudia's decision has been made, but not here. 

“I know, dearest,” she lifts him off the ground and he settles momentarily, soft and warm. Pulls back to stare at her face, large grey eyes blinking at her. 

He touches her cheek, curious and gentle. Frowns. 

“Mama, you’re so cold.” 

There’s a second where she can feel his hummingbird heart quicken, little rosebud mouth pinching as he sniffles loudly, the tears gathered on his long lashes suspended as he holds her stare with intensity. But then it passes, and he rests his head on her shoulder.

“You need a blanket, Mama,” he sighs and drops his sticky fingers from her cheek, bringing his thumb to his mouth instead. She, too, had suckled her thumb until far too old an age. 

Back home, she cleanses his face.

He whines in his sleep, whimpering into her palm. Fragile and pitiful as the newborn kittens her brother Edgar had drowned to punish her. 

Her clothes are too big, and the doll’s clothes are too small. She cuts a nightgown three-quarters of the way short. The candle flickers and so does her confidence, but it’s too late now. His lifeblood flowing over her tongue, his little heart going and going, refusing to give up! Burst after vibrant burst, innocence devoured. 

Mama, Mama… I love you, Mama.

Claudia groans with it, the flavor of unrivaled purity unlike anything she's ever sampled before. She's never had to catch herself at the very edge of the precipice before; the shadow of a thought passes through her mind that perhaps she doesn't have to — she'll gorge herself on this one and find another to suit the same purpose: make for herself a son sculpted in her unholy image alone. 

But this precious heart! It still won't surrender! How can she trust that she will ever find another with not only the looks to match hers, but one that reflects back to her her own unbroken tenacity? 

“Mama’s here,” she tears open her bodice, exposing her breast, the dark blue vein at the underside. Makes the incision, guiding the child’s mouth to it. She will be Thetis reimagined in the spirit of the new age, submerging the baby Achilles in the River Styx to grant him immortal life, this time careful to fully saturate the heel.

The greedy thing latches quickly, reflexes of an infant still nestled in his subconscious as he takes all that Claudia has to offer.

It must be the male in him. 

“Mama’s here,” she repeats, stroking his hair, humming a long-forgotten lullaby.

Once, a poor woman’s only comfort to her daughter. Now, a little boy’s dirge.

“And you’ll be good for your Mama, won’t you, Lestat?”

[dracwife]

repentance.

ship: a taste of the divine -> dracula/ambroży

word count: 1084

summary: And I looked, and behold a pale horse: And his name that sat upon him was Death, and Hell followed with him.

Upon the horizon is graced a soft spatter of mud, quiet at first but approaching quickly. In the rain, it almost feels like a rumbling storm that gathers. 

Distant thunder cracks, and as lightning catches a glimpse of the night, the horse retreats to the main road, its hooves echoing a cacophony of shrill batterings in the narrow street of the village; Rhythmically its beats descend upon the main square, where the horse stops, rears, and the figure atop it holds high the torch it carries. 

In the dusk glow, it is almost hard to see, but pale faces peer from windows, curtains drawn back by curious children, who are quickly swept away by fearful mothers, only the bravest of fathers dare to indulge their curiosity and even then take heed to what legends will say of the white hooded figure that rides a white horse.

The red that lines the inner of the figure's cape draws the eyes of those that dare stare, and one by one the men of households file towards the square where the figure sits, waiting.

"Foul beast," one dares to shout, "You are not welcome here."

The hood of the figure turns towards the man.

There is no response at first, and as he squints through the storm, his eyes fall on nothing but the darkness that lies within the hood. He notices then the torch the thing carries -- its flame refused to be extinguished by even the harsh torrent of weather. He gasps softly.

The figure then speaks, or rather growls with a low reverberating voice that echoes within the man's very skull.

"Fool."

He falls to his knees, agonous shrieks louder now than the rain. The thing's horse whinnies softly.

Its voice thunders through the town square, through every home, every mind. 

"The monsignor. Bring him to me."

A few of the men and a few of the women stumble about the town, hushed whispers and muted screams as quickly word spreads of the creature descended upon their humble village. The church bell tolls, and from the building creeps an elderly man, harrowing the rain as he is escorted by many panicked townsfolk to the square in which the Beast awaits him. It straightens its posture as it is approached. A flick of its hand parts the crowd in wonder, leaving in full view the monsignor and his escorting group. There is a brief moment of silence before it beckons them closer.

The creature tosses the torch down, and as soon as the handle falls from its fingers, the flame extinguishes. It clatters to the ground, and the priest furrows his brows. He watches as the creature raises its other hand, and finally draws its hood back.

Ever slowly, tauntingly -- and as it lifts the fabric and allows it to fall beyond its shoulders, revealed beneath the ghostly white face, framed with silvery hair, sunken eyes with deep purple circles outlining the eyes -- and the crowd gasps as its eyes finally scan the gathering -- a deep crimson shines within them, piercing the heart of every soul it touches.

In an instant, its hand is around the throat of the monsignor; Lifting him as though he has weighed but nothing at all, and as he gasps for air it laughs  digs its fingers into his neck. 

"You remember me, człowiek?"

The man's head turns, trying desperately to look away, but a clawed hand jerks his neck back.

"Look at me," it hisses, "You have done this."

And then it drops him. He hits the ground with a thud, a sickening snap breaking the silence that has otherwise fallen over the town square. He gasps for air. Between breaths, he mutters prayers, eyes closed and hands gripping his vestments.

The creature's head cocks. 

"Speak, if you so wish, mortal."

The monsignor's eyes open, and he drags his gaze to meet the thing on the horse's. He mutters another prayer.

"Louder."

He does. It laughs.

"Once more, helpless thing."

He heaves a shaking breath, and musters the last of his strength to raise his voice once more.

"And I looked," he starts, now on one knee, and struggling to stand, "And behold a pale horse: and his name that sat upon him was Death…"

The thing peers out to the horizon behind it. It's expression twitches unamused, perhaps repulsed, by the reading of the Holy Word. 

"...And Hell followed with him."

It turns back to the priest. In the blink of an eye, the priest stands halfway, and falls again, throat torn open and writhing in pain. Sitting above him is the creature, head tilted towards the darkened sky: From its mouth drips red, fangs as long as nails bared, and it smiles. Laughs again, a monstrous, discordant sort of sharp noise this time. When it is finished, it looks back down, over the crowd. Its tongue darts out, licks the blood that drips from its lips. 

"What more do you want?" a panicked voice stands out.

"You poor, delicate creatures," its voice raises again, casting an air of unease through the crowd again, "All of you so fragile. So ignorant."

It hums, a strident rumble from within its chest. 

"Ten years ago, you cast me out. Left to the elements, no food, no shelter. Left for Death, which I have found such sweet embraces in. And now I return, seeking reparations."

"Please --" another voice, "We will give you anything."

"Oh, yes," it chides, "You will. You will pay in blood, as I have. You will pay in fear, and in death. You will pay in such sweet suffering."

The pleads come quickly, and with hurry. Begging, offerings of material goods, services, mothers bargaining for children’s lives, husbands for their own at the peril of their wives. But it hears none, focused now on another noise:

The distant cadence of hooves yet again, and from where the pale horse came from comes a dark one. The beast extends a hand.

"Nemuritor."

"Dragă mea," the second vampire takes the first's hand. His eyes fall to the body that lay now splattered on the ground, his voice echoes within the other creature's mind. 

This is truly what you want?

"Yes," it whispers, strained and hurting.

"Then you have done well. Come. Tomorrow we leave. Tonight --" the Count takes one last glance over the gathering, now shrinking as some slink away, others stumbling, few running home as their last few moments draw near. Others stand their ground. How fun this will be.

"Tonight, îngeraș, we feast."

Translations, for those who want them:

"You remember me, człowiek?" [ mortal ]

"Nemuritor." [ Undying/Immortal. The name of Dracula's horse. ]

"Dragă mea," [ My pet ]

"Tonight, îngeraș, we feast." [ little angel ]

In addition, Ambroży here is depicted as morowa dziewica, or a plague maiden! I thought it might be rather fitting for the theme here.

[m-b1z]

I got bored and wanted to draw The Long Horse.

I've never drawn a horse skull before so this is hard.

[panukkie]

dont go out for a walk alone and late at night when you have been drawing and researching horses/centaurs all day, you WILL end up thinking about the logistics of centaur birth and early infancy development!!!

anyway im going to info dump the stuff i was thinking about :)

since horses can walk and run only a few hours after birth and human babies are practically useless for several years, this would mean that the horse development would need to be drastically slowed down and the human development drastically sped up, but humans require a very long time (after birth) for our brains to develop because most of what we learn is learned socially by interacting with other humans, horses are not like this and most of their knowledge is instinctual.

centaurs have human shaped skulls so its reasonable to assume that they have human-like brains too. this means they require a prolonged childhood in order to grow as social creatures and therefore cannot have an accelerated development as babies/toddlers.

when humans are born they are floppy and things like skulls are soft and in separated pieces, this is because humans are upright standing creatures and the position of the pelvis does not facilitate a comfortable, smooth birth. however, centaurs would give birth out of the horse part so they dont have the same problems as humans when it comes to birth, therefore infant centaurs can be born with hard skulls and stronger bones and muscles. this is good news bc it means that the human half wont be floppy like a human child would.

centaurs are likely to live in groups because that is a shared trait for both horses and humans, so with lots of other beings around, it is less necessary for infants to be very independent. this means that while their lower halves may be able to stand and walk, their upper bodies dont need to be able to be super mobile, because they can rely on others to take care of them. it might be the case that their torsos and arms are much shorter (relatively) than they would be in adulthood, because they dont have much use for their upper body yet. as their brains grow larger and more capable, then their arms start growing and their fingers become more dexterous. as infants centaurs human ribcages may be fused with their horse ribcages, and as they get older the ribcage splits and there becomes a more distinct difference between horse and human halves. throughout childhood, their spines elongate, and their upper body separates from their horse shoulders

im not an expert on human or horse development, this is just based on the little that i actually know so it might not be completely accurate. but yeah thats what i think. also i just made some stuff up that probably doesnt make any biological sense but theyre fantasy creatures so i think im excused a little in terms of realism

i have normal thoughts too i swear 0_0