#racehorse falls

[fentonphoto]

Racehorse Falls along Racehorse Creek. @natureisbeautifull @chasingwaterfallsandhikingtrails

[track2hack]

17.06.2023

A short video of the first three jumps on course!! Number one is a log, two is a brush, then going through a checkpoint (yellow flags) and onto fence four which was a massive (to me!) set of stairs in the fence line!!

Not the best video, not the best rider, but god damn if that’s not the best horse!! 😭

[theprissythumbelina]

So you want to write about horses.

Part 2 now out!

Or you're writing and horses show up. Or its a pre-industrial fantasy and your characters have to get somewhere. Or you have a faint idea of your MC's love interest showing up on a white stallion.

Whatever the cause, you're writing, and a horse appears. But you know nothing about horses. I can help.

This is a horse. Horses come in many sizes.

^ Big Jake, a Belgian Draft horse, and a roughly 5 foot woman for scale.

1 hand = 4 inches = 10.16 cm

Once a horse is smaller than about 14.2hh, it is generally considered a pony. In the modern day, ponies are not considered suitable for adult riders due to weight and height issues. Some pony breeds, such as Welsh, Fjords, ect. are known for being sturdy, and can more easily carry adult sized humans. Miniature horses should never be ridden by adults.

^The only suitable 'riding' a miniature horse should do

The above graphic mentions that horses are measured from the top of the withers, not the top of the head. But, what are withers?

The withers are where the horse's shoulders meet the spine, and the neck becomes the back. Withers are incredibly important for saddle placement, as a badly placed saddle in this area can prevent a horse from moving its legs properly, cause a large amount of pain, and even damage a horse's spine. Speaking of spines, this is a horse skeleton, with the withers pointed out.

Horses have four legs. Horses cannot have any fewer than four legs. They are obligate quadrupeds. This is, in part, due to their weight, as well as the construction of their legs and hooves. This is to say, that while cats, dogs, and other animals can be amputees, a horse, short of some incredible magic solution, cannot. Even a broken leg bone will cause a huge amount of problems, as all of the weight that leg would usually hold must be shifted to the other feet, and this causes a condition called laminitis, where the tissue that holds together the hoof and the toe bone becomes inflamed, and begins to separate. Once this happens, the hoof tissue dies from lack of blood, and the bone begins to rotate. This is extremely painful for the horse, and so often the best solution for a horse with a broken leg is to be spared that pain. Famous American racehorse Barbaro experienced a complex broken bone, which began to heal fine, but complications from laminitis in two of his other legs caused him to be put down. This is why media will almost always show a horse with a broken or injured leg being 'taken care of'.

^Barbaro, in his prime. Even the best veterinary medicine couldn't save him.

Now, racehorses like Barbaro are moving at the fastest speed and the fastest gait of the horse, the gallop. The patterns that horses move their feet are referred to as gaits, with most horses having four, with some breeds having five or more.

The first gait and the slowest is the walk. In the walk, all four feet move independently, which leads it to be called a four-beat gait, as the footfalls make a sort of drumbeat on the ground.

The next gait is the trot, a two beat gait with diagonal pairs of legs moving together.

^Diagonal pairs marked in red and blue

The trot is a very bouncy experience for the rider, and can be uncomfortable. Some riders will rise and fall with a pair of diagonal legs, called a posting trot, some will stand in their stirrups, called a two-point or jump position, and some will sit the trot, which requires a lot of core strength (seriously, if you want a strong core, screw the gym)

The third gait is the canter, a three-beat gait with a single diagonal pair. This gait is ridden sitting, and feels a lot like going over waves on a jetski. There is a rise, a scoop, and a fall feeling. The canter is also called a lope in Western riding, they are the same gait.

^diagonal pair marked in red

A gallop is sometimes considered a variation on canter, as it is similar save for the legs actually moving in a four-beat pattern. As you can see with the image of Barbaro, all four of his feet are moving in different patterns, at different times, even though the gallop is really a four beat version of the canter. Riders in the gallop rise off the horse's back into a raised position, which allows the horse to use the full length of its spine and musculature to get as much reach and speed as possible. It feels like riding on top of a train barreling down the tracks, at least until your horse takes an unexpected turn and the ground is suddenly the only thing you're riding.

^ I've been there. The trick is to push away and hit the ground rolling, it hurts less that way. And don't land on your head.

That's all for this post. I'll have more when I feel like it, and send me questions if you want to know more about specific things or need a writing question answered

Reblogs welcome and encouraged

@jacqueswriteblrlibrary for wider reach

[sanguineterrain]

tw kidnapped reader, reader is forced to be jason's companion/spouse. arranged marriage elements, i guess. knight au

jason todd is a soldier first. he's never been anything but.

he's the kingdom's best. the king is quite proud of his best soldier. his violent mercenary who's as loyal as they come. he's fantastic.

but he's been at war too long. the king knows this, and understands he must do something to help his best soldier adjust to life back home if he wants him to continue to fight. jason's a prized racehorse, but he gets skittish, moody. the nightmares don't help. what do you do to help a racehorse? you get it a goat to calm it down. so, the king gets his soldier a "goat" to soothe him: you.

you're perfect! you're perfect because you're just a commoner, in no way a threat to anyone, and completely ordinary. no one will miss you. but. but. jason met you once in town and lingers outside the bookshop you work at every time he comes home from battle. he never goes in. suddenly, you're no longer ordinary.

so months after jason's return, you're summoned by his majesty. you are the best match for his best soldier, he says, and that's that. they leave you in jason's cottage that's miles from the kingdom. you're given a tea that knocks you out cold, but that's just a precaution! there's no need to be afraid. the accompanying maid even pretties you up a bit, not that you need it.

and jason comes home to you, the lovely bookshop worker he's watched for forever. he promised himself he would be good; he wouldn't approach you and scare you with his awful scars or his growly voice. he knows soldiers are rough. he swore he'd only watch you for your safety, because you're so damn nice, too nice for this kingdom, and he doesn't want a flower like you to be crushed.

and what a flower you are, laying in his bed, beautiful and unmarred and sweet. you're in delicate nightwear, with a ribbon around your neck, like you're a present to unwrap. jason immediately feels sick. he can't do this. he can't keep you, be responsible for you. why would his king do this to you? to him?

he hovers over you for what feels like ages, watching your chest go up and down as you sleep. he's still in his armor, dirty from training. he should go bathe. he should sharpen his weapons. above all, he should not touch you.

and then you awaken. you take a deep breath and your eyes crack open. jason stumbles backward and nearly knocks over the nightstand. you watch him, confused and somewhat wary.

this hulking soldier almost falls over apologizing, cheeks flaming red. he hightails it out of his own room, and you don't see him for the rest of the night.

you fall asleep in his bed. in the morning, there's still no trace of him, save for a plate of crumbly bread and cheese and a mug of tea on the table nearby.

you wonder if you're a gift or a curse.

[nyx-umbrakinesis]

Alastor decides to keep you... (Fluff)

---

Alastor sitting injured in his radio tower as you tend to the wound on his chest. Suddenly he cups your cheeks in his clawed hand.

Alastor: "Thank you for coming to find me... When no-one else has."

You: "Of course Alastor, you sacrificed so much for us. I care. Always."

Alastor: "How could I have never really seen you before."

Your heart stutters in your chest and a blush rises to your cheeks as you studiously concentrate on the last of the stitches he's enduring without even flinching as he seems to marvel at you.

Alastor: "Such a pretty little Doe."

You blush harder biting your lip and trembling slightly as his thumb traces your cheekbone, you think in your head he's just delirious from the blood loss.

You: "Hush now Alastor, you've been through enough."

Alastor: "I would do it again you know... Just for this moment."

Your heart hammers in your chest, you keep telling yourself it's the blood loss.

Alastor: "No-one has cared like this about me in a long time..."

You: "Al-"

His finger stills your lips.

Alastor: "I know, but let me have this, please."

You nod, and help him to the next room, relatively undamaged there's a small bed against the wall you help him into. You go to leave, to clean the blood and intending to check on him in an hour. But his hand stops you.

Alastor: "Stay?"

The vulnerability in his eyes despite his manic smile is all you need to melt, you nod and then squeak as surprisingly strong hands drag you down with him situating you on the bed with him.

He's so warm and your whole body stiffens, your heart pounding like a racehorses.

Alastor: "Can I keep you...?"

You look up at him again, cheeks pink, you had admired him from afar for so long now how could you ever refuse him, you nod and his smile becomes blindingly radiant.

Alastor: "Thank you, My Doe."

He leans down gingerly and kisses you, your panicked eyes flutter shut and you almost moan, he tastes like home.

You: "Sleep, I'll be here when you wake up I promise."

Alastor smirks.

Alastor: "Oh I know you will, good luck trying to get away from me now I have you little one, I don't part from what's mine with ease and I rather like you... Sweet dreams little Darling."

With another sweet kiss that has your heart racing and stomach swooping his exhaustion hits him and his eyes close, resting his head on the pillow, short little puffs of air escaping him as he instantly falls asleep.

You spend a little time just watching him, he looks so beautiful and peaceful like this, you had panicked when he hadn't been anywhere to be found after the battle, everyone else seemed to be mourning Sir Pentious and assumed Alastor had ran, but you knew better, he was many things but he wasn't a coward, he wouldn't have gone far and you were right.

His small smile is still there even as he sleeps and you want to reach out to pet his fluffy ears to see if they're as soft as you've often imagined.

Alastor: "It's rude to stare Dear."

You startle and he chuckles, Alastor's hand wraps around the back of your head and pillows you against a part of his chest that is uninjured, fingers stroking your hair.

Alastor: "You'll need rest too, the fight wasn't just mine."

You nod, pressing a shy kiss to his exposed skin, his breath hitches and he almost purrs at the contact. Kissing your crown one last time his static hum flares to life, giving you just enough sensation to drift off, you swear you hear a faint 'mine' from Alastor as you drift off.

[thegnomelord]

you have me thinking about pregnant sex with gaz 🥵🫶🏼

Fuuuck dude your Kirby looking ass is unlocking kinks I didn't even know I had

CW:NSFW, MDNI FTM Gaz/domtop Mreader, pregnant sex, quick and rough.

Gaz loves you with all his heart. You're the love of his life, his lighthouse and his anchor, the father of the children growing inside him (yes, children, a healthy pair of twins Gaz feels is the universe's apology for him not getting pregnant the first time)

But by god he's ready to kill you in a hundred different ways.

Ever since his bump started to show you've been treating him like he's made of glass. Which, in of itself, isn't a bad thing — he loves it when you spoil him like he's your king, preening under every praise and leaning into your soft touches, the soft and loving kisses he rewards you with enough for you to continue to feed his gluttonous need for you as you roll your hips to push your cock into him in long even strokes, spooning him from behind so your hands can rub and caress his growing stomach, making love to him like you have all the time in the world.

But he's so god damn horny! There's always a lick of heat burning under his skin and the slow and careful way you fuck him just doesn't scratch his itch. He talks to you about it, but you're still hesitant to be rough with him, especially as he enters his second trimester and his stomach continues to grow to the point he doesn't fit into his pants anymore and Price forces him to desk duty.

It's the lack of action that wears down his quickly dwindling patience. He tries to distract himself with exercise but that's hard to do when there's two tiny humans using his organs as punching bags and making him go to the bathroom every 5 minutes.

So he nearly pounces on you when you return to your shared room in the evening, but you're faster than him, unknowingly calming his nerves with your warm embrace and kisses. "Hello papa." You hum into his neck, your hands naturally falling to massage his bump. "Did you lot miss me?" And that loving look you give him reignites his need.

"Do you even have to ask?" Gaz growls and pulls you down by the collar into a demanding kiss. Using your distraction he pushes you until you tumble down onto the bed, quickly taking his position in your lap. "You-" Kyle grins down at you wolfishly, his hands on your shoulders keeping you laying down, "- are going to let me do this an' anything you say will be used against you."

"Sir," You say, breathless, your eyes just as dark and dilated as his, "I just got really hard."

"Good man." Gaz purrs and kisses you. It doesn't take much to get you two out of your clothes, your sweat slick skins rubbing together as he rides you. The position is a little awkward as he uses your bent knees to balance himself, his stomach pressing against your abdomen as he rides you. He's huffing and puffing like a racehorse, already losing steam even as his cunt flutters around your cock.

"Come on daddy," He moans and rocks his hips, "Put another one in me," He urges you on, and you don't know what comes over you but you grip his hips firmly and thrust up the next time he lowers himself onto your cock, forcing the most beautiful sounds out of his throat.

"Oh- fuck, yes, yes, yes!" He groans, gripping your knees in a white knuckled grip as he bounces on your cock. He looks so handsome like this, eyes closed and mouth open to moan freely as his belly gently bounces with your thrusts. You can't keep your hands off it, something about seeing him heavy with your young has you harder than you've ever been.

Your kiss is just as desperate as his had been when you finally push him into an orgasm, the clenching of his hole pulling you down into your own orgasm. "God, that was so good lovie." He whispers against your lips, his eyes going wide when you don't stop and buck your hips into him again.

"Said you wanted me to put another one in you." Is all you say as you roll your hips, your cock somehow still hard. His cunt flutters around you, wet and sloppy with his slick and your cum mixing between you two.

You really are the love of his life.

Taglist: @dead-end-stuff

[impala-dreamer]

Skin on Skin

A Supernatural Story

~ While working a case of multiple random deaths in New Jersey, Y/N finds out that the old adage of “be careful what you wish for” isn’t just a saying…~

Dean Winchester x Reader, Sam Winchester x Reader

6,087 Words

NSFW, Magical Curse, Unconscious and Pain, Sexual Acts of Multiple Varieties, Slight Temporary Death, Swoon-worthy Romance, Oral, All the Sex… | Originally posted to Patreon Nov 2024

Impala-Dreamer’s Masterlist  ~  Patreon  ~ Published Works

The contents of Mrs. Claudine Hofstadter's purse were piled in the center of the small round table surrounded by notepads, pens, two old taco wrappers, and a manilla folder containing a copy of her autopsy report. The fourth odd death in Warren County, Mrs. Hofstadter, new Marchant, had perished when her stomach burst after consuming seven pounds of raw horse meat. According to the report, the previous evening, she had snuck onto her neighbor’s ranch and attacked Ember Blitz, the prizewinning racehorse that was revered by the community. Mrs. Hofstadter mounted the steed and bit down into its throat, taking the creature down in under two minutes flat.

She was dead within seven minutes.

While the other three deaths were seemingly unrelated - no animals were harmed in their demises - they were certainly strange. Once Sam Winchester had picked up on the news, the trio piled into the freshly washed 1967 Chevy Impala and headed for the New Jersey mountains.

Now, the brothers Winchester were talking through various theories while Y/N Y/L/N wasted away from boredom at the table. The case wasn’t uninteresting, but she was simply too distracted by exhaustion and bodily tightness to pay attention.

Days on the road trapped in the backseat were cramped and smelly, and nights locked in a single motel room with the manly hunters were more of the same. She had no time alone, no place to escape to for a moment of peace, no moment to rub one out and calm down. She had tried that morning, waking up early and silently sneaking into the shower, but Sam was up moments later, interrupting her private time to grab his running shorts from the bathroom floor.

She was dying from stunted release.

Fading away from lack of attention.

Desperately craving a warm body pressed up against her and roaming hands groping her flesh.

Absently, Y/N fiddled with the objects recovered from Claudine’s purse. The golden butterscotch hard candies called to her, but she knew better than to eat candy from a stranger’s bag. She pushed the sugary temptations aside and sifted through neatly folded, hopefully clean, tissues, and more packets of Equal than she’d ever seen. There wasn’t much else in the pile: a well-worn Revlon lipstick in mauve, two pens, a blue emery board, and a lighter.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Dean gesturing towards her and for a moment, she tuned back in.

“Y/N agrees with me, don’t you?”

Startled, Y/N grabbed the silver lighter from Claudine’s pile and closed it in her palm. Quickly, she cleared her throat and nodded. “Absolutely, I do.”

While she had no idea what she’d agreed with, she knew it was easier always to answer each of them affirmatively or they’d know she hadn’t been listening. Besides, she usually sided with Dean on matters that required wild gesticulation, if not just to annoy Sam.

“See?” Dean turned back to his brother and the younger man groaned.

“Fine. But-”

The lighter was old and its once shining case was dull and dented by years of use. Y/N rubbed her fingertips over the cool metal, tracing the embossed lines and clicking the lid open and shut while keeping her attention on the boys.

Sam was annoyed and he ran his fingers through his hair. The chestnut strands kept to their place, tucked neatly behind his ear and Y/N found herself imagining them falling to tickle her cheek while Sam balanced himself above her in bed. She wondered what his giant hand would feel like trailing down her naked body, what his long fingers would be like tenderly weaving through her hair. It had been too long since anyone had touched her, and Sam was always so kind and flirty and-

Y/N bit her lip and sighed.

The click of the lighter lid closing went unnoticed below the heated conversation.

“All I’m saying is that people eat horse meat all over the world, Dean. It’s not that uncommon.”

Dean leaned back as if disgusted by the idea, which he was. “OK, sure, but they don’t eat enough to kill themselves. Also- gross.”

His freckled face scrunched up adorably and Y/N’s eyes sank into him. His lips were extra pink and shining, and Y/N’s nipples hardened at the thought of his mouth closing around them, kissing his way down her body, tasting her. He was just too sexy and it had been so long since she’d even kissed anyone. She needed to be touched and devoured, and Dean was always looking at her with hungry eyes, teasing her about going to bed and-

Another click of the lighter, another jolt of desire to her clit.

“So what’s with the other guy- Mark-”

“Marcus Whitmore. He was found with a bullet-hole-like wound to the temple, but no evidence of actually being shot.”

“Yeah, what about that guy?”

Y/N was completely zoned out of the conversation, staring dreamily at Dean’s impossibly broad, muscular shoulders and Sam’s tight little ass lost behind slightly baggy jeans. Dean crossed his arms, flexing his biceps, and Y/N squirmed in her chair. Sam tossed his head back, lengthening his thick neck, and Y/N bit back a desperate whine.

She rubbed at the lighter’s wheel, the dull ridges catching in her thumbnail.

“I’m not really seeing a connection here, Dean.”

“Well, something’s fucked up. Explain to me the first victim- that had to be a witch, dude.”

“What kind of spell fills a woman’s stomach with butterflies?”

“If I knew, we wouldn’t be talking about it, we’d be out ganking some bitch.”

Y/N’s body was on fire; her mind wrapped up in explicit scenes starring each man. She struggled to hold in a moan when Sam plopped down on the edge of the closest bed and threw himself back in exasperation. Her eyes followed his long form from feet to forehead and back down, lingering on the perfect line of him.

Tired of arguing, Dean pulled out the chair opposite Y/N and sat down, his long, bowed legs spread wide. Y/N’s eyes flew right to his crotch and her mouth watered as Dean unknowingly tempted her by dragging his palms down his thick thighs.

Her pulse raced. Her cheeks burned. Her pussy throbbed.

She clicked the lighter closed.

God, I need to be touched…

Sam let out a deep breath and she watched the rise and fall, wanting to run her hands over his muscular chest.

She flipped open the lid again.

I haven’t cum in so fucking long…

Dean slouched in his chair and put his head back. She blinked slowly as her pussy dripped, wanting to nibble on his throat and suck a mark by his ear.

She spun the flint wheel.

If I don’t get fucked soon, I’m gonna die.

Suddenly, her hand started to shake and she let out a hard gasp. As she opened her fist, the antique lighter began to glow bright and hot. She dropped it on instinct and a burst of white light flooded the room.

Blinded, the trio lifted their hands to block the light, but it was over before anyone could reason out what was happening.

Sam jumped up from the bed. “What the hell was that!”

Y/N’s stomach churned as panic pushed lust aside. “Um…” Sheepishly, she looked down at the lighter and cringed.

Dean, noticing her expression, grimaced. “What did you do?”

Defenses flared. “Nothing!” she protested. “Why do you always think I did something?”

Annoyed dimples popped above his plump lips and Dean held out his hand, ticking off instances as he spoke. “Spilling the potion in Rochester… Knocking over that safe in Wyoming and letting the demon loose… Taking a peppermint from the witch in-”

Sam stepped between them. “OK Stop! What was that flash?”

Y/N swallowed hard and pointed to the floor. “I think it came from the lighter…”

Calmed but worried, Sam nodded. “And why did it? Do you do something?”

Offended, Y/N crossed her arms over her chest. “Et tu, Brute?”

Redness rose in his cheeks. “You must have done something!”

Y/N stood in a huff. “I have done nothing wrong, ever! Today, at least.” She sighed, feeling a little strange. “I’ve just been sitting here thinking about life and how I…” Her vision blurred but she blinked it away. “Um…” Her head felt funny as if the room was spinning, but she shook it off. “Uh… I was just thinking…” A phantom hand tugged at her legs and she swayed, about to drop. “Oh, fuck-”

Dean was quick to catch her, reaching with strong hands to set her back on her feet. “Y/N, what did you do?”

“I…” The dizziness was almost painful and her legs felt like jelly.

Sam dipped his head to look her in the eyes. “What did you think, Y/N/N? Were you holding the lighter the whole time?”

Her eyelids were fluttering; irises floating upwards. “Y-yeah…”

Still holding her, Dean pressed his palm to her cheek and instantly, she felt better.

Gasping in a deep breath, she smiled. “Oh! I’m ok.” She stood up on her own. “I think I’m better.”

Confused but optimistic, Dean let her go. “You sure?”

Feeling perfectly fine, she left his arms and nodded. “Yeah. I think I’m good.”

The moment his touch was gone, Y/N swayed again. The room was spinning and colors were brightening, nearly blinding her.

Dean grabbed her once more, this time closing his hands around her bare arms.

Skin on skin, she felt fine once more. “I’m good, Dean. Really.”

Pushing away, Y/N moved free of his touch and instantly hit the floor. Her balance vanished and her breaths were slow and strained. As she crumbled, Dean followed.

“Son of a bitch!” He gathered her into his lap and clasped her hand. “What the hell were you thinking about?”

Y/N breathed deeper, feeling a thousand times better. “Just about…” Awkwardness tightened in her gut as she looked up at Sam. “...Your ass.”

The imposing tower of a man blushed.

Dean tensed up and chuckled. “My ass?”

Y/N shook her head. “No. His.”

“Uh…” Shyly, Sam straightened up and tried not to grin. “Thanks?”

Disappointed, Dean groaned. “Yeah, well…” He caught Sam posturing proudly and wagged a finger at him. “You shut up.”

Once again feeling right, Y/N sat up and away from Dean. In a split second she went from well to bad. A terrible pain gripped her stomach and she coughed up a mouthful of hot bile. “Oh God- Dean, I’m…I think I’m dy-”

“Whoa, hey!” Dean pressed his hand to her forehead, feeling for a fever. “Hang on.”

The pain vanished and she swallowed the nasty taste. “This is not fun…”

“You���re tellin’ me.”

The second Dean removed his hand from her head, Y/N lost consciousness, dropping like a stone to the ground.

Sam fell to his knees to help but Dean got there first, scooping her up back into his lap and gently shaking her. He held her cheek and called her name softly.

“Y/N, come on…”

Her eyes fluttered open. “Guys, I think the lighter is cursed.”

Dean laughed. “Yeah, no shit.” Shifting, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a well-worn navy bandana, waving it at Sam. “Don’t touch it-”

Sam took the rag and rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t going to.” Carefully, he wrapped up the magical lighter and placed it back on the table to be examined later.

“I feel horrible,” Y/N muttered, shifting against Dean to sit up a bit.

“I bet.”

He pushed away to give her room and immediately regretted it as her eyes rolled back to white.

“Damn it!”

A hand on the back of her neck brought her back and Y/N groaned. “Don’t.”

Dean flinched, ready to pull away. “I’m sorry- I just-”

Y/N shook her head and grabbed his wrist, holding his hand on her neck. “No. Don’t stop touching me. Please.”

Confusion circled the room, washing over them like a midnight fog.

Sam leaned against the table, looking back and forth between Y/N and the lighter. His eyes narrowed. His brow creased.

“Y/N, what exactly did you think?”

Nerves ran down her arms. “It’s embarrassing.” Carefully, she stood up, Dean’s wrist still clutched in her hand. “I don’t wanna say.” Faced with confession, she forgot her predicament and dropped Dean’s hand. The floor undulated like a tidal wave, knocking her off her feet.

This time, Sam was there, his overheated hands delicately holding her elbows. His touch surged through her and Y/N looked up with a hazy smile.

“I’m sorry, Y/N, but I think you need to.”

Sighing, she slid her hand down Sam’s massive forearm and slipped her hand into his, holding on. “Well… It’s been a long time since… ya know.” She shrugged at Dean and then up at Sam, hoping they would catch her drift without writing it in the sky. “And… you guys are always around and I…”

Dean climbed to his feet and crossed his arms. “Spill it.”

Y/N screwed her eyes closed tight and grit her teeth. “I thought… ‘If I don’t have sex soon, I’ll die’!”

One eye peeked open at Dean who frowned. “Son of a bitch.”

The other eye joined to find Sam rubbing his free hand down his cheek. “Son of a bitch.”

Y/N chuckled nervously. “Oops?”

Generally speaking, a curse can be broken in one of two ways: kill the witch who cast the spell, or destroy the object that carries the magic.

Since there seemed to be no witch around to dispatch, the hunters turned their attention to the lighter. Looking back through the case files, Sam found two instances where other victims had the antique firestarter in their possession at the time of their death. There was no way to track the origin of the offending trinket or know how it moved from person to person, but it was more than clear that it instigated a deadly game of wordplay with its victims.

Y/N squeezed Dean’s bicep. “So, the second vic, Mark-”

Sam rolled his eyes and carried on preparing the table for a fire. “Marcus. Whitmore.”

“Yeah, that guy. He… Well, I mean, it’s pretty obvious he said something like “I need that like I need a hole in the head!”... right?”

Dean held back a laugh. It wasn’t funny, but it was funny. “Yup.”

“And the first woman- she had butterflies in her stomach. I get that. Also… ew.” Picking up the lighter, Y/N let go of Dean without thinking and began to fall flat on her face as the air left her lungs. Thankfully, Sam reached over and grabbed her hand in time. She smiled gratefully. “But what happened to Claudine?”

“Easy,” Dean said with a smirk. “She was so hungry she could…”

Y/N cringed. “Eat a horse. Got it.”

Dean licked his lips, accentuating his grin. “Hey, Sam says it’s not that bad… I’d try it.”

“I’ve seen you eat a taco off a dirt road.”

He nodded. “And I’d do it again.”

Sam interrupted by clearing his throat and passing Y/N’s hand back to Dean.

Without further discussion or ceremony, the lighter was blessed with salt and ironically, lighter fluid, and set ablaze by a single match struck by Sam.

The trio watched it burn. The metal glowed a bright orange and sparks erupted as the magic was released into the ether forever.

“Well, there’s another one for the books,” Dean commented victoriously.

Y/N sighed happily. “Thanks, guys. And I’m sorry. I promise not to touch anything dangerous again.”

Sam laughed sweetly. “Don’t make promises you won’t keep…”

Turning away from the boys, Y/N threw her free hands up into the air and rejoiced. “I’m free!” She spun once and felt her stomach lurch. “I’m…” Momentum pulled her into another spin and the ugly red-floral wallpaper began to dance a dizzying tango. “I’m…” The third spin had her legs twisting and her knees buckling.

She hit the floor like a heap of useless bones, crumbling down like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

Sam reached her first and revived her with a sweep of fingers across her forehead. Y/N gasped and sat up, exhausted and defeated.

“I don’t think it worked.”

Sam sighed. “It didn’t.”

Near tears, she looked between the brothers, desperate to be unburdened by the deadly magic. “What now?”

Sam looked up at Dean who tried his best not to smirk while balling his right hand and placing it over his left palm.

Sam won, and with Y/N’s consent, carried her to the bed farthest from the door.

Dean hung his head, muttering something about rocks and scissors, and set off to take up residence at the bar on the corner while the deed was done.

Nervous and still holding hands, the pair lay together for a long while. The silence was loud but not uncomfortable, as neither knew what to say or how to begin.

Suddenly worried, Y/N turned onto her side to face him. “Ya know, if you don’t want to, I get it.”

“No!” Realizing he answered too quickly, Sam cleared his throat and smiled. “No. I want to. I’ve wanted to forever. I mean… Uh… It’s just a little strange.”

Y/N felt her cheeks warm at his confession and pushed her fingers through his. His hand was so much bigger than hers, so much stronger. She looked away shyly, but Sam pulled his hand free and set it upon her cheek, drawing her eyes back to his.

His kiss was hesitant but Y/N urged him on. She hummed against his lips and tipped her head to the side, giving him room to move. He licked into her mouth and a dizziness overtook her, this one just as magical, but so much better. She closed her eyes as her lust grew and rolled onto her back, taking him with her.

It wasn’t easy to undress, and each layer of clothing shed had Y/N nearly passing out again only to wake up safe in Sam’s arms. He was gentle with her, kissing his way down her body, tracing her curves with his hands. His skin was hot, his movements sure. He was stirring her passion and literally keeping her alive.

Sam held himself up on strong arms, hovering over her just as he had in her daydream. He bent to kiss her lips and his hair fell into her eyes, swept over her lips, tickled her cheek. She reached with a careful hand to push it back behind his ear and Sam smiled, touched by the tender gesture.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered, hazel eyes hazy and locked on her face.

She burned for him, every inch of skin tingling and calling out for him. Y/N spread her legs around his trim hips and squeezed him between her thighs. He felt her wetness against his cock, the heat coming off of her sex.

She rocked her hips, pressing the tip of him into her pussy.

He sucked in a quick breath and shivered.

“Please, Sam…”

“Are you sure?”

She smiled sweetly and nodded. Sure, they had to do it, but she also wanted it. She wanted to feel all of him deep inside. To experience the magic of Sam Winchester.

“So fucking sure,” she breathed, wrapping her hands around his shoulders and pulling him closer.

He sighed and dipped to kiss her again, slipping his tongue between her lips and drawing out her breath. She moaned into him and dug her fingers into his flesh, needing him more than anything.

Slowly, he pushed inside. Her vision exploded into fantastic clarity. Colors danced, the lights seemed brighter, and the world was right again. She held her breath as Sam jerked his hips, fucking her with long, deep strokes that made each muscle tighten around him.

A deep kiss closed her eyes; a hard thrust made her gasp.

Sam kept her riding the edge of bliss for longer than she thought possible. He moved his body with precision, playing her lust like a musical instrument. She dug her nails into his shoulders and chewed her lip to hold in a chorus of blasphemy that would shock the angels watching above.

“God, you feel amazing,” he moaned.

Shifting between her legs, Sam pushed her left knee up high and the new angle made her eyes roll back. She could feel her pulse raging in her cunt; the pleasure building higher with each thrust.

Sam threw his head back as he quickened his pace. Sweat was beading on his brow and upper lip, glistening on his firm chest. He held her knee up against his side and grunted with each pulse of his hips.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum…”

His jaw dropped. His eyes squeezed shut. His body went stiff and then shook as he let go. In the depths of a ragged breath, Sam whispered her name and then fell down, covering her completely and kissing her lips.

“You are incredible.”

Y/N gripped his arm and kissed his shoulder. She sighed happily and snuggled deep against him as he rolled over.

“That was so hot, Sam. Thank you…”

He blushed at her thanks and kissed her again. Once he started, he didn’t want to stop, but exhaustion struck him hard.

“How do you feel?”

Y/N paused for a moment as she took stock of herself and then smiled gratefully. “I think I’m cured!”

“That’s amazing,” Sam said with a sigh. “I’m glad you’re OK.”

“Thanks to you.” Y/N let her eyes trail down to his cock. “And you.”

With bright red cheeks and a shy laugh, Sam turned away and grabbed the blanket from the floor, covering himself. “Be right back.”

Y/N winked as he left and Sam shut the bathroom door.

Staring into the mirror, he took a few calming breaths as his mind replayed what had just happened. He was amazed and excited, shocked and sated. He laughed thinking about how many times nearly dying had brought him closer to someone, and he was glad this time it was Y/N.

Deed done and hands washed, Sam walked back into the bedroom. “That really was something amazing, Y/N,” he mused, reaching for his discarded shorts. “I mean… I guess I can tell you now that I’ve thought about it before… A lot, but…”

Y/N hadn’t answered or looked up. She was turned on her right side, her head softly laid upon the pillow, fast asleep.

Sam pushed his head through his gray tee and smiled at his sleeping beauty. Carefully, he moved to the side of the bed and pulled the sheet up over her shoulder, tucking her in. An overwhelming surge of happiness struck him in the chest and he bent to kiss her soft cheek.

Her skin was cool.

“Y/N?”

Sam shook her shoulder but she didn’t wake.

“Fuck. Y/N!”

He grabbed her face between both hands but she didn’t stir.

“Come on, come on! Wake up!”

Keeping one hand on her cheek, Sam grabbed his phone from the floor and rushed to dial Dean’s number.

The phone rang in his ear and another rang outside of the room.

The lock turned and Dean stuck his head through the door. “You decent?”

Sam huffed and threw his cell down. “Get in here!”

“Just wanted to make sure I wasn’t interrupting grown-up time,” Dean joked, stepping in and shutting the door behind him.

“Dean.”

“How’d it go?”

His answer was found as soon as he shut up and looked over at his brother. Sam was crouched down at the side of the bed with his hands on Y/N’s face and bare arm. She was unmoving beneath the sheet, not even the rise and fall of her chest was visible.

Dean froze.

“What the fuck happened!”

Frantic and confused, Sam shook his head. “I don’t know! We… ya know. And she was fine! I got up to pee and-”

Dean raced to the bed. “And ya killed her!”

“She was fine, Dean!”

Green eyes examined the scene. Y/N was still as in a deep sleep, but the absence of breath told him otherwise. “Do the hand thing! Touch her-”

Tears strained against his eyes and Sam looked up at his brother, desperate for any help. “I am. It’s not working.”

“Fuck. Fuck!”

The wheels turned in Dean’s head and before Sam could say another word, Dean was tugging his jeans down and ripping his shirt off.

“What are you doing?”

Dean shrugged and climbed into bed beside Y/N. “I don’t know, but this can’t hurt.” Naked but for his boxers, he pulled back the sheet and rolled close to her. He covered her in his arms and crushed her face to his chest. He held her there, counting the seconds until he felt her breathe again.

Magically, the air returned and Y/N started shaking beneath him. She struggled to push away and coughed life back into her body.

Dean swallowed hard and rubbed her back. “Jesus, Y/N/N, you scared us.”

“What the fuck happened?” she asked, wide eyes looking between the brothers for an answer.

“Romeo let you die so he could go pee.”

Offended, Sam popped up from the floor. “That’s not what happened, Dean!”

“OK, stop yelling.” Y/N tugged at the thin white sheet and pulled it with her as she sat up. Her body was aching but not in a good way. The lights hurt her eyes, her head was pounding, her chest burned. “I, um… I feel really like- like crap.”

Dean scooted closer, keeping one hand on her. “I know.”

She looked up at Sam. “But why? We… didn’t we?”

He shrugged. “We did. It should have broken the spell.”

Dean bit back most of a smirk. “Did you stick it in properly?”

Despite her swaying pain, Y/N laughed with him.

Sam did not find it funny in the slightest and rubbed at his temples. “I know how to- Damnit, Dean!”

 A true smirk pulled through.

Y/N shivered. “I don't get it. I thought…” The answer smacked her in the face and she cringed. “Oh.”

 Dean leaned in. “Oh?”

Sam narrowed his gaze. “What’s ‘Oh’?”

“Well…”

The brothers sighed in tandem.

“I maybe…”

They hung on her pause.

“I maybe thought something else right before the sex thing and I-”

“Y/N…”

Sam’s disapproval and exhaustion went through her like ice and her defenses rose quickly.

“I didn’t realize the thoughts went together! Hell, I wasn’t planning on this!”

He softened and sat on the edge of the bed by her side. “It’s OK. I’m sorry. Obviously, this wasn’t planned.”

She smiled sadly and tucked her arms around her knees, hiding.

“What exactly did you think before the sex thing?”

Her stomach flipped nervously. “Uh… well…”

 Dean squeezed her arm reassuringly. “Come on, can’t get worse than this.”

 She took a breath and then spelled it out. “I was watching you guys and thinking about how I haven’t exactly had time alone and… well, how I haven’t come in forever and… then the sex thing.”

Silence floated around above them while the pieces fit together.

Dean licked his lip. “Wait…”

Y/N hid her face in her knees.

Sam’s eyes went wide.

“Did you not- come?”

She tried to play it off, to act like it wasn’t a devastating thing for Sam to hear, but it wasn’t great. “I mean… it was really nice, Sam. Like really hot.”

Dean tried to hold on and not laugh out loud. “But he didn’t… You didn’t… finish?”

 Sam growled. “OK, shut up, Dean! It was stressful.”

 The elder cocked a brow. “Did you?”

Standing up, Sam turned away to hide his awkwardness.

“You did!” Dean sucked his teeth in disappointment. “Tisk, tisk, brother. Ladies first. Always.”

Y/N shivered as Dean turned his eyes to her and dragged his fingertips down her arm. “He didn’t do anything wrong, I just didn’t… get there.”

“Sure you didn’t.” Dean shifted onto his knees and looked into her eyes. “Don’t worry. I got this.”

Sam was out the door before Dean had tossed his leg over Y/N’s middle, pinning her to the bed. He grinned and wet his plump bottom lip. “Never leave a boy to do a man’s job.”

Y/N laughed but lost the glee to arousal when Dean dropped down close. He held himself barely an inch away, too far to kiss, but close enough to breathe in. He smelled like crap beer and wing sauce, and suddenly it was the most appetizing scent in the world. She lifted her head and took a taste, kissing him hard and licking deep into his mouth.

Dean’s eyes closed and long lashes brushed the tops of her cheeks. She smiled and drank him in.

“Hi.”

He laughed gently. “Hey. You cool with this?”

“Do I have a choice?” she teased.

“There’s always a choice.”

“You know what I mean.” She turned her face away, embarrassed and unsure.

He chased her. “You wanna know if I’m just doing this to save your life?”

She nodded, unable to speak.

Dean let her linger for a second longer than was kind. He closed his eyes, gathering up the right words.

“I don’t want you to die,” he said finally. “But I also want you to cum on my tongue.”

Her entire body shuddered with need and he savored the look of passion in her eyes. He kissed her softly and she scratched her hand through his short hair making him growl into her mouth.

Never creaking the connection, Dean moved slowly down her naked body, sweeping his lips over each dip and curve, igniting every nerve he touched with tingling fire. He licked at her pulse, blew a gentle breath over her ear, strummed her lips with his thumb.

When his hot mouth closed around her nipple, Y/N arched upwards, as if she was a magnet and he a slab of iron. She curled her arms around his shoulders and dragged her nails down between his shoulder blades. She could feel his shiver and it drove her mad.

“You’re so fucking hot,” she mumbled, shocked when the words came out.

Green eyes looked up and Dean grinned. He didn’t say a word, but the look in his eyes was enough. A flick of his pink tongue forced her back down onto the pillow and Dean slithered down to settle between her thighs. He slid one thick finger through her wetness and then matched it with his thumb, carefully spreading her lips apart.

His breath was slow and hot, and her clit hardened when he held his lips there, not touching but teasing, letting her need grow beyond what she could stand.

“Please…”

Dean pulled away and dropped kiss after kiss to the soft flesh of her inner thigh. She squirmed and lifted her hips, whined when he passed over her pussy again.

“Dean- please…”

He sucked a kiss on her outer lip and Y/N cried out, utterly desperate for him.

Looking up, he licked his lips slowly and Y/N dropped her hand to his head, swept her touch down his temple, curled her fingers around his ear.

“Please,” she begged, near to tears. “I need you.”

Dean moaned under his breath. “You got me.”

Tongue flat against her pussy, Dean lapped at her wetness before sealing his perfectly plump lips around her clit. Sparks pulsed bright white behind her closed eyes as he licked and suckled, devoured her heat. When her legs began to shake, he slid his middle finger into her, his knuckles disappearing as he sank deep inside.

“Fuck!”

She gripped the bed sheet.

His tongue rippled against her clit.

Her eyes rolled back in pure pleasure and she came with a tight-lipped shout, her hips bucking up into Dean’s handsome face.

“Goddamn!”

She panted and wiggled to get away, but Dean refused to let go. If she scooted back, he followed. She squirmed to the left, he pulled her back.

Finally, he pushed his arms beneath her legs, hooked his hands around her hips, and tugged. Trapped, Y/N had no choice but to hold still and let him carry on.

He started slowly, winding the tip of his tongue gently around her pulsing. Y/N sighed happily as her heart rate calmed and her breathing caught up. She stretched her arms out across the bed, enjoying the attention and the feeling when he hummed against her skin.

“You’re… really fucking good at this,” she whispered.

Dean pulled up with a kiss and a wink. “Did you expect anything less?”

Y/N shook her head and lost all thought as he dove back down and picked up speed.

Words were piercing the air. Unintelligible, filthy, cursed words that had to fight through clenched teeth to be heard.

Her toes curled and dug into his back.

His fingers pumped into her, forcing out another orgasm, but Dean wasn’t satisfied. He rubbed deep inside until her shoulders were off the mattress and her breath was stopped in her throat.

Her eyes went wide and he held her gaze as her body convulsed and let go. A hot stream flooded his mouth and the cheap bedding below. Dean drank her down and kept thrusting, eeking out every last drop until she collapsed and whined, pushing at his face to move him away.

“Fuck! I can’t… that’s never happened before-”

Smug and a beautiful mess, Dean climbed back up to frame her from above. His lips were swollen and his jaw ached, but he’d never looked so content.

“You just needed a little help, is all.”

Y/N shook her head and pushed herself up to kiss his glistening mouth. “No. I just needed you…”

It was a while before Sam returned, and thankfully, everyone was clothed and clean when he opened the door.

Y/N was lying on the bed with Dean by her side. His hand was resting on her stomach and she covered it with her own.

Sam took a hesitant step into the room. “How’d it go?”

A grin lit Dean’s face and Sam held up his hand, halting the details.

“Never mind.” He looked to Y/N. “How are you feeling?”

She sighed happily and sat up. “Amazing.”

“You’re sure?”

“I am. I promise.” Pushing Dean away, she leapt up from the bed and stood in front of Sam. “See? No touchy.”

He exhaled in relief. “Good. I’m glad.”

Reaching for his hand, Y/N smiled up at him. “Thank you, Sam. You saved me.” She kissed his hand and his cheeks burned bright.

“Hey!” Dean cleared his throat and looked offended. “I helped.”

Y/N laughed. “Yes. Yes, you did. Thank you, too.”

“So… what now?” Sam asked, still clinging to her hand.

“Now… we move on. Lighter’s destroyed so no danger there.” She smiled sweetly and turned away to grab her laptop. “I’m sure there’s another case lurking just around the corner.”

Sadly, Sam let her fingers slide away.

“Yeah. Probably.”

It wasn’t what he meant, but he didn’t want to get into anything else just yet. Y/N was safe and that’s all that mattered.

Other things, other feelings could be dealt with another day.

As if reading his mind, Dean walked up and clamped a hand on Sam’s shoulder. The brothers passed a look between them, promising never to talk about it, and to be civil in the forthcoming fight for Y/N’s affection.

Light was shining from the screen, lighting up her smile as Y/N looked up at the guys. “I think I got something! Three bodies turned up in the woods about two and a half hours south of here. Buzz online is that it’s the Jersey Devil.”

Dean laughed and turned away. “No such thing.”

“Sure there is!”

Sam shook his head and ran his hand through his hair to right the mess. “Sorry, Y/N. It’s not real.”

Y/N huffed. “So sex curses are real but winged, kangaroo-looking monsters in the forest aren’t. That’s what we’re going with?”

A shrug.

A smile.

A story for another day.

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[sunnie-angel]

if you haven’t already, please do yourself a favour and read @sanguineterrain’s knight jason todd au. i tore through this as fast as i could physically read it.

it’s a delicious slow burn, the kind that sets your teeth on edge from the building attraction and emotion. jason’s conflict between religious guilt and knightly duty vs the woman he wants is devastating. dom/sub roles are inverted from what you’d expect of an arranged marriage au, and its just so good, i can’t wait until reader finally gets to do everything she wants to him. shame, desire, and a healthy dose of breeding kink are all wrapped up together into the most excruciatingly delightful package, the kind that has you on hands and knees coming crawling back for more.

series masterlist (plus my favourite lines)

part 1: intro post

jason's a prized racehorse, but he gets skittish, moody. the nightmares don't help. what do you do to help a racehorse? you get it a goat to calm it down.

part 2: you make dinner for jason

His eyes are sad as they fall on you. It's akin to grief, the pain he wears, but you don't know why he's grieving.

part 3: temptation

Your beautiful knight, who so intently protects your honor. You'd give him your honor and more.

part 4: a bloody vow

You are an executioner, and Jason is your axe.

[fentonphoto]

Long exposure from the water at Racehorse Falls. @dailyearth @dreamlandbeauty

[politemenacephd]

Arachnophilia: (Part Thirty-three)

Drider!Miguel O'Hara x Reader (+18)

Chapter Masterlist 🕷️

The HQ was lulled into a strange, quiet limbo in the wake of what came to be called ‘the serum fiasco’.

The details of what happened were whispered from person to person as everyone waited for Lyla to confirm that the anomaly was contained, and on the way the story turned into a strange amalgamation of its former self. Piece by piece things changed and shifted, details being embellished or lost.

People loved a good story. They loved a good villain, too. So why not whisper about how this giant, monstrous version of Miguel, the vampire, the beast, created an anomaly out of a twisted, lustful desire?

The Spider Society was made up of so many people, so many beings, and that inclusivity was brandished like a righteous sword on the outside. All belonged here. But a spider was still a spider, and just as Mig had feared, people hated spiders.

That black-and-white thinking seeped across the multiverse like a virus, and on that quiet, somber evening, it found its way into the whispered gossip of his colleagues’ mouths.

Thankfully the anomaly did not spread. The elites managed to stop it before it breached anything beyond Miguel’s office, leaving the HQ largely untouched, but the real damage it did wasn’t physical. It was mental.

The damage was in Mig’s broken, dull, glassy eyes as he sat folded on the floor. The damage was in Miguel’s cold red stare, his dissociative empty expression as he tried to pretend he wasn’t falling apart inside. The damage was inside you, in the storm of emotions you were feeling.

It was hard, but you couldn’t say that, could you? Mig was a mess, and he needed you at his side, which left very little room to acknowledge your own feelings.

Your own agony…

Mig loved you. He loved you so fiercely, so genuinely, that you’d forgotten the barriers between you. The logical part of your brain that used to flinch at the sight of his enormous spindly legs had been drowned out by kisses and whispers, by the word ‘arañita’ moaned against your forehead. Your naïve fascination, your tender growing adoration, had caused everything else to just melt away.

You forgot that Mig was from a whole other universe to you. You forgot he was a hybrid of man and spider. You’d always known your love was forbidden, nigh frowned upon, but even that had been drowned out if not met with outright disdain. He was your Mig, who cared what people thought?

But you couldn’t ignore it now.  

There was an unspoken expectation on you that evening, one that you saw in the eyes of everyone who passed you by.

There was an expectation on you to be the smart one, the reasonable one, and for you to leave Mig of your own volition. There was a sadness in the air, a pitiable sympathy, like someone putting an injured racehorse out of its misery. You were supposed to put the metaphorical gun between Mig’s eyes, and end this charade of an affair.

You’d look at Mig occasionally, and while he never met your gaze, you knew he’d felt it too. It thrummed in the air like static. He felt their judgement, and it sank into his flesh like a knife.

A human could not love a spider.

It disgusted you. It infuriated you.

Why couldn’t you love him?! He was more of a human than anyone else here. He loved like a human, he needed like a human, he WAS a human for gods sake. He was yours. He was yours. He was all you had.

You hadn’t realized how truly lonely, how truly miserable you’d been until you’d met him. He was your friend, your confidante, your lover, your biggest supporter. He was everything to you, and you were everything to him. Yes, you had issues. He was possessive, blunt, and driven to foolish flights of desperation, but you could work through it. You could DO this.

You weren’t ready to give up. You just hoped it wasn’t too late for Mig.

He was so quiet, so cold, it was agony to see him this way. You got no insight into his mental state, no little snippets to soothe your anxiety. You had no idea what he was thinking.

What if he decided to end it?

That whole evening you clung to Mig’s hand, refusing to ever let go. You couldn’t dare. He was your Mig, and you would not part with him.

Once the anomaly was confirmed to have been subdued, Miguel approached you in silence. He didn’t tell you what to do. He just stared, his eyes sombre and yet unwittingly affectionate.

‘You… You’re free to go home’ he murmured after clearing his throat. He used his watch to draw up a portal that would lead you back to Mig’s universe.

‘They won’t stop us?’ you instinctively asked. You were aware of the other elites watching from their vantage points around the open HQ, staring down like vultures.

Miguel shook his head. ‘No. No, they won’t. I spoke to everyone, it… It won’t make a difference to let you carry on as you are, as you have been for the past few months. You can go home. I… Suggest, that you go home.’

He fixed you with those cold, red eyes, and you fixed him with your own intense stare. You weren’t the same frightened newby you were before, skittering beneath his authority.

And Miguel knew it. His eyes softened as they stared into your own, and you watched that cold red glow turn warm and wet and wild, flickering like a dying fire. His face remained stern, but his eyes betrayed how he really felt.

He was scared. Just as scared as you.

‘Go home’ he murmured, and without another word he turned and stomped back towards where his office was being rebuilt.

Soon it was just you and Mig, sitting in silence amidst the destroyed decorations. A broken bat swung in a circle above your head, and bunting lay crushed and dirtied at your feet. You took in a deep breath and turned to face Mig.

‘We… He’s right. We should go home’ you whispered. ‘You don’t need to put up with all of this right now.’

Mig nodded, but he didn’t speak beyond that. You would have given anything to hear his voice again.

In silence you used your watch to create a portal back to his universe. You reached out your hand for him to take, and while there was a brief second where you thought he might reject your touch, you soon felt his thick, calloused fingers wrapping tightly around your own.

Together, you stepped through the portal and went home.

He barely spoke as you made your way into the den you’d both built together. He’d stop you every few steps just to lift you up and over any obstacles you’d missed in the dark, such as brambles and rocks, but beyond that he was silent.

You led him by the hand into the den. He almost refused, physically freezing in denial, as if he couldn’t handle going back to the home he’d made for you with the knowledge he now had. You had to coax him in by burying your face into his abdominal fluff, soothing his pain with gentle pets and small kisses.

‘That’s it’ you’d whisper when he took a tentative step, ‘that’s it. Come here, my love. I’m here.’

Step by step, inch by inch, you lured him down into the depths. Your den was just as warm as ever, almost as if mocking you with its indifference to your sombre mood.

The lamps in the earthen walls were burning with fiery, orange light, and the air was warm and sweet. It smelled like fur and dry wood, with a hint of cinnamon from when you last cooked. The silk-spun rugs were soft underfoot, and soon you were surrounded by homely bliss. Your fire hob, your pictures poorly pinned to the wall, your clothes on the floor and your empty plates in the water basin.

You saw books half-read, electronics still being tinkered with, and your skincare bag sitting on the floor by a mirror from this morning.

It twisted your heart until it hurt. You didn’t even want to think how Mig must be feeling.

With his hand still clutched in yours you led the way down the den’s tight tunnels to your bedroom, and only once inside did Mig take control. He grasped you with both hands and lifted you to his chest, clutching so tightly that his claws dug through your suit. You didn’t have time to protest, but you wouldn’t have even if you could.

You clung to him, burying your face into his bare chest, as he took you to the bed.

He collapsed on top of you, smothering you with his skin and fur, and all eight legs came to entrap you in that tight embrace. He lay awake in the nest with your body clutched to his abdomen, squeezing you like a child squeezing their plush toy, and you squeezed him right back.

You weren’t sure how much time passed in that bed. It could have been minutes or it could have been hours, but however long it was, it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

‘… I love you.’

Mig’s voice breaking the silence broke your heart along with it. He sounded so defeated. As he spoke he shifted, pulling you closer, and your gripped his fur with every ounce of strength you had left.

‘I love you too’ you whispered.

Mig shuddered as he breathed in. ‘… I am so sorry’ he croaked. ‘What I’ve done to you—’

‘No. Stop. Stop it’ you interjected. It took all your strength to not sob. ‘Stop it. I love you, Mig. I love you, and I don’t regret a single thing. I never have, and I never will.’

‘Arañita…’

His voice cracked as he spoke your nickname, and you shook your head to fight back your own tears.

‘No, no. It’s okay.’

‘Arañita—’

‘We’re still together, mi amor’ you whispered. ‘I won’t let them separate us. I promise.’

Mig didn’t respond. He just clutched you a little tighter, a little harder.

‘It’s not… It’s not, perfect’ you murmured in between stroking his flank. ‘It’s not. I know that. I have to wear the wristwatch to be stable, and… And, obviously, there’s a few other things.’

‘A few other things’ Mig repeated back coldly. He wasn’t mad at you, but it didn’t help to hear the sting in his tone, the hopelessness he was facing. 

‘I know… He said, about kids—’

As you forced yourself to speak again, conjuring up what little positive energy you had left, Mig abruptly shifted in your grasp. You fell silent as he moved into the light, as the flame began to flicker across his gaunt expression.

He looked so haunted. Those deep grooves and dark shadows filled in around his eyes and his downturned lips, and you realized with some horror that he’d lost those lines since meeting you.

You’d seen them before when you first met, when you’d first encountered that scuttling, frightened, nervous man in the woods, carrying his trauma like a weight on his spine, but since then they’d dulled. They’d loosened, softened, eased by days then weeks and then months of smiling at your antics.

But there they were again. It was enough to make your throat choke up.

‘Mig’ you whimpered. His eyes softened a little in the face of your pain, and with a shuddered gasp he cupped your face in his hand.

‘It’s not about the babies’ Mig whispered back. In the flickering firelight, his expression was hard to parse. The shadows on his deep-set eyes seemed to shift, filling in the contours of his knotted brows and the lines in his forehead.

‘… It’s not about babies. I can live without babies. It’s about you.’

‘… Mig, what do you mean, sweetheart?’

‘... It’s about you’ he repeated in a whimper. ‘It’s about, you. Because we—’

He paused and pursed his lips. He seemed to be struggling to speak this next part, whatever it was. ‘When we die, arañita… Where do we go?’

For a brief moment your pain turned to confusion. You sniffled and frowned.

‘I… I don’t, know, Mig.’

‘Neither do I. I tell myself we go nowhere, as a scientist that is my lot in life, but… It is, somewhat hard to believe that now. When I’ve seen other worlds, other realities, when I know that they are all possible.’

You listened to his soft-spoken rambling while still tucked into his fur, your brow still knotted as you tried to parse what he meant.

‘… It can’t be that, people from every universe, share the same afterlife. Can it?’ he whispered.

You felt a burning pain in your eyes that compelled you to blink, only for you to realize you were crying. You looked down at the bed to escape your own agony.

‘The idea… That when we die, you might go somewhere else… And for eternity, I’ll be waiting for you, mi tesoro, waiting for you to come home…’

Mig couldn’t stand the idea that you would never belong. The idea you’d have to wear a metaphorical collar just to survive in his universe, the idea that if you removed your watch or left the society that you’d never be able to be his…

He couldn’t live like that. There was no real future. Forcing you to live on knifes edge for his selfish love…

And yet, he still couldn’t give you up.

With a soft sob he pulled you closer, burying you in his fur. You felt his human arms squeezing the life out of you. ‘… Mi amor’ he whispered, his voice barely a choked whimper, ‘mi amor…  Don’t go.’

You squeezed him back with a sob. ‘I’m not going anywhere’ you wailed. ‘Mig, I-I’m not going anywhere. I promise. I promise.’

‘Don’t go.’

He just kept repeating it, over and over into your ear, and nothing you said seemed to soothe him.

…

While you eventually fell asleep in Mig’s grasp, he couldn’t find the same respite. He watched you as you slept instead. He watched and caressed you, gently brushing the same piece of hair out of your eyes over and over like the pendulum of a grandfather clock. This simple, tender touch, repeated forever.

He’d never get tired of seeing you at peace like this. Even after all the stress of the day, the knowledge that he could lull you into the depths of a warm, dreamless sleep, with your lips parted and a trail of drool slowly accumulating on his fur, kept him sane.

He loved you, and he needed you, and when he saw you like this, he felt like you needed him too.

It wasn’t just instinct. He was a spider, yes, but he was a man too. Your man.

He couldn’t give you up.

He had to do something.

He shifted out of bed at around 3am, being extremely careful not to wake you as he did. Luckily you were exhausted, and even though you sleepily clung to his fur, you did not stir when he pried your hands aside.

He left you to sleep beneath the pile of silk blankets that he’d knitted for you, and silent as the night, he slipped away.

Mig crept out of the den and into the cold night, where he used his own watch to create a portal. All alone, he slipped back into the HQ.

When he stepped through the portal it was eerily quiet. The decorations were still up but the entire building seemed empty, to the point that it was almost uncanny. The open lobby wound upwards like a honeycomb made up of cold, white pillars, its surfaces sterile beneath the moon as it shone in through the glass walls. That great inner sanctum echoed with every step he took.

Mig walked his way through those empty corridors with no real plan in mind, wandering aimlessly as if on autopilot. He had no real intention of winding up where he did, but in hindsight, it was obvious that that was where he was heading. He padded his fluffy spider paws up, up, until at long last he wound up back on the edge of Miguel’s lab.

The empty doorway to the office gaped at him like a maw, creaking like a ship on a windy night. It seemed to move as he swayed in place. He felt like prey being lured towards something, some dark

He pushed aside broken beams and rebar to go deeper, forcing his way through the darkness towards a single, distant beam of light.

When he finally stumbled back into the office, he realized that the light was from a hole in the ceiling where the anomaly had ripped away the coating, allowing the distant moonlight to trickle downward. It created a perfectly cruel spotlight right over the broken glass on the floor by the broken desk in its centre.

Broken glass. Broken dreams.

He huffed and watched his breath turn to vapor in the air.

‘You shouldn’t be here.’

That familiar voice caused his hackles to raise, but Mig didn’t turn. He knew who it was, and he had no desire to speak to them. He allowed the silence to drag out until it became nigh unbearable, and then he dragged it out some more.

‘… I suppose I don’t blame you for coming, though.’

Miguel lowered his voice when he spoke again. His footsteps echoed as he walked out from his hiding space in the doorway and into the open, slowly rounding the giant spider hybrid so he could catch him face-to-face.

‘I’d be stupid to do that’ he added.

‘You would’ Mig growled.

Miguel paused once he was standing about three feet from Mig’s side, and there he stayed, staring ahead at the ruins of their ambition.

‘… How are they doing?’ Miguel asked.

‘…’

Mig, again, refused to speak. Miguel sighed. He felt his brow twitching, threatening to knot, but he held himself to some account.

‘… How are you doing?’ he asked instead.

‘I feel… Abstracted’ Mig replied in a cold, empty voice. Miguel’s brows twitched again.

‘Abstracted. You—’

‘I feel… Numb’ Mig continued, cutting Miguel off mid-query. ‘It’s not like a dream. I’ve felt that before. When I met… Them, mi arañita, that felt like a dream. It took me a while to realize it was real, that they were real. But this…’ He flexed his claws until his knuckles popped. ‘This is—’

‘A nightmare?’ Miguel cut in.

‘No. No, not a nightmare. That would still be a dream. This is the opposite… This is real.’ Mig paused his speech to swallow, only to discover a lump in his throat and tears in the back of his eyes. His barely suppressed agony was lingering there, choking him.

‘It’s all… Real. This is reality. It feels as if I have finally woken up after a long, long, happy dream, and now I’m here. I’m, me. I’m a monster who thought he could love something beautiful.’

‘… It’s like the universe reminding you of who you are. What you are’ Miguel replied.

Mig snorted in surprise, and for a moment his walls lowered enough for him to glance at Miguel below him. Miguel didn’t move. He was resting his chin on his hand while his other rested on his hip, and he looked a million miles away.

‘Just… A reminder that fate has other plans. Right?’

‘A reminder that this was all just a dream’ Mig concurred.

The two men stood in silence as water dripped down from the leaks in the ceiling above. The office felt dead, like the cavernous maw of some long-downed creature. The wide, dramatic space and high ceilings used to exist to give Miguel space, to isolate him from the world, but now that isolation felt like it was mocking them both. It was eerie to stare into.

‘I know that feeling’ Miguel eventually murmured. ‘I do.’

‘What feeling?’

‘The dream’ Miguel continued. His eyes roamed the cold walls. ‘The feeling that everything is too good to be true. That you’re living a dream. I remember always being afraid I’d wake up, living in that constant anxiety. And then it ended, and my fears came true, and… No matter how much I expected it to fall apart, it didn’t make it easier.’

‘… The child?’ Mig replied softly. He noted the way Miguel tensed, as if about to be sick.

‘… My, child, yes. My daughter.’

Another painful silence fell.

‘… I tried so hard to make it work’ Miguel said, his voice cracking as he spoke. It was painfully sincere, betraying a layer of emotion beneath his cold, hardened exterior that he rarely allowed to show. Mig didn’t respond beyond a slightly stilted breath.

‘I did. Same as you. I tested fate, and I pushed the limits of space and time and nature, for my own needs. Stupid, selfish beast, that’s what I am. That’s what we are.’

‘Do not—’

‘Because we’re still human’ Miguel seethed through his fangs. ‘We’re still, human. We need love. We need a family, we need stability, we need to touch and protect and cherish and love. And I hate it. You can’t do this work and be human, you can’t be me and still be human. Miguel O’Hara has to be MORE!’

He clenched his fist and physically restrained himself from punching the nearest wall.

‘I have to be more… Because I’m not good enough for those things. I want to be human, but I’m not. And you… You. You are me.’

He slowly rolled his eyes up to Mig.

‘… I cannot- I cannot give them up’ Mig gasped. He spoke as if he was being choked, and his enormous chest heaved as he struggled to take breath in. He reared up until his shadow eclipsed Miguel’s body, leaving nothing but his cold, empty red eyes glowing in the darkness.

‘I won’t. I won’t. I won’t.’

‘I’m not asking for you to give them up—’ Miguel tried to say, but Mig cut him off before he could finish.

‘You are!’

The enormous beast bristled until every hair on his body was standing on end. ‘That’s what all of this- stupid posturing is about!’

‘Stupid…’ Miguel repeated the word slowly before visibly sneering. He looked angry, yes, but more than that he looked hurt. ‘I’m not posturing to you, Mig, I’m trying to help you. I don’t—no, you know what? I don’t care. You’re upset, it’s—’

He paused to take a deep breath. He’d never been good at explaining these things, of keeping his temper in check, but he tried. He tried so damn hard. ‘Listen to me. I am trying to tell you, that I know what it’s like. I know how much it hurts.’

Mig was still breathing heavily, his chest heaving up and down as he fought his own irrational anger. He was lashing out in a desperate bid to gain back the control he’d lost, and he knew that, but unlike Miguel he wasn’t used to anger.

He’d gone so long being meek and quiet, subdued to his own worthlessness, but he wasn’t worthless anymore.

He had something to fight for.

‘You… You tried to break us apart’ Mig hissed.

‘Ay Dios- yes, I did! I did, and I have answered for that already!’ Miguel snapped back before raising both hands, willing himself back down. ‘No puedo mas… Ah, listen to me, Mig, I know. I’m not—I know it hurts, but I also know that the pain you would feel if anyone got hurt in your pursuit of this, you would feel worse.’

‘Nobody has to get hurt!’ Mig replied, but as he cried the anger left him. He was pleading, desperately searching for a lifeline that Miguel could never in good conscience provide. ‘It was a mistake! We were so close, so close—’

‘One mistake. That’s all it takes’ Miguel retorted. ‘One mistake, and people are DEAD! You don’t come back from that mistake! You carry it, every day, EVERY DAY, on your back! Can you do that?’

‘No, no—it’s not the same’ Mig pleaded.

‘It is the same!’ Miguel snapped again. ‘The dead will hurt the same—’

‘NO, no this- this situation is different—’

‘HOW? How is this different?!’

Miguel finally felt his claws unsheathe as his emotions grew too much for him to bear. Mig instinctively bristled back as his abdomen rustled and twitched. As always, he was torn between the man and the beast, the spider who saw only a rival male, and the man who saw both friend and foe at once.

‘It… It is different’ Mig repeated weakly. ‘It’s different...’

‘No, it’s not’ Miguel repeated coldly. ‘It’s not different. I went to another universe, to find a family, to be happy, because I couldn’t have it in my own world. And for that mistake, for the sin of believing I could be good, everything was destroyed. That one, good thing I made, was destroyed.’

‘I could fix it’ Mig continued, wilfully ignoring Miguel’s speech. ‘I could. We were so close…’

Miguel slowly lowered his hands as he realized he was never going to get through to Mig like this. Despite his anger, his jealousy, despite the hurt he felt at Mig’s perceived naivety, he was still deep down sympathetic. ‘… I thought, for a while, that maybe you were the exception’ he murmured in a softer tone. ‘I started to believe that. I really did. I wouldn’t have helped you otherwise. Maybe you would be the O’Hara, somehow, who broke it.’

Mig scrunched up his sharp nose as he forced his feelings down. ‘… And you were jealous’ he growled.

Miguel didn’t even flinch. ‘Yes,’ he conceded with a cold growl. ‘Yes. I was. Of course I was jealous. Pendejo.’

The two men fell silent again for a moment or so, breathing in the silence and the painful honesty they’d both torn from each other.

‘… I was jealous. But I got over that. And I am telling you this so you understand, I’m not doing this right now out of jealous, Mig.’

Miguel craned his neck to look Mig in the eye as he spoke.  

‘I’m doing this because I…’

Mig turned his head. He was drawn in by the way Miguel’s voice broke, something that was unusual for his cold, steady counterpart. Miguel faced him down. He’d bitten his tongue when he realized he was getting a little too honest, and so when he spoke again it was slow, methodical, and commanding. He had to be the leader right now, not Mig’s friend.

‘I… I can’t allow this’ he finally whispered. ‘I can’t. And I’m sorry. But I will never risk another universe again, ever. Ever. For both our sakes. I won’t… I won’t.’

He could have said his reasons why. That he didn’t want anyone else to carry the weight he carried, that he was petrified of seeing his other self watch your body fade into nothingness while he tried his hardest to hold on. He could have said that he was scared, scared beyond reason, of seeing anyone turn into nothing again.

But the truth was, he didn’t know how to say that. He couldn’t even admit it to himself, even now. So he stiffened his lip and grunted. ‘We were never meant to be happy, Mig. Be glad for the little joy you got. Anything more... I can’t allow it.’

Mig didn’t open his mouth to argue. Not this time. He turned away and instead stared out into the darkness.

Miguel watched him turn without a word of comfort. He briefly raised his hand, considering whether to touch his shoulder, or whether even to hug him. He knew, when he lost Gabriella, that he would have given anything for someone to just hold him.

But, no. It was better that they didn’t. It was better that he learned the hard way to close himself off. He didn’t deserve pity.

Mig deserved pity, but he also wasn’t the one to give it.

‘Go home’ Miguel growled. ‘Go home to your mate.’

Those were the last words he said before he turned and stomped out of his office, leaving Mig to stew in the dark.

With Miguel gone, Mig turned back to the destruction on the office floor.

He stood there for a long time, listening to the dripping of water above and the slow, methodical thump of his heart, stewing in his own mind.

Then, he took a step forward.

One spider paw went after the other, growing faster with each cautious step. He crept towards the mess, towards the broken monitors and the broken vial, and he bent his front legs like a horse so he could reach them with his human hands.

He grabbed a glass shard and lifted it to his keen red eye.

It was wet. It glistened when he tilted it towards the light, showing a smear of liquid that wasn’t water.

He lowered his head in silence and tapped on the broken screen. It flickered before dying, proving that despite its condition, it could be repaired.

Once again he went still and silent, listening to the void of sound in the empty office. He sniffed the air; Miguel was definitely gone.

With the slowness of a man who knew he was breaking all the rules, he gathered up the broken monitor and a few glass shards into a nearby bag. He clutched that bag to his chest as he left, cradling it like a newborn babe, because to him this was his life.

His only shot at life.

A selfish beast, that’s what Miguel called them, and he was right. He was just a man.

A man who wanted you, his arañita, his angel from beyond the stars.

He was panting as he created the portal home, and visibly sweating by the time he stepped back onto the cold, dewy grass outside his den. His breath formed little puffs of smoke in the air as he scurried through the dense foliage.

Never once did he let go of the bag

He scuttled back into the den and shut the door as tightly as he could. He kept glancing over his shoulder, as if certain that he’d be seen. Thankfully, though, no one came after him.

He moved through the dimly lit earthen dens, stopping only to check on you in the bedroom. He saw your sleepy little body beneath a mound of warm silk sheets, still drooling and snoring and snuggling with one of the pillows that smelled like him.

He couldn’t help but give you a quick kiss on the forehead before leaving to one of the other free rooms. You stirred, just a little, but you didn’t wake up.

With bags in hand Mig pushed his way into one of the many empty rooms in your shared home. You’d been busy re-structuring, setting out new spaces to make it feel a bit more open, before the Halloween night fiasco. Mig had wanted to build you a little private study so you had a space to be alone in sometimes, and in a rut he had also dug out a theoretical nest for any young.

Now, though, he’d use it for something different.

In the dark, earthy room beneath the tree he lit a single candle and spread out his spoils. The glass, the monitor, and a few extra wires and vials. Without skipping a beat he sectioned off the glass and very carefully scraped what little juice was left into a new vial.  

He scurried back and forth, dragging boxes of his own electronics into the empty room while he set everything else up. His spider legs moved to and through, separating and organizing while his human hands got busy.

He patted the dirt on the wall down flat, and with one claw at the ready, he began to scratch out his equations from memory.

He wasn’t willing to sacrifice anyone else for his own shot at happiness. Not really. But he also wasn’t willing to give up the way Miguel had.

He could do better. He knew this could work. They’d been so close, so CLOSE, and all he had to do was learn from that mistake.

With or without Miguel, he’d finish this serum. He’d allow you to live permanently in his universe.

So long as you loved him, you would be his, no matter what.

[elodieunderglass]

I'd like to know more about Killie's family!

Thank you so much!! I LOVE THEM

Killie’s family are a horse racing “dynasty” of several generations, with his branch being especially trashy, mean to each other, in debt and all-consumingly horse-obsessed. The historical base of the paternal family is County Meath in the Republic of Ireland - Killie’s mother is English.

The greater family is competitive, horse-obsessed, and that depressing mindset of being conservative-without-being-rich. You’re not allowed to name children like racehorses (because of woke) but they’ve made up for it by having a tradition of sharing a generation-based initial letter for their first name. Killie’s in the “C” generation, and his siblings and cousins all have C-names.

The parents are awful, and you can see the stamp of their influence on Killie and his siblings. The family are justifiably proud of Killie, though toxic about it.

Here’s the sibling set before Charlie’s estrangement:

Press “Keep reading” for fascinating Killie personal life below:

Killie (Cillian), oldest, and even by their family’s standards, incredibly Good at Horses. Master of the preternatural jockey powers of the mental timer (can set and stop accurate stopwatches and timers in his head; the opposite of time blindness), psychic horse connection, inhuman discipline and stoicism (the Jockey Constitution (TM).) champion jockey over jumps and on the flat, closing in on legendary status, while also secretly falling apart in every other direction. We happen to know that he’s secretly a bisexual demisexual wet stray cat with exhausted anxiety and Terminal Horse Autism, but he does a very good job of projecting aggression acceptable jockey energy, and therefore Nobody Suspects. Moved to the UK as a contracted jockey with a prominent stable and is genuinely, genuinely good at what he does. About 4’10”, extremely desirable height for an international-quality lightweight flat jockey, but just about too light for UK/Irish steeplechasing (but he’s intensely bonkers, so he does it anyway.)

Charlie (Charles), twin, hates horses (actually rather good with them as animals! but hates competition, gambling, pain, The Racing Industry, hurting himself, pain, animal abuse, falling off, trashiness, when they step on you, horse racing, and Being So Brave About It.) Horse Hating ADHD, pictured here being insufferable because he actually owns clothes besides breeches and boots. Family lore states that the twins were born prematurely because Charlie attempted to murder Killie in the womb, but that sounds medically improbable. Regardless, the twins failed to thrive in NICU until being placed in the same incubator together, so even if murder attempts were made, they reconciled right away. Unfortunately estranged from family, sport and home by being unapologetically and flagrantly bisexual, he vanished from Killie’s life for over a decade, and ended up building an unexpectedly normal and healthy life in which horses did not eat any of his fingers. They used to have magical twin telepathy before estrangement.

Charlie always sounds like he’s speaking with emojis, has a great deal of charm, and did so much of The Talking when they were younger that Killie was able to secretly conceal and get over his own stammer. While being outwardly 300x more social and funny and lovable, Charlie is actually much more of a bastard than (secretly soft) Killie, and defended Killie and the other siblings from bullies on all sides, including/especially their parents.

Ciara, an unpleasant wench three years younger than the twins, who wasted her twenties being mean in the comments. Mediocre jockey, now a trainer’s assistant, back living with parents while slow-motion Republic of Ireland (TM) Divorce goes through. Despite being a homophobic harpy during the catastrophic Estrangement Incident, would desperately like to see Charlie again. Much of her internet usage sprang from the compulsion to find Charlie on social media (she never managed.) weirdly, being really online accidentally radicalised her, and despite only hanging out with incredibly conservative bigoted people IRL, she made nice friends online and became secretly quite tolerable, and guilty about all of it. Wouldn’t talk to Killie about any of this, though. Killie’s perfect. Killie’s the culmination of a five-generation breeding experiment to create the perfect jockey, and by all metrics, it worked. Killie once had a 500-kilo horse fully land on his thighbone and only said a mild “bugger.” Killie wouldn’t get it at all.

Colm - youngest. not a great rider, not very interesting, not much presence, not very brave, no particular instinct for horses, not especially disciplined, no particular ambition, and excessively large. Works as an exercise rider, groom and general stablehand for his parents (constant criticism, zero thanks), and presumably has a private life, but keeps his head down. His takeaway from Charlie’s estrangement was: everyone loved Charlie most of all, and that’s how quickly they threw him away - what hope do I have, if I put a foot wrong? Really misses Killie, lacks the ability to follow him, lost as a result.

Charlie and Killie reconciling would shore up a tremendous amount of Killie’s collapsing mental landscape, and prove utterly necessary for Killie surviving the total tailspin of being forcibly loved by a completely random great big beardy nerdy American man life outside of being a jockey.

And it is entirely possible that there are uncles and aunts and cousins who would turn around and say, quite fiercely, Cillian’s the best of us. We love and admire him more than we love winning. He throws his heart over the fences and then follows it, and when it’s important he always wins. If Killie wants a boyfriend - then you know what? Fuck it. Maybe that’s winning. Maybe we’d rather be on his side, the winning side - the side of the best of us.

It has a chance of all being okay.

(Greyuncle Era: Ciara and Colm manage a near-complete recovery from their family of origin. They choose to never have kids, and good for them. Charlie, polyamorous bisexual in an incredibly stable three-person marriage, has a mysterious number of kids (he and his husband and wife produced kids with the admirable Lucky Dip method; but they’re all Charlie’s, of course. They’re also all his biologically, because he won. He won all of them. He has the fastest sperm, if you want to know. okay, admittedly only some are markedly shorter and more ginger than the rest, but frankly YOU NEVER KNOW, do you?? Charlie himself has a brunette sister! and a younger brother who is VERY NEARLY almost tall?? Genetics are a mystery 😤 no this is NOT a racing thing, this is - no he’s not competitive. He’s better than that. He hates - they’re - shut up.

This results in the “between 12-75 business greatniblings” that Killie and Derek share. Derek actually knows how many there are. Killie cannot physiologically remember that kind of thing, his brain just turns to static; and Charlie possibly doesn’t know himself. And it’s okay and it’s okay and it’s okay and it’s okay and in fact they are HAPPY AND WELL.)

[icyowl]

Bluelock Cuddling headcanons

ft. Isagi, Chigiri, and Kunigami

Request: none

A/N: one of my racehorses won a race today so here’s a little gift to celebrate my good mood!

—————

Yoichi Isagi

the respectful kind

his favorite is half-cuddle — him on his back, you curled up into his side, head on his chest. Does his arm fall asleep? Absolutely. Will he stop? Never.

make his heart wobble any time you look up and about how much you like this — spending time with him, being close like this, knowing he cares about your opinion enough to ask so frequently for it.

Isagi is the kind that likes to cuddle the nights before a stressful thing. He gets to talk out his troubles and generally feel better about whatever anxieties he's got. Also, he genuinely seeks your life advice. He talks through his problems, that's who he is, and with you like this it feels like such a private time of vulnerability.

You habitually play with one another's fingers and hands. Usually it's sweet, but sometimes it devolves into thumb wars, arm wrestling, and even all out tickle battles. Sometimes he even lets you win

If he's lucky he can get you to fall asleep before he does. Reason? He likes watching you doze on him. Something about you falling asleep to the dip and rise of his chest makes him all giddy and humble at the same time.

Inevitably someone walks in on you two only to be greeted with the terror-inducing glare he pins them down with. Wake you up and they are not long for this world.

Hyoma Chigiri

the timid kind

go-to is the traditional spoon. It means you don't have to look at him and whatever embarrassment he's gotta be showing while being this close to you.

As time goes on, he starts to get almost too comfortable with it. On the phone? Playing a game? Fuckin' doing laundry? Doesn't matter. When he's lying on any bed or couch, there is a distinct bubble of space, and if you invade the bubble, you're within striking distance. His arms are nearly as fast as his legs. Chigiri will latch onto you, will pull you in, and will interrupt whatever it is you wanted to do so he can spoon you.

Rub his hand or intertwine fingers while he's got an arm draped over you and he is GONE

There have been times when he's pushed you away, and though it makes sense — he's always been the kind to close himself off, turn vile and harsh when he's hurting — it breaks you. When you're both ready to reconcile, somehow it ends with your back to his chest, his legs mixed with yours, and his warm hand holding you snug to his body.

Also likes this position because it lets him nuzzle in right on the wispy hairs at the bottom of your neck or the big vein on the side.

Turn the tables on him by flipping over in his grip and facing him head-on. It's also a nice way to get even closer to him when you've had a bad day. A kind of haven can be found in nestling under his chin. He's alright with this — it means you can't see his face and the obvious love-sick tint to his eyes.

Rensuke Kunigami

the kind that doesn't know his own strength

best likes the space-saver, aka, one person laying on top of the other. Boy doesn't care which of you is on top. He likes supporting your body or you supporting his — something about being the other person's strength makes the back of his head tingle.

first time he lays on you, he doesn't check his weight at all, just flops down. Immediately thinks he's broken you when you squeak. After that he's almost too wary about hurting you. Am I too heavy? Can you breathe okay? Do I need to get up? You can get on top if you want. Relax Kunigami, just don't fall from orbit and you'll be fine.

Icing on the cake is when you play with his hair. Dude could be angry as an ox, ready to rip someone in half, and two minutes of your fingers in his hair has him fighting to stay awake and spend time with you. What was he angry about again?

One time you fell asleep on his chest, all blissed out and comfy, only to wake up in a shiny puddle of your own drool. You were, understandably, mortified, but the embarrassment turns to affection when he casually disregards the whole thing: it's just a shirt, it'll dry.

You figured you repaid the favor when several weeks later he was one on top of you, head burrowed unceremoniously into your stomach, arms underneath your back, refusing to look up or speak. The reason revealed itself when he finally met your eyes.

Tears. Tiny sniffs too. Four words: I failed my team. That was all he said before digging his face back into your skin. It took time, and a lot of encouragement, but he did eventually snap out of the funk and even apologized for messing up your clothes. It'll dry, you said, and you shared a little snicker.

[cherrychilli]

18+

Eddie Munson x AFAB reader, established relationship, nipple play, temperature play, sensation play, ice play, wax play, brief mention of impact play

No sooner than you'd brought up the idea does he rush out of his room like a racehorse right out the gate and back in carrying a bowl heaped with ice cubes, setting it down on the edge of his nightstand, nearly missing it altogether given his excitement.

"Eddie that's way too much", you laughed, but it's too late now because he's emptied the entire ice tray just for this. Not that he cares about something as inconsequential as not having any ice to put in his drink later when you're sitting here waiting for him on his bed, topless.

"Don't worry about that babe. Just get comfortable for me, okay?", he places a cold hand on your bare shoulder and it feels nice on your hot skin, letting him gently guide you back.

He leans over you while you lay back on a towel you insisted that he put down on his bed to save his mattress from any more spills, feeling a little flustered under his gaze with the way his warm whiskey eyes drink you in.

One of his rings clink against the rim of the bowl when he plucks out an ice cube, holding it above your sternum first, letting ice cold droplets fall onto your body as your skin prickles with goosebumps.

"Is it too much?" he asks, noticing the way your shoulders draw in.

You don't fight back against the shiver that runs through you, welcoming the cold as it wraps itself around you like ribbons.

"No, keep going. Please"

Eddie drips more ice water on your breasts, taking in every little twitch of your body, every shudder you don't suppress, listening closely for every whine you let out, the kind that turns the tips of his ears pink just from hearing them.

It's almost like being tickled, your body jerking slightly with every new drop and trail of cold water running down your sides but you don't want it to end, you want to sink into this new feeling so deep that you do under.

He brings the cube down on your left nipple first. The bud hardens quickly and you draw in a quick breath, a low hiss of a sound as he circles your areola with it, swiping it over your peaked nipple.

"How does that feel?", he asks you, palming the bulge in his pants with his free hand to stave his own growing need.

The cold makes you tense up, ribbons wrapping so tight you forget to breathe. It's a nice kind of uncomfortable if such a thing is possible - the kind that takes a minute to get used to before you find yourself craving it, pushing your chest out for more.

"Feels good, Eddie", you breathe out, gasping a second later when he dips down to chase a stray droplet with his tongue before it can glide over your ribs and join the rest that have been lost in the cotton of his towel.

Pulling the cube away from your left nipple, he guides it to ice the right, getting it hard too while he warms the other up with his mouth, sucking, nipping and tugging it gently with his teeth while you sigh and moan, so much more sensitive now.

"Ed- fuck oh god that- do that again", you whine and he flicks his tongue over your nipple in quick succession, making your back curve and your chest feel like a lit fuse waiting to go off.

The way he moves it feels reminiscent of all the posters tacked up around his room, wild haired musicians and devilish creatures with their tongues rolled out like slithering adders, silent observes that hang on every wall as he pleasures you with fervor.

With one more tug with his teeth he releases your left nipple, pulling back to look at you. "Baby, you come up with the best ideas", he chuckles airily, turning his attention to back to your right nipple now that the cube's nearly melted away, making that ache between your legs grow stronger.

---

Three days later...

"You want me to do what?" Eddie's gaze immediately falls to the candle you had lit and placed on your vanity, a medium sized container that made your room smell pleasantly sweet like brown sugar and freshly baked pie.

"I want you to use it on me", you tell him as he picks it up and inspects it, noticing the handle and the rim shaped into a little spout for pouring out the liquified contents.

Eddie knew you liked a little pain in the bedroom. He's had you over his lap plenty of times and while it took a lot of trust and convincing, he's even struck you across the face a few times after you asked him to but this feels a level above what the two of you are used to.

He never liked to disappoint you especially when you look up at him all hopeful and with so much desire in your eyes like you're doing right now but the idea of bringing literal fire into your sex life gives him pause. "I don't know...", Eddie hesitates, not because he's turned off by the idea but because he's afraid of burning you. "Wont it hurt?"

You give him a chaste nod, tugging gently at the hem of his shirt to bring him closer to you. "It'll feel good too", you promised, telling him exactly what kind of candle you'd purchased, sensing his uncertainty.

"You don't have to worry Eds. It won't burn as hot as a regular candle and the wax is a kind of oil that's safe to apply to the body. See?", you hand him the box the candle had been packaged in, pointing out the instructions and ingredients on the back.

Examining it, Eddie reads it carefully by your side, mouthing every other sentence out loud. "...Low melting point...moisturizing body oil...made from a blend of hemp oil and soy..."The worry lines between his eyebrows start to disappear and he looks eager again, setting the box aside.

"You've really done your homework huh?" he grins at you, laying a hand on you waist, letting it trail down to squeeze your ass when he leans in to place a kiss on your lips.

"It's edible too", you add with a playful smile which he returns, his eyes wide and glittering like they belong in the night sky.

"So what are we waiting for?", he makes for your bed with the candle and you follow with a giggle, shedding your t-shirt and bra, letting them fall to the floor until you can be bothered to pick them up later. Much later.

With another towel placed under you to soak up any excess oil, he starts on your stomach, dribbling a few drops just below your belly button to prepare you. Once again your body tenses when it makes contact with your skin, more out of reflex than anything else.

It's hot but not overwhelmingly so and he soothes your heated skin with the way he presses a thumb over the droplets of oil, massaging it into your skin with gentle circles, making your muscles relax.

"That feel good, angel?", he croons, watching your expression closely, keeping an eye out for any sign that might mean you need to stop.

"Mm yes. Can you do it a little higher?"

He tilts the container forward again, wax spilling through the spout, finding its way onto your sternum. You gasp, a blissful sound, heat spreading across your skin, cooling down once he massages it again.

He does this a few times, taking short intervals to rub the oil into your skin, making sure to check that it's not too hot or too much for you to handle.

"Ready for more?", he asks when the only place left to drip wax on to your body is your breasts.

"Yes", you answer, voice nothing more than a needy rasp at this point, fixing your bottom lip between your teeth and curling your toes with anticipation.

The flame flickers as Eddie tips the container again, droplets of hot oil spilling on to your nipples, the feeling just shy of a sting as you keen, thighs rubbing together. "Fuuuck, Eddie that feels so good."

He smiles proudly all the while dripping more oil onto your body, the sweet scent making him salivate, the breathy sounds of your gasps and whimpers making his pants feel tight.

The pain, pleasure combo makes it hard for you to remain still, body crying out for more, writhing as he kneads your breasts, teasing your puffy, swollen nipples with his fingers, pinching and flicking.

"Want your mouth on them, Eds", you whimpered. "Please.."

He huffs out a laugh. "Don't have to ask me twice" he jokes, setting the candle aside carefully. He's quick to attend to you, wrapping his plush lips around a nipple and sucks on it, dragging his tongue over the hardening bud in languid strokes.

"How's it- how's it taste?", you stutter when his teeth graze your skin.

"Sweet. Just like always", he grins coming up to kiss you on the lips so you can taste it too. And even though you know that can't possibly be true, the way he says it makes it hard not to believe him.

His tongue brushes against yours, tasting subtly of birthday cake - creamy vanilla frosting and sprinkles come to mind and you moan into the kiss, licking his bottom lip clean of the oil.

When his lips leave yours you make a mental note to buy more before your mind tunes out the rest of the world, hazy, foggy static taking over as Eddie latches onto your nipple again, working you with his tongue and teeth, certain the four ounce candle wont last the night.

[ctimenefic]

may i, by any chance, bribe you into some triple crown talks on this fine evening? <3 i hope you have a lovely day!

oh, Triple Crown Anon, we're really in it now

I want to give you a name, TCA, and then I want to put that name in the fic because you have been so kind to remember this project and so generous in not mentioning that time I promised it'd be done by Christmas.

I tend to hit a wall somewhere around 18k on most longer fics I attempt. Triple Crown is at 19k and I am struggling to get going on it. It's not that I don't have the plot - I do! I have the plot for the sequel, almost. But for whatever reason, crossing that 20k line is proving very hard, and there's quite a lot left to go.

However, nothing is quite as motivating as when you pop up in my inbox, TCA. I'll do some work on it this week, I swear.

Have the first scene in full (if, alas, not fully edited):

George's letter said he would be with them at noon. By quarter past eleven Alex is tired of Zoe giggling at his fidgeting and he makes a break for the stables, saddles up Prema. The ride to the end of the drive clears the tightness in his chest, and it's an easy choice to take the lanes towards Newmarket, where George will have to swap from the stage to a hired coach. 

It's not ten minutes before he hears the rattle of wheels and hooves on the dirt, and a moment later they swing round the corner into view; the smart two seater from the Old King’s Inn, a handsome bay trotting obediently, and on the seat beside the driver-

"George!" Alex calls, waving his hat as he stands in the stirrups, and perhaps he should be embarrassed at acting the schoolboy, but even at a hundred paces he can see the grin that spreads across George’s face, matching his own. 

“Albono!” comes the reply, George’s Italian accent as exaggerated as ever to Alex’s ear. 

He brings Prema round in a wide circle to fall into step beside the gig, and then he’s face to face with George, and two years of separation fall away in an instant.

That’s not to say there’s been no change in George. He’s tanned nut brown; his curls, uncropped, spill out from under the brim of his hat; and his coat, cut to what must be the latest London fashion, hugs broader shoulders than Alex remembers. But the same eyes are glinting with mirth, and his voice is still rich with muddy East Anglian vowels. 

“You didn’t say you were riding out to meet me! Were you worried I’d forgotten the way?”

“Well, you somehow spent three months longer than expected in Vienna, heavens knows how long you could have whiled away in Newmarket without some prompting,” Alex responds, careful to keep his tone teasing.

“God’s own turf, tis true,” George vows, hand to his heart. “But I’d hope after twenty years of faithful devotion, it won’t begrudge me three months.” He drags his bottom lip between his teeth, swipes it with the very tip of his tongue, a nervous gesture so familiar Alex must have seen it a thousand times. 

“I’m sure Newmarket will forgive you everything if you promise to lose another fortune at Craven’s meet,” he teases, grin widening at the way George’s flush rises through his tan. He has to race on to avoid the old riposte to that particular jab. “I wasn’t riding out to meet you, as it happens. Prema’s been penned up since foaling, she needed a run to stretch her legs.”

It’s a lie, of course, but suddenly the idea he couldn’t have waited another half an hour after so long seems profoundly embarrassing.

“Is she one of your racers?” Bless him, for all George can pledge his troth to Newmarket, it’s a miracle he knows one end of a horse from another. As if Alex would have a racehorse in foal so close to the season. On George’s other side, he sees the gig driver’s cheek twitch before he settles back into deaf stoicism. 

“Used to be, half a dozen years back.” Not a winner of any note, but capable of a fine run in the right conditions. 

“Good, you’ll need a fast ride.”

“Why?”

George leans across the foot of space that separates them, grin impossibly wide. “Because your mother will have your head if you’re not there to receive me as man of the household, and we just passed the mile marker.”

The cad’s laugh chases him down the lane. A gallop barely gets him to the stables before the gig is through the gates; there’s certainly no time to change. He has to settle for slinging his jacket over his arm in a bid to cool down and stop the sweat springing around the line of his cravat. Even so, when he turns the corner from the stables to the front of the house, George is already delivering a neat bow to his mother and sisters, arranged like dolls on the steps to the door. 

At the sight of him every trace of the gracious hostess drops from Lady Albon’s face. “Alexander!”

“Mama,” he offers, trying to ignore how George’s mouth has twisted to keep from laughing. 

If anything her glare gets sharper. “You will offer your apologies to our guest.”

Still on the steps, Bitbit has broken, laughing helplessly into her wrist.

‘Oh, for pity’s sake, Mama, it’s George!” But in a battle of wills against his mother, Alex has no hope. He heaves a sigh and offers George an obsequious bow. “Mr Russell, please excuse my poor manners. I can only attribute it to the absence of better influences in my formative years.” 

It’s worth the smack to the back of the head to watch George snort. 

“It is wonderful to have you with us again, Mr Russell. I hope once you have fully rested from your travels, we may see you here again in time for the racing? Then you shall have to stay a month at least, instead of a single night. So much travel, but then you young men have a great deal more energy-”

Alex expects George to panic as his mama captures his arm with the firm grip of a society diamond and propels him into the house. That's how it's always been with George, too conscious that he comes from Norwich trade, and not whatever line of Crusading knights ended up plonking the Albon name on this small patch of Suffolk. 

But there’s no forced grin, no darting glance his way. Instead, George is the perfect, confident gentleman, nodding graciously, humming a note of agreement. Alex feels wrongfooted, watching them go, arm in arm.

"Don't worry, Lex, she'll have to let him go eventually, you'll have plenty of time to run off and play at highwaymen." Alicia takes his arm with a knowing smile and Zoe pens him in on the other side. "But first: has he brought presents?"

“You'd have to ask hi-” And they're off, all pretence of genteel manners forgotten as they scamper towards the drawing room. Alex hasn't the heart to point out all of George's luggage is still in the gig. 

Once he follows, he finds George practically pinned to the mantelpiece by all the eyes on him.

“You have to tell us all about Rome, Mr Russell-”

“But Venice first. Lord Byron was in Venice. Did you see him? Is he truly mad? Is he as handsome as they say? He doesn’t look handsome in the latest editions, but Alicia thought perhaps the engraver held a grudge-”

“What about Vienna? The court there is the height of elegance, I heard. Are they recovered from the wars? We were so anxious that you were on the Continent when Napoleon took the field again, Zoe was sure you would be killed-”

“I was not, Mr Russell, I had every confidence in you-

“Even though Alex assured us you were in Rome by then, it is not so far from France as we would have liked. And it was cruel of you to write only to Alex when we were all of us so concerned.”

It’s news to Alex that his sisters were quite as worried as that - he remembers Alicia and Zoe spending most of Spring 1815 mutinous about the sudden departure of every dashing officer in the south of England. Bitbit and Luca had, at least, listened when Alex read George’s well wishes to the family at the breakfast table. 

Still, he’s not going to contradict them when George is flushing with pleased bashfulness at the attention. “I was perfectly safe, I assure you. I can only apologise for not writing more, but I included my good wishes for each of you in every letter to your brother.”

“And I was a faithful messenger, I promise. Come on, at least let the man have luncheon before you interrogate him on every detail of the last two years.” 

His mama starts, as though the meal she’s been thinking about for two days straight (“Alex, do you think young George might have lost his appetite for sweetpeas on the Continent? They have such strange habits there”) had slipped her mind. 

She bustles them through to the dining room in short order, and for all she might have started calling him ‘Mr Russell’, like one of Zoe’s hapless suitors, it’s clear Alex’s mama still remembers little Georgie. Lunch is a spread of all his favourites, and Alex catches the way George’s polite smile softens as he realises, colour creeping up from under his collar. When he meets Alex’s eyes across the table, there’s the faintest sheen to them. 

Alex has to hide his fond smile back in his wineglass.

[igotbloodonmyhands]

Nightmares / Part I

Note: I made this two parts since I really wanted to post this but couldn't find the energy to write for the others tonight. Tomorrow you'll get Price, Rudi and Soap tho (I used alphabetical order, that's why they're last). Trope: Fluff, angst, hurt comfort Word count: 1.303 Trigger warning: Mention of torture

Alejandro: Alejandro was no stranger to sleepless nights. It took an eternity for him to fall asleep, worries and sorrows keeping him awake. When he did finally fall asleep, the nightmares came. He'd stand in the town square of Las Almas, having to watch as his family, friends and comrades were put against a wall. He couldn't run or scream, just stand there. When he suddenly stared in the barrel of a gun he finally woke up, shirt wet with sweat, the rooms silence filled by his heavy breaths. "Joder (Fuck)", he mumbled, getting up and putting on a new shirt. It was 0200 (2 am). He decided to get a tea. As he stepped in the community room he was surprised to see the lights on, you standing in pyjamas in front of the boiling kettle, a mug in your hand. "(Name)? What are you doing in the kitchen an two in the morning, tesoro?" You turned around, grinning but tired. "I could ask you the same, Ale" He sighed and grabbed a mug and tea bag (Spanish orange) "Can't sleep. You?" "Same. Do you... Wanna talk about it?", he shook his head. "Not right now, I think.... Just need to think about something else" You shrugged. "Understandable" You two sat down on the couch, sitting in silence, drinking the tea, each lost in their own thoughts. "Would you rather fight one hundred duck sized horses or one horse sized duck?", you suddenly asked. He looked at you like you had grown two horns. "Ehhh, madre mia, the horses, I think?", he answered. "Me too. Even though it would depend on the horse" He chuckled. "Are you trying to distract me?" You grinned "Is it working?" He rolled his eyes "A bit". You leaned you head on his shoulder, and after a moment he put his head on yours. "Good" You continued to banter about random nonsense until, finally, fatigue overcame you and you finally fell asleep. It was the best sleep either of you had gotten in a while.

Gaz: Falling asleep wasn't the problem. But as soon as Gaz drifted off into dream land, he was haunted. Faces of fallen comrades screamed at him for not saving them, the screams of agony of their last moments, the pleas of enemies he tortured filled his mind. With a muffled yelp he shot up in his bed, chest heaving. "Fuck", he muttered, getting up and pacing up and down in his room. His heart was beating like a racehorse. He grabbed his gym bag and decided to head to the training rooms. He was surprised to see the lights on, the thudding of fists hitting the punching bag filling the room. "Not bad, (name)", he stepped closer, looking at you. You sighed. "Can't sleep either?", you asked. He nodded. "Yea. Damn nightmares", he punched the bag, making it swing violently. You stepped back, sitting down on the mat and leaning against the wall. "Wanna talk about it?". He thought for a moment before turning his attention back on the bag. You thought he'd just ignore you and stay quiet, but as he started punching the bag, he muttered under his breath. "I couldn't save them. I killed them" His punches got harder and more aggressive. "It's my fault. It's my fault". You weren't sure who he was talking about, but it didn't quite matter right now. "Hey, hey, Gaz", you tried to calm him down. "Cmere", you patted the mat next to you. He seemed to contemplate for a moment, but then finally sat down next to you. A shuddered breath escaped him as he slumped in on himself. You opened your mouth, but quite honestly you weren't sure what to say. So you just sat in silence, but it wasn't an awkward feeling. It felt... Safe. Suddenly, you felt his head on your shoulder, and smiled, leaning yours against his.

Ghost: For Ghost, a good nights sleep was as common as a unicorn. Everytime he closed his eyes, he was there again. Buried alive, in a coffin, squished next to a decaying body. But this time, he didn't get out. He thrashed and screamed, unbeknownst to him not only in his sleep, but it was no use. He was trapped, he was trapped, he was trapped. Panic flooded his every fiber, but he just wouldn't fucking wake up. His eyes widened when he finally woke up. His breath came in short, shuddering gasps, tears staining his cheeks. He wanted to run, he needed to run or else he'd suffocate. He almost fell over putting on his pants and running shoes before he ripped open his door and ran. He didn't know where, he just needed to run. The sky was still dark, with the faintest shimmer of violet light creeping up the horizon. He aimed for the woods behind the barracks, mindlessly running along the paths. "Fuck, Riley, watch your step, big boy", a sudden voice squeaked. He opened his eyes which he didn't remember closing. He looked down, seeing you knocked over on the ground. "Sorry", he mumbled, giving you a hand and pulling you up. "What are you doing here at this time of night?", you raised an eyebrow. He shifted his weight. "Can't sleep". "Me too...", you looked at him. His gaze was weird... Dead, somehow. "Do you... Want to talk about it?", you asked carefully. "No", he said, voice firm. "Come with me", you grabbed his arm, leading him to a bench nearby, guiding him down and plopping next to him. "I'm here for you, you know that, right?" He gulped. "Yea..." A deep sigh escaped him. "...Thank you". You smiled, leaning your head on his shoulder. "No problem", you mumbled, feeling him relaxing under you.

Horangi: They were here, they'd kill him, fuck, he needed to hide, he needed to hide. Horangi panted, clenching his fist in the sheets. His eyes opened wide and he rubbed the scars on his face. He grabbed a pack of cigarettes and stepped outside, sliding down the wall. He lit it and took a deep breath, letting his head roll back and closing his eyes. "Whatcha doin there?", you voice suddenly sound beside him. "빌어먹을!" (Fucking hell, may be a bit wrong since I don't speak Korean) He had jumped up, sighing when he saw it was just you. "Stop sneaking up to me like that, (name)". You chuckled. "Heh, sorry". You sat down next to him. "Can't sleep?", you looked up at him. He nodded. "I don't wanna talk about it". "Then lets just... Sit" You leaned against him, feeling the tension melt slightly from his form.

König: As soon as he closed his eyes, the memories came. He was strapped to a chair, only dressed in boxer shorts, his hood gone. He felt exposed. They whipped, beat and cut him, the scars still evident on his skin. He stood up on shaky legs, the scars on his body aching. A small tin of ointment stood on the table, which he grabbed and carefully rubbed it in. He was not gonna fall asleep anytime soon again. With a heavy sigh he put on his clothes and shuffled towards the armoury. He plopped down on a bench and started cleaning his guns. "Hey there", he hadn't heard you, and immediately pointed the empty gun at you. "Scheiße! You scared me!", he mumbled. You giggled, sitting down next to him. "Sorry". He rolled his eyes and watched him clean his weapons for a minute. "Can't sleep?", you asked. "Nightmares", he answered shortly. You leaned your head on his shoulder, feeling his muscles move under it as he wiped down the barrel of his gun. "You can always talk to me, you know?", you mumbled. "Yea... Danke"

[fentonphoto]

Looking up from the bottom of Racehorse Falls. #waterfall #chasingwaterfalls #rocks #nature #water #washingtonstate #pnw #racehorsefalls #landscape @travelgraphics@travelandlovelife-blog @dailyearth