#saddled with the tasks but not the responsibility

[sai-int]

LOW COUNTRY | INTRODUCTIONS

johnny mactavish x reader

[NEXT] [AO3] [MLIST]

mild swearing, lots of plot

The farm isn’t just a home—it’s a responsibility, a burden you never planned on shouldering alone.

You left this place once you were fresh out of high school, eager to escape the quiet, the isolation of the small town you grew up in. The city called to you, and you answered. New York City—the hustle, the noise, the lights. It was everything your small-town heart dreamed of. The world felt wide and full of possibility. You imagined yourself growing into the person you’d always wanted to be. College and a future in the city, away from the farm, away from the confines of the life that had always been so familiar, so small.

But then, one night after a bar-crawl with your friends marking the end of your Senior year, you got the call.

Your Ma had passed away. Just like that—no warning, no time to prepare.

You dropped everything. That’s what you do when family calls. You go home. The city and all your plans  felt so far away as you packed your bags and made the drive back to the farm. When you drove up the long driveway, the house sat there in the distance, almost looking the same, but so much different all at once. It felt wrong without your Ma's laugh echoing through the halls, her hum in the kitchen, her steady presence.

The funeral came and went in a blur of emotion, family, and loss. It was all a whirlwind, a blur of faces, of handshakes, and hushed condolences. But when the dust settled, the reality set in. Your Pa needed help. There was no denying it. He wasn’t the same man anymore—not without your Ma beside him.

So, you stayed. You told yourself it was temporary—just a few weeks, maybe a month at most. You’d help him get back on his feet, make sure everything was squared away, then go back to the city. But days turned into weeks, weeks into months. Mere months  turned into two years. One look at your Pa—slow-moving, his back hunched a little more each day, his hands trembled a little more than they used to—and you knew.

You couldn’t leave him.

The farm, with all its heavy tasks and responsibilities, became yours. For a while, your Pa tried to help, tried to keep his old pace. But as time passed and his grief only grew, his strength had faded, and soon, the weight of the work was yours to bear alone. He couldn’t lift the hay bales like he used to, couldn’t herd the sheep the way he had before. And those trips to the farthest corner of the farm on horseback, checking the fences, making sure everything was secure? You reckoned he couldn’t even get on a saddle.

You didn’t mind at first. It was just the two of you now, and you loved this place, loved the land, loved what it represented, It was home. But there were moments—the quiet ones, when everything slowed down—that the weight of it all settled heavily on your shoulders. You weren’t a farmhand. You were a woman who had spent her whole upbringing dreaming of more. A different life. But now, you’re tied to this place. Tied to your Pa. And your Ma's laugh still lingers in the walls, thick and heavy like the humidity that Summer brings each morning. 

You’re exhausted, frustrated—running on fumes. You can’t keep doing it all, but there’s no choice. The farm, the animals, the crops, the house... and Pa. You’re stretched thin, your bones aching under the weight of responsibilities that pile up faster than you can manage. The idea of doing it all alone feels like a cruel joke.

Something’s got to give. 

The help-wanted flyers were your last-ditch effort. You spent the better half of the previous night making them yourself, attempting to make them each as uniform as possible. 

‘FARMHAND WANTED. 

DEPENDABLE WORKERS AND SERIOUS INQUIRIES ONLY. 

CALL XXX-XXX-XXXX FOR DETAILS.’

If you didn’t find someone soon, you didn’t know how much longer you could keep it together. So, as the clock striked 8 AM the next morning, you climbed into Pa’s old pick-up, the engine coughing to life as you made your way into town.

You’d been born and raised here. The downtown—if it can even be called that—of Williston is small, everyone knows everyone, and most folks are working-class, middle-aged. The kind of people who offered a warm smile and a helping hand without a second thought. You’d grown up with their kindness, and now, as you hung those flyers in their storefront windows, you could feel the weight of their stares—half concern, half curiosity.

They all know your story by now. They’d watched you grow up, watched you leave, and then watched you come back after everything fell apart. You could feel the sympathy in their eyes, but they never let it show—there was a quiet understanding between you all. Their hospitality was something you could never take for granted.

But no amount of kind gestures could change the fact that you need help. And fast.

You pull into an empty parking space a block away from Main St, quickly hopping out and make your way through town, handing out flyers to shop owners and sticking them to cork boards. It’s routine. A simple task, but the weight of it all makes it feel heavier than it should. The town’s small enough that you’re familiar with most of the faces, and it feels like you’ve talked to half the town by the time the afternoon rolls around. You’re famished—your stomach growling louder than the engine of Pa’s truck as you finish your rounds.

You head into the local bar/diner/cafe/pawnshop, the comforting smell of fried food and coffee hanging in the air. The place is familiar, cozy—its booths all torn leather, worn but inviting. Al—or Crazy Al, as most call him—the owner, gives you a warm smile when you walk in, his graying hair poking out from beneath his old baseball cap. He’s been here longer than anyone can remember.

“Ya look like ya could use a milkshake,” he says, already putting scoops of vanilla ice cream into the blender.

You nod, grateful for the small kindness. Al gestures toward one of the metal bar stools in front of him, you sit and his eyes narrow a little when he notices the exhaustion written across your face.

“What’s got’ya  all wound up, kid?” he asks, pouring the milkshake in a mug and handing it to you

You eye the mug with momentary confusion before you choose to ignore his choice of cups. You take a deep breath, the weight of the day hitting you all over again. “It’s the farm,” you say, swirling the straw in the thick milkshake, not sure where to start. “Pa’s slowing down. I’m running everything from the crops, to the cows, to the house. I can’t keep up.”

Al nods, his expression softening in sympathy as he leans back against the counter. “That’s a helluva load for one person. Yer doin’ right by yer Pa, though, kid. Ya know that?”

You smile faintly, but it fades quickly. “I’m just doing what needs to be done, but it’s just not enough anymore. So I’m trying to find someone to help—a guy, young and strong, you know? I just can’t do it all by myself.”

You slide one of the flyers across the counter to Al, asking him to keep an eye out. “If you see anyone, just... send them my way? I’m desperate, at this point.”

He takes the flyer, his gaze flickering to the paper before meeting your eyes again. “Funny ya mention that,” Al says, scratching his chin. “There’s a new guy who popped up not a day ago. Didn’t think much of it at the time, but he was askin’ around for work. Thought he looked a little outta place for this town, but...”

You raise an eyebrow. “What do you mean ‘out of place’?”

“Just dun’ seem like he belonged, I guess. Looks like he went to Iraq or wherever they’re fightin’ these days.” He shrugs. “But hey, if ya need someone, ya might want to track ‘em down. If I see ‘em again, I’ll send him yer way.”

You nod, feeling a spark of hope. “You’re a Godsend, Al.”

About a week later, it’s a humid Wednesday morning in the heart of August. The kind of heat that clings to your skin, even when the sun’s hiding behind a blanket of clouds. A slight fog lingers in the air, and the scent of sweet grass drifts through the open windows, carried by a lazy breeze. The sun’s rays begin to break through the mist, casting long fingers of light across the fields and trees in the distance.

You finish cleaning up after breakfast, the dishes clinking softly in the sink. Pa’s moved from the dining table to sit in his ratty old armchair in the corner, eyes half-lidded as the local weatherman drones on about tomorrow’s rainstorm. It’s a quiet, familiar morning—the kind you’ve gotten used to in the last couple of years. Your hair’s tied up, a few loose strands sticking to your sun-kissed skin as you wipe down the counter, sweat beading lightly on your neck.

Then you hear it—boots on the porch.

Your body tenses instinctively, the old reflex kicking in. You consider grabbing the shotgun atop the door frame, but a second later, you shake the thought off. It’s overkill, and you’ve got enough sense to know it.

You open the door, not expecting much, probably some girl scouts, or worse, another annoying sales rep. from out of town.

You grasp the handle, pulling open the door, “Look, whatever you're selling, I ain’t buying. I got enough shit to pay fo-”

Standing there is a man, 6 '2 if you had to guess, built like a damn ox, all sharp angles and hard muscle, hair a cropped mohawk that looks like it belongs on someone ten times tougher than him. His eyes are so blue they nearly blind you, but they seem to hold a storm behind them, like he’s seen some shit.  But what really gets you is that smirk. It makes you want to both slap and kiss him at the same time.

And then he opens his mouth, and…

Definitely not American. Not even close.

You blink, and for a moment, you wonder if you’ve stepped into some strange dream. You’ve always been more open-minded than most of the people in town, but hearing that thick accent in the middle of your quiet, rural world makes everything suddenly feel a little too strange. Now you get what Al was talking about when he mentioned, “Not from around here.”

He’s dressed in a dark blue flannel, sleeves rolled up to reveal a white wife beater underneath, the fabric stretched tight over his chest. A neat, tiny gold cross between each pec, as if to say ‘Hey! Look at my man-tits!’ His denim jeans are worn, the brown scuffs on the knees looking like he’s been praying in dirt. And those forearms… Thick and muscular, veins running like rivers beneath his skin- stop it.

You force your focus back up to his face, and it’s just as distracting. Soft stubble accented by the sharp slope of his nose. He stands tall, looking at you like he’s waiting for something—oh. He spoke, and now you were supposed to respond. That is how conversations work.

 You’re not the type to generally stare at people, but something about him, something in the way he carries himself. You try not to notice how his broad shoulders fill the doorway like he’s daring you to le- STOP.

He shifts on his feet, a hint of uncertainty behind that cocky grin. You can tell he’s not as sure of himself as he’s trying to appear. Maybe that’s the only thing stopping you from slamming the door in his face.

Still, you don’t trust him. Why would a guy like that want a job on a farm in the middle of nowhere? He looks like he could be doing much more important things—literally anywhere else—but he’s here. Standing on your porch with your flyer slightly crumpled in his big hands. 

“What can I do for you?” You try to sound cool, collected, but your tone comes out a little sharper than you meant.

He tilts his head, the smirk never wavering. “I hear ye're lookin’ for a hand.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That right?”

“Aye,” he answers, his accent thick and heavy, rolling the words in a way that makes the air feel hotter than it already is.

He steps a little closer, just enough to make you take a half step back. “Name’s Johnny-” he stretches his hand out, “Mactavish. I’m lookin’ for work. Could use somethin’ steady.”

You study him for a second, arms crossed, and wonder if you should even entertain this. A man like him could be trouble. Hell, a man like him is trouble. You take his hand in yours, giving it a solid shake.

“Do you know anything about farms?” with crossed arms and raised eyebrows, you don't bother to hide the skepticism in your voice.

He shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “I’ve done my share o’ heavy liftin’. Hard work don’t scare me.”

“Alright,” you hum, stepping back and letting the door swing open a little wider. “Come on in. I’ll get you something to drink, but don’t think you’re on the job yet. I’m just…” you pause, “Interviewing, I guess.”

He gives you another smirk,more amused than cocky as he steps past you. “Yes ma’am.”

You step aside, letting him in, and the moment he crosses the threshold, he fills the space. It’s not just his size—though, yeah, the man is big—it’s his presence. Something about him shifts the air, like he’s the sun and everything around him are just mere planets, susceptible to his magnetic pull. The house, your home, suddenly feels a little too small.

His smile fades, just slightly, as he takes it all in. Maybe it’s the warmth of the place, the scent of coffee lingering from breakfast, the old family photos lining the walls. Or maybe it’s just the quiet—different from whatever he’s used to.

“The hell is this?”

Pa’s voice cuts through the room, sharp and confused. He’s already halfway up from his chair, eyes narrowed, hands braced on the armrests like he’s about to stand but isn’t quite sure if it’s worth the effort. His gaze flicks between you and the very large, very unfamiliar man now standing in his house.

You sigh, already anticipating the reaction. “Pa, relax,” you say, walking over to him, ready to placate. “I was just looking for some help around the farm.”

Pa squints at the stranger like he’s trying to figure out whether he’s real or just a heat stroke-induced hallucination. “Help? With what?”

“With everything, Pa.” You lower your voice to a whisper-shout, rubbing your temple. “You can’t keep up the way you used to, and neither can I. We need someone else.”

Pa grumbles something under his breath before scoffing. “And how exactly do ya plan to pay ‘em, huh? We can’t afford that.”

You set your jaw firm. “I’ll make it work, I promise”

That makes him pause. He knows that tone. Knows it the same way he knew your mother’s, unyielding and steady, like a tree standing firm against the wind. Your roots bury deep in the ground you walk on, just like her. There’s no use arguing when you get like this, and he’s too tired to fight a battle he knows he’ll lose.

Still, his lips press into a thin line, his weathered hands gripping the armrests of his recliner before he exhales, slow and resigned. “Stubborn like your mother, I tell ya.”

The words land heavier than you’d like. You huff out a breath, shoving it down before it can settle too deep—before your guest gets too curious. You don’t need a stranger poking around and popping stitches.

So instead, you turn away from Pa as he sits back down, still muttering under his breath, and quickly clear the dining table of a few lingering cups from breakfast. The kitchen’s only a few steps away, the open floor plan letting you move freely. You rinse out a glass and fill it with cool, sweet tea, condensation already forming on the outside as the humid air clings to it. It’s an old habit, a simple kindness—making sure guests have something to drink.

When you turn back, you see that Johnny’s wandered toward the wall, where a small collection of family photos are hung in mismatched frames. He’s standing still, his broad shoulders relaxed but his head tilted slightly, studying them. Studying you.

Your stomach twists when you realize which one he’s looking at.

It’s old, a little faded in its frame, but still clear—you, small and bright-eyed, cloaked in your Ma's too-big dress and classy jewelry, drowning in fabric and pearls as you grin at the camera. Your Ma's crouched beside you, laughing, her arms wrapped around your waist to keep you steady. The slight shadow of your Pa holding the camera, capturing a moment frozen in time.

You clear your throat, the sound cutting through the quiet hum of last night's baseball game replaying from the tv. Dave Winfield hit his 400th home run last night against the Twins. Johnny’s attention was pulled back to you. His blue eyes flicker with something unreadable before he schools his face.

You don’t give him the chance to say anything. Instead, you hold up the glass and gesture toward the dining table. “Sit.”

He does, pulling out one of the side chairs and settling into it with an easy, almost lazy confidence. You set the glass in front of him and take the seat at the head of the table, watching him as he wraps his fingers around the sweating drink.

And for the first time since he showed up, he’s quiet. 

You realize, rather suddenly, that you’re not actually sure what to ask him. You’ve never interviewed anyone before—never had to. The farm’s always been run by family.

You clear your throat, shifting slightly in your chair, trying not to feel small under his gaze. He’s watching you—not in a way that feels threatening, but in a way that makes you hyper-aware of yourself. Of the way your fingers tap against the tabletop, of the bead of sweat still clinging to your collarbone from the August heat.

You square your shoulders and push past it. “So,” you start, “what kind of experience do you have with hard labor?”

He leans back a little, forearms flexing just enough to be distracting. “Done my fair share,” he says, voice casual, like he’s talking about the weather.

You arch a brow. “Like?”

His lips twitch, just slightly, like he can tell you’re trying to keep up the tough act. “Military.”

That gives you pause. Military. You study him again, looking past his too-relaxed posture. Yeah, you can see it now—in the way he holds himself, in the sharpness of his gaze, in the way he takes in a room like he’s cataloging exits.

“What branch?” you ask.

“UK Special Forces.”

That surprises you, but you keep your face neutral. You wondered what brought him here, of all places. Obviously he wasn’t American, he sounds like Groundskeeper Willie, for Christ's sake. Your fingers tap against the table once before you ask, “What’d you do?”

He hesitates. It’s slight, barely there, but you catch it. His jaw tenses for just a fraction of a second before he exhales through his nose. “Served where I was needed.”

You tilt your head. “Iraq?”

His eyes flicker—not with surprise, but with something else. A shadow. It’s gone just as quickly as it appears, buried under that same easy smirk. “Among other places.”

You don’t push. You just nod, sensing that it’s not something he wants to talk about all that much.

You’re fine with that. Everyone’s got their wounds.

You exhale, shifting slightly in your seat, fingers drumming lightly against the wooden tabletop. “How much can you lift?”

Johnny takes his time answering, reaching for the glass of sweet tea. He swirls it absently, watching the condensation bead and trail down the sides before taking a slow sip. “Depends,” he finally says, setting it down with a soft thud.“What’re we talkin’? Hay bales? Fence posts? You?”

Your lips press together in a flat line. You refuse to bite. “Let’s stick to hay bales.”

His grin is slow and amused, like he enjoys getting under your skin. “Can handle hay bales no problem.”

You roll your eyes and shift topics before he can drag this out. “Ever ridden horses?”

He stretches slightly, rolling his broad shoulders before settling back into the chair. “Aye, a few times,” he says, tipping his head. “No’ often, but I ken how.”

You nod, working through his accent in your head, but ultimately satisfied enough with that. “Ever herded sheep?”

His brow quirks, and he tilts his head just slightly, giving you a look. “Aren’t there dogs for tha’?”

You let out a quiet huff of laughter, shaking your head as you lean forward to rest your elbows on the table. “Yeah, there are. But Dixie’s old now and too nice for her own good. Sleeps with the sheep more than she herds them. Think she likes being part of the flock.”

Johnny’s expression shifts just a fraction—nose wrinkling, jaw tensing like he’s biting back a reaction. Then, casually, like it’s nothing, he mutters, “No’ really fond o’ dogs.”

Your fingers tap against the table once before you hum, neither surprised nor bothered. “That’s fine. Dixie’ll leave you alone if you don’t want to interact with her, she’s a sweet girl though.”

Johnny exhales through his nose and nods, shifting in his chair. He leans back, resting one arm over the backrest like he owns the damn thing, settling into an easy, almost lazy posture. You, on the other hand, are still sitting straight, trying to keep some sense of control in this conversation. You move toward the standard questions—his work ethic, reliability, how soon he can start. Hopefully ASAP.

He answers everything with the kind of confidence that makes it clear he’s no stranger to hard labor, though he keeps the details vague, like he doesn’t see the point in spelling things out to you

Eventually, you sit back, rubbing your hands over your thighs before resting them in your lap. “Look,” you start, exhaling slowly. “I’ll be honest with you. I can’t pay much. It’s a lot of work for a little money.” You’re already bracing yourself for rejection.

Johnny’s quiet for a moment, like he’s really thinking it over. His fingers tap lightly against the table’s edge before he shifts, rolling his shoulders once more before leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees. “I’ll work withou’ pay,” he says finally. “So long as I get a place tae sleep. An’ meals.”

That throws you a little. Your fingers tighten around the fabric of your worn jeans as you study him, searching his face for any flicker of dishonesty. But he doesn’t look like a man trying to con you—just someone who’s already made up his mind.

He watches you right back, head tilted slightly, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll argue.

You think on it. It’d be more cost-effective to add a couple extra eggs or greens to each meal rather than shell out cash on the daily. You don’t particularly like the idea of someone working for free, but if he’s willing, if it helps keep the farm running.

You nod, exhaling through your nose. “That can work.” This time you extend your hand first, across the table and palm up. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

Johnny glances down at your hand, then back up at you. Slowly, he reaches out, his grip firm and his hand dwarves yours. Working hands, warm, rough with calluses. The shake lingers just a second longer than necessary before he lets go, settling back into his seat with an easy smile.

“Guess I’m yours then, boss.”

You spend the next few hours showing Johnny around the property, riding side by side on horseback. Before you even get 5 minutes out of the barn, you realize—for all his confidence—he’s not the best at riding. His posture is stiff, his grip on the reins just a little too tight, and when the horse starts to trot, it becomes painfully obvious—he can’t post to save his life.

You bite back a smile, watching as he bounces awkwardly in the saddle, his jaw tight with concentration. Yeah. That’d be a lesson for tomorrow.

For now, though, you make things easier on both of you. You have Johnny dismount the horse and put her back in her stall. He does so with a small huff, rubbing the back of his neck in embarassment, and you gesture for him to get on behind you on Shimmer—your brown beauty with a white patch on her forehead. She’s steady, calm, used to being ridden double.

He hesitates for only a second before swinging himself up behind you, settling in close. Closer than you’d realized he’d be.

It makes sense, he takes up a lot of space compared to you. Granted, Shimmer is a horse for your size, not his. His chest is flush against your back, warm and solid, and suddenly, you’re very aware of just how big he is. His arms rest lightly on either side of you, long enough for his hands gripping the saddle’s pommel as he adjusts. 

You swallow hard, fighting the blush creeping up your neck. Focus.

“You good back there?” Your voice is steady, but barely.

Johnny shifts slightly, just enough that his chest presses firmer against you. “Aye,” he says, low and smooth. “Though, I cannae say I mind the view from back here.”

You roll your eyes, forcing yourself to focus on guiding Shimmer forward instead of the warmth of him against your spine.

Tomorrow, you’ll teach him how to properly ride a horse.

You guide Shimmer across the acres, Johnny still seated behind you, his chest a steady presence against your back. You don’t bother overwhelming him with too much about the animals—there’d be time for that later. For now, you focus on the land itself, pointing out the ins and outs of the property. The best routes to take. The spots where the fence needs checking. Where the land dips and swells, where the ground gets soft after rain. What to avoid.

To your surprise, he doesn’t just nod along like he’s only half-listening—he absorbs everything.

You’d expected some level of attention, but Johnny takes it to another level. He’s perceptive, and alarmingly so. He never asks you to repeat yourself, doesn’t need clarification. His responses are short but sharp, repeating directions back to you with precision, like he’s filing everything away for later.

It shocks you a little. Most people take weeks to learn the best ways around the farm, to memorize which fence posts need reinforcing, which pasture belongs to which animal.

Johnny’s picking it up in hours.

You exhale, eyes scanning the land ahead as you consider it. Must be the military. You don’t know much about what exactly the UK has their Army doing, but you imagine remembering terrain was part of the job. Mapping escape routes, tracking paths, knowing where to move and when. James Bond shit.

It’s a little unnerving, if you’re being honest. But at the same time, it’s... reassuring. If he can learn this fast, maybe he’ll actually be useful around here.

By the time the sun starts its slow descent, painting the sky in hazy streaks of orange and pink, you’ve spent the better part of the day word-vomiting everything Johnny needs to know about the property. He took it all in with that same sharp, unnerving focus, barely asking questions, barely missing a beat. You’d expected him to lose interest, to at least seem overwhelmed, but he never did. It’s strange.

It’s late afternoon. You bring him inside, leading him upstairs to the guest bedroom.

The layout of the house is simple. All the bedrooms are on the second floor. Pa’s bedroom is to the left of the stairs, along with a storage room and a couple of closets down the hall. He’s got his own ensuite bathroom, which is a luxury in a house this old. There’s a small common area at the top of the stairs, more of a nook than a real room, where an old desk and a shelf full of worn books sit untouched most days. To the right of the stairs and down the hall is your bedroom, and next to it, the guest room—now Johnny’s room. Directly across the hall is the bathroom, which, as of now, isn’t just your bathroom anymore.

It’s Johnny’s too, now. You just had to pray he would remember to put the seat down. 

You pause outside the guest room, pushing the door open so he can step in. It’s simple—a sturdy bed, a nightstand, a decently sized dresser. Nothing fancy, but clean and comfortable enough.

Johnny steps inside, tossing his bag onto the bed and glancing around. He gives a small nod, like he approves, before shooting a look over his shoulder.

"Cozy," he remarks, that damn accent making the word sound richer than it has any right to.

You cross your arms, leaning against the doorframe. “My room’s next door,” you tell him, nodding toward it. “And we’ll be sharing the bathroom across the hall.”

Johnny quirks a brow at that, glancing toward the bathroom before his gaze slides back to you. His lips twitch—not quite a smirk, but damn close.

“Hope ye dinnae take long showers, then,” he teases.

You huff, pushing off the doorframe. “I don’t. I won’t be in your way. Hope you won’t be in mine.”

He chuckles, low and amused, before stretching his arms above his head, the hem of his wife beater riding up just enough to reveal a dark tuft of hair, tastefully accented by a vline and the bottom half of some abs. He sighs, rolling his shoulders. “Well, as long as ye don’t mind m’walkin’ around in a towel,  we’ll get along just fine.”

You blink. Once. Twice. He’s messing with you, but you wouldn’t mind a bit. You don’t give him the satisfaction of hearing that. “I’ll let you get settled,” you say, tone flat. “Let me know if you need anything.”

Johnny watches you for a second, then grins—a lazy, wolfish thing that makes your stomach flip in a way you’d rather not acknowledge.

“Yes ma’am,” he drawls. “I’ll be on my best behavior.”

You don’t dignify that with a response. You turn on your heel and head back downstairs, exhaling as you step into the kitchen. Dinner. You’ll focus on dinner. For you, Pa—and now, Johnny.

Like it’s normal. Like you’re not dangerously aware of the Greek God now living just a door down from you.

The sun’s nearly set by the time dinner’s on the table, casting a warm orange glow through the kitchen windows. The air is thick with the scent of home-cooked food—something rich, filling, the kind of meal that sticks to your ribs after a long day’s work. You don’t cook fancy, but you cook damn well, and the proof is sitting right across from you.

Johnny practically groans after the first bite, dropping his fork against his plate and leaning back in his chair like he’s just had some religious experience.

“Steamin’ Jesus,” he mumbles, chewing through another mouthful, shaking his head in near disbelief. “This is th’ best thing I’ve eaten in—hell, I dunno how long.”

You scoff, stabbing a piece of chicken with your fork. “You act like I just served you the cure for cancer.”

Johnny just points his fork at you, eyes damn serious. “Might as well be.”

Pa huffs out a chuckle, though he’s still regarding Johnny with that wary, fatherly suspicion. He’s been watching him since he sat down, not quite unfriendly, but assessing. The kind of look that says ‘I don’t trust you yet, but I’m willing to tolerate you.’

“So,” Pa starts, setting his glass down, “what’s a young guy like yourself doin’ lookin’ for farm work? Dun’ seem like the kinda thing a soldier would go for.”

Johnny doesn’t falter. He wipes his mouth with a napkin before answering, “Needed a change o’ pace,” he says. “Figured I’d try m’hand at something new.”

Pa isn’t impressed. “Ya ever worked on a farm before, boy?”

“No’ exactly, no.” Johnny pops another bite into his mouth. “But work’s work, aye? Ye put in effort, ye get results. Simple enough.”

Pa hums, clearly not satisfied with that answer. “... And where’d ya say your from, again?”

“Scotland.”

“Huh.” Pa leans back slightly, arms crossed. “Ya don’t say.”

Johnny just grins, sensing the old man’s suspicion and, by all accounts, enjoying it. But then he shifts gears, effortlessly steering the conversation in a different direction. “Caught some of tha’ baseball game ye had on this morning.,” he says, casually, like it’s just an offhand remark. “Did nae get tae see th’ end of it, though. Who won?”

That gets Pa’s attention. His eyebrows lift slightly, suspicion briefly forgotten. “Ya watch baseball?”

Johnny shrugs. “Not often, bu’ I like a good game when I see one. And from what I saw, th’ Angel’s were struggling there for a bit.”

Pa scoffs. “Struggling? Boy, they were getting their asses handed to ‘em. Pitcher was all over the damn place. If I’d been on the field, I’d have-”

And just like that, the two are off, talking baseball, going back and forth like they’ve known each other for years. You groan, pushing your food around on your plate as the conversation carries on, completely hijacked.

You should’ve known this would happen. Give two men a sport to bond over, and suddenly, they’re best friends.

You zone out for a while, chewing absentmindedly, half-listening as they talk about batting averages and pitching speeds. You don’t notice it at first—a gentle nudge against your ankle.

You flinch slightly, assuming Johnny just bumped you on accident. You shift your foot away under the table.

He follows with his own. Your brows furrow slightly, shooting a glance at him. He doesn’t even look at you, still chatting with Pa like nothing’s happening.

A moment later, another nudge—softer this time.

You realize he’s doing it on purpose.

You sit up straighter, stiffening as you move your foot again.

Johnny follows.

Your jaw tightens, eyes narrowing. What is he doing?

You flick your gaze toward him again, and finally, he meets your eyes. Just for a second. Just long enough for the ghost of a smirk to tug at the corner of his mouth before he looks back at Pa, completely unfazed.

You resist the urge to kick him under the table, opting instead to glare daggers at him, your expression screaming ‘What in the absolute fuck are you doing?’

Johnny, the absolute menace, doesn’t react beyond the occasional brief glance in your direction, his smirk lingering like he’s enjoying this way too much.

Meanwhile, Pa’s none the wiser, still going on about how baseball’s gone soft over the years. And you’re stuck sitting there, silently fuming, trapped in a footsie war like you’re in grade school.

Dinner winds down, the conversation between Johnny and Pa finally tapering off. Johnny, mercifully, lets up with the footsie nonsense, though not before giving one last, slow brush of his ankle against yours—like a final, smug little victory lap. You pointedly ignore it, pretending not to notice, even as heat creeps up the back of your neck.

Eventually, Pa calls it a night. He pushes back from the table with a tired groan, muttering about how he’s “too damn old to be up this late,” before shuffling off toward the stairs.

You listen to his slow, steady footsteps as he heads up to his room, waiting for the familiar click of his door shutting. And then—you’re alone.

Johnny lingers in the kitchen, standing near the island, hovering. He looks out of place for the first time since he showed up, like he’s not sure if he should offer to help or just let you do your thing. Instead, he leans against the counter, arms crossing over his chest, his weight shifting from one foot to the other.

It’s awkward—unlike him.

You stack plates, rinsing them under the faucet, letting the warm water fill the quiet. But you can feel him watching you. Not in a weird way—just... observing. Like he’s waiting for something.

And you’re not about to let that something slide.

“So,” you say, voice casual as you scrub a dish, “what was with the footsie?”

Johnny makes a noise in the back of his throat, amused. “Thought ye’d never ask.”

You scoff, shooting him a look over your shoulder. “Seriously?”

His smirk is pure trouble. “Could nae help myself, lass,” he says, leaning forward slightly, elbows braced on the countertop. “Ye just looked so serious, sittin’ there all quiet, tryin’ not tae react.” His voice drops just a bit lower, teasing. “Was cute.”

Your heart stumbles in your chest, a traitorous little skip that pisses you off.

Because, genuinely, what the hell? Sure he’s probably the most attractive man you’ve ever seen, and potentially your exact type to a T, but you’ve only known this man for a day. There’s no way you could be that desperate, no way you’re already feeling anything. Right?

The thought alone makes irritation creep up your spine. You shut the faucet off with a little more force than necessary, turning away from the dishes completely so you can fully face him.

“What are you playing at?” The words come out sharper than you intended, but you don’t care. You fold your arms, leveling him with a look. “Are you actually here to work? Or are you just here to freeload an-”

Johnny pushes himself off the counter, not playing around. He stands up straight, tall, and present. And when he looks at you this time, there’s nothing cheeky about it.

“I’m here tae work,” he says, steady, certain. “Ye need help, and I can handle it. Tha’s why I’m here.”

His smile returns, but it’s softer this time. Honest. He lifts a shoulder in a slow, lazy shrug, his voice dropping. “But you’re gorgeous, and there’s no denyin’ that. Just sayin’.”

Your brain stalls. Stops working entirely. There could very well be steam coming out of your scalp.

He moves beside you, completely unfazed, grabbing a towel like it’s the most natural thing in the world and starting to dry the dishes you had already washed. Meanwhile, you just stand there, staring where he was just standing, still feeling the heat of his gaze on your skin.

You’re in trouble.

[adragonprinceswhore]

You’re Nothing But A Beast

Osferth x Reader

Summary: After falling into a river in the middle of winter, Osferth needs to warm up his lady companion.

Warnings: 18+, AFAB reader, she/her pronouns, depictions of hypothermia, temperature play, water being too hot for comfort, yearning, religious guilt, fingering, praise

A/N: I dug this one up and re-read it today, feeling festive so thought I’d share it 🩵

Word count: 2600

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It happened too quickly for Osferth to react.

Under his lord's request, he had been trusted with the important task of delivering a noble lady to her betrothed only two days' journey away.

But the sudden snowfall that met them after a mere half day's travel left the ground slippery, causing his companion's horse to panic and throw her off and into the river lining their path.

Osferth hadn’t hesitated when he jumped off his horse and reached into the river to aid her, swiftly dragging her to land as she coughed up the water she’d swallowed in shock.

He’d pulled the furs adorning his saddle loose and wrapped her in them in a futile attempt at keeping her warm, but to little avail. Shivers continuously erupted from her body so aggressively she could hardly stand still.

Now, dread makes Osferths chest tighten as he considers their situation.

Only half-way to the inn where they’re set to spend the night, one horse short and snow falling onto their cold bodies, freezing them further.

He glances at the Lady he’s meant to protect as he ponders their next move.

Her shaking form leaves him on high alert. She looks like prey; ready to be captured by any ravenous predator lurking behind the trees.

He knows how quickly the chill can claim a person.

I have failed her.

“My lady, we need to find heat”, he speaks rapidly, eyes blown wide in panic as one of his hands tenderly rests on her arm. She only shivers in response, mouth unable to utter words as her teeth chatter loudly together.

Lord Uthred had tasked him with this, a simple delivery, and he is failing him.

I have failed my lord.

Osferth tries to chase the defeatist thoughts rattling in his brain away. He cannot let this blunder best him, this might be one of God’s trials; a chance for him to prove to the Lord that he is still a good man, despite the depraved acts he’s indulged in as of late.

He places her in the saddle of his horse, continuing their tracking as he leads them on the narrow path lined with snowclad trees. He cannot help it when his eyes flicker to her. In the corner of his eye, he sees the strange shade her lips have shifted into; the drain of colour on her face.

When Lord Uthred had informed his men that one of them needed to escort a noble lady on a short trip, he hadn’t even bothered to look Osferths way. Fighting alongside them, offering his loyalty and by consequence, his life, to their cause still did not reflect on how they viewed him; always just a Baby Monk.

Osferth’s insistent advocating had finally worn his lord down. Uthred’s tone was laced with irritation when he reluctantly agreed to grant the young man his first expedition unaccompanied.

Looking around the sparse trees next to the path they were trailing, Osferth felt shame consume him like never before. He shouldn’t have been trusted with this; it was as they thought.

Still just a Baby Monk.

He sighs in resignation, moving to walk infront of where the lady’s shiver form is sitting so she won’t be able to see his face as the corners of his lips pull down.

Walking with his head cast down, shoulders tensing up with each step, he suddenly realises that he’s trailed this path before.

In summer, which could explain why he hadn’t recognised the scenery quicker, as it’s now coated in a layer of snow.

The Lord must be on my side.

“My lady, I know a place nearby that will warm you”, he speaks over his shoulder before he steers his horse towards where he is sure they discovered a natural spring spewing out hot water from the underground last time he walked this wood.

From the saddle of his horse, she let out a weak hum in reply.

Osferth’s estimations were correct. There is a source of hot water here; a blessing that God himself had carved out of the side of a rocky hill. Despite the harsh winter chill, it is still warm, judging by the steam oozing from it.

Could this be witchcraft?

They come to a halt before the water. “Lady, the spring here will warm you”, he explains, turning around to face her.

She’s stopped shivering, her body now seems stuck in rigidity. Osferth swallows thickly before reaching out to grab her waist to help her down from the horse. His fingers sink into the material of her coat with an unpleasant squelch; her clothes are soaked and freezing cold.

“You’ll need to remove this before entering”, he mumbles without looking into her eyes. The redness on his cheeks and ears are no longer solely from the harsh cold biting at his skin.

Before he joined Uthred, Finan and Sithric, he was a god-fearing monk devoted to a life in the service of God.

But his time with them had led him down a path of deviance; a life filled with swords, fighting and women.

The latter happened to be Osferth’s favourite of his new-found interests.

If he did not know of the pleasures of the flesh, he might not have found the lady he’s guarding so enchanting. He’d had eyes for her since he first saw her, admiring her soft skin and sparkling eyes. But only from afar.

Always from a distance.

A pious lady like her should not be sullied by my impurity, even in thought.

She moves unsteadily, hands stiff and rigid as she unsuccessfully tries to undo the buckles of her winter coat.

“Allow me”, Osferth offers as he quickly helps her get the coat off. Her thick wool dress underneath is just as soaked as her outer layer and Osferth helps her shed that too.

Soon, she is left in nothing but her undergarments; a thin, crem-coloured smock. It sticks to her curves like a second skin, giving Osferth a clear view of her perky nipples and the soft curls nestled between her thighs.

He does not know what to say, afraid his voice will betray his tainted intentions, and chooses to remain silent when he grabs her hand to lead her towards the heated water. He’s determined to help her get in, make sure she does not slip on any icy rocks, and then leave her to bathe herself warm.

Her cold hand holds on to him tightly as she steps into the water, a cry escapes her lips at the contact.

“I-, I cannot enter. It’s too hot”, she whines, stepping back. Osferth moves his hands to hold on to her elbows as he searches for her eyes.

“You must warm up, my lady. The chill could kill you”, he speaks softly. She nods in understanding, again moving her feet back into the scorching water. She hisses at the sting as she brings her second foot in, eyes growing glassy at the sensation.

“Osferth, it burns”, she meekly complains.

“Please, try to relax”, he instructs her. He cannot help but take pity on her, she still looks so weak, the familiar glint in her eyes no longer there.

She takes a deep breath in an attempt to calm herself before experimentally lowering her body a bit further. The hot water feels like a thousand needles piercing her skin and she quickly stands to her full height again.

The grip she has on Osferths coat tightens as she stiffly stands in the warm spring, “I cannot-, i- it’s too painful”, she says in a defeated tone.

Osferth feels how cold her body is through her thin smock. He sees the odd colouring of her face. She needs to warm her body, even if it’s painful.

The brief but instructive experience with the women he’d indulged in had earned him some new skills. Perhaps he could utilise that to make her more pliable?

“If I help you overcome the sting, will you stay in the water?”, he inquires with uncertainty, already ashamed of his lewd proposal.

She looks up at him curiously, nodding in response.

“I know of a way to relax you, if you trust me?”

“I trust you with my life, Osferth”, she gently replies, giving him the courage he needs to show her his debauchery.

He smiles nervously, allowing his hand to move from her elbow down to her hip. He cannot find the words to explain what he’ll do to her, and decides that it would be better to simply show her.

His palm travels from her hip, to her thigh, and then towards her centre. She shivers slightly under his touch, but does not stop him, eyes watching him in peculiarity.

He moves to gently cup her mound, long fingers reaching down to stroke her core over her garment.

The fabric will shield her from my impurity, if only slightly.

His face feels hot, his eyes flicker from her face to the snowy setting surrounding them. He tries his best to remain indifferent, but the sweet gasp she releases as he carefully strokes her stirs something awake within him.

“Focus on the pleasure, my lady”, he instructs her as he moves his fingers to circle her pearl through the wet fabric of her smock. He wonders if she’s ever done this to herself; ever allowed herself to engage in sinful pleasure.

Her fists are still holding onto the fabric of his coat, her breath heavy as she tries to forget the burning water her feets are submerged in.

Osferth grows bolder, pressing down a bit harder as his fingers work in steady circles. Her body squirms before him.

He instantly stops the movements of his hand, eyes filled with worry as he asks, “Am I hurting you?”

“No”, she says with a slight shake of her head.

“Then let me”, he pleads, picking up the pace of his hand once more, “Please”

She closes her eyes, tiny gasps leaving her stiff mouth.

“I-, If you.. also touch..”, he cannot finish the sentence, still ashamed of his depravity; the depravity he’s inflicting upon her.

She must know that he does not mean to besmirch her, his only wish is to help her.

She surely knows how sullied I am by now. Will she still allow me to guard her as our journey continues for another day?

“Osferth?”, her voice, close to a moan, brings his thoughts to a halt.

“Yes, my lady?”

“Is it a sin to kiss?”

Her inquiry leaves his mouth dry, yet he swallows and answers, “I-, I do not know”

“Oh”, she sighs, not in pleasure but more akin to disappointment.

“I-, I cannot imagine it is!”, he blurts out when he sees her eyes cast down, “Simply an expression of affection. Like between a mother and her babe”, he reasons, voice slightly breathless at the implication.

“Do you feel affection for me?”, she asks, gaze trailing up to meet his.

How could he resist her now, when she’s looking at him like that? When the shimmer in her eye has returned? When he can think of nothing else but to swallow the sweet moans that leave her lips?

He ducks his head down to kiss her in reply, the hand not between her thighs coming up to engulf the entirety of her cheek.

She moans into his mouth when his thumb circles her pearl, and he takes the opportunity to slide his tongue into her mouth. Her face and lips are so cold, but her kiss is just as sweet as he’d imagined.

He comes up for air, still revelling in the feeling of her, “Does it feel more bearable?”

“Yes”, she moans again, the colour now back on her cheeks.

Despite the depraved method, Osferth takes pride in knowing that he’s helping her; warming her up again.

“Kneel”, he instructs, allowing her to grab onto him as he lowers himself with her, standing on his knees in the snow as she sinks further into the scorching water.

She hisses at the stinging sensation and Osferth soothes her with another kiss, quietly murmuring, “I’ll make you comfortable, my lady”.

He can feel how cold the smock is against her skin, and without pondering upon it for too long, he moves to rid her of the garment. A voice inside of him tells him it’s to allow the steam from the water to reach her skin. Another voice tells him it’s for his own pleasure, so he may admire her fully.

Has the devil consumed my senses?

She is still shivering; from the cold air, the heat of the water, or Osferth’s touch, she does not know.

He brings one of his hands down into the water, large palm gently scooping up some of the scorching water and letting it slide down the side of her arm.

“You’re doing so well”, Osferth compliments her, eyes kind and inviting as they seem unable to stray away from hers.

His hand comes up to cradle the side of her face. She leans into his touch and closes her eyes, focusing on the pleasure, not her stinging flesh.

His other hand moves between her thighs again, but this time he makes contact with her pearl without hindrance and she whimpers at his touch, eyebrows scrunched together in bliss.

Divine.

His fingers travel down further. Feeling the wetness he created with his touch has his head spinning.

As he slips a finger inside her tight heat, she grabs onto his shoulders, rocking her hips in tandem with his movements, throwing her head back. He searches for that spot inside her that he knows will make her collapse into his embrace, and when he finds it she rewards his pursuit with another pleasure-thick cry.

“Use me, my lady. Find your pleasure”, Osferth urges as he places his hand so that the finger inside of her tightness presses at her sweet spot while the heel of his palm pushes down on her pearl.

Her fists hold onto his shoulders tightly as she rides his hand, mouth gasping as it searches for his to indulge in another sin. He lets her use him; he knows he’s the one responsible for her wanton ways.

I’ll pray to the Lord for her salvation later.

Another finger slips inside her, and he feels her tighten harshly as she peaks, falling forward into his embrace. He carefully moves his hand away from her warmth, allowing her a moment to steady her breathing as she rests her head against his chest.

Though she has found peace and comfort, Osferths body is still on high alert, painfully aware of the closeness between him and her naked form.

He’s been able to keep his gaze away from her, to offer her the slightest decency, but when she leans back his eyes unabashedly flicker down to watch the steady rise and fall of her breasts.

She finally sinks into the water, breathing heavily from the intense peak he drew from her. Osferth’s panting as well; cheeks tinted pink and eyes dark with lust. His mouth appears to be salivating as his gaze stays on her.

She lets out a breathless giggle as she allows the hot water to graze over her skin.

“You’re nothing but a beast, Osferth”

Her words wound him, but the playful smile on her face leaves him intrigued.

“Has the devil got his claws in you?”, she continues to taunt him, though he senses that her intent is not malicious.

“Consume me too. Show me the depths of your depravity”

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Indulgence 4

Warnings: non/dubcon, power imbalance, obsession, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: King!Thor (Medieval AU)

A Knights, Kings, and Knaves Story

Summary: you take a new placement without knowing the full details.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

You stand by the litter and watch as the king approaches his horse. He told you her name is Lightning. He says she is fast. He greets her with a stroke along her nose and she snaps her teeth at him. He chuckles and musses her main.

"Ah, I know, you've missed me. The ladies always do when I go away," he drags his hand over her shoulder and grabs the reins.

He hauls himself up as several guards shift, almost as if they mean to catch him. He lands in the saddle and chortles. "Still got it, haven't I?"

The horse steadies and he prances her in a circle. He raises his head high and keeps up his booming laughter. When the hooves still, he looks around.

"What is this then? Let us be off? This road exhausts me already," he thunders.

The soldiers and nobles disperse to be about their own mounts. The king catches your eye and bows his head. He smiles. You dip your head and bend your knees before turning to climb into the litter. Your protests that you could slip in with the servants were unheard in his tent and the conversation didn't last as he was soon snoring like a storm.

You cannot gripe. The mattress is soft and the motion of the litter is almost soothing. The horses clop by and the wagons roll along, the day unfurling as the sun traces its course across the sky.

It feels longer than the day before. Perhaps because you are alone. When camp is called, the sky is worrying shade of grey blue.

"Flip the wagons," the men holler, "should a tempest fall, it will keep safe our supplies."

As a furor picks up across the train of travelers, you emerge from the litter. You are uncertain of how you might assist, or even where to go. You watch the activity all around. You might ask one of the maids how you can help.

"Kitten," the king's voice draws you away from the whim. "Ah, there you are. What a rather dull ride without you."

You face him and bow. He approaches with stiff steps as he braces his lower back.

"My steed is not so accommodating as the litter," he tuts. "But I did enjoy to see the bounty of my kingdom."

"Your highness," your eyes stray to the darkening clouds.

"Aye, I've been forewarned of the storm. I never worried for them. I was born in one. The horse will kick up but have no fear," he assures. "Come, they ready my tent."

He leads you through the camp. Wheels are turned to the sky as luggage is hidden beneath, passengers too. As all prepare for the fury of nature, the king is unbothered.

You enter the tent set on four poles. He sighs and sits on a stool awaiting him. He groans and drops his head forward. "The hips, I expected, but my neck..."

You watch him brush his fingers through his hair. There are knots from the wind as some beads hang loosely from unwinding braids. He sits up and tosses his hair back over his shoulders.

"Your highness," you approach. "Might I?"

You gesture and he tilts his head, "so long as you don't meant to tug my ear."

You catch a tangle and work at undoing it. "It will mat should you leave it."

It's habit, you suppose. Your charges run in with their dirty faces and mussed hair and you just go to work. Be he a king, Thor tends to share their heedlessness.

"Thank you, kitten," he purrs.

"You've a comb?" You wonder.

"Ah somewhere."

"A king should wear tidy braids," you gird. The task with keep you busy. Him too. You are still wary lest he grow too bored. You shudder at the thought of your first meeting.

"Fastidious woman," he praises. "Try not to yank too much."

"Be certain to be still and I will not," the retort escapes before you can think. You always say the same to the children. "Your highness," you still your hands and look at him. "Forgive me, I didn't mean--"

His laughter interrupts you.

"You are right to be cautious. I am stubborn," he shakes his head and his hair catches on your fingers, tugging at the root. "Already I do challenge you."

"I was only... I will be gentle," you assure him.

You carefully untangle his strands, bit by bit. He sits, moving only to roll his shoulders or shift his posture. When you have the knots under control, you let down his braids and re-weave them. He yawns.

"I think that's better, my king," you step back.

He reaches to touch his hair. He grins. He plays with the end of one lock.

"I'm am rather much a mess for a king," he scoffs.

"No, I wouldn't say it," you coax. "You wear a mantle of responsibility. And you rode your horse proud today. You will lead us to this new kingdom and do as you must. As you always do."

"Oh, will I?" He challenges as he traces a line on his large palm. "We've only just met, kitten. How do you know this of me? What have you heard of your king, eh?"

"I've heard of your courage. I recall the tale of Crow's Cliff. And the children do love to re-enact the Battle at Wolf's Den."

"Legends. Fancies," he shrugs and winces. "The same as the stories you tell the little ones. Victories but not without loss. Crow's Cliff I was dragged away by horses with a split in my skull and Wolf's Den, I was abed for a year as I could not breathe without a stabbing in my guts."

"But you survived and made certain we all did."

"Ha, is that how you see it? My wife, my father even, did not. Gods rest his donkey's ass but he could never see the good I did. Perhaps, I could not see the bad." He clutches the muscle between his shoulder and neck. "And now, I am weathered. How can I ride in a tournament when the road has me such." He leans his elbows on his thighs. "What king am I?"

"You've many days to practice, haven't you?" You suggest. "Sit your horse and get your balance, your highness," you near. "Show me wear it hurts."

"Eh, kitten, too kind are you. I'm better to find the stabler that soothes the horses of their cramps."

"But I am here."

He growls and keeps his eyes down. He points to wear he kneaded before, just across his shoulder. You move around him and hover your hands over him.

"Tell me if it hurts."

"It all hurts," he chuckles. "But I can bear it for a pretty maiden."

[herbirdglitter]

Realistically, and based on the amount of shipping between other characters,

I think there should be way more Boromir/Legolas content than there is.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t ship them, but think about it.

A) Legolas’s face when Boromir dies. That’s a face that should have launched a thousand fics.

B) Boromir is first in line to rule his kingdom. Legolas is first in line to rule his. Presumably. But where Legolas is relatively carefree and happy, and unlikely to be saddled with the burden of responsibility for his kingdom anytime soon, Boromir lives for his people. His entire life is responsibility. It would be a very interesting dynamic to explore, is what I’m saying. They could teach each other things. They could bond. It would be beautiful.

C) THE OPPORTUNITIES FOR CRACK. Can you imagine Boromir coming home like

“Father, I failed to complete the task you gave. I hope you will forgive me, as I have managed to forge a marriage alliance with the Elves of Mirkwood. That’s right, I got their crown prince. Why are you eyes popping out of your skull?”

Or

“Yes, this is my husband Legolas. Who’s the dwarf? A mutual friend. He wouldn’t agree to marry me unless Gimli got a room too. He’s great with the kids though.” The kids are fully grown hobbits.

Or a Boromir who ditches his position as steward because he’s feels he’s unworthy, and goes and lives among the elves for a time. And he and Legolas become a nice slowburn. Gimli is there a weird amount, because obviously. And whenever he shows up, they get together to complain and talk about what types of ales they miss. He starts to loosen up a little and maybe forgive himself a bit.

As I said, I don’t ship this but I can see the vision and l feel like it should be a thing

[eff4freddie]

Things You Knew

Javi Gutierrez x Reader Rating: M Words: 8k AN: This is my submission for @burntheedges roll-a-trope challenge and @auteurdelabre trope-off. Apologies for doubling up on challenges but it's been a pretty insane month at work. Anyway. I chose Javi G as I've never written for him before, and my trope was Soulmates. This was really fun to write and I hope you enjoy! Warnings: None

Your ankles crinkled in their sockets when you stretched them, and you didn’t want to think about what it meant, so you didn’t. You rolled your shoulders, feeling the way the tendons strained under the weight of keeping your head up. It wasn’t even that working for Javi was that hard – he was a kind boss, generous with his time and respectful of yours – it was just that his relentless quest had started to take its toll on all your other tasks. Tasks that were mounting up without his attention.

‘Mr Gutierrez…’ you started, your arms full of binders and your iPad balanced precariously on top, ‘you have a meeting with the executive producers this afternoon…’

‘Cancel it, and it is Javi, please. You know this, Cariño.’

He was good looking enough that you didn’t mind the pet name, or that he’d bestowed it upon you the moment he saw you on your first day in the job, seven and a half months ago. Now, though, it grated on you as he strode past you standing patiently at his office door.

‘They’ve said that if you don’t show up this time the deal is off, Mr Gutierrez,’ you tried again, following behind him as he made his way down the hall to the front door. Your heels clacked on the marble in a way that announced your arrival well before you had any intention of making it, and you hated that you were unable to move silently through his house.

‘They can say whatever they want to. They do not understand I’m on a quest,’ he said, talking to you over his shoulder as his longer legs carried him. You sighed, the sorrowful little sound of it stopping him in his tracks. You took a step back as he rounded on you.

‘Como, Cariño?’ he asked, his brows saddled in concern. ‘Do you work too late? Do you carry too many things? Look at all these…’ he tutted at you as he took the binders from your arms, all labelled neatly in your script; the names of his various projects, ledgers, budgets, a contract he still hadn’t read let alone signed. ‘Who makes you carry these, hmm?’ he said, grinning at you slightly as you secured your face in a disapproving glare.

‘My boss,’ you said, but fighting a grin.

‘What a monster he must be,’ Javi said, winking at you. You felt the heat crawling up your cheeks, and hated yourself for it. You had noticed long ago that his voice, when it was just the two of you, was softer, quieter, that he almost whispered to you such that sometimes you found yourself leaning closer into his orbit just to pick up the words. You felt the fizzle up your spine and ignored it, every time, his cologne and his shampoo and just his skin enough to send a riot of butterflies into your throat and suffocate you.

‘Enough of this, it does not matter to me,’ he said, dismissing your months of work.

‘Mr Gutierrez, when you find her, you’ll need…don’t you think you’ll…’ you tried to think of a reason. He didn’t need the money, you knew that. He didn’t need the social status, he had that in spades thanks to his wealth and his association with Nicholas Cage. He had everything a man could want except for the thing that kept him up at night, and when he found it…

‘Don’t you think Nic will want to know what happened to your next movie?’ you tried your Hail Mary, invoking the name of Jesus himself. Javi paused. Your arms now empty you tugged nervously on your sleeve.

‘I will find her,’ he said, determined, and you nodded at him. ‘But when I do, you are right, I will need to juggle all my other responsibilities…Oh, Cariño will you help me, still? You will not leave me to rot?’

‘You won’t rot,’ you said, rolling your eyes at him. ‘You’ll be too happy with her.’

He grinned, his dimples popping out. Sometimes you wondered what it would be like to take them between your teeth, but you resisted, you always resisted.

‘I will be, Cariño, won’t I?’ he said, but he wasn’t asking for an answer, and you could see the way his eyes had drifted away from yours that he was imagining her again, conjuring her in his mind as if he could transport her in front of him just by sheer will.

‘Yes, Prince Charming,’ you said, and he smiled at you, again.

‘If only I had a glass slipper to try on these women,’ he said.

‘You have better,’ you said, nodding to his wrist. Absent minded, he ran his fingers over the mark, the pattern you had seen enough times to know by heart.

He looked at you, sadly, then, his eyes coming back to yours. He knew it was a privilege to have been marked, that not everyone was born with their destiny etched on their wrists.

‘Is this hurting you?’ he asked, and you swallowed, collecting yourself for a moment.

‘You’re not the first I’ve witnessed find their match,’ you said, the words bitter on the back of your throat. ‘I’m happy that you will be happy, Mr Gutierrez. And that you apparently won’t fire me the moment you find her.’

‘I would never,’ he said, jostling the binders in his arms so that he could extend a hand to your shoulder. You felt the warmth seep into your skin through the loose cotton of your shirt. He wore a look of consolation on his face, and somehow that burned more than anything else.

A moment passed between the two of you, Javi’s thumb caressing your skin without his fully realising. You could see again his eyes were unfocussed, could see the spread of goosebumps up his forearm. You pushed him away, taking a step back and out of his grasp.

‘I do hope it’s soon, though,’ you said, plastering a smile on your face. ‘Not sure I can hold off the execs much longer.’

‘Tell them a family emergency came up,’ Javi said, ‘tell them I am sorry, but I must attend to my loved ones.’

‘Mr Gutierrez, we said that last time,’ you reminded him. He dropped your binders, one by one, on the hall table by the door. Through the glass you could see his driver idling his sports car. You held in a sigh. Taking a pen from his front pocket he at least signed the contract, sight unseen.

‘Tell them again…it is not untrue,’ he said. ‘When I find her, she will be family.’

Before you could try and get him to see sense he was gone, the door opened and closed for him as he strode over the threshold. You forced yourself to look away, to turn your shoulder and stare instead at the binders beside you. You could never look when he left you.

--

You had meant to go home, you really had, but you found yourself unaccountably engrossed in Javi’s bookkeeping and before you knew it the sun was setting over the ocean. Your phone rang, the vibrations jolting you out of your work.

‘-lo?’ you said, without checking, and when you heard a scoff you knew it was your roommate, Karla.

‘Girl, what are you doing?’ she asked, and you sighed.

‘I got…stuck with work.’

‘I’ve been texting. This time you didn’t even leave me on read.’

You had put your phone on Do Not Disturb the moment Javi had cleared the driveway. If he found Her, finally, you didn’t want to know about it.

‘Oh, I…needed to concentrate,’ you said. You realised your eyes were stinging and you blinked them a few times. How long had you been bent over your laptop? Too long, judging by the squawk of protest from your shoulders when you moved.

‘You’re breaking your back for this guy again?’ Karla asked. She knew, or at least she suspected with the benefit of very good evidence, that you didn’t work so hard for Javi because you cared about his next big movie production. Balancing the books for a multi-billion-dollar company wasn’t your job, either. But you knew that Javi had been taken advantage of before, by his own family no less, and you just liked to keep an eye on things to make sure he could trust his accountants.

‘I have a business degree, I gotta use it somehow,’ you said, and you heard Karla laugh. ‘What did you want, anyway?’

‘I was calling to see if you wanted to go out tonight, but I’m pretty sure I know the answer.’

‘Mmm,’ you agreed. You felt your stomach protest, remembering that you had forgotten to eat lunch. Javi had a way of making your tummy flip that made it difficult to want to add food to the equation.

‘He’s out again, on the hunt?’ Karla asked, gently, because she could read your mind even through the phone and that was why you loved her.

‘Mmm,’ you said, again, this time trying to sound blasé.

‘And you’re not waiting around for him to come home to see if he’s hit the jackpot?’

‘Mmm-mmm,’ you said, shaking your head for the benefit of absolutely no one.

‘Course not,’ Karla replied. ‘Will you at least go eat something?’

‘How did you…’

‘Could hear your stomach grumbling from here,’ she cut you off, and you grinned. You paused, feeling the smile slide off your face.

‘Do you think he’s ever going to stop looking?’ you asked, and you heard how wistful you sounded, how sad, your voice failing to cover for you.

‘Honestly?’ Karla said, and you held your breath, waiting for her to answer. ‘No, that man is determined and he gets what he wants.'

‘He put the ad in the paper,’ you said, ‘and he went on Late Night and showed his mark on TV.’

‘And how many fakers did that bring out of the woodwork? The cheap tattoos? That one lady who Sharpied hers on and didn’t think he’d try wiping it?’

You scoffed at that. She had lasted all of three minutes, and it was three minutes too long in your opinion. His security teams had received a talking to after that.

‘I don’t like seeing him… like this,’ you said, and you meant distracted and not able to attend important meetings, making you grovel for reschedules. Of course that’s what you meant. ‘He was so disheartened when all that publicity didn’t work.’

‘Kind of makes me grateful I don’t have one, to be honest,’ Karla said. You made your way to Javi’s kitchen, untouched by anyone except for his chef, and scrounged around for something with which to make yourself a sandwich. ‘I think he’ll do all this dating, and he won’t find Her, but he’ll find a girl nice enough, or gorgeous enough, and he’ll make do.’

‘Some stunning influencer.’

‘6 foot tall, waist tiny enough to wrap one hand around,’ Karla agreed.

‘Rich lady hair. Tits up to her chin,’ you added, after a thought.

‘She’ll have a PhD in neuroscience, and something in Law’ Karla giggled, ‘and she’ll volunteer for the UNHCR.’

‘And she won’t know how beautiful she is, she just will be.’

‘She’ll pop out twins and be…wait are we just describing Amal Clooney?’

‘We…we might be,’ you conceded.

‘I met her once, she was lovely.’

‘Of course she fucking was,’ you said, an ache blooming at your temples you were worried would turn into a full-on migraine. Karla was right. That was absolutely the kind of woman Javi would end up with, should end up with, if there was any justice in the universe. You knew this. Of course you knew this.

‘I’m gonna go meet my Not The One But Good Enough,’ Karla decided.

‘Put the sock on the doorknob,’ you reminded her, and she remained on the line long enough to scoff at you before she was gone. She was your best friend.

You turned back to the cupboards, considering your options. The kitchen was well stocked, but it was an ingredient kitchen. You just wanted a box of mac and cheese, not to have to roll the pasta yourself. You sighed.

‘That was dramatic,’ you heard a voice behind you, and you swivelled fast enough to make yourself dizzy.

‘Mr Gutierrez!’ you said, his voice honeyed but his eyes sad in the light from above the stove. ‘You’re back early.’

You watched as he sighed, plonking himself down at the table. Behind him a storm threatened to blow in over the ocean. You felt your stomach sink for him.

‘She was not the One,’ he said, and you nodded.

‘Not even the Not the One But Good Enough?’ you asked, and he shook his head.

You knew Javi. Despite Karla’s predictions, you knew he was uncompromising in getting what he wanted, that he had enough money in the world to engineer any career, any dream for himself but this one thing, this one missing piece, that was nevertheless evading him. He wasn’t the type to settle, even if it would make him reasonably happy. You knew this, too.

‘I do not know how to describe it, just that I knew she was not Her.’

You stayed by the cupboard, not wanting to interrupt his reverie, not sure if you should intrude. It almost seemed as though he forgot you were there, until he snapped his eyes to you. ‘What are you doing hiding in the kitchen?’

‘I didn’t have dinner…’ you said, and he slapped his forehead.

‘I forgot!’ he exclaimed, standing and running out of the room. You followed, because it seemed urgent, and because of course you did. You watched as he ran to the garage, disappearing into the darkness before you heard a car door slam.

‘Sorry, Cariño, I was just so upset about the girl, but it should still be warm. I will heat it for you.’

‘Mr Gutierrez, no, I can…’ you said, not wanting to remind him of the last time he tried to heat up leftovers, including his Great Grandmother’s silver serving spoon.

‘I know, Cariño, no silverware,’ he tutted at you, and you once again found yourself tagging along behind him.

‘Now you know,’ you said under your breath, and you heard him giggle.

So caught up in chasing him down, as per usual, you didn’t even look at what was in his hands until he produced a plate and served it. You had been expecting a half-eaten chocolate cake, maybe some bread and an unwanted appetiser, but what greeted you was an intricate dish, seafood and delicate squares of polenta, a garnish of radish and dill. You looked, as subtly as possible, for any bite marks and found none.

‘The chef recommended it as his favourite,’ he explained, his eyebrows saddling as he watched your reaction. ‘You eat fish, yes?’

You nodded, dumbly. ‘How did you know that I would…’

‘You’re always working late, Cariño. You think I do not notice but I do.’

You felt heat in your chest, your belly flipping again. This time, though, the smell of the food wafting gently over your nostrils was enough to overcome it. You were embarrassed to find your mouth watering.

‘Thank you, Mr Gutierrez,’ you said, warmth in your eyes as you looked at him. He smiled, pleased.

‘She did not like the food at all,’ he said, rolling his eyes as he put the plate down in front of you and went to find forks. ‘She did not like to eat.’

‘Well, she’s crazy,’ you said, too impatient to wait for the cutlery and instead diving in with your hands, picking up a polenta square and popping it into your mouth. An explosion of flavour danced across your tongue and you moaned, your eyes closing of their own volition. When you opened them again you saw Javi gazing at you, pink blooming across his cheeks.

‘It is not cold?’ he asked you, his voice oddly strained.

‘No, it’s good, do you want some?’ you asked, reaching down and holding a square out for him. He came forward, tentative, as you placed the food gently on his tongue. You felt an ember of something lighting between your thighs as he savoured it, groaning slightly.

‘Oh, it is heaven,’ he said, still with his eyes closed. You thought for a deranged moment of slipping from your chair and getting down onto your knees for him, wondering if you could make him make him groan like that with his cock in your mouth. You blinked, swallowing harshly. His eyes opened, gently, to gaze down at you.

‘I regret so much about tonight, and now I must also regret that I did not choose this for my own,’ he said, and you smiled at him. He reached for more and you batted his hand away.

‘Mine,’ you growled at him, and he grinned.

‘My hungry little Cariño,’ he said, and the little ember started to catch flame.

He sat beside you, his hand resting on the back of your chair, as you tucked in. So engrossed in the food you didn’t notice he had lapsed into silence until your plate was almost entirely cleared. When you finally remembered he was in the room you took him in.

He was quiet, his chin resting in his other hand as he considered the darkening sky over the ocean. You could see he was deep in thought, a kind of maudlin contemplativeness he was prone to sink into when things didn’t go his way. You wanted to pull him into your arms and wrap your fingers in his curls, soothe whatever troubled him with your lips on his skin.

‘What else do you regret about tonight?’ you asked, bold for someone who was technically talking to her boss. You pulled him from his reverie, but the room remained heavy with the weight of his sadness.

‘Have I gone about this all wrong?’ he asked. You wanted to reach out and smooth the indent where his brows crashed together, wipe the hopelessness off his face once and for all.

‘I don’t know how else you could have gone about it,’ you said, honestly. ‘You’ve gone about it basically every way there is.’

‘The talk show, that was not such a good idea.’

‘It seemed OK at the time, you just forgot people are generally terrible.’

‘A Sharpie, of all things. And it was black.’

You snorted a little. ‘I mean, no marks for execution but you gotta respect the hustle?’

Javi lapsed back into consternation for a while, and you let him. Being with him set your nerves ablaze but also, paradoxically, calmed you in a way that no-one else did. He was your boss, and he was annoying and this quest of his was ruining your standing with quite a few important contacts, but he was also kind, and he was loving, and you imagined that if you were to rest your head on his chest and listen to his heartbeat it would sound like home.

‘She just feels…I do not know how to say it. She just feels…like she’s right there. But I can not grasp her.’

You wanted to reach out and put your hand on his forearm, rub it with your thumb as you cooed into his ear. You needed to get yourself together. You were tired and he was wearing down your resistance by being so sad and so fucking gorgeous at the same time. You cleared your throat.

‘I should head home, it’s late,’ you said, and he nodded.

‘Cariño…’ he suddenly started, grabbing your arm as you went to move away. You pulled it from him, the heat of his touch even through your sleeves scorching. He sat beneath you as you stood over him at the table, his expression changing from sadness to hope to something else, something not quite settled comfortably on his features. ‘You can come in late, if you like. Since you worked late tonight.’

You couldn’t have said how. Maybe just that the look on his face, his hesitation, just by the way he had paused as he gazed up at you, but you just knew he had been going to say something else, had been thinking something else entirely. You wouldn’t ever be able to articulate it. You just knew this, too.

--

You shouldn’t have been surprised. This was what you wanted, after all. So, you could only smile, a little tightly, when Javi bounded into his office one afternoon, uncharacteristically late, and beamed down at you sitting at your desk.

‘You found her,’ you said, ignoring the stone shifting in your belly.

‘No,’ he said, his face suddenly serious, a look of almost remorse crossing his fucking beautiful features. ‘But she is just as good.’

You nodded at him. Fucking Karla had willed this into existence.

‘So, your quest is over?’ you asked, but he was already bouncing on his heels, looking at you with bright eyes and his dimples so sharp he could poke himself. You recalibrated. ‘Tell me the story,’ you said.

‘Oh, Cariño it was like nothing I had expected but somehow it was better.’ He was looking over your head, as if watching the movie of this perfect moment playing back behind his eyes.

‘We do not have the same marks. Hers is different, it is close but a little off on the left side? Anyway, I was at the bar talking to Marco, you remember Marco he financed my last project? So, I was talking to Marco about locations for filming in the Spring, and suddenly there is a tap on my shoulder and a woman…a vision of a woman…tells me if we need a vineyard she has one on the south coast!’

‘She…has a vineyard,’ you repeated, an image of Amal Clooney in a sundress holding a bottle of wine while giving you the finger appearing in your mind.

‘Well, it is her fathers, but I can not exactly complain about that,’ Javi said.

Ah. There it is.

‘And where did she get her law degree?’ you asked, not able to stamp out all the bitterness in your tone before the words escaped your mouth.

‘Eh?’ he asked, and you waved him away.

‘No, nothing, it’s…that’s great. When do I get to meet her?’

‘Cariño, you want to meet her?’ he asked, and he seemed genuinely surprised this, and because of that it was difficult for you to quantify the hurt it caused.

You’d forgotten, you supposed. All the late-night chats, the bringing you dinner, the times you had stood beside him while he worked his way through half of Europe trying to find his one, then most of Hollywood to boot, you thought that there had been a friendship there, something more than a boss and an overworked, underpaid employee. Of course there wasn’t. He was a billionaire and looked like a model and talked with passion about almost everything he encountered. You were…you. You knew this.

‘Well, I need to vet her, Mr Gutierrez,’ you recovered, quickly. ‘Have you done the necessary background checks?’

‘Oh, I do not need those, this is love,’ he said, and you tasted sour over the back of your throat. Your mouth was turning down all on its own, the muscles of your jaw twanging under the strain. You were horrified to realise you were going to cry in front of him if you didn’t get out of there.

‘Mr Gutierrez, I strongly urge you to do the background checks,’ you said, your voice reedy, but he wasn’t listening. You wondered if he ever would again.  

‘We are to holiday in St Tropez,’ he announced. ‘I have just decided. Will you organise the helicopter?’

This time, you didn’t follow him as he strode out the door. You worried, instead, that you had condemned him, and by extension yourself, to a life of disappointment. It had to be this way, you were sure of it, and maybe you were worrying over nothing. Maybe this vineyard-inheriting goddess could make him happy, in the end.

Almost unconsciously you lifted your sleeve, your fingers tracing idly over your mark. You knew Javi’s so well. It mirrored your own.

--

‘He’s going to fucking marry her,’ you predicted, genuine misery in your chest nearly as heavy as the four pints of ice-cream you’d put in your belly. The Ben and Jerry’s had been Karla’s idea, and only now were you slightly regretting it.

‘Oh, fuck her, and fuck him too,’ Karla said, waving melting Triple Caramel Chunk in the air. ‘She’s probably got a stick so far up her arse she can’t bend over without getting a splinter.’

You snickered at this, the cruelty of it appealing to your whispering dark corners.

‘Daddy’s got a vineyarrrrrd,’ you intoned, affecting a truly awful sort-of-British accent.

‘DADDY! GET ME MORE VIIIIIIINES!’ Karla yelled, and now you were laughing so hard you were in real danger of asphyxiation.

‘DADDY! I’M TIRED OF THIS MANSION BUY ME ANOTHER ONE!’ you joined in, through hiccups of laughter and an errant burp.

You both paused for a moment, catching your breath. In the quiet the sadness seeped back in.

‘I still don’t understand why you don’t show him,’ Karla said, after a while. You sighed.

‘It’s not meant to be,’ you repeated for the hundredth time.

‘How can it not meant to be? You’re marked.’

‘Because he’s just…his life is completely different. I don’t fit into it, in any capacity.’

‘You do in one capacity,’ Karla said, nodding her head to your wrist.

‘He would be disappointed,’ you said, eventually, and Karla sighed.

‘You said when you saw him it was like lightning bolts?’ she asked, and you nodded. ‘You don’t think he felt that, too?’

‘I know he didn’t, because he didn’t react at all. It was like he didn’t see me. He just…employed me.’

‘But that doesn’t mean…’

‘Karla, I love you, but you need to listen to me on this one. There were no turtle doves, no petals falling from the sky. He saw me and he shook my hand, and he said, “welcome to my staff, it is lovely to have you” and then he was gone. The whole soulmates thing, they don’t mention that crushing, ridiculous privilege will override it. He didn’t feel anything for me because there was too much money and status in the way.’

You were dangerously close to tears again, the helplessness and the grief washing back over your bones. To your relief Karla just nodded at you, extending a cold hand to rest on your knee. You immediately shucked her off. ‘Ice-cream hands,’ you muttered, and she smiled.

‘I just…I just feel like, shouldn’t he have the choice? To decide for himself?’ she asked, and you shrugged.

‘It’s better this way. He’s found Little Miss Vineyard. He says it’s…he thinks it’s good enough, clearly. That’s good for him.’

‘What about you, bub?’ Karla asked, and you were going to protest, going to tell her that it didn’t matter, that you were happy he was happy, that maybe the one act of love you could do for your soulmate was to just stay out of his way, but for some reason that night the words died on your tongue. You swallowed down their corpses, feeling them curdle alongside ice-cream in your belly.

‘I’ll be OK,’ you said, and you knew the more times you said it, the more likely you would, one day, believe.

--

Javi and Vineyard were gone for the next ten days, which was enough time for you to harden your heart again and get back down to business. You decided, in the spirit of change and new beginnings, to finally bust out the black Amex card Javi insisted you keep in your drawer ‘for emergencies’ and renovated his office, deciding the mid-century brothel vibe didn’t suit a seaside setting. You were going to do modern coastal, you decided, using company time to browse furniture websites and considering the merit of rattan in a professional setting. You were going to do coastal, and you were going to do a fresh start and you were going to do healing. One decorative seashell at a time.

What you didn’t anticipate, though, so insistent on a new office kit out and by extension a new personality, was that everything would arrive flat-packed. The groundsmen faked bad backs, and the security team were pretty adamant their jobs didn’t extend to Allen keys, and so you found yourself down on your knees, sweat sticking your hair to your forehead, trying to beg the lug nut to sit flush on the dowel, whatever the fuck that was. It was this moment, of course, because the Universe was clearly punishing you for an egregious wrong doing in a past life that Javi, of fucking course, wafted back in.

‘Cariño?’ he said, uncertainly, to the lower half of your body.

‘Mmph,’ you responded, a screw held tight between your lips. ‘-ust a sc-nd Mr Git-er-ez,’ you muttered.

‘What are you doing? Where are my things?’ he asked, and you felt your shoulders drop. You took the screw from your mouth, deciding that four equal table legs that all touched the ground was so last year, and got up on your knees.

‘I wanted to surprise you,’ you said, and you looked around at the detritus of your efforts; the bubble wrap, the ripped-open boxes, the two successfully constructed armchairs that took you the better part of the morning to assemble. ‘I thought, a fresh new look for your new love,’ you lied, and watched as his eyebrows shot up.

‘This was all my father’s,’ he said, gesturing to where the old furniture was stacked up against the back wall. You swallowed. You probably should have known that.

‘I…’ you started to apologise, but he cut you off.

‘It was never my style. But I never knew what my style was until…this…’ he said. ‘This is perfect, Cariño. How did you know?’

Your mark tingled and you pulled your sleeve down tight over your wrist.

‘I thought about what I would like and did the opposite,’ you lied again, and he laughed, clapping his hands in delight.

‘My brilliant Cariño,’ he said, and it would have been kinder if he’d just shot you on the spot. You felt the burn and ache in your chest. You wondered what cute little pet names he called Vineyard. But he was coming towards you, getting down on his knees in a way that made your breath catch in your throat.

‘I will assist,’ he announced, in that way he had where there was just no arguing with him.

‘Why do I feel like you have never, in your life, put together flat-pack furniture?’ you asked, and he grinned at you.

‘You know me so well,’ he said, and you really fucking did.

It took an hour and a half, but by the end of your toiling you and Javi had the legs on the desk, all four and all the same length. It turned out if the dowel didn’t sit properly you could just whack it really hard with a paperweight. The things you learned working for Javi.

You stood together, appraising the upturned desk.

‘So, I guess we just each get on the other end and…flip it?’ you suggested.

‘It looks heavy,’ he said, his brows furrowed in concentration.

‘It is, I got the really expensive one,’ you said, and smiled at him when he looked at you, questioningly.

‘You spoiled me?’ he said, and you scoffed.

‘One way to think of it,’ you said, not wanting to tell him you’d paid with glee thinking somehow this might put a little dent in his amour somewhere, knowing that of course it wouldn’t, but feeling the vindication anyway.

‘Ok, Cariño, you get on that end and then I think we…put it on its side?’ he asked, and you nodded at him.

‘Yeah, roll it that way,’ you said, gesturing to your left as you leant down.

‘That way?’ Javi asked, gesturing with his head to his left, not yours, but you weren’t watching him.

‘Mmmhmm,’ you hummed, bracing yourself to lift. Was it lift with your knees to protect your back? Squat? That seemed like it would strain more…

‘1…2…3…’ you counted, hefting the desk to the left while Javi hoisted to the right. It immediately corkscrewed, rolling out of your hand and twisting your wrist as it thudded to the ground. You screamed in surprise and then blooming pain, holding your wrist in your hand as if you could repair it with just your grip.

‘Cariño!’ Javi called, vaulting over the desk and at your side in an instant, reaching out to grasp your wrist. He moved so quickly, so agile over to you that you didn’t have time to react. He pulled up your sleeve to get a better look, turning your wrist towards him to inspect it.

‘Wait, wait…’ you said, as your mark gently rotated into his view.

He froze. You closed your eyes for a moment, terrified to look at him, before you heard his sharp intake of breath. You opened your eyes again to see him examining it, lifting your wrist closer to him to properly inspect it.

‘Cariño…’ he whispered, and you swallowed acid over your raw throat.

‘I can explain,’ you said, but you couldn’t really. He finally lifted his eyes to yours, as if remembering for the first time the mark was attached to a person, and you watched as the confusion on his face crumbled away to a sorrow deep enough you thought he might stop your heart.

‘You knew,’ he said, his voice soft and dripping in betrayal. ‘All this time, you stood and watched…and you never said a thing.’

‘Mr Gutierrez…’ you whispered, not knowing where to even start. He was right, of course he was right, but you had never intended to tell him, had never allowed yourself to imagine the conversation unfolding around you in this moment. The hurt bloomed on his face, and you felt tears start to well at your waterline. You blinked them back.

‘The whole time. You knew,’ he said.

You did, you had known. So many things you had known.

‘I…’ you started, but he was moving, standing up and backing away from you, out towards the door. You looked away as he left you, like you always did. You knew now it would be the last time.

--

This was beyond even Ben and Jerry’s. Karla mostly left you to it, the unique weight of the pain at having hurt your soulmate indescribable. You had read that it was possible, when you finally made the connection, that you could feel their feelings as richly and as closely as your own. The combined weight of your sadness crushed you, pulverised you, such that you could barely think straight. Karla brought you easy food; toast and bananas and chicken soup, and you ate it all without tasting, only feeding your meat suit purely for maintenance, and didn’t allow yourself to remember the taste of the fish Javi brought back to you; his soulmate and his traitor.

You resigned, immediately. In writing, in an email that was never replied to. Each day you scrolled Instagram for news of the inevitable engagement to Vineyard. You held your phone in one hand while you rubbed at your aching mark with the other.

You knew, there were stories, of divorcing soulmates. It was rare but sometimes circumstances overcame even destiny, even biology. Sometimes people died, leaving their soulmates behind. You spent time on message boards reading the stories of people who had lost their connections, of people who had woken up one day and felt the mark cold to the touch, had known in their hearts then and there that their mate was gone. Some had felt it before they had found their matches. They struggled the most; the what ifs, the could-have-beens.

You considered that maybe it was a blessing that you at least knew it was Javi. It would stop you looking for the rest of your life, stop you having to check the wrist of every man you met, second guess any minimal attraction you might have felt to another.

Karla sat on the end of the couch as you stared out the window, the TV on but unwatched in front of you.

‘You love him,’ she said, simply, and you nodded. Heartsick, you didn’t have the words.

‘From the first moment,’ you agreed.

‘No, but it’s deepened, the more time you’ve spent with him,’ she observed. You nodded again before lifting your knees to your chest and resting your cheek there. If you closed your eyes and really tried you could conjure the memory of his cologne, could imagine you rested your head on his chest.

--

A couple of weeks passed. You couldn’t be sure how many. You got off the couch, the thrumming hurt of your heart and your mark lessening somewhat as the days went on. You checked it every morning for its warmth, relieved not to find it cold, and you wondered if your lessening sadness was really just that Javi was moving on with Vineyard. That now you were starting to lose his connection you could be left to your own miserable devices. You considered that this was inevitable, that the ending you had been expecting probably ran pretty close to this. You hated that you had hurt him, though. You had only ever intended to fade into the background before he noticed you were gone.

You applied for another job, this one far less glamorous but less likely to utterly gut you. On the mainland, doing some general bookkeeping and executive assistance for a CEO of a small manufacturing firm. It would be simple work, and you were a shoo-in, subject to a satisfactory referee check. You hovered over the form naming Javi as your previous employer.  In the end you named his business manager, leaving the details for him to fill in.

Your reference check came back within the hour. Glowing. You were offered the job.

Your first week was good, then your first fortnight. You received your first pay-check with gratitude, even though it was almost half what Javi had been paying you. You felt good to be productive again, to be able to put some of your skills to good use. You didn’t have to trail behind your boss as he blew off any and all obligations for some flight of fancy. You spent considerably less time discussing Face/Off.

It was fine, you were fine. It was going to be fine. You were aware, distantly, that you were probably heaving in denial and numbness, and it suited you, so you let it.

Except when you woke on what you thought would be a normal Thursday, your mark burning so hot you gasped awake, reaching for it to check it hadn’t been seared into your skin. Holding it up to the light it looked the same. Karla checked it and confirmed it seemed to the same temperature as the rest of you. Just your nerves were screaming, perceiving a flame not visible to the eye.

You googled, checking message boards, searched ‘burning marks’. There was nothing, which you weren’t sure was a good or a bad thing, worried for a moment you would pull up results from those who had lost their spouses, the burning mark serving as a premonition of the horrors to come. You slathered burn cream on it, which did nothing, took an anti-inflammatory or two and considered calling in sick. In the end you decided against it, because you weren’t sick sick, you were heartsick, and somehow that just didn’t feel anywhere near as real.

On the ferry over to the mainland you considered lowering your arm into the ocean water, the cool of the water maybe able to provide some relief. You would have to get down on your knees in your work skirt, on the wet and not particularly clean ferry floor. You considered it longer than you cared to admit.

In your office the heat from your mark started travelling up your arm and you started googling ‘infections of the blood and skin’ and ‘septicaemia’. You wondered if it was an allergic reaction, if perhaps you had run your arm through some kind of heinous plant, and you wondered if the office had an epi-pen in the first aid kit. You googled if it was bad to use one if you weren’t actually in anaphylactic shock. The internet was pretty damning of the idea.

You wondered if you needed to go the local emergency care clinic, was just debating asking your boss for the afternoon off, when a shadow darkened the door.

‘Cariño?’ it said, a perfect Javi-shaped silhouette as the sun streamed in from behind.

‘Mr Gutierrez?’ you asked, gasping immediately as your mark pulsed, the heat shooting down your arm and into your chest. Was it a stroke? How were you supposed to know if it was a stroke?

‘My Cariño,’ he said, stepping forward into your little office and somehow crowding all the space. His cologne wafted over to you, and you felt the warmth of it spread over your nostrils and down into your blood. You wavered a little on your feet.

‘I’m so sorry,’ you said, stepping back from him as he advanced, feeling the sudden urge to keep space between you, not to let him to get too close, knowing that if got within arms reach you would pull him into you, wrap his arms around your back and your legs over his hips, never detach yourself from him, sink your lips over his neck and taste his pulse through his skin.

‘Cariño…’ he said, but you interrupted him, the searing heat of your mark now making its way to your racing heart.

‘I thought you would be happier with someone more like you… I thought it was a kindness, that you would feel something for someone that would be enough to make you happy. And I only ever wanted you to be happy, you have to understand that I did it so that you could be happy…’ you trailed off, the words spilling out of you now, distracted by the flames in your chest. ‘Karla said I should tell you, let you choose, and I know now that she was right, I think I always knew she was right, but the idea that you wouldn’t choose me, I wasn’t sure I could survive it, so I didn’t let you. It was selfish and it wasn’t very brave and I know I hurt you, and I never wanted to…’ you felt tears on your cheeks, marvelled at them, at how they could appear unbidden. You weren’t sure you were breathing. You weren’t fully convinced you were alive.

‘Cariño…’ he tried again, taking another step towards you but you held your hand up, your aching mark now uncovered.

‘Please, please…I don’t think I can…’ you started, but you didn’t know how to finish. You didn’t think you could stand it if he’d come here to just finally end things. To tell you he was going to marry Vineyard but wanted a clear conscience first. Wanted to let you down easy, in person. Was your mark burning because he was furious with you? He mostly just seemed nervous.

‘Let me speak, Cariño, oh my god,’ he muttered, his patience rapidly running out. You stopped short. ‘I know. I mean, not at first. At first, I did not understand, but I thought about what you must have been feeling, how you must have thought of me.’

‘No, I…’

‘The silly man who runs around causing you problems.’

‘No…’ you started, but he kept talking, despite you.

‘But then I thought harder, and I felt more.’ He gestured to his mark, the perfect match for yours. ‘I was not angry, Cariño, I could never be angry at you. I was sad, I think, that I had failed you.’

You shook your head, the words failing you.

‘I felt more into the mark…I do not think I am making any sense. But I thought of you, my Cariño, I think I heard you in my head a little bit, and I thought of your beautiful heart, and I knew why you did it.’

‘You did?’

At this he shrugged, honest and raw. ‘Of course I did, you are my One.’

‘Why did I do it?’ you asked him, genuinely still trying to settle it for yourself.

‘Because you love, and this is how you show it. You put others first. You always have.’ You nodded. This was true. ‘I see that about you, Cariño. What do you see about me?’

You answered immediately. ‘I see a man who feels deeply and freely, who is passionate about what he wants… who usually gets it.’

‘Usually?’ he asked. You noticed for the first time that, since he had started talking, he had also been moving towards you. That if you reached out to him, and he reached out to you, skin would meet skin.

‘Always,’ you said, grinning.

He nodded. ‘It is true, I will not lie,’ he said. ‘I get what I want.’

He took another step, and this time you stayed put.

‘You don’t hate me? You’re not mad? All those dates…’ you asked, and he shook his head.

‘I knew,’ he said, devastating you in two words.

‘You did?’ you asked, with the little breath you still had.

‘Some part of me knew, yes,’ he nodded. His brows were crashing together now, his face so earnest, so open, as he inched towards you like he was trying not to spook a bear. Later you would realise the closer he was to you the less your mark burned. You could smell him this close, more than his cologne but the clean, crisp scent that was just his skin, just Javi.

‘All of those women, Cariño. In all of those women I looked for you.’

You didn’t think. Nothing about it was conscious. You just felt the firework explode in your chest and moved to him, letting him pull you into his arms and kiss you, his lips searching and little muffled whimpers matching your own. It wasn’t just a kiss, it was a melding, a coming together. It was something right and essential slotting into place, a line item checked off on the Universe’s ledger. You gasped into his mouth, your knees weak, your pulse heavy at your throat. His skin on yours. He reached up a hand to cup your jaw, pulling you closer into him.

‘Javi…’ you whispered, and he groaned a little.

‘Say it again,’ he said, and you did.

[bluecanvasshoe]

platonic!Arthur Morgan & teen!fem!reader

reader being female is only mentioned, like, once at the very start, rest of the story has virtually nothing to do w it

based around the end of the game!!

Arthur notices you’re upset after some sulking around, so he takes you fishing.

warnings: slight rdr2 spoilers, a little smidgen of misogyny, maybe ooc? idk, no beta reader we die like MEN 🔥, little bit of angst, comfort, NO ROMANCE‼️‼️‼️, …….lazy ending, I HAVE WRITERS BLOCK OKAY

word count: 1.5k

Part 2 !!!!! (link is fixed!)

——————

For the past couple months, it’s felt as if nothing you have done has ever gone right.

When carrying hay-bales to the horses, your arms grew tired. Micah laughed as you dropped the feed and breathed heavily. A few months back, Hosea reminded you that, as a child, you weren’t expected to do any of the more challenging work. However, the urge to prove yourself triumphed over his lectures.

Then Ms. Grimshaw approached you in camp, reprimanding you for your insistence on doing the more “manly” tasks. As a girl of the camp who was yet to be an adult, you, unfortunately, were not saved from her pressing you about your future in the gang.

Afterwards, while practising your handiwork with a needle, you pierced your index finger. It drew blood, so Strauss gave you a bandage and a disapproving look.

The gang slowly dwindled in numbers, leaving your already fragile state of mind in a bit of a crisis. Small things piled on small things that piled on big things, and you soon found yourself dreading chores, which turned into dreading every day that followed. The feeling of thinking you were actively disappointing every living being ever drowned out any sense of reasoning.

On a clear morning, you woke up groggy. All seemed well until you were punched in the face with the realisation that you had to actually get up.

Instead of wasting the early morning away, wallowing in the sadness of your flimsy canvas tent, you sat at the dying campfire. Your heart felt heavy in your chest, and your mouth subconsciously pulled down into a frown.

Arthur, ever the early bird, awoke not long after you and sat down on the next log over. His worn and muddied boots crunched on the gravelly terrain, interrupting the chirping of birds. The sun hadn’t yet risen, shrouding everything in a dusky glow.

“You uh… sleep well, kid?” said Arthur, holding onto a steaming cup of coffee.

“Yeah,” you replied simply, staring at the fire. Strauss told you not to drink coffee; he said it was “bad for a child’s development.”.

Arthur sighed, turning his head over as he propped his upper body up, an arm supporting himself by pressing on his knee. “You’ve been acting’ strange,” he commented, “we’ve all noticed. Is somethin’ botherin’ you?”

Your voice caught up in your throat, the words that formed in your head fighting to escape and pathetically losing. “No…just tired.”

The man next to you coughed lightly, clearing his throat. “You…uh, you wanna go fishin’? I oughta' bring some food back to Pearson.”

Fishing? Now there’s something you haven't done in a while. Maybe you could get out of the camp.

“Okay,” you fidgeted with the fabric of your sleep bottoms, your eyes darting from Arthur and back to the fire. It seemed Arthur hadn’t expected you to agree, as he hesitated to find a response.

“Alright, then. Be ready in...about half an hour.”

As promised, you were dressed a quarter after six; at least that’s what your pocket watch you pickpocketed forever ago said. Hopping up onto the pony you used on rare outings, you waited for Arthur to saddle up too.

“You got all your stuff?” He asked, storing away his fishing rod and hoisting himself up, grabbing hold of his horse’s reins.

You look at your saddle bag one last time before turning to Arthur, nodding. “Yeah. ‘Been a while since I've gone fishin’, though.”

“Don’t worry about that; I'll give you a refresher.” Arthur shifted his weight before clicking twice, lightly jabbing his spurs into the side of his mount.

Following his movements, — except spur-less, as you don’t do nearly as much riding as the other men in the gang — you began to move, your horse huffing gently.

You caught up to him thanks to his slow trot, swatting away a couple mosquitoes in the process. “Where’re we goin’?” you asked, your voice raised.

“Well, you ain’t too familiar with his area,” he quickly wiped his nose with his free hand, sniffling. “But it ain’t far. There’s a nice little spot on a lake nearby. You oughta' get a couple bites.”

“Uh-huh,” you sighed, looking down at your hands. Arthur was holding onto his horse’s reins with one hand. You had trouble steering your horse with two.

Arthur slowed once he approached a patch of gravelly sand, getting off his horse with you following. He took out his fishing equipment and walked over to the shore.

“Here,” Arthur reached into his brown satchel, pulling out a block of cheese wrapped in brown parchment paper. “Use some a’ this.” Reaching over, you broke off a small chunk and murmured a hushed ‘thank you’ in return.

“‘M guessin’ you remember what bait is and how to use it, right?” he remarked, preparing his rod. “I think I got it,” you muttered, fumbling with the fishing pole but eventually hooking the cheese onto the sharp point.

“Careful there. Don’t wanna poke your finger.” Arthur joked snarkily, waiting for you to get into a similar position to his, his fishing rod held in front of his body. The bandaged finger he was referring to was sliding the small bit of bait onto the hook clumsily. “Shut up,” you grunted, getting a good grip on the pole and holding it out in front of yourself. The water moved lazily, quietly washing up and down on the sand. The calm surface showed the fish that swam underneath. Minnows dashed around quickly, the small groups of fish moving together.

Crickets still chirped in the distance as birds were beginning to sing, too. The air smelled fresh and felt dewy, a light breeze turning trees into calming windchimes.

“You wanna hold it like this,” he said, tapping his index finger against the line. You attempted the same hold that he had, but with the limited information given, you didn’t immediately get the hang of it.

“No, like- like this, with your index on the line. Should be pressin’ against the rod.” Arthur peered over your shoulder as you adjusted your fingers, pressing the thin string against the wood of the rod. Arthur nodded. “Yeah, that’s good. Now pull back the bail.”

Now, you hadn’t a clue what the bail was, but that hardly mattered. Matching Arthur’s movements, you pulled a semi-circle piece of metal back and over the line spool.

“Alright, now be careful here; don’t wanna take out an eye. Draw back your rod over your shoulder, but not too far. The farther you draw, the longer the cast,” he advised, drawing the pole over his shoulder. You mimicked him.

“Now, you throw it over your shoulder and straight forward,” he instructed, watching your movements. The bait landed about 3 metres away from the shoreline, splashing pathetically before bobbing up and down.

“Just like that. Now, you pull back the bail and wait.”

Silence filled the space between you two—a suffocating, invisible force.

Deer galloped across the lake and within the thick brush. One stopped, a buck, and stared at the two fishermen across from it. His ears twitched before he joined the others.

Loons sang, their eerily beautiful calls travelling across the calm waters. Frogs croaked in the distance, and clouds languidly drifted overhead.

“Look, I… I haven’t a clue what you’re feelin’. But just know that you ain’t alone. We’ve all been stressed. I can’t imagine what you must be feelin’.” said Arthur, turning briefly to face you.

The sun peeked over the distant treeline, slowly casting a calming light over everything in the vicinity.

“I feel like I can’t never do anythin’ right.” You croaked, voice catching in your throat and a painful ache creeping up to your jaw.

“Aw, kid… whad’ya mean?" Arthur had never been great at comfort. He could do it, of course, though he certainly had his favourites when it came to his affections.

You stared off into the lake, your reflection looking right back. “Everythin’ I do feels like a failure. There ain’t a single thing I’ve been able to do right recently.”

Arthur sighed, reeling his line back in and casting it again.

“That ain’t true. You’re a kid. You’re learning. You aren’t… supposed to be great at everythin’, and nothin’ you do is supposed to be right; it’s just supposed to teach you something. This’ll go away; trust me.” He chose his words carefully, coughing to the side before continuing. “Now I know this probably ain’t what you wanted to hear. Feelin’ sad feels... nice sometimes. But it’s true. Basically everyone in this gang is an adult, ‘cept for Jack, so don’t go comparin’ yourself to anyone, you hear? We’re all goin’ through hard times; none of this is your fault, and you ain’t a failure for anythin’.”

The sun steadily rose, framed perfectly by the view in front of you. Your horses huffed occasionally as geese flew above, honking distantly.

He was right; you didn’t want to hear this. You don’t know what you want to hear. Maybe something about how awful you are, or maybe something about how great and amazing you are. You felt conflicted, confused, and even a smidge defensive.

“But I-” “but nothin’, kid. Do with that what you will, but just... think about it. Maybe see things from a different perspective.” He rasped, clearing his throat. “Or don’t; it’s your choice. But just give it some thought.”

Silence settled between you two again, leaving your conflicting feelings to dissipate.

You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, watching as your bait bobbed on the water’s surface. The chill of the north was soothed by the warmth of the sun, and everything, in that moment, felt okay.

—

Part 2

[petalsandantlers]

for @jilymicrofics/ march prompt n.2: chaperone (1000 words) regency AU

enjoy xx

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

Lady Lily Evans had made a habit of avoiding Lord Potter at every possible turn.

It was not an easy task, given the season’s insistence on hosting insufferable balls and outings, where every eligible woman was meant to flutter her lashes and charm her way into a man’s regard. Lily, for all her mother’s best efforts, found herself wholly unsuited to the endeavor.

It was not that she lacked beauty—she had been told often enough that her red hair was a rarity and her green eyes remarkable. Nor was it that she lacked wit—if anything, she had too much of it, sharp as a blade and just as likely to cut. No, the trouble was that she had no patience for pretense. She would not simper, she would not curtsy demurely when she disagreed, and she would certainly not be charmed by James Potter.

And yet, somehow, she had been saddled with him.

“I do not require a chaperone,” she hissed as they strolled through the rose gardens of Lady Macmillan’s estate. The evening air was cool, perfumed with the scent of late summer blooms. Behind them, a few other couples took similar turns around the gravel paths, watched closely by watchful mothers and vigilant aunts. “This is entirely unnecessary.”

James, the picture of casual elegance in his dark coat and cravat, merely grinned. “And yet, Lady Evans, here I am.”

She shot him a glare. “I know full well why. Your mother and mine are in league.”

“They are, rather.” He did not seem the least bit bothered by the fact. “I find it charming, don’t you?”

Lily made an exasperated sound. “Hardly.”

Her mother, in a fit of desperation after yet another suitor had left their house red-faced and insulted, had contrived with Lady Potter to ensure Lily had at least one acceptable escort this season. James had been all too willing to take up the role, much to Lily’s eternal vexation.

He was not the worst of men. That, Lily would grant him. He was respectable, wealthy, and of good family. He was clever, which she might have appreciated were it not for the fact that he used that cleverness almost exclusively to irritate her. And then, of course, there was his utterly infuriating ability to smile as if everything in the world was delightfully amusing, especially her indignation.

“You needn’t look as though I have personally doomed you to misery,” James remarked, glancing down at her. “You might even find my company agreeable if you gave it a chance.”

She scoffed. “Highly unlikely.”

“And yet,” he mused, “we always seem to find ourselves in each other’s company. A rather telling pattern, don’t you think?”

Lily did not dignify that with a response.

They walked in silence for a moment, the sound of their shoes crunching against the gravel the only thing between them. Other couples meandered ahead, slow and dreamy in the moonlight, whilst she and James were locked in this endless battle of wills. It was exhausting. It was—

“I heard about Lord Snape,” James said suddenly, voice quieter, more serious. “He left your house in quite a state.”

Lily pursed her lips. “He deserved it.”

“I’m sure he did,” James said, and though his tone was light, there was a flicker of something else in his expression. “Still, I hope he did not distress you overmuch.”

Lily hesitated. It was a rare thing for him to drop his mask of amusement. She was not quite sure what to do with it.

“He said something unkind about my sister,” she admitted after a moment, voice clipped. “I did not take it well.”

“Good.”

That startled her. She turned to look at him properly, and he was watching her with an intensity that stole the breath from her lungs. “Good?”

“Yes.” His mouth quirked up in a half-smile. “You should not take such things well. You ought to send every fool who insults you or those you love running.”

She did not know what to say to that. Her fingers curled against the fabric of her gloves. “My mother was not pleased.”

“No,” he agreed. “I imagine she was not.”

Silence stretched between them again, but this time, it was different. Less combative, more… thoughtful.

The path curved, bringing them back toward the great house, where the light and music of the ball spilled out into the night. Lily exhaled slowly, gathering her wits.

“I suppose I must thank you,” she said begrudgingly. “For this… chaperoning business.”

James raised his brows, clearly surprised. “You suppose?”

She gave him a look. “Yes, well, I am certain you are only enduring it to please your mother, but it is preferable to some of the alternatives.”

James stopped walking then, and Lily, caught off guard, did too. She turned to face him, irritation flaring again—until she saw his expression.

“I am not enduring anything,” he said, his voice quiet, steady. “Do you truly think I need my mother’s prompting to want to be near you?”

Lily’s heart skipped, stuttered. Her throat felt suddenly dry. “I—”

“I have danced attendance on you all season, not because I was made to, but because I wanted to.” His gaze burned, something raw beneath the teasing veneer. “And if I am to be your chaperone, Lily, then let it be known—I am only protecting you from men who are not me.”

Her breath came short. She did not—she could not—

Somewhere inside, a new set began, violins sweeping into a waltz. The world pressed in, too many eyes, too much heat, and yet, for a moment, it was only the two of them, balanced on the edge of something precarious.

Then James stepped back, offering his arm, his expression shifting into something lighter. “Shall we?”

Lily hesitated—only a fraction—before she placed her hand upon his sleeve.

And as they stepped back into the light, she wondered how long she had been mistaking the battle between them for anything but the beginning of surrender.

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

[chiqita]

WIP Wednesday <3

Got tagged by: @labskeever

No pressure tagging: @skyrim-forever @theoneandonlysemla @hircines-hunter @dirty-bosmer @friend-of-giants @sunlightpassingthroughthewater @pyre-of-pages @pocket-vvardvark @boiledkwamaegg

And anyone who feels like doing this bit, anyone's free to tag me as always, I want to see your WIPs!

I haven't gotten much actual writing done during this week, I've just been editing stuff. It's hot, it's humid, you know how it is. So, enjoy whatever this is, continuing from last Wednesday's piece.

CW: Violence

There it was. Talisse didn’t respond right away. She let the silence stretch between them. Her cheek throbbed from the strike, and the bark dug into her spine, but she held his gaze. “You’ve got a real gift for saying sorry without actually meaning it. Impressive, really.” Malkar’s smile deepened. “You misunderstand,” he said. “I meant it. I don’t condone senseless cruelty.” “Just the sensible kind?” His expression didn’t change, but the glint in his eyes turned flinty. “I condone what’s necessary. And you seem to have a particular talent for making things more difficult than they need to be.” Talisse didn’t answer him. She had no interest in dignifying Malkar’s words with a response. The others resumed their talk, turning away from her completely now, as if she were no longer a person but just another piece of gear to be packed up and carried. That suited her just fine, she had no interest in exchanging pleasantries with them. When they finally began to break camp, the justiciars handled her roughly, jerking her to her feet. But it was Rellus who intervened, steady and unhurried in his movements. He guided her to the horse and helped her into the saddle with careful hands. She caught the sideways glances from the others, heard the muttering. “She can walk. No need to coddle her.” But Rellus didn’t rise to it. He didn’t even look at them, his silence spoke louder than any retort. Whatever his reasons, he wasn’t letting her walk, which suited her just fine. Maybe saving a justiciar’s life came with a sliver of leniency. It wasn’t comfort, exactly, but it was something. And Talisse had no intention of wasting it. With her hands bound behind her back and the justiciars preoccupied with whatever they were doing, she bent her wrist slowly, fingers curling around the hilt of the dagger still sheathed at her hip. She eased it out with care, barely daring to breathe. The blade whispered free. Bit by bit, she twisted and sawed at the rope, the strands fraying under the edge. Hope flared sharp in her chest. A plan. A sliver of control. She didn’t need to outrun them all, just enough to disappear into the trees. Just enough to make them regret not checking more carefully. But the rope gave way too suddenly, and her elbow jerked. The motion drew eyes—one of the justiciars snapped his gaze toward her. Instinct surged. Talisse kicked her heels into the horse’s flanks, and it leapt forward in a startled burst. She then clung to the reins, urging it into motion, but she got no further than a heartbeat before a gauntleted hand closed around her arm. She was yanked sideways from the saddle. The ground came up fast and hard, knocking the breath from her lungs. A golden-clad justiciar was on her in an instant, pinning her down with the weight of his armored body and the brutal efficiency of someone trained for this exact task. His knee ground into her spine, trying to hold her in place, but Talisse twisted beneath him, rage sharpening her movements. She drove her shoulder up and managed to shove him off balance, then slammed her boot into his side. He grunted and rolled, cursing as he slid into the dirt. Another came—the one that had insulted her. Perfect. She caught the glint of his armor a second before he reached for her. She met him with an elbow to the face, then another to the chest, the jarring impact to his armor sending pain lancing through her arm. But it didn’t matter, pain only meant she was still alive, still fighting.

[princess-of-morkva]

heeey, you know how in the legends Morgan le Fay was the one looking after King Arthur in Avalon?

Imagine Morgana ending up in Avalon after her death. You know. Because she's a High Priestess and they were basically the show's version of Avalon's sisterhood of fay?

Imagine Morgana, now with pointy ears and fabulous wings, being saddled with the task of caring for her brother's body and sleeping spirit?

Imagine how angry she is, now immortal and with endless time on her hands, but bound by Avalon's will, having to spend her eternity caring for a brother whom she helped kill?

Imagine how she shouts at him, but receives no response, hits him but leaves no mark. Because he is dead and she has to look at him. At his blank, peaceful face.

(Imagine how after centuries, she learns to let her anger rest

Imagine how after millenia, she does her duty properly and heals his wounds and spirit and lets the Once and Future King rise again

And now that her duty is done, she may leave Avalon and walk the human world again)

[alphacrone]

the dumbest part of trying to be a good enough employee to keep around but not good enough to saddle with extra responsibility is having to look at a task that will, invariably, take me an hour to complete and tell someone with a straight face that it will take three business days

[crimsonender]

Curious if there's any original stories you've been developing?

Yeah, I got a couple.

These guys are from a story about a war between Heaven and Hell. There is no "higher authority" or god in this world, Angels and Demons exist on different planes of reality and are responsible for a lot of the world's myths and legends. There are two human characters in the main cast. One gets a self appointed guardian Angel (who was actually exiled from the Celestial Plane), the other gets saddled with a demon that's been tasked with making her life hell. Said demon catches feelings but gets bullied by their boss into performing their duty.

I also am in the very early stages of developing a 2D platformer that has a simple narrative mostly told through environmental storytelling. I had a working proto-type of character movement working in the game engine Stencyl but the engine is really out of date so I'm starting fresh with what will probably end up being Godot, because the way the character moves is very important to me.

Here's some Monster designs for it!

[thetempleofthemasaigoddess]

The horse healer (part 1)

not royal! horse tamer!Éomer x reader. A tale of second loves. This is part one of two.

(moodboard)

*****

🐴 As a horse breeder, you have devoted your life to the raising and care of horses. From the powerful destriers soldiers mount at war to the large, docile draft horses used to pull carts and plow the fields, to those bred especially for speed to compete in races or work with livestock, you love them all, and take care of them with the same gentleness and attention you would devote to your child - had you one. Your husband, who helps you greatly with your small but successful breeding farm, managing your expenses and earnings and taking care of the heavier tasks, jokes that sometimes he feels you like horses more than people, and you answer primly that you indeed do, he is just fortunate enough to be the exception. 

🐴 You and your husband love each other very much; four years after your wedding you begin discussing having a child. Life is tiring but good; people from all over Rohan and even distant Gondor and Dale come to your farm to buy horses, organise planned matings, and simply ask for your opinion and help, since despite your relatively young age you are by now well-known as an expert breeder. You thank Béma for his blessings, and think that you do not mind never growing rich, or having to work hard from dawn to dusk every day, your life is perfect and should you soon have a babe in your arms, you will really consider yourself the most fortunate of women. 

🐴 Unfortunately, war comes to disrupt your peaceful and tranquil life. All able-bodied men are called to join the army, including your husband. “I will be back before you have time to miss me.” he tells you as you help him saddle the farm’s pride and joy - his stallion Blackwind, a beautiful and headstrong horse that your husband delivered with his hands and is recognised as the dominant member of your herd. You nod in response, not trusting yourself to speak, and kiss him passionately, promising you will wait for him, and pray to Béma every day for his safety and quick return. “Please be careful.” you add, knowing perfectly well how superfluous those words must sound, and with a smile not fully devoid of bitterness he promises he will; a moment later he is riding away, a hand raised in farewell, Blackwind galloping towards the horizon.  

🐴 Only one of them returns. On a cold, windy day, two weeks later, you are walking out of the stables, having entered to check on a pregnant mare and make sure two other horses had been brushed and prepared for the visit of a potential buyer when, looking in the direction of the gate connecting the farm to the road leading to Aldburg, you see a small group of soldiers approaching, their armours clean of blood but battle-damaged, weariness heavy on their faces and bodies. Your heart stopping, you recognise them as men hailing from nearby farms and villages; they are all riding, and one of them is also leading another horse by the reins - a riderless horse you immediately recognise as Blackwind.

🐴 You do not realise you are falling to your knees, and screaming your husband’s name loud enough the Valar themselves can hear it, and clawing at your clothes and pulling your hair;  the soldiers, who wanted to do you a kindness thinking that having Blackwind back might help soothe your pain, look on not knowing what to do, while the farm-hands and grooms gather around to try and help, but you cannot see any of them, as if you had suddenly lost control of your own body, and become deaf and blind to everything that is not the pain exploding inside you. He’s dead. How can he be dead? I need him, I have had him only for four years and thought we would have many more! This is not fair! This is what you’re thinking, as you pray to find out this is not real, or not really happening, he cannot be dead!, he had promised he would return and he always keeps his word…

🐴 It’s almost a relief when in the end you faint, nothingness enveloping you to offer a relief from pain you will soon have to awake from; you close your eyes as the ground rises to meet you, and as darkness fills the world, you have time to realise your life will never be the same. 

🐴 You will later learn you have been a widow for a week already, since your husband fought bravely but was then felled during the bloody battle that inaugurated the brief but brutal war. Rohan is safe once again, having successfully repelled the invading army that threatened its people and lands, but you cannot find in your heart the strength to celebrate. What do you care about the rest of the realm, and of the world? How can you care about anything, when the man you loved, and who you had hoped to share your future and raise a family with, has been taken from you? You know many other people and families in Rohan are mourning their dead and that Béma values and welcomes in His embrace the warriors who give their life in defense of their homeland, but you find no comfort in knowing that your pain is shared, or that your husband’s spirit is safe in the arms of the Rider; you miss him terribly, and every day you spend long hours at his burial, in a peaceful, quiet corner of the farm, mourning his loss and that of the life you did not get to live together.

🐴 You and your husband had lain together on the night before he left, not to mention a few other occasions during the previous days. You hope, and pray, that the Valar have at least granted you a small mercy, and allowed his seed to take root in your womb so that you will have a child to love and to keep you company in the years to come, but only five days after Blackwind’s return the coming of your blood puts an end to your hopes. You cry again, sitting on that marriage bed that has never felt colder, or bigger, than since you no longer have someone to share it with, surrounded by the clothes, tools and other keepsakes that once belonged to your husband but unable to find any comfort in them. 

🐴 A positive -... sort of- aspect of your situation is that you do not have the time to spend your days in idleness, crying as you curse the Valar for their cruelty and let yourself starve to death; there is work to do, lots of it, and now that your husband is dead the future of the farm lies on your shoulders alone. You and your husband will not get to raise a family here, but your workers, the grooms and farm-hands working the fields, do depend on you for their livelihood, not to mention the dozens of prized horses who need to be fed, exercised, and cared for in so many ways. You do not want to abandon all of them to their destiny, nor to sell the farm for a price far below its value to wash your hands of it; the farm is your family’s treasure, your life’s work, and the only thing left in the world you care for. So, for its sake, and for that of the creatures who depend on it, you take heart, dry your tears, and get to work. 

🐴 A compensation has been paid to the families of the soldiers who died in the war, and you use the funds to buy new horses and make some repairs around the estate; the farm does good business and despite your broken heart things go back to normal… if not for a single issue, due to the one creature who, in his own ways, is suffering for your husband’s loss with the same intensity and depth as you do. 

🐴 You know horses suffer in war as much as men do. So many of them die in battle, or have to be put down to spare them suffering, or are taken prisoners by enemies with their riders and owners. Still, you had never seen any of them behave like Blackwind has done ever since he was returned to the farm. The usually stubborn and vaguely diffident but well-behaved horse seems to have transformed into a creature hailing from the darkest depths of Mordor; he does not allow anyone, not even the grooms who have taken care of him for years, to touch him, reacts with alarm and aggression when someone approaches, and barely eats, and drinks, which worries you greatly. You have never thought horses dream, but at night, when silence has fallen on the estate and the other horses sleep peacefully in their stalls, he suddenly starts neighing loudly and thrashing around, tormented by nightmares he cannot wake from.

🐴 No one is able to calm him down; not even you, who the horse knows better than anyone apart from your husband. The problem pertains other horses as well: hoping that Blackwing will find his peace if surrounded by his own kind, you try to release him in the fields surrounding the farm together with his kin, but without success: your husband’s stallion becomes aggressive as soon as his kin, including the mares, try to approach him. When the grooms try to lead him back to the stables, he again reacts in alarm, and only the quick intervention of a few other people save one of them from being trampled under Blackwing’s hooves. From that day on he tries repeatedly to escape the stables, often leaving a trail of devastation behind him, to gallop freely and alone; the farm-hands lament that the horse disrupts their work in the fields, his evident distress elicits that of the other animals, and in a couple of occasions he even leaps over the gates of the estate to intrude into that of your neighbours -who are not happy- or escape towards the nearby woods. On each occasion, it takes days to bring him back, not to mention that having to devote so much time to his care and retrieval naturally means you and your workers have to neglect other duties.

🐴 The powerful stallion, once the pride and joy of the farm, is completely ungovernable. The estate is not large enough to allow him to roam freely avoiding contact with people and other animals, and wherever he goes, he causes disruption. Despite all the chaos he’s been wrecking, sometimes, when you look at Blackwind, you can’t help feeling a syntony with him, his rage not unlike the one you have felt filling your heart ever since he returned without his rider, and that you also vented crying, breaking things -and then sorely regretting it, since it meant having to spend coin to replace them- and cursing the Valar. “That horse is causing more trouble than he is worth, mistress; you should get rid of him, and forget about him.” the head groom suggests, and you only consider the possibility for a moment before dismissing it: while putting down horses is something you are unfortunately familiar with, it is an extreme measure you only resort to in order to spare a beast pain, not to free yourself of a problem you cannot deal with otherwise. Like with all the horses on the farm, you have a duty to take care of Blackwind, not to mention he is the closest thing you have left to your husband: not only he would want you to help and protect his beloved stallion, but abandoning Blackwing would make you feel as if you had abandoned him. 

🐴 So you are determined to help Blackwind, or to die trying. But how? You are quite sure he is not exactly sick, and unfortunately you cannot talk to him, and hope for an answer when you ask him what in the world is wrong with him and what you can do to help. You pray to Béma for help and the next day, no doubt coincidentally, you receive the visit of an old acquaintance of your husband to discuss the price for renting your draft horses to work on another farm. You mention your issue with Blackwind over tea, and the man, a former soldier, almost off-handedly mentions that he knew a man who would be able to help you. “I am not going to put him down.” “I was not thinking about that; it is just… I once had a horse that was exactly like your stallion; he seemed possessed, as aggressive and dangerous as a Balrog, not even the bravest soldiers dared approach him. Until a certain man was called, and he was able to calm the stallion and restore him to sanity; I swear it was almost as if he could talk to the horse!” 

🐴 This sounds like the sort of scam you were warned against all your life, like the travelling vendor who swore the concoction he sold would make any woman look twenty years younger or the false healer who offered to make your father’s finger grow back in exchange for a thousand gold pieces, but your interlocutor swear the man he is talking about is actually gifted, capable of fixing even the most unruly horses. He is exactly what you need… even though unfortunately your acquaintance cannot remember the man’s name, nor he knows where you could find him, since the man was a traveller. “I could try and ask around for him, if you want; spread the word that he’s needed.” he offers, and you thank him, already convinced that you will never hear about this miraculous horse tamer again, or him about you. 

🐴 Over the next few weeks you have ample time to forget hearing about the man you have heard about; it is almost time for the most important horse fair of the year, a hectic period for any breeder in Rohan, including you, not to mention this is the first time you cannot count on your husband’s help. You work tirelessly to ensure everything goes without a hitch: the horses are groomed and prepared in order to look their best in front of potential buyers, you hire guards to protect you in case your convoy is assaulted along the way to Edoras, and ask discreetly around about your competitors, their best mounts, and the prices that will be asked for them. You depart, and for the first time in months you do not think about Blackwind, too occupied with the tiring but exciting activities of the fair: inspecting the horses brought by the other breeders, bargaining with the buyers, meeting old acquaintances to exchange news, gossip, and tips. It is a brief moment of respite that you desperately needed; you still feel your husband’s loss tremendously, especially when so many people you meet for the first time since his passing look for you to express their condolences, but you make good deals and your horses are hailed as among the best in the whole of Rohan. The King’s steward himself buys some for the Royal Household, a great honour that fills your heart with pride. 

🐴 You return home tired but satisfied, content with knowing your husband, wherever he is, must be proud of your work. Unfortunately Blackwind’s situation has not improved while you were away, the grooms you left at the farm tell you, which means you will have to decide what to do with him sooner or later, but you will think about it in the morning. You return to your bed, as large and cold as you remembered it to be ten days ago, and fall asleep dreaming of a man -your husband, no doubt, even though you cannot see his face- holding you in his arms. 

🐴 On the next day you have just broken your fast when you are told you have a visitor. You walk to the house’s door, thinking it might be one of the buyers from the fair who came to complain about your horses -not that they might have a reason to, but people can be very fussy when they return home and realise they have spent more than they should have- or someone who could not attend it and now wants to do business privately… and you find yourself face to face with a man you have never seen before, and who you immediately realise is not a breeder, or a merchant, or a groom, or like any person you have ever met. 

🐴 “May I help you?” “My name is Éomer. You are mistress (name)? I was told you needed help with an unruly horse.”

🐴 So it is him; against all odds, word of your situation has reached him, and he came, which is good, even though his sudden arrival takes you by surprise, so much that at first you do not know how to react. “You did ask for me, yes? I can leave, should you want me to, but I promise I am not here to arm you…” “Of course not. Please come in; would you like something to eat?”

🐴 He is younger than you expected, not much older than you, with the same blonde hair many Rohirrim tend to have and a short, well-kept beard; he bows politely as he enters the house and thanks you for the food, which he eats unhurriedly even though you can hear his stomach growl. “Is it true what they say? That you can tame even the most unruly horse?” you can’t stop yourself from asking, and he ponders the question for a moment before answering that “It depends. I can certainly try, but some horses simply cannot be helped in any way. But to be more precise, I would have to see the animal first.” You lead him to the stables, where Blackwing has recently been led to by the combined efforts of five men; it became necessary to keep the stalls next to his empty, to make sure other horses did not get hurt as your husband’s stallion trashed around and tried to bite anyone who approached.

🐴 You observe Éomer closely. He walks confidently into the stables, ignoring the many valuable horses as his brown eyes immediately find the stallion that is, for once, calmly resting in his stall, probably exhausted after his latest tantrum, which ended with the healer called to check the injuries two grooms had sustained. “A war horse, is he not? Four, five years old?” he murmurs, low enough for Blackwind to remain unaware of his presence. “Yes; he is exactly four and a half, and he is a war stallion. How did you know?” “Knowing horses is what I do for a living, mistress. I assume he was part of the recent conflict?”

🐴 You tell him that Blackwind was, indeed, the steed of a soldier who participated in the recent war, and sadly returned without him; since then, the previously wilful but obedient stallion has been unmanageable, refusing not only to be ridden, but even to be approached by the people he had known for years. “I am very worried about him; he barely eats, he cannot seem to bear the presence of his own kind as well as ours, and he has grown violent. He has hurt half of the grooms of the farm, and when we leave him free, he causes disruption in the fields and among the farm-hands. I do not want to put him down; all I want is to help him, but I cannot seem to understand what is wrong with him.”

🐴 Éomer nods briefly, his eyes still trained on your husband’s horse; a floorboard cracks under your feet, and Blackwind turns his head to look at you, and at him. He neighs softly, a sound that reminds you of the growling of a wolf, immediately alert, and you can see him grow agitated as Éomer walks slowly towards him, deaf to your urging to be careful, because he could get hurt. Not daring to breathe, you observe this stranger as he approaches your husband’s horse, whispering words of reassurance that fall on deaf ears, because Blackwind tries biting him, and would succeed if not for Éomer’s quick reflexes. “What hails you, my friend? I can see you are in pain; can you tell me why, so that we can try and help you?” the man asks, not at all discouraged, but Blackwind does not seem in the mood to chat. He neighs threateningly, and when Éomer does not back down - not out of fear, you realise; many people become paralyzed in the face of danger, unable to flee to save their life, but this is different; Éomer is standing his ground, ready to meet his opponent…

🐴 … and in the end, he barely avoids being trampled. “By Nahar’s hooves! Step back, I beg you!” you cry, and the man obeys, walking back to you as Blackwind grunts, as if challenging him to try his luck again. “Well?” you ask as you and Éomer leave the stables together, eager despite yourself to hear his opinion “What do you think?” 

🐴 Éomer reflects for a minute before answering; a gentle wind is blowing over the courtyard, stirring the neat braids of his blonde hair. “You probably know already there is nothing wrong with that horse; he is not ill, or wounded, he has not been bitten by gnats or other insects.” he begin then, turning to look at you; the intensity of his look, preoccupation for that horse he barely knows and that has tried to kill him and desire to make you understand exactly what ails him, is so unexpected that for a moment you struggle to hold it “The problem, I fear, is in his mind, and his heart. You told me he was part of the war, and he lost his rider; no soldier would mount a steed he cannot trust on the battlefield, so I can imagine they were very close.”

🐴 They were, obviously. Blackwind was, in his own way, the only creature who loved your husband as much as you did, and while you imagined the horse had realised his rider had disappeared and missed him, you could have never imagined that was the source of his discomfort. “Are you saying that he is in pain because my… because his rider is dead?” “I believe that is part of the reason, yes. Have you ever seen soldiers who return from the war perhaps hale and victorious, but broken in the spirit? Men who have witnessed such atrocities, and with so much blood tainting their hands, that they are irremediably changed, the horror and violence they have known making it impossible for them to find peace?” “I have; my father was a captain in the army, and he used to say there are men who simply cannot leave the battlefield behind, no matter how peaceful their life, and the love and support of their families.”

🐴 Éomer nods, openly pleased you were so quick to catch his meaning. For a moment you are tempted to ask whether he fought in the last war, and witnessed the horrors he is describing, but after all he is not here to talk about himself, so you keep your questions to yourself. “The same thing can happen to horses; I have seen it many times. Army horses go through a lengthy, complex process to become acclimatised to the clang of swords, the violence, the chaos of the battle; since your stallion…” “Blackwind; his name is Blackwind.” you decide it is important to point out, and Éomer, rather than being annoyed at your interruption, smiles. “That is a fine name. Assuming his rider worked here on the farm, Blackwind had not been prepared for the horrors of war, which means the whole experience must have been deeply traumatizing for him, and it is an experience he cannot, like you said, put behind him. If you hear him trash at night, it is probably due to nightmares; and perhaps when the memories of the war fill his mind, he can no longer distinguish between the enemies surrounding him and the people who have taken care of him for years. Blackwind is not sick, nor is he undutiful; he is scared, scared that the horrors he witnessed might come back again.”

🐴 Unfortunately, Éomer adds, there is no surefire method to reassure a horse that he has nothing to fear and no one wants to hurt him; horses are much smarter than most people outside of Rohan give them credit for, but you cannot very well sit them down and discuss their problems. Still, there are techniques he knows to help horses in Blackwing’s situation, and with your permission, he would like to make an attempt.

🐴 “What techniques?” you ask, and for the first time you see Éomer smile; it looks good on him, you have to admit. “Well, if I told you you would not need my intervention, mistress, so I will have to ask you to trust me.” “Very well.” you agree, suddenly feeling, for some reason, the need to put some space between you “Shall we go back inside to talk business?”

🐴 You do, and the sum Éomer asks for his work is so low, even considering room and board, you are immediately suspicious he is trying to deceive you in some way, maybe stealing Blackwind for himself or taking advantage of your hospitality as he spends his days in idleness. Nothing could be further from the truth, anyone who knows him just a little would know, but if Éomer can see the distrust in your expression, he pretends not to, and presents you his terms. 

🐴 “I need to warn you it will surely take a while: weeks, months probably, and while I will do my utmost to help Blackwind, I cannot guarantee I will succeed, or even that I will make more than the smallest improvement. Also, you will see that while I will work with him every day, there will be instances in which I will do much, and others in which I will do less. I am warning you because I do not want you to accuse me of laziness, or that I neglect my work; but this is a matter that requires time and patience, and that cannot be hurried. I will remain here as long as I deem necessary, or you decide to dismiss me. Then, and only then, should you be satisfied, you will pay me.” 

🐴 It doesn't sound particularly convenient for him, to receive no weekly wage and leave the possibility of not being paid at all in the hands of a person he has just met, but Éomer seems so sure of himself, as if this was a routine he had lived by for years, and so you decide not to protest. “Your conditions are acceptable.” you say, feeling vaguely foolish for the formal tone you’re using, and praying in your heart you are not entrusting your most beloved horse to a man who will not take care of him “Welcome to the farm, master Éomer.”

🐴 You introduce your new worker to the head groom, to show him the estate and make sure he is housed in the barracks, and then go back to your business, spending the rest of your day taking care of the farm’s books, writing a few letters and then helping the cook with the dinner. You still cannot say whether entrusting Blackwind to Éomer was the right choice, but you have to admit he made a good impression on you, and it is a relief knowing that at least for the time being, your most unruly horse is no longer a problem you have to deal with. 

🐴 You have dreamt about your husband since you received word of his death, regularly if not often, dreams from which you wake up feeling either wistful, or sad, or melancholic. You do not dream about him that night, which is not surprising since those instances are still a minority, but in time you will find yourself thinking back to that day, more and more aware that it is then that it all began, even though you still do not know it. 

🐴 Éomer gets to work early on the next morning, as soon as he has broken his fast with the grooms in the kitchen. An hour later, when you take a short break from your own duties to check on him, you find him in the stables, exactly in the same position as yesterday, when only a miracle saved him from being trampled under Blackwind’s hooves. The horse seems even more agitated than usual, screaming -that’s the proper word; the sound is almost human, a cry of rage and mourning and desperation. Once more, you think with a pang, you and your husband’s stallion share the same heart- as he tries desperately to get rid of the trespasser. “Stand back! Are you trying to get yourself killed?” you ask, and he shakes his head, amused rather than terrified like you would be in his place. “Blackwind and I are still learning to know each other.” he explains “I will spend a few days here, so that he can get used to me.”

🐴 You cannot help doubting it will work, since Blackwind is equally adverse to the presence of the grooms he has known all his life, but Éomer looks so sure, so committed to what he is doing, you decide to leave him be. “Let me know if you need something.” you tell him, and he bows his head in response, so completely focused on the stallion desperately trying to beat him to a pulp he barely pays attention to you. “Thank you, mistress, but I have everything I need here.”

🐴 He said he would spend a few days at the stables, and he does - whole days, to be precise, entering as soon as he is done eating his breakfast and leaving when the bell calls the men to dinner at the end of their work-day. The cook, who has quickly grown fond of him, sends one of the maids to bring him lunch, and Éomer -you are told- thanks her and returns the empty plate and cup to the kitchen in the evening, and you guess he leaves to relieve himself, but otherwise, he spends the rest of the day there. But doing what? You could not tell; when you go look -not to make sure he is not wasting time, or that he is not up to no good, but really, that is your horse, and you are his employer. Do you not have a right to check everything is as it should?- you find him with his elbow resting on the hinged door as he talks to Blackwind, as easily and politely as he does with people, or offers him food the stallion haughtily refuses, or trespasses for the umpteenth time into the stall to try and touch him. He is chased away, over and over again, but Éomer never loses hope - if anything, each failure seems to make him more determined to succeed. 

🐴 A whole week spent in the cramped, smelly space of the stables would make anyone, even the most determined worker or horse lover, lose their mind, especially since from what you hear Éomer has made no progress, if one does not consider that after a whole day spent fighting even poor Blackwind is exhausted and barely has the strength to try and bite him once more. “Should we do something, mistress? I am starting to get worried about him.” the head groom tells you, and you privately agree; Éomer does look like he knows what he is doing, but you do feel he needs to take at least a day of rest, since he literally never stopped working since the morning after his arrival. “I will take care of it.” you tell him before heading towards the stables “I apologise, master Éomer, but…”

🐴 He quickly, imperiously, orders you to be silent. “Look…” he murmurs, and you do, almost paralysed as you hold your breath at the scene you are witnessing. Éomer has, once again, left the stall’s doors open, something the grooms have warned him against should Blackwind escape. Standing in front of him, he slowly extends his hand towards Blackwind, who at first snorts and paws the ground, clearly agitated, but then, almost reflexively, raises his head to meet the hand halfway, and soon Éomer is caressing him, slow, kind movements over the dark fur. Blackwind’s liquid eyes follow the movement as if to make sure the man means no harm but the horse seems otherwise calm, his large, powerful body relaxed as he lets the man touch him, soothing words accompanying the delicate pat. 

🐴 It is incredible. Unbelievable. A miracle, small if compared to what people usually describe as such but a miracle nonetheless, only apparently inconsequential. You remain at several feet from it, feeling suddenly an intruder in a domain you formally own and where you have lived all your life, as Éomer spends a few precious minutes caressing Blackwind’s head and then even his side. “My poor, poor friend; it hurts, does it not?” you hear him say “I am so sorry you had to go through such an ordeal. You are safe now, you are home, and we only want you to be well…”

🐴 You stare, unable to look away, and suddenly the scene in front of your eyes seem strangely unfocused, and you have to blink tears away; your press your hand to your mouth to swallow a sob, a bittersweet feeling that is both joy and pain filling your heart with such an intensity you fear it could burst. It’s a small step forward, too small to make a difference probably, but it’s an improvement, more real than mere wishful thinking, and you hold onto it with the desperation of a shipwreck victim grabbing a rock in the middle of the storm.

🐴 It can be done. He can be helped; and maybe, in the meantime, you will be too. 

🐴 After a while Blackwind moves to shoo Éomer away, firmly communicating that the time for cuddling is over; he obediently walks back, and turns to you. “It is better not to insist, at least for the first day.” he explains, and you hurry to nod, assuring him you did not mean to ask him to. “I… I do not know what to say; master Éomer, that was… prodigious. I never thought that was possible, I… how did you do that? You did not simply wear him down.” He admits that there was more to it that simply tiring the horse until Blackwind was too exhausted to refuse his presence; Éomer has started earning his trust, even though, he warns you, to win a battle does not mean the war is over, and a second step towards improvement will probably take as much time and effort as the first did, if not more. 

🐴 “Of course. I do not expect you to magically cure him within days; do what you deem to be right.” you invite him. You trust him completely now, you realise in the privacy of your heart, and are happy for his presence at the farm. You share a smile, preciously genuine and friendly, until Éomer looks at you with worry, and you realise he can see the tears still wet on your cheeks. You hurry to dry them with your sleeve, embarrassed; you already know Éomer would not think ill of you because you were moved by his small miracle, but the reason behind those tears is too personal for you to share “I know your work has just started, but I am grateful, truly. Now please, take a day for yourself; you cannot be of any help if you do not take care of yourself first. You can return to work tomorrow morning.”

🐴 Éomer smiles again; the lack of laugh lines around his mouth suggest it is not a common occurrence, and for a moment you feel almost proud for having elicited such a rare sight - even though it is probably more due to the satisfaction for his success with Blackwind than to you. “At your orders, mistress.” he answers, and he bows slightly before leaving.

🐴 As he had warned you, the fact that Blackwind has allowed Éomer to touch him once, briefly, does not immediately mean they are friends now - rather, the horse seems to want to make up for that moment of weakness becoming even more capricious and unapproachable. Éomer does not give up, and keeps spending his days in the stables. He talks to the horse, you are told by the grooms, long speeches as if he were conversing with a friend, who obviously could not answer even if he wanted to. “What does he talk about?” you cannot help but ask. “Kind of everything, mistress; of other horses he has worked with, the places he has visited… even his life before he came here to the farm. You can go and listen as well, if you want.” 

🐴 You actually consider it for a moment; while his expertise is out of the question, you are curious about Éomer’s past, since he has gently but firmly refused to answer every time the other workers, who have quickly grown to consider him one of them, have asked about his land of origin, whether he has a family, and how he came to become a horse healer. The man seems determined to keep his secrets to himself, which is his right, and since he appears to have chosen Blackwind as his confidante, what right do you have to eavesdrop on their conversation? But you are curious -about his life, and about him- which is highly unlike you, something you cannot explain and that, because of this, gives you pause.

🐴 After six more days of alternate vicissitudes, Blackwind has grown to accept Éomer’s presence near him, and even to be touched, in small doses. Éomer asks for a moment of your time one day after breakfast, and tells you about his next move. “My main worry is that, as you know, Blackwind is refusing food, and even drinks much less than he ought to. Because of this, I wish to try to bring him outdoors, in the hopes that a little exercise might stimulate his appetite.” Knowing that keeping the horse in the estate will damage the fields and disrupt the workers, he plans on bringing him to the nearby woods, where there are clearings and meadows where the horse can run freely with no risk. You offer to send someone with him, but Éomer assures you there is no need, he and Blackwind will manage on their own. 

🐴 On the next day, a still recalcitrant Blackwind is led out of the stables; Éomer asks the many grooms, farm-hands and even the maids who have gathered to witness the scene to leave, and the absence of other people actually seems to calm the horse down, enough for Éomer to pull him towards the path that leads to the woods; he has a satchel with food and water that the cook prepared for him. “Please be careful.” you tell him, and he nods, not smiling this time, focus and determination filling his gaze. “I will, mistress, as much as he lets me.” he says, and then turns to delicately calm Blackwind down and direct him towards the path.

🐴 Having left Blackwind in Éomer’s care, the farm still keeps you occupied from dawn to late at night; a couple of merchants have paid you a visit recently to observe your horses, and you are now exchanging letters with them, a tug of war on paper as the merchants threaten to make business with other breeders if you do not lower your prices, and you answer that if they are capable but not willing to pay the real worth of your horses you would rather not do business with them regardless. Despite all the duties and responsibilities that fill your day, you have not forgotten that a certain day is approaching, the sort of anniversary you feel highly disinclined to celebrate… today is a year since your husband’s death. 

🐴 You visit his grave like you do regularly, having left word at the house you do not wish to be disturbed for any reason, bringing fresh flowers and a rag and water to clean the headstone. “I miss you desperately, my darling; but you can be proud of me, I am staying strong, and taking care of everything we worked for together. I just wish you were here to see it; if I think I am going to spend the rest of my life without you, without your smile and your embrace and your voice, and without the children we were planning on having, it feels like light had gone out from the world, and darkness were all that remains…”

🐴 You cry, you cry like you had not cried in months, you cry until you have no more tears to shed and sterile sobs rise from your lips; you have much to be happy and proud of, with your successful farm and many valuable horses, but you know you’d gladly give all of it away, and spend the rest of your life begging for scraps, to have your husband back by your side, even just for a year, a month, a single day…! 

🐴 The loudness of your crying still allows you to perceive the sound of steps approaching. “What is it? I said I wanted to be left alone.” you point out with a sigh, standing and turning… and finding yourself face to face with Éomer, who looks just like what you had predicted he would look one day: a man who has been trampled on by a thirteen hundred pound horse, and barely survived to tell the tale. “Oh, Béma… come, you need to see a healer.” you say, quickly helping Éomer circle your shoulders with his right arm -the left one is clearly broken, just like his face is swollen to the point he’s barely recognisable- to support his weight “Oh, I am so sorry…”

🐴 You lead him away, in your hurry forgetting the rag and the still half-arranged flowers at the gravestone -an oversight you will feel terribly sorry over for days, even though your husband would surely agree taking care of a wounded took precedence- to accompany Éomer to the healer, who bandages his arm and takes care of his bruises, pointing out how lucky he had been, since a horse as strong and aggressive as Blackwind could have easily killed him. “You better suspend your work for a couple of weeks at least, young man.” he advises, which Éomer stubbornly refuses: he tried mounting Blackwind before it was time and the horse violently threw him to the ground and hit him with his hooves. A mistake he could have paid with his life, but even with his arm bound Éomer intends to continue working: he has spent three days running after Blackwind across the woods, compensating for the horse’s higher speed and stamina with the stubborn persistence of a man determined to complete his work or die trying. He thanks the healer for his help, and then, as you are both leaving the farm: “Mistress… Blackwind’s rider was your husband, was he not?” he asks softly, and you nod rigidly; you have not told him you are a widow, but the grooms have surely informed him, and he must have heard you speak to your husband’s grave as he met you on his way back to the farm.

🐴 “He was.” “I see. You are free to refuse, but would you have a piece of clothing with his smell on it, so that Blackwind could recognise it?” he asks, and you blink, suddenly unsure. “I will check in our quarters.” you promise, even though you know already you have just the thing: a shirt you found under your bed the day before you learnt of your husband’s death. You were going to wash it with the rest of your things, but you decided to keep it because it was the last item with a trace of his scent, of his warmth, on it. For weeks you slept with it laid out on the pillow of the empty side of the bed, caressing the soft fabric the way you used to do with his back, or his cheek, or his shoulder. One day the maid saw it when she entered your bedroom to announce the arrival of a visitor: out of embarrassment since then you’ve kept the shirt hidden in a drawer. 

🐴 You give him the shirt soon after, reticent like a mother letting her child leave the house on their own for the first time. “Do you really think it could help?”, you ask, placing the simple, worn garment, lovingly folded and that in the privacy of your room you have held against you for the last time, in Éomer’s hands. By now your husband’s scent on the fabric is barely perceptible; another memory of him you are losing. “I think it is worth a try; and fear not, mistress, I will take good care of your treasure.” Éomer promises, and he barely knows you, and he never met your husband, so he should not be able to understand what you are feeling, but he does, you just need to look him in the eyes to know it, and you do not quite sure how that realisation makes you feel, like an involuntary invasion of your privacy, or like the understanding empathy of a friend. Who knows…

🐴 Ever since he has left Blackwind free in the woods, Éomer no longer spends all his day with him; rather, he pays the horse a visit every day for a couple of hours, leaving him be for the rest of the day. He had warned you from the beginning this would happen, and you let him be, by now deeply convinced that not only he knows what he is doing, but also that he really has Blackwind’s best interest at heart. You expected Éomer to take advantage of his time away from his patient to rest, especially considering his recent injury, but you are wrong; the very next day, you find him in the fields, helping the farm-hands with their job. “What are you doing?!” you ask, flabbergasted “I hired you exclusively to take care of Blackwing; I hope you do not think you had to… since you spend less time with him now…” “Not at all; I like keeping myself occupied, that is all, rather than wasting the majority of a day sitting with a drink or wandering aimlessly. I promised the healer I would not strain my arm, so please keep my secret, mistress.”

🐴 He looks so sure of himself, so at ease and even happy, dirt soiling his clothes and hands and even his hair, perspiration running down his skin under the implacable midday sun, that you find yourself lacking the courage to protest. “Very well, as long as you do not overexert yourself.” you comment in the end, feeling vaguely awkward, and Éomer smiles before turning to walk towards the plough. Like the other workers he has taken his shirt off, and your gaze linger on his taut skin, the rippling muscles moving under it, on his wide shoulders, and ample chest, and muscled back and arms. He turns again in your direction, as if having perceived your eyes set on him, and you quickly avoid your gaze, suddenly anxious to leave; had the farm-hands noticed the way you were looking at Éomer, you would die of shame, not to mention gossip would spread on the farm. And what if he had noticed…?

🐴 More importantly, you should not look at a man, any man, like that, because you are married. Of course you are! What does it matter, if your husband is dead? You still love him, and you know, if his spirit still exists in some form that is able to feel and think, that he loves you as well. On the day of your wedding, first publicly surrounded by family and friends and then in the privacy of your bedroom, you have promised to belong to each other forever, as long as the world would last; you have always taken your promises seriously, and that one especially, since you knew he was equally determined to keep his word. Why should a trifle like death change things? You will be his wife until your last breath, even if it means spending long decades, more than half of your life, alone; one day, once you close your eyes for the last time as well, you will be together again, and you want your husband to know you have been faithful. 

🐴 Most would argue that enjoying the sight of a handsome man does not equal to cheating, nor is spending nights awake in your bed and wishing there was someone holding you tight and sharing his warmth with you, a betrayal towards your husband; but you are determined to be better safe than sorry, and avoid any temptation, because, you are ashamed to admit, you are not quite sure you would be able to resist them. 

🐴 Unfortunately, there are people in the surroundings convinced that, no matter how admirable your loyalty to your late husband, it is not good for a widow to remain unmarried for too long, especially if that widow is still young and the sole owner of a successful business, not when so many farms in the area have younger sons, celibate brothers or widower fathers to set up. Among the many letters you received in the weeks following your husband’s loss, quite a few expressed, along with the condolences, a more or less explicit proposal that you invariably ignored, throwing away the letter without even finishing reading it. You expected, or at least hoped, your suitors -some of whom had not seen you in years, and would not have been able to recognise you in the company of two other women- would correctly interpret your lack of response and stop insisting, at least after the third or fourth letter, but not all of them did. There are quite a few, especially as the first anniversary of your husband’s death approaches, who do not lose hope - rather, they start turning up at the farm, unannounced, for a courtesy visit that actually aims to test your propensity to remarry.

🐴 Almost none of them speaks of love; that at least you are spared. A few of them are kind, talking of their own lost spouses or intended, and offering company and even friendship; some, less polite, tell you outright that a woman alone would be unable to run a farm by herself, and that unless you let a man, a husband, manage your affairs for you, you will be ruined within a year. You thank the former for their sympathy, and explain to the latter that your farm is actually thriving, thank you very much. Someone points out that soon you’ll be too old to have children; a few others even explicitly offer to take care of your womanly needs, whereat you have the grooms immediately escort them to the gate. Even your female friends and acquaintances step in, recommending their fathers, brothers and friends -in some cases even their lover- for the coveted role of your second husband. 

🐴 The whole matter feels pointless, awkward in the best of cases and painful in the worst, not to mention that you have to be very careful in dealing with your suitors; one day, after a reversal of fortune or a sudden emergency, you might find yourself in need of the help of those very men, some of whom will not easily forgive your refusal.

🐴 None of those men had actually preoccupied you until one day, you receive a visit from an old acquaintance, an older man who had known you since you were a baby and had been friends with your husband. You welcome him gladly, fully convinced he has come to enjoy your company… and so you are completely flabbergasted when, during a walk in the fields, as you discuss the rising prices of fodder and wheat and what about the next fair, are you planning on going?, the man suddenly stops, takes you in his arms, and kisses you. It takes you a moment to react, but then you are firmly pushing him back. “Are you out of your mind?!” you ask “You have known me since I was in cloths! Your children are older than me, and my husband was your friend! How can you do something like this?!”

🐴 Perhaps, in retrospect, it was unfair to accuse him, since while he should not have kissed you without your consent, the man is neither married nor a relative of yours, and there is nothing objectively inappropriate in his interest in you. Unfortunately it is too late to take back your words, and your interlocutor seems sincerely surprised you are not already answering yes to his proposal. “Think about it, (name); I would let you run your farm as you wish to. Your husband would want this as well, having a trustworthy man taking care of you.” he insists, and suddenly you do not regret your earlier words anymore. “How dare you mention my husband to convince me to marry you, and to offer to let me do something that is already rightfully mine to do? He would not want someone to take care of me, he knew I was able to run the farm by myself! And this I will do!” you cry out and then your interlocutor, a man you have always known as stubborn but friendly and jovial, really becomes enraged. You start arguing loudly, he calls you names you would have never dreamt to hear him utter… 

🐴 “You stupid girl! Do you not see you are throwing your life away with your stubbornness?” he cries after a while, grabbing your wrist; while past his prime he is very strong, and try as you might, you cannot free yourself. “Let me go this instant.” you hiss “Let me go, I said!” “(name), try and be reasonable… you are too old for…” “My age has nothing to do with this; let me go or I will have you flogged!” The man, even more enraged, screams some more insults at you, his grip on your arm growing painful; he is going to hit you, you realise, whether to express his rage or to do something even more unspeakable. Panic rises inside you as you realise you are alone, far enough from the farm and the fields no one would hear you scream; but more than scared, you are angry - absolutely furious, about the whole matter. “You bastard…!”

🐴 “May I interrupt?” 

🐴 Both you and your assailant jump, neither having noticed Éomer approached, alone but with a heavy stick resting on his shoulder, his brown eyes filled with a barely repressed rage that makes you shiver in fear even though you are not the one it is directed to. “Are you quite alright, mistress?” “I am perfectly fine, Éomer, thank you; my guest was just leaving.” you answer firmly, and your assailant finally lets you go. He grumbles something highly offensive under his breath, looks resentfully at Éomer, easily judges a fight against the younger, stronger man would never end in his favour, lowers his head and finally walks away. Having shared a brief look with you, Éomer follows him, returning a few minutes later. “I have asked two of the farm-hands to escort him to the gate; if I may, you should tell everyone to turn him away from now on.” he suggests, and you nod numbly, sitting on a large boulder.

🐴 Éomer hesitates for a moment before kneeling by your side, deliberately avoiding touching you in case you were still upset, but close enough you can almost perceive the warmth of your body. “You are safe now.” he murmurs “I, err, hope you do not mind if I intervened, but I seemed to see that you needed help…” You murmur, unable to keep your voice from breaking, that since you can easily imagine what your assailant could have done had he not joined you, you are grateful for Éomer’s intervention. “I am just so tired.” “Well, I know how hard you work…” “No, you misunderstand me; this whole re-marriage business… this is what I cannot stand. Men started vying for my hand before my husband’s body was cold in his grave, including his former friends. They doubt my ability to run the farm, or consider it inappropriate for a woman to run a business on her own, even though I was born here and I know this place better than anyone. No one cares about my happiness; even my friends see me as nothing more than a prize to claim, and I could swear my own employees look at me in a different way recently! I am not looking for love, no; I am content with remaining alone for the rest of my life. I just wish… someone were on my side, with no other interest than my happiness and security… I just wish… I had someone left who cared for me…”

🐴 You do not cry, whether because all your tears are reserved for your husband’s memory or because this is the deep, dull pain that cannot be relieved outwardly you could not say; but you remain on your uncomfortable seat, your legs held close to your chest, as Éomer observes you, his eyes full of a worry and sympathy so intense you can barely bear to meet his gaze. He must realise nothing he could say would be of comfort to you, given your relatively close but still formal relationship, but he lingers by your side, a solid, reassuring presence you actually find comforting. You should feel embarrassed one of your workers is witnessing such an intimate moment, but you do not; rather, it feels perfectly natural, as if Éomer were an old friend or someone you knew you could be yourself with; it would be much different if one of the grooms or of the farm-hands were in this place, but with Éomer… with Éomer you feel at peace.

🐴 “Thank you.” you murmur quietly “I am sorry I am keeping you from your work, but… I am really grateful you intervened.” “I am glad I could help you, mistress; but I am sure you would have managed without me equally well.” he answers, which you highly doubt, even though you appreciate his desire to lift your spirits. Éomer promises he will not tell anyone what he witnessed, and at his -vaguely embarrassed?- offer to walk you home you assure him you will not let that idiot make you feel in danger in your own home. Without thinking, you take the hand he is offering you to stand; it is a good, strong hand, the touch delicate despite the calluses and blisters due to a lifetime of work, and you could swear it lingers in contact with yours for a moment longer than it should.

🐴 “In that case… well, I should return to my work.” Éomer murmurs; the hand he used to help you to your feet is balled in a fist, and he suddenly seems unable to meet your eyes “I will see you later, mistress. “Of course. Éomer?” you ask once he has moved a few steps away “Thank you; I am really grateful for what you did and… for having listened.” “I did nothing, mistress; please, try… try not to give in to pain.” You promise you will, and you start back towards the house, the unpleasant moment you just experienced already forgotten as you focus on your duties for the rest of the day, unaware of the man who is, once more, looking at you go, wishing with all his heart he could follow. 

🐴 The next course of action, Éomer has explained to you, now that the horse has gotten used to his presence, consists in helping Blackwind feel more at ease in the world around him. To this effect, releasing him in the woods has actually helped; safe from predators and other dangers, your husband’s beloved stallion seems to have gotten his appetite back and has lived a few days of peace, wandering around as he wished, feeding on the grass and the fruits he found on the ground, and enjoying the tranquillity he sorely needed after the terrible ordeal that took his rider from him. Éomer has kept visiting him, brief encounters in order not to lose the precious familiarity they had built in the previous weeks, and the horse appeared to tolerate his presence, especially when Éomer has had him sniff your husband’s shirt, which actually seemed to have a beneficial effect.  

🐴 Now it’s time for maybe the most delicate and important step in the process, which is returning Blackwind to his previously tame state, accept the burden of a rider and remain docile amidst people and other animals. “Do you have anything against me riding him, mistress? I understand if it feels painful to you.” he tells you kindly, and while the prospect of seeing another man on Blackwind’s back does break your heart, you allow it. Trying to mount the stallion without his consent seems to be as challenging as climbing the Redhorn bare-handed; Éomer, the grooms and farm-hands who go check his progresses until you ask them to focus on their work rather than disturbing his tell you, is thrown to the ground repeatedly, and risks being trampled over again several times. Still, he never backs down, and tries again, and again, until they’re both exhausted and the fight must be postponed until tomorrow. “He is certainly one of the most stubborn horses I have ever met.” Éomer tells you one day, in admiration rather than annoyance “But I like to think he would say the same about me, and that he considers me a worthy opponent.”

TAGGING @konartiste @haibara-ai-tsii @sotwk. Thank you for asking!!

[miss-constelia]

brain finally launched itself into overdrive

Pete's the sole owner of a farm. Ted died when he was fifteen, and Pete took over the second he could. Buried Ted's body in the woods and covered the whole thing up, told everyone who asked that he was just out of town on a business trip, and managed to discreetly transfer the deeds to his own name.

Of course, running a farm all by yourself? An impossible task. But Pete just about manages it for three years. Until he collapses in a field and someone from the farm over has to help him back into the house. He essentially gets peer pressured into hiring a farmhand, and who should this be but local city boy Max, who needs some extra cash? So Pete takes in this city boy, trains him up real good- By the end of the first week, Max knows how to clean the stables, milk the cows, and how to shear sheep. But Max has noticed his eyes are lingering where they shouldn't be. He keeps watching Pete every time he walks away, staring every time he wipes his forehead or has his arms out as he's chopping wood- his eyes can't help but wander.

Pete's in the stables one day, tending to the star horse. Max comes up behind him, and asks if he can help. So they're both brushing this horse, and Max is staring. Pete finds himself meeting Max's gaze, and he asks what's got Max so interested. Max covers it up by saying he's just wondering how it feels to actually ride the horses, to be able to go through the fields on them.

"Why not try it for yourself?"

The next thing Max knows, he's on a saddle, which is on a horse, and he's learning how to ride. And Pete... Pete's watching where he shouldn't be. He keeps watching how Max's hips move, how his hands handle the reins like someone who was born for this, like someone who's skilled with those things, like someone who could treat him right- and his cheeks feel hotter than they usually do in the scorching heat.

So later that night, Pete's in the farmhouse. And he's thinkin'. He's thinkin' a lot. Too much. About Max. He can't get him out of his mind, and he doesn't know what to do. I mean, Peter Spankoffski? A crush? Impossible. He thinks.

And then he thinks some more.

He thinks about how Max's arms could cradle him, about how his fingers could gently brush through his hair and then probably wreck him, about how those hips could pound into him at a million miles an hour. And lord save him, he thinks about how he has a crush on Max. His farmhand. The city boy. The guy whose curls look absolutely radiant in the sunlight. And his heart pounds in his chest.

Max comes to the farm the next day, and both of them are blushy messes. Pete's struggling to hold onto things, his palms sweating constantly every time he's near Max, and his heart pounding again- Max is stammering his way through sentences, avoiding eye contact at all costs. And it takes them so long to actually get any work done, that it gets too late for Max to get home.

So Pete tells Max to stay the night, there's a spare bedroom, it'll be no hassle.

And it gets late, and Pete's out in the field, leaning against a tree, getting some fresh air. Max comes over and sits next to him, and they both just gaze into the clear sky.

"Nice night."

"Mm."

Max turns his head towards Pete, who swivels his own in response. And God, they're close. Their lips are close. And they're getting closer. And the next thing they know, Pete's hands are gripping Max's curls and Max's hands are knocking Pete's hat off his head.

They head back into the farm together, hand in hand. And that night they both fall asleep in strong arms. Comforting arms. Each other's arms.

-🤓🏈

GOD THIS IS LIKE, A WHOLE FIC DUDE

IM OBSESSED WITH THIS FARMER PETE

AND MAX

AND IM

IM JUST LIKE

MAN

THIS IS SO GOOD

[venactricisfics]

Bucking Tradition: A Yellowstone Fanfic

Chapter Sixteen

A lot of bullshit... Enjoy

The morning sun was already high, casting long shadows as we sat atop our horses in a line, eyes fixed on the dense thicket ahead.

"You sure they’re in there, Kayce?" I asked, shooting him a doubtful look.

"They’re in there," he nodded, expression set. "I can smell ‘em."

Lloyd adjusted his hat, eyeing the brush warily. "Horses’ll get gored in that thick shit."

"Well, I’m not leaving a hundred grand worth of bulls in there," my father said firmly. "Send in the dogs."

At Rip’s sharp whistle, the cattle dogs bolted forward, disappearing into the undergrowth.

Travis let out a scoff beside me. "Hey, Travis, why don’t you come on over? We’ll go for a ride, maybe chase some cows," he mimicked, shaking his head. "Don’t recall you mentioning damn bulls."

I smirked, "Consider it a little payback for all the horse trading you’ve done over the years."

The hands erupted into laughter.

"Y’all think that’s funny?" Travis shot them a glare, clearly unimpressed.

"Didn’t think you were scared of anything," I teased, keeping a firm grip on my reins as my horse shifted beneath me, ears flicking toward the deep grunts coming from the brush.

"If this don’t pucker your red eye, I don’t think anything will," Lloyd chuckled, shaking his head.

Dad’s voice cut through the tension. "Don’t be a hero—turn ‘em together!"

With that, we surged forward, following the dogs into the thick undergrowth, dodging low branches and weaving between trees as the bulls thrashed ahead of us. My horse moved instinctively, responding to the shift in weight as I guided him through the brush. We split off, Kayce and I driving the bulls toward the clearing.

"They are pissed!" I shouted over the chaos, shifting my horse to avoid a charging bull.

A sharp yelp cut through the air. My stomach dropped. One of the dogs.

Before I could react, Kayce was already tearing back into the thicket, lasso in hand. I turned my horse, ready to follow, but the dog came bolting out first, snapping at a bull’s heels, doing his damn job despite the hit he must’ve taken.

Kayce’s rope went taut around a bull’s thick neck. The beast bucked violently, nearly yanking him clean off his saddle before he was forced to let go.

I clenched my jaw. My brother had never been reckless like this before. Something was different. And that worried me.

The cattle were all lined up, ready for their count and check-up. The heat from the sun pressed down on us, adding to the weight of the responsibility on my shoulders. This wasn’t where I wanted to be, but Dad made it clear—this was what I needed to focus on. The ranch needed me, and I couldn’t afford to waste any more time. He'd given me a chance to prove myself, but now it was time to prove I could handle the weight of what he wanted me to become.

I glanced over at Kayce, who was off to the side with the cowboys, his attention on the cattle as they were ushered through the chute. I could almost feel the pull of the reins in my hands, the rush of chasing cows through the pasture. But no, today I was stuck with the vet, handing crates of meds to Jimmy, Colby, and Avery to haul over to the chute.

I gritted my teeth, knowing this was part of the game I had to play. This was my responsibility now. Dad had trusted me with more than just riding; he wanted me to learn the business side of things, to ensure everything ran smoothly. Still, it was hard to swallow when every part of me screamed to be on horseback, herding cattle with my brother.

Avery’s face was one for the books when the vet handed her the bull ejaculator. It was priceless, her expression morphing from confusion to complete horror as she fumbled to figure out what to do with it. I couldn’t help but laugh under my breath. Thank God I didn’t have to deal with that today.

I handed another crate off to Colby, trying to keep my focus on the task at hand. The cattle weren’t going to wait for me to get my act together, and neither was Dad. He’d made it clear, this wasn’t just about riding anymore. It was about taking responsibility for the ranch in every way possible—even the parts that made me cringe.

I scrubbed my hands at least ten times, working hard to get the smell of cow and sweat off my skin. It wasn’t enough for me to just rinse them. No, I needed to feel like I was starting fresh—clean, ready to sit down and take a break. But even then, as I finally wiped my hands dry, I still felt the weight of the ranch on me, in my bones.

I sat at the picnic table across from Ryan, watching him cut into his steak with too much force. His jaw was tight, his focus too intense. Something was off, but I wasn’t about to push. Not yet, anyway.

"You okay?" I raised an eyebrow, watching him carefully.

"Yeah," he answered, but there was no warmth in his voice—none of that usual teasing spark that made me smile.

"You sure about that, cowboy? You cut any harder and you're gonna saw through your plate," I said, trying to lighten the mood, but it didn’t work. His jaw just clenched tighter, and he didn’t say anything else.

I glanced around the table, trying to shake the feeling of tension that had settled over me like a storm cloud. Avery, sitting next to me, was talking to the older day worker across from her. 

"What’s your name again?" she asked him.

"Cowboy," he said, his voice dry.

I couldn’t help the smirk that tugged at my lips. “Your name’s Cowboy?”

Colby, overhearing the exchange, laughed out loud. "Shit, we’re all cowboys."

The older man looked at Colby, shaking his head. "The hell you are. And you..." He pointed to Jimmy, sitting across from him, "You ride a horse like a teenager fucks— bouncing up and down, eyes wide, surprised you’re even doing it at all."

The insult was lighthearted enough, but it struck a nerve. Ryan stood up abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the gravel beneath it. "Only cowboy thing I’ve seen you do is clean your plate. Stand up and tell me I can’t cowboy."

The worker leaned into the challenge, his grin widening. "I didn’t say you can’t," he shot back, pointing to Colby. "I said he can’t," he motioned to Jimmy. "And he sure as hell can’t." Then, with a cocky chuckle, he added, "And you don’t want me standing up, boy. I’ll beat you like a rented mule."

The air thickened, the tension charging the space between us. Ryan’s muscles tensed, eyes narrowing into slits as he stared the man down. The silence was deafening as everyone around the table held their breath. It felt like the air was crackling with impending violence, just waiting for someone to make the first move.

Before Ryan could say anything, Rip’s gravelly voice cut through the tension like a knife. “There’s one rule on this ranch, Cowboy,” Rip said, standing up to his full height, his presence commanding the space. His eyes flicked toward Ryan, a slight challenge in his gaze. “You wanna fight someone, you fight me.”

Ryan froze for a moment, the fire in his eyes still burning but now focused elsewhere. Rip wasn’t just a ranch hand, he was the foreman. That made him the law when it came to these things. The unspoken enforcer of boundaries and respect, the kind of man who didn’t back down—ever.

Rip’s face hardened as he stared at Ryan. “Guess you forgot that rule, right?”

The worker stood there, the challenge now no longer as appealing. He looked at Rip, then at Ryan, and finally took a step back, the arrogance in his stance faltering just a little.

Ryan’s eyes didn’t leave Rip’s, the tension between them thick enough to cut with a knife. But in the end, neither of them said anything more, and the moment passed as quickly as it had arrived. The rest of us, still holding our breaths, exhaled in unison, feeling the weight of the moment lift.

Relieved the confrontation was over, the hands went back to eating, though the air still felt charged, the kind of tension that lingered even when the fight was over. Cowboy walked out to the pasture to sit with Walker who was strumming his guitar. I shook my head. 

“That what was bothering you?” I rested my hand on Ryan’s forearm when he sat back down across from me. “Being shown up by an old Cowboy?”

He shook his head, but there was still a trace of frustration in his eyes. “You were almost gored by a bull this morning.”

“But I wasn’t,” I reminded him, my tone softer, trying to reassure him.

“I just think it’s too dangerous for you out there.” His voice held an edge now, the concern for me bleeding through.

I narrowed my eyes at him, not sure whether to be frustrated or understanding. “And it’s not for you? You were even deeper in the thick of all of it.”

Ryan shifted, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s different for me, ‘cause I—”

“‘Cause you’re a man?” I cut him off, my voice sharp, though there was no malice behind it. “Having a dick doesn’t make you immune to bad shit happening.”

His eyes softened, and he exhaled a heavy breath, realizing how his words had come across. “I didn’t mean that, baby,” he said, his voice gentler now, a hint of regret slipping in. “Shit. I just... I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

I could feel the weight of his concern, the love wrapped up in his words, even if it came out the wrong way. I squeezed his arm, leaning in closer. “Ryan, I know you’re trying to protect me, but I’m not some delicate flower that needs sheltering.” I held his gaze, trying to make him understand. “I know the risks. I’m choosing this. It’s who I am.”

He nodded slowly, still looking at me with that protective fire in his eyes. “I know you are,” he said, his voice quiet now. “But just... don’t make me watch you get hurt again, okay?”

“I won’t,” I promised him, brushing a stray lock of hair out of my face. “I’ll be careful. But you need to trust me, Ryan.”

The silence between us hung heavy for a moment, the weight of our unspoken feelings lingering in the air. Ryan finally smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes entirely. “You drive me crazy, you know that?”

I smirked. “I thought that was your job.”

He chuckled, that old warmth returning to his voice. “I guess it is. But still... just... be safe, okay?”

“Always,” I whispered, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek, letting him feel the reassurance in my touch.

—-

“You playin’?” Colby asked, glancing up from the table when I stepped into the bunkhouse.

“You cleaned me out last night,” I chuckled, shaking my head. “I’ll pass.”

“Then you can be my good luck charm,” Ryan said with a grin, pulling me down into his lap. I raised an eyebrow at him and glanced at the cards in his hand.

“With cards like that, you need all the luck you can get,” I teased, a smirk tugging at my lips as I surveyed his hand. “You sure you’re not bluffing with that royal flush?”

Ryan shot me a playful glare. “Maybe, but lucky for you, I’ve got you now,” he said, squeezing me gently.

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help the smile that pulled at my lips. “I think you might be more focused on me than the game, cowboy.”

“Maybe,” he admitted, his hands subtly shifting me in his lap. “But I’m winning, so it’s clearly working.”

Colby chuckled from across the table, his voice dripping with mock seriousness. “Yeah, Ryan’s the type to blame the cards when he’s losing. Let’s see how much luck he gets now that you’re sitting in his lap.”

I smirked at Colby’s jab and leaned back into Ryan’s chest, the warmth of his body grounding me. "Just make sure to win something this time, okay?" I teased.

Ryan grinned, holding up his cards. "Watch and learn, sweetheart. I’m about to make a comeback."

“Well, if you do, I’ll take some of that luck you’re offering,” I quipped, settling in comfortably.

"It’s Saturday night, and this is all we’re gonna do?" Avery scoffed, arms crossed as she looked around the bunkhouse. Her gaze landed on Ryan, and she let out an exaggerated sigh. "Jesus! Is it just the one set of testicles y’all share?"

Laughter rippled through the room, but Cowboy’s deep chuckle cut through it. "Besides the pair I’m wearing, she’s got the only set of balls in this bunkhouse," he said, nodding toward Avery. "When I was your age, I wasn’t sitting around playing cards. I was in the arena playing real poker. Cowboy poker."

Jimmy’s brow furrowed. "Sorry, what’s cowboy poker?"

Colby didn’t even let Cowboy answer before shaking his head. "Don’t worry about it, Jimmy. You’re not doing it."

Cowboy smirked, then started clucking like a damn hen.

Ryan let out a slow breath, patted my hip, and stood.

I blinked. "You’re not serious?"

"Pride, baby," he said with a lazy grin before heading toward the door.

I sighed and followed, shaking my head as they hauled a card table into the middle of the arena, setting up chairs like they weren’t about to do something incredibly stupid.

"Don’t let your pride get you killed," I called out as I leaned against the fence, arms crossed.

Ryan, Colby, Jimmy, Cowboy, and Avery piled their money into the center of the table and gripped the edges of their chairs. The heavy snorts of the bull inside the chute made my stomach twist.

"Someone want to explain the rules?" Jimmy asked, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

"Last one at the table takes the pot," Ryan smirked.

The bull thrashed against the gate, hooves slamming into the metal bars as Jake reached for the latch.

"Y’all are fucking stupid," I muttered, watching from the fence.

Colby took a long pull from the bottle of whiskey they’d passed around before setting it down with a thud. He shot me a smirk. "You sure you don’t wanna come sit in his lap for luck?"

I scoffed. "I’m good over here, thanks."

Lloyd chuckled, "Jake, let her rip."

The gate swung open, and the bull came charging out like a bat out of hell. Colby barely gave it two seconds before yelling, "Fuck that!" and hauling ass, diving over the fence.

The rest held their ground—until the bull lowered its head and plowed toward the table. Chaos erupted as chairs flew back, boots scrambled against the dirt, and suddenly, there wasn’t a single cowboy still sitting—except Avery.

She gritted her teeth, knuckles white against the edges of the table, holding on as the bull charged past her. The sheer force knocked her clean out of the chair, sending her tumbling into the dirt.

My adrenaline surged, my heart hammering in my chest as I pushed off the fence and rushed toward Ryan, hands instinctively patting his jacket, making sure he was in one piece.

Then, the emotions crashed into me all at once—fear, relief, excitement. Before I even thought about it, I shoved him hard, fingers curling into the worn fabric of his jacket as I yanked him toward me. My lips crashed against his, claiming him in a way that was more instinct than thought.

When I finally pulled back, breathless, I locked eyes with him, my grip still tight on his jacket. "Don’t do stupid shit like that again."

"If you’re gonna kiss me like that," Ryan chuckled, still breathless from the rush, "I might have to think of all kinds of stupid shit to do."

The adrenaline was still buzzing in our veins, the energy electric as we put distance between ourselves and the bull. Laughter rang out as boots crunched over dirt, the wild thrill of the game still lingering. Avery wiped dust from her jeans and grabbed the whiskey bottle, taking a long swig before shoving out her hand.

"Give me my money."

Cowboy sighed, pulling the pot from his pocket and slapping the cash into her palm. "You’re a crazy little shit, you know that?"

"And a hundred bucks richer." Avery grinned, tucking the cash into her jacket.

The moment of victory was short-lived. The heavy stomp of boots had us all turning as Rip stormed toward us, eyes dark with irritation.

"What the hell are you dipshits doing?!"

"It’s a Saturday," Jimmy called back, trying to sound casual.

Rip’s glare could’ve cut steel. "I know what fucking day it is, Jimmy," he snapped. "Y’all wanna get drunk, go to the fucking bar, and leave that goddamn bull alone before one of you gets killed."

No one argued. We knew better.

As we made our way toward the trucks, I glanced back, catching a rare sight—Rip chuckling under his breath.

—-

The bar glowed with neon, the air thick with the scent of stale cigarettes and cheap beer. Country music twanged from the jukebox, drowning out the low hum of conversation and the occasional break of pool balls. It was the kind of place where the floor stuck to your boots, and the whiskey burned like hellfire.

Ryan and Colby headed straight for the pool table, setting up a game.

"I’m gonna grab a drink," I said, watching as Ryan lined up a shot. "Y’all want anything?"

"Thought you said you were out of money?" Colby smirked, leaning on his cue stick.

I shot him a grin. "I’m all out of cash. I do, however, have my daddy’s gold card."

Ryan chuckled, shaking his head. "Beer."

I weaved my way through the crowd, slipping up to the bar. "Can I get a couple long necks? And a White Russian?" I asked the bartender. My gaze drifted down the bar, landing on Jimmy, who was struggling to get anyone’s attention.

"Put his beer on my tab too," I added.

The bartender nodded, reaching for the bottles. Jimmy shot me a grateful look.

"Don’t say I never did anything for you," I teased, tossing a smirk his way as I grabbed the drinks.

Tonight was just getting started.

My eyes lingered, trailing over Ryan as he leaned over the pool table, lining up his shot. The way his shirt stretched across his back, the flex of his arms—yeah, I was definitely enjoying the view.

"What are you doing?" Ryan asked, catching me staring as he straightened up, cue stick resting against his shoulder.

I smirked, handing him his beer. "Watching a sexy cowboy."

He let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head as he took a sip. "That so?"

I took a slow drink from my own cup, the burn of liquor coating my throat. It was strong—stronger than I expected—but it did the trick, warming me from the inside out.

Ryan watched me over the rim of his bottle, a lazy grin tugging at his lips. "Careful, baby. Keep looking at me like that, and I’ll forget about this game altogether."

"I can’t help but look at you like this," I murmured, letting my fingers trail slowly up his arm, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath my touch. "You’re gorgeous."

Ryan's grin widened, but before he could respond, Colby let out a loud groan from across the table.

"Cut her off," he joked, shaking his head. "I think she’s had too much to drink."

Ryan chuckled, setting his beer down before lining up his next shot. "Jealous, Colby?"

"Jealous of what? Watching you two make goo-goo eyes at each other all night? No thanks," Colby scoffed. "Now hurry up and take your damn shot before I die of old age."

Ryan shot me a wink before sinking the ball in one clean move, barely even looking at the table. "There. Now you can stop whining."

The sharp crash of glass breaking behind me barely registered before the chaos erupted. Bar stools scraped against the floor, shouts rang out, and fists started flying. Some guy must’ve said something, and—of course—Jimmy had mouthed off.

Before I could even react, I was jostled by the surge of bodies, and then—crack—an elbow caught me right in the face. Pain flared across my cheekbone.

"Watch it, asshole!" I snapped, shoving the guy away from me.

He turned, eyes wild, fist already cocked back, ready to swing. Before I could dodge, Ryan was there in an instant, shoving the guy hard enough to send him stumbling back into a table.

"You wanna throw hands?" Ryan growled, stepping in front of me, his jaw clenched tight. "Try me."

The tension hung thick in the air, every muscle in Ryan’s body coiled like a spring, ready to explode. The guy hesitated, eyes darting between Ryan and the rest of our crew, we thought for a moment we must have him outnumbered, pride kept him standing his ground.

But the guy wasn’t alone. His buddies were just as mean and just as drunk, and before we knew it, fists were flying, bottles were shattering, and chairs scraped against the floor as the whole bar turned into a battleground.

I ducked as a bottle whizzed past my head, crashing into the wall behind me. Ryan landed a solid punch on one guy, sending him sprawling, but another came at him from the side. Jimmy wasn’t faring much better—he was swinging wild, more likely to hit air than anyone else.

“Let’s get the fuck outta here!” Colby shouted, dodging a right hook and grabbing my arm.

Ryan’s knuckles were bloody, his breath coming fast. He grabbed my waist, pulling me toward the exit as we pushed through the chaos. The neon lights outside hit us like a slap, the cold air a stark contrast to the heat of the fight.

I sank into the backseat of the truck, heart still hammering from the chaos we’d just escaped. “Move your ass,” I hissed, ushering the others in as I pressed my fingers to my throbbing cheek. The stinging pain was a sharp reminder of the brawl we’d just barely walked away from.

The ride back was quiet except for the occasional groan, the adrenaline wearing off and the pain settling in. Under the dim glow of the truck’s dashboard lights, I glanced around. We were all bloody and bruised, knuckles split, lips busted. It looked like we’d gone to war.

Back at the bunkhouse, we gathered around the table, the regret sinking in the second Lloyd walked in and tossed bags of frozen vegetables at us.

“This is why you shouldn’t go to bars without me,” Lloyd grumbled, shaking his head as he took in the sorry state of us.

I turned toward Ryan, my fingers tracing the purpling bruise along his cheek before I gently pressed a bag of frozen peas against it. “Hold this,” I murmured. He winced but didn’t pull away.

The door swung open, and Kayce strolled in. His sharp eyes flicked over each of us, taking in the cuts and bruises before landing on the mark across my face. His expression darkened in an instant.

“What the fuck happened?” His voice was low, dangerous.

Ryan sat up straighter, already knowing that tone meant trouble. I sighed, pressing my palm against my aching temple.

“Long story short?” I muttered. “Jimmy mouthed off, fists started flying, and now we’re home with an assortment of frozen vegetables.”

Kayce’s jaw clenched. “You could’ve gotten seriously hurt.”

“I didn’t,” I shot back. “I can handle myself.”

His eyes flicked to Ryan, narrowing. “And you let her get hit?”

Ryan exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t let anything happen, Kayce. I was too busy making sure she didn’t get worse.”

The tension between them thickened, heavy and unspoken. I sighed, already tired, and tossed the bag of peas at Kayce.

“You wanna fight someone, go punch the bull in the arena.”

That got a smirk out of Lloyd, at least.

"Get in the truck. All of you." Kayce's voice was sharp, leaving no room for argument.

I exchanged a glance with Ryan, who gave me a slight shake of his head, but I knew better than to argue when Kayce was in this kind of mood. One by one, we climbed into the truck, the tension thick in the air as we waited.

Kayce stormed off to find Rip, and it wasn’t long before they were loading a trailer. My stomach knotted as realization hit.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered as Kayce backed the trailer up to the bar’s entrance.

Ryan let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “I’ve seen some payback in my day, but this?”

Kayce jumped out, his expression unreadable as he stalked toward the back of the trailer. With one swift motion, he pulled the latch and threw the gate open.

The bull charged out, a snorting, stomping force of rage, and crashed through the bar’s open doorway.

Inside, chaos erupted instantly. Shouts and screams filled the air, followed by the sound of chairs scraping and bottles smashing. People scrambled over each other in their rush to escape, some diving out of windows, others tripping over themselves in their panic.

“Stay behind me,” Ryan said, stepping forward.

“No way in hell,” I said, resting my brother’s Louisville slugger over my shoulder. 

The rest of the guys squared their shoulders, waiting as the dust settled. It didn’t take long before Jimmy pointed out the bastards who had jumped us.

One by one, they stumbled out of the bar, faces twisted in confusion and terror—until they spotted us.

They didn’t get a chance to react before fists were flying again. Kayce and Rip added to the mix balancing the scales in our favor. 

My heart hammered as I swung my bat hard cracking it in the gut of the fucker who hit me in the face. Ryan landed a solid punch that sent one of the assholes to the ground. Colby tackled another, and Jimmy—who had started this whole mess—finally got a decent hit in of his own. 

When it was over, we stood over our battered opponents, breathing hard. Kayce turned to me, expression still dark.

"Now it's settled." He nodded toward the truck. “Get in.”

As we climbed back inside, after loading the bull back in the trailer, I glanced at Ryan, his lip split open again, but a cocky grin on his face.

"Remind me not to piss your brother off," he muttered.

I smirked, shaking my head. "Smartest thing you've said all night."

[nickeverdeen]

Unridden Paths | Kit Tanthalos x fem!reader

Pairings: Kit x reader (romantic), Airk x Kit (twins), Airk x reader (strangers)

Type of fic: Tension, Angst, Comfort

Warnings: Arguments, Ruined Plan

Summary: Kit has been planning to take you out on a date for a long long time and now that she did everything was about to be perfect, except things don’t go her way when her brother needs her escarting turning the journey into something worse.

——————————

The morning sun filtered through the castle windows, casting a golden glow over the stone walls. Kit leaned against a stable door, her arms crossed, as she watched the horses being saddled. Today had to be perfect. She’d been meaning to take you out for weeks now, but something always came up—responsibilities, her mother, her own hesitations. Not today. She was going to make this happen.

“Kit!” you called from the far side of the courtyard, waving at her with a bright smile. Kit’s heart did the annoying fluttering thing it always did when you looked at her like that.

She straightened up, brushing off her pants. “Hey, you. I’ve got a surprise for you.”

Your brow arched in intrigue. “A surprise?”

“You’ll see,” Kit teased, smirking. “Just… finish whatever you’re doing. I need a little more time anyway.”

You nodded and went about your task, leaving Kit to meticulously go over every detail. She double-checked the saddles, adjusted the supplies packed for the ride, and made sure the route she’d planned would lead to the perfect spot. It wasn’t extravagant, but it would be yours.

By the time you returned, Kit was practically vibrating with anticipation. She helped you onto your horse with a surprising gentleness, her touch lingering for a moment longer than necessary.

Before you could ask where you were going, Sorsha appeared. “Kit, where are you two headed?”

Kit tensed, already dreading the conversation. “Just out,” she said, keeping her tone neutral.

“Out where?” Sorsha pressed, her sharp gaze flicking between the two of you.

“Just out,” Kit repeated, more clipped this time.

Sorsha wasn’t having it. “Airk needs to head North. Take him with you.”

“No,” Kit snapped, stepping in front of your horse defensively. “He can get there on his own.”

“Kit,” Sorsha said firmly, calling Airk over before Kit could argue further.

Airk ambled up, looking puzzled. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Kit gritted out, her jaw tight.

Sorsha raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with Kit’s attitude. Before Kit could escalate the argument, you placed a hand on her shoulder. The effect was immediate. Kit’s shoulders sagged, and she bit back whatever sharp retort she’d been about to throw at her mother.

“Fine,” Kit muttered, her grip on your leg tightening as she helped steady you on the horse.

The three of you set off, but the atmosphere was anything but pleasant. Kit was uncharacteristically quiet, save for the occasional snippy comment directed at Airk. You tried to keep the mood light, but her tension was palpable.

Eventually, the silence became too much. You stopped trying to fill it, your usual cheerful demeanor fading into something quieter. Kit noticed immediately. She kept glancing at you out of the corner of her eye, guilt gnawing at her.

When Airk finally split off to head to his destination, Kit let out a frustrated sigh. She slowed her horse, falling back to ride beside you. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

You glanced at her, surprised by the rare apology. “It’s okay,” you said softly. “I just wasn’t sure what was wrong.”

Kit frowned, her grip on the reins tightening. “I wanted this to be special. Just us. And then…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “He ruined it.”

“He didn’t ruin anything,” you assured her.

Kit gave you a doubtful look but didn’t argue. Instead, she suddenly pulled her horse to a stop.

“What’s going on?” you asked as she dismounted and came around to help you down.

“Come with me,” she said, taking your hand and leading you toward a small clearing in the forest. The grass was soft and dotted with wildflowers, the sunlight filtering through the trees in a way that felt almost magical.

Kit spread out a blanket she’d packed, then sat down, patting the spot beside her. “I know this isn’t what I planned, but… I’m not letting this happen again. Next time, it’ll be perfect. I swear.”

You sat down beside her, leaning into her side. “This is perfect,” you said, your voice warm.

Kit looked at you, her expression softening. “You’re just saying that.”

“No,” you said firmly. “I mean it. I don’t care where we go or what we do. As long as it’s with you, it’s enough.”

Kit’s lips quirked into a small smile, and she leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead. “Cheesy”

“Maybe,” you teased, grinning up at her.

For the first time that day, Kit laughed, the tension melting away as she wrapped an arm around you. The rest of the afternoon was spent in quiet contentment, the two of you basking in each other’s presence.

And as Kit watched you laugh at one of her sarcastic remarks, she silently promised herself that next time, there wouldn’t be any interruptions.

[heliopauseentertainments]

Reconstruction

A birthday gift for @tarklesbehindthescenes Continuity: G1

Rating: Teen (for referenced violence)

Relationships: Megatron/Ratchet

Characters: Ratchet & Megatron

Tags: Ambiguous Relationships, Ambiguous Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Serious Injuries Treated Casually, Medical Procedures, Not Beta Read

Summary: In which Ratchet is tasked with rebuilding Megatron from scratch.

Crossposting: AO3 | Dreamwidth | TF MegaRatch Fic under cut. See AO3 for complete notes.

Despite, perhaps, the “best” efforts of the Quintessons, there was functionally very little difference in the physiologies of the Autobot and Decepticon “races” that they had allegedly created, as Ratchet was finding out.

Practically nothing, save for the brand with which each was stamped and the probability of having a combat-oriented alt-mode. They were otherwise functionally identical. Why have two completely different blueprints when you could merely use one and make a few changes?

Though perhaps that was no surprise as both types of Cybertronian had taken on the responsibility of constructing more of themselves since their “creators” had been banished, even if the Quintessons hadn’t skimped on the engineering.

Ratchet had always suspected that to be the case, but now that he was manually sifting through a pile of various debris in search of Decepticon pieces, he knew for certain.

He also knew that he was getting to be quite good at determining the specific shades of gray and black that meant a piece of exterior plating almost certainly belonged to Megatron, rather than the crates and equipment that had been collateral damage in the blast.

Though it helped that Ratchet had his currently offline head on hand nearby for quick reference, at least of the gray parts. The black required a little more guesswork, especially given determining if the color was paint or soot.

Given the marks on his fingertips, plenty had been merely soot.

Prime had given the order to reassemble Megatron and take him prisoner, rather than simply keeping his components in a pile somewhere or smelting them down after a lucky strike after a Decepticon raid on the Autobot base had blown the fool to smithereens. Prime had too much of a soft spot for someone who had tricked him repeatedly one way or another since the day they had met, but Ratchet wouldn’t tell Prime “no.” Not unless it was a medical emergency; a shredded pile of scrap didn’t qualify as one.

He grumbled, tossing aside another sooty piece for recycling as the mess smeared across his palm.

The pile on the workbench was slowly shrinking as it was sorted, a small mercy.

It had seemed almost too easy to take Megatron down and turn back the tide of the assault, but Ratchet’s objections hadn’t mattered. Only Red Alert had agreed with him, undercutting Ratchet’s resolve on the matter.

Instead, he had been saddled with this. It would take weeks of work for Ratchet to find, let alone reassemble, the components themselves from scattered shards and shredded wires, let alone arrange them into a functional being. He had already been at it for a few days, stopping only for fuel, recharge, and the occasional oil change.

Ratchet reached back into the pile, plucking another piece of probable scrap off the heap.

Though he wasn’t quite sure he would or even could find every single piece in this pile, not that he would look terribly hard. A magnet on a stick and a shovel had been his primary tools of collection in the first place. Not that every single piece would have been necessary.

Whatever wasn’t in the pile he had gathered could be readily replaced. Jigsaw puzzles weren’t so terrible when one could make the missing pieces.

One wire was much like another after all.

As long as enough was original, chiefly the primary processor, Megatron would, regrettably, be the same. His head had managed to sustain minimal damage, mostly having been severed by the explosion before careening face-first into a dusty corner. That had saved his primary processor from significant damage. Luckily for Megatron and unluckily for everyone else. The rest of his shattered body would require more significant replacement and repair.

Ratchet held up another promising shard to Megatron’s helmet to compare the color.

No. That was a bit of downed bulkhead.

Ratchet tossed it over his shoulder into the recycle bin. Someone would come by the repair bay later and take it away for processing. Inconsequential bits of Megatron had doubtlessly ended up there by mistake or if the “distinctive” paint had been lost, but Ratchet wasn’t going to stress himself over it.

“You’re a moron,” he said to the head. “But at least this way you’re much more amiable.”

“Capturing me won’t end it. Starscream may be a fool, but he is skilled and with Soundwave to temper his impulses….”

Megatron’s freshly activated head left the obvious conclusion of continued violence between their factions unsaid.

Maybe Ratchet had made a mistake by reattaching his head to his reconstructed torso first rather than last. Under normal circumstances, he would consider the patient talking a good sign. By definition, Megatron in his repair bay did not qualify, for better or worse, as “normal circumstances.”

If only Megatron didn’t feel the need to talk while being reassembled, but he had never been known to shut up either so it was hardly surprising. While that meant that Megatron had likely not sustained too much processor damage, it also meant he could inflict his aggressively aggravating personality on anyone around. Specifically Ratchet.

Ratchet would miss the comfortable silence that he’d had for those long weeks of putting this idiot’s bits and bobs back together like an overly complicated model kit.

Regardless, no matter what Megatron told him, it wasn’t Ratchet’s call how to proceed from here, not as far as the long-standing war was concerned. He could determine the order of operations for Megatron’s repairs, but nothing more.

“I’m not the one you should be telling,” he said, carefully soldering some of the smaller replacement wires to reconnect Megatron’s bare metal right arm to his shoulder. The arm was strapped down to the table at the elbow and the wrist to minimize safety risks once the connections were in place.

For now, Megatron was a head and torso on a slab while Ratchet worked on putting the rest back together.

Prime hadn’t even come down here once to check on the progress since Ratchet had set to work at the beginning of this entire mess, so it wasn’t like Megatron could exactly tell Prime himself.

Content with his refusal, Ratchet went back to his task.

Ratchet would need to paint this limb. He should have painted it before starting reassembly, but he could just anesthetize Megatron later.

The entire original right arm had been lost, he had realized while sifting through the junk. The fusion cannon mounted on it had exploded, rendering the entire arm into atoms. Rather than bothering to chase down stray atoms in the atmosphere, he had simply decided to construct a new one using the left arm, still propped up on a table nearby, as a guide.

At least he could readily mix up a matching paint from memory by now. He was almost sick of this shade of gray, just a touch warmer in hue and darker in value than the unsealed metal of a corpse.

“There is no one else I would need to tell.”

“Excuse me?” Ratchet looked up, setting aside his soldering gun.

Megatron stared back at him, his optical ridges furrowed. An awfully serious expression for being only a quarter of a body at the moment.

“Besides, I’m not telling you, Autobot,” he said, continuing on without actually addressing Ratchet’s objection, “I’m warning you.”

Seemingly warning Ratchet specifically.

Maybe he should have welded Megatron’s mouth shut, leaving only a hole with an optional funnel to pour fuel into. That would have saved some headache though he had a feeling Prime would have objected.

“Why bother warning me?”

Megatron smirked, but for once didn’t answer. Ratchet should have removed the actuators necessary for that expression.

This wasn’t the silence he wanted to work in.

Megatron’s harsh voice had become familiar background noise, due to his incessant complaining while Ratchet had repaired him. It was simultaneously annoying and comforting. This morning, however, he had been uncharacteristically quiet.

Ratchet had said nothing, trying to enjoy the silence he had wished for despite the anxiety that had built up in his circuits from the ominous change.

The Ark shuddered underfoot as Ratchet fell forward over the slab—over Megatron’s restrained legs. The soldering gun flew out of his hand and across the room; raw, exposed wires in Megatron’s ankle arced with loud snaps.

“I had hoped you would have finished my repairs sooner, but it seems we’ve run out of time.”

It was the first thing Megatron had said all morning. His voice was oddly calm, like he had expected the disruption.

“What?” Ratchet asked, barely having the time to process the question before a purple light flashed off to the side, filling his peripheral vision.

“It appears that now…” There was a quiet chuckle. “… you and I will both be leaving.”