#salt x knife x soap

[dailyiiwheelship]

Today's ii wheel ship of the day is...

Salt x Knife x Soap!

[medufasa]

YALLL OMG I FOUND THESE OLD II/BFB CRAFTS I DID BACK IN 2020 WHILE CLEANING MY ROOM 😭😭

I made more of these I'm sure. Funny story actually; my younger sister at the time just took the cutouts I made and presented them to me by sticking them on a piece of paper. Ngl I was kinda mad cuz I wanted to keep them as cards in my old charger box but it was actually a really sweet sentiment,,, plus she was only like 6 at the time 😭

Also I hated coloring with markers. SO MUCH and I still do (I believe I did 2 lightbulbs cuz I didn't like how I added blush to the first one)(not sure why brobee is there)

[fbpanimations]

i wanna make so many animatics w this au lol

some uh some important info ig under the cut (keep in mind i havent been able to watch the full musical so idk all the story)

the contest isnt canon in this au so the major character arcs that happen in it dont anymore

this means pickle is still a hopeless romantic bc taco hasnt destroyed his trust, taco isnt hungry for money (yet?) so she isnt all manipulative n shit, blueberry had no game to manipulate so hes more like he was in ep.1, paintbrush is still on rocky terms w lightbulb and fan, yinyang still fight (and get in trouble for it) all the time,etc

pickle gets with knife in voices in my head instead of soap after his pan awakening idec anymore they need to be gay

ballpoint pen is mr reyes i just didnt feel like drawing him

fan is dustin kropp maybe? idrk

so w the design choice of the squip sticking out of their head it can kinda just retract and come back out like a turtle or sum shit. its mostly for visual purposes nd actually being able to see the squip. when blueberry starts trying to get rid of his squip he starts wearing the headband to keep it down (although it can still talk to him like that)

i think thats it

[xinnamonbun]

5 left! (Not really since there'll be a shipkid after we're done with the voting, but still!)

I've done: Payjay, Fantube, Silvercandle, Lightbrush, Suitloon, and I'm working on Taco's kid.

So...

Man, I've drawn a lot of ship kids! And I'm happy to draw more!

Edit: these keep tying- I'm just going to do the same thing I did with Lightbrush and Suitloon; alphabetical order so K before M so we're doing Knickle and then Microsoap!

[ceilidho]

prompt: forced throuple au; Ghost decides that you and Johnny are his (part 1; ghoap x reader) masterlist

-

Johnny’s been bragging about a pretty bird lately.

Ghost listens because the periods between missions are long and colourless—he fills the time with paperwork, PT, exhausting his muscles in the gym, and dissociating in a booth at the only good pub on base when Johnny drags him along—and it’s better to tune out the thoughts in his head and replace them with something else. Besides, for as much as he gripes about poorly trained dogs barking too much, he enjoys the sound of Johnny’s voice. It quiets the faint ringing that follows him wherever he goes, an agitated humming that leaves him, on his best days, on the brink of rage.

“Tinnitus,” a doctor says when he brings it up during a routine check-up. Can you shut that fucking noise up?

“Best we can do is get you hearing aids.” Apologetic, sincere even. Stained, as always though, by a trembling, noxious unease. It emanates off the doctor in waves. 

Hard not to feel uneasy around a man in a mask, Ghost assumes. That’s all part of it though. He doesn’t cultivate comfort, doesn’t attempt to engender soft feelings or put the mind at ease. His body and persona are designed to put the body and mind on the knife’s edge of fear, and then tip it over. He leaves the sweet talking and charming to men like Johnny, who babbles red language in a tongue like larkspur. 

Ghost’s first language is oil slick. It stains and it covers and it darkens everything it touches. 

And now, Johnny’s talking about a bird.

A couple months after Las Almas, the first picture comes out. Not a folded up keepsake tucked away in the pocket of a bag or a wallet or the inside of his jacket, but right on Johnny’s lockscreen on his phone. He disapproves at first glance. Not of the girl, but at the thought of keeping something so valuable on display for anyone to see. It’s not how he functions. Everything sacred is burned, destroyed, or—if precious enough—buried so deep underground that salt miners might greet it on the way down.

“Pretty, eh?” Johnny goads, nudging Ghost with his shoulder. He’s all wide grin, eyes electric-blue like the flames of Kawah Ijen. 

She is pretty. Pretty as pie. Not a speck of grit or blood on her; if there’s any edge to her at all, it’s tempered by her smile in the photo on Johnny’s phone. A sugar sweet cunt, by the looks of it, sure it’d taste like candy if he got his mouth on it. He angles his eyes with Johnny’s lips and wonders how many times he’s eaten her out, if hers was the last cunt he ate. Likely. His boy’s the loyal kind, hard to shake off once he’s got his teeth in. Swapping spit or blood, he doesn’t leave once he’s got a taste. 

“Where’d you find her?” he asks instead of agreeing, and takes a swig from the bottle in front of him. The bar’s hardly filled out yet; the two of them come early because Ghost’s an old man—that’s what Johnny would say—and doesn’t like to be around people once the sun’s set. It’s a burnished gold now, sun hovering low in the sky when Ghost turns an eye to it. 

“Florist. Met her when I picked up flowers for mam’s birthday.”

Nearly a month then. “And I’m just hearin’ about this now?”

Not in this same pub three times a week since then. Not on the tarmac, suited up and sweating already beneath two layers of gear. Not in the shower beside Ghost’s, fingers reaching over the side for a bar of soap because Johnny can’t be arsed to get his own. Not with his head slumped to let Ghost shave the sides of his head nice and neat, thick fingers splayed over the delicate bone of his skull that Ghost knows would take nothing to break. 

It rankles him until he looks back down at the phone in his hands—the one he’d plucked from Johnny’s fingers even while he whined about Ghost always stealing his shit—and feels his heartbeat slow. It levels out like staring into the scope of a rifle, the molecules of his breath melding with the molecules of the air until even the sound of his heartbeat dulls to the insects around him. 

Johnny purses his lips. “…Wasn’t sure then. Am now.”

“Cunt’s a cunt. What’s there to be sure about?”

“No.” Johnny shakes his head vehemently. “She’s no’ like that. She’s special—I’m telling ye, Lt—” he stresses when Ghost snorts, the sound thick with scepticism, “—she’s a good egg. Smart one. Sweet as pie.”

Sweet as pie. Mutt half-shares his thoughts these days. They must have brought more home than just shellshock and keloids. 

Johnny squawks when Ghost unlocks his phone and thumbs through his photos, trying to wrench it out of Ghost’s hand to no avail. He’s easy to hold back. All he has to do is put down his beer for a second and get a handful of hair and jerk, and there it is. Peace and quiet. A wince bleeding into his peripheral vision while Johnny mumbles something under his breath about him being a mean bastard. 

He snorts again. Even from Johnny, he’s heard worse. 

There isn’t much left of him these days. A tired husk and a taste for Guinness. He bleeds and shaves and wipes it off, smells the viscera still staining his mask that he hardly ever washes, can’t bear to honestly. Waste of fucking time, as far as he’s concerned. Just going to get dirtied again, soaked in blood again within the week. Shaves his head too just to have less to deal with, less to distract him from the single-minded intensity he brings to the job. He’d dematerialize if he could, become a ghost in name and shape, if only the laws of physics allowed. 

Instead he’s saddled with a body that echoes back his age in creaking joints and low back pain. Scar tissue that aches when it gets cold. 

In the months he’s known Johnny, he’s never let himself think about the world outside their bubble. His rank demands a certain level of socialising, and while he doesn’t schmooze with the brass like other lieutenants might, Ghost hardly has the privilege of isolating himself all the time, but still he can count the people he considers close on one hand. 

Not family, but close. The thought of family is sheathed within him; he knows to leave the knife in lest he bleed. Still, Johnny’s fought his way onto the list and now he has to pay with his pound of flesh. 

There’s a switch that’s been off for years, closer to a couple decades, and it flips back on when he finds this man that trusts him without question, that follows his orders and looks up at him with these big, puppy blue eyes. It twists something in his chest. It turns him into a thing that says maybe it’s better to take than just covet. 

There are other photos of the girl in Johnny’s phone, some likely not meant for present company (Johnny flushes red when Ghost flips to a picture of his bird in a pretty little number, lace cupping her tits and ass, sitting on Johnny’s bed back home and looking back at him over her shoulder with a little grin). Still, it interests him to see this side of his boy; he’s maybe thought of it before in abstract terms. He knows that Johnny’s no stranger to a wandering eye, not with the way he’s built and his pretty boy face. He’s well acquainted with Johnny’s dick, hard not to be in such close quarters; it’s a nice, pretty thing, just like him, a good handful. Nothing like the ruddy battering ram in between Ghost’s legs. The one Johnny once got a glimpse of in the showers after a two week long stint in Kyrgyzstan and paled, mouth gaping open while he stared until he could finally laugh it off. 

Ghost remembers thinking detachedly about how lovely that little gaped open mouth would feel around his cock. 

Surprising that it took this long for him to cotton on to his own desires. 

“Bring ‘er around then. I’ll see for myself how sweet she is.”

Johnny scowls at the sudden uproar from a nearby table. “No’ a chance in hell. Dinnae trust any of these fuckers to behave around her.”

Ghost hums. He’s not wrong to be wary; under the table, Ghost runs a hand over his bulge and gives it a squeeze, lifting his thigh to readjust. She has a lovely mouth too. 

He’s been breathing fire and brimstone recently. Hungering to hear something break. It takes Johnny’s hand on his arm to hold him back, every cigarette puffed down to the filter. The pictures on Johnny’s phone make it seem easy though. 

Johnny’s been bragging about a pretty bird lately, preening at every opportunity to show her off. He doesn’t know that it takes approximately eight seconds for Ghost’s brain to file the girl in Johnny’s phone under mine, slotting her right under Johnny in that category and isn’t that just perfect because it also takes approximately eight seconds for Ghost to imagine what she might look like under Johnny. 

He hands Johnny back the phone, face down. “You get one week. Then I wanna meet your bird.”

[hfjonewiki]

a non-comprehensive list of my favorite brian koch cheese credit card answers

pickle wishes he never met taco

nickel needs balloon way more than he realizes

salt needs pepper way more than she realizes

if taco had the chance to do it all again differently, she would

fan's favorite game would be lego star wars

apple still has her pony from santa, which she named "dino brawler". this is presumably the toy she was holding in episode 16

knife tried harder to be good at video games than he lets on

suitcase is still a little annoyed with oj for eliminating her for no reason in episode 7

oj and bomb are on better terms now, but will never be best friends again

he sees soap and microphone having a more sibling-like relationship, since their voice actresses are sisters (judging by the 20+ private replies, someone had some opinions on this one)

mephone 3gs didn't know his crew very well. when he watched them die, he was surprised by how much he felt

pickle genuinely made taco laugh a few times during season one

evil paper liked playing checkers (this implies that this is a trait exclusive to him that paper himself does not share)

mephone x would probably use he/him pronouns, but cobs doesn't put that much thought or humanity into the mephones anymore

mephone4 wanted to impress cobs for a long time, but meeting 3gs recontextualized a lot of his negative feelings

if mephone4 wasn't hosting inanimate insanity, he would probably be a lost media archivist

taco doesn't have nearly enough hobbies. brian thinks that's part of the problem

nickel sees himself as more worthless than most would assume

mephone4 and oj's relationship is "honestly not great"

under the guise of "scheming", taco and mic would sometimes just hang out together when there wasn't anything game-related to do

trophy struggles to do push-ups

despite being an outdated medium, cobs still sends out discs with nothing but propaganda material on them

despite not sharing much screentime together, brian thinks knife and pickle are the best ii yaoi

yin-yang likes being in cars. yin will drive, and yang will pick the music

soap would play splatoon, since all of the messes are just virtual

mephone4 is iffy on physical contact due to his past experiences with cobs

salt genuinely thought her and oj were in a relationship

just like mephone4, mephone4s' favorite food is cookies

cobs doesn't see himself as evil, he's just giving the people what they want. "not what they think they want. what they ACTUALLY want."

if silver spoon and candle are occupying the same space, people will leave because they can't take seeing how silver acts when he's around her

for a long time, baseball was the only person nickel respected

if mephone5 could live an everyday life, he would be a public menace. (destroying property, going up the down escalator)

taco actually enjoys the taste of lemon

while characters like fan weren't originally written with the intent of being on the autism spectrum, he lines right up with it

on a scale of 1-10, the amount that mepad misses toilet is "off the charts"

toilet wanted to impress mephone4 like a son would want to impress a father. "the cycle repeats a bit."

lightbulb and paintbrush take turns feeding baxter, but paintbrush usually ends up doing it because lightbulb isn't particular enough about what she considers "food"

mepad's favorite colors are black and white. "very mesmerizing."

walkie talkie (and presumably other invitational characters) didn't attend the hotel oj party

knife doesn't need to work out. he's just naturally like that

when someone asked if fantube was canon, brian answered "what more do they have to do?!"

springy hasn't had their own cereal in a long time

microphone and taco have both never been closer to someone else than they were with each other

silver and candle are a bit more distant now, but they both agree it's for the best

when the eliminated contestants were still being kept in the hotel oj closet, mepad would "unfeelingly" deliver and check in on them at mephone's request

[ask-campkids-ii]

Welcome To The Meeple Insanity Camp!

Welp… the kids have been begging me to make an account for like 3 hours now so might as well ig :/ -Mephone4

For a small introduction, The Meeple Insanity Camp —or MIcamp for short (it’s pronounced like me-camp)— is an overnight camp for kids grades 3-8 to learn different skills to help them in the wilderness, learn about tech, and socialize and have fun with their peers. Not everyone came though :( -Mepad

Eh, it doesn’t matter! We’re gonna have plenty of fun without them! >:D -Mephone4s

~~~~~

Heya guys! I’m the creator of this au @answithvanzz! Here with more stuff about the blog and au

TW for:

swearing, character death (totally not spoilers), bug imagery, hallucinations (warnings will be added to every post that needs ‘em, these are not all of the warnings)

SUUUUPER short explanation:

My Campkids revolves around the s1-2 contestants as children in the summer between grades 3-8 to grades 4-9 going to summer camp, keep in mind that some of the kids will be ooc, I’m not the best at writing characters (plus they will be different in the au and are based around my hcs)

Where’s the s3 cast?

they do exist in the au, but none of the iii joiners attend MIcamp, and the ones that play a bigger role in the au are just staff

Ships?

prolly not with the kids, even if there were ships between the kids, it would only be between the middle schoolers (like maybe payjay, since they’re both 8th graders in the au)

however Lifering x Tk is canon in the au

Rules for asks:

Nothin’ much, just don’t be weird please ^^

also please don’t expect your questions to be answered immediately, I can only answer when I’m online, and can only make the little arts when I have my ipad

Up for asks: (it’s a long list)

Staff:

Mephone4

Mephone4s

Mepad

Tea Kettle

Lifering

Floory

Campers:

Apple (gr 4-5)

Balloon (gr 4-5)

Baseball (gr 5-6)

Knife (gr 6-7)

Lightbulb (gr 7-8)

Marshmallow (gr 4-5)

Nickel (gr 5-6)

Paintbrush (gr 8-9)

Cheesy (gr 5-6)

Cherries (gr 3-4)

Fan (gr 7-8)

Microphone (gr 6-7)

Soap (gr 5-6)

Suitcase (gr 4-5)

Test Tube (gr 8-9)

Tissues (gr 3-4)

Trophy (gr 6-7)

Yin-Yang (gr 3-4)

Bomb (gr 8-9)

OJ (gr 8-9)

Paper (gr 8-9)

Pepper (gr 7-8)

Pickle (gr 6-7)

Salt (gr 7-8)

Taco (gr 6-7)

[enbypotat53]

II EPISODE 17 TRAILER SPOILERS!!

I. Am going to be sick.

WHAT THE FUCK???

Lightbulb using the clicky pen again?? BAXTER?? Seems her facade is finally cracking; she's beginning to realise how serious this situation is and that is TERRIFYING.

FUCKING. KNIFE?? AND SUITCASE?? DEATHMATCH?? Oh my GOD I'm not prepared for this FUCK DO YOU MEAN IT'S RELEASING IN LESS THAN A WEEK?? ADAM?? JUSTIN?? BRIAN?? AAAAAAAAAA

Paper yelling at Salt is intriguing to say the least. Not sure what it'll be about, possibly OJ? But DAMN.

"It'll give you some time to process! I know ya need it :)" FUCK YOU STEVE.

We also get confirmation possibly on who is still alive, though Yinayang notably isn't there. Soap is also gone, though I had my suspicions that she died off-screen. Mephone X also showing up near Purgatory Mansion is NOT helping my suspicion that at least one of the Bright Lights will die. POSSIBLY Lightbulb, though my bets are still on Fan.

Just. AUGH I'M SO NOT READY FOR THIS 😭😭 JUSTIN YOU MADLAD YOU KEPT YOUR WORD AND RELEASED THE TRAILER EARLY BUT GOD I DON'T KNOW IF I WAS READY FOR IT...

[lotto840]

HIGH INANIMATE INSANITY S2 E16 SPOILERS

Please don’t read this if you haven’t caught up yet I’m begging you.

With both of those out of the way here’s a tier list based on how likely I think the cast’s chances of dying next ep are. Explanations below!

Red:

Cobs is pretty obvious, Mephone and/or the finalists up and kill him.

3GS just has a lot of death flags to die to Cobs or X. It just doesn’t look like anything will end well for them :(

4 and Taco have been predicted to die for a while, what can I say? It’d be a way to raise the stakes for sure.

On that note I just feel like LB is gonna be both a gut punch to fans and a way of giving Baseball and the other three main Bright Lights more drama.

And the finalists just seem like one or both of them will die in the climax, but if it is just one, I’m not sure if it’d be first or second place…

Now for Orange Juice, which I think needs more explanation:

Baseball is similar to Lightbulb, but just to give Knife and SC more stress, and the lowest moment take away the closest the other contestants have as a leader, but it just seems less likely than the others.

Same w/ Mepad, good way of giving 4 and Taco more angst but he might have more direct plot instead.

The other three Bright Lights left the Hotel and are directly looking for answers, if LB doesn’t die, then at least one of them will.

Mic and Ballon are for Taco/Knife and Suitcase respectively, bc these are just two characters the writers kinda like tormenting.

Candle and Silver are the only III contestants so high bc the Inner Flame, gotta get rid of the OP chars first ofc.

A Box death would be hilarious and get played straight by everyone except Trophy. That or they use the inanimate status to reveal he’s a god and the only one 4 didn’t make bc why not.

And Pepper is just here bc the old s1 plans.

Yellow… I can’t find a color option for this one chat 💀 (get purple instead ig):

First three are all s2 contestants, which means they’ll prob have more screen time, Soap’s first bc she seems like she’ll be given more than the others. Don’t ask why Cheesy is behind Salt and Bomb it was an oversight

Salt and Bomb are potential victims but it would probably go to someone the audience is more attracted to.

It could go that the III contestants get mass axed by X to keep it to s2 but it could also go the other way and have deaths focused on 1 and 2.

Green:

Hahaha no way the 2nd fav (only to Lightbulb to give a sense of scale) is dying.

Same w/ Bot the crew loves them too much to do that, they’ll prob just react to Nickel + any other deaths next pt.

I’m gonna be honest, when I made this I could’ve sworn it was confirmed that Cherries was 12 but now I can’t find it… that was kinda the whole reason why I put them here…💀

The shimmers and Baxter aren’t dying. That’s that.

Marsh and Apple are out of sight, out of mind. And if the souls do go to PM, it wouldn’t be as bad for them.

Starfruit also isn’t dying, he’s just here for the fan service.

Paper is prob going to get a role where he tries to learn to work w/o his husband OJ. They aren’t offing him unless they do an entire cast massacre for the climax.

[galacticgraffiti]

If You Want to Give Me Anything (Then Give In) - Part II

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x John 'Soap' MacTavish

Rating: Mature Wordcount: 2.1k Summary: And the yearning continues... CW: blood, canon-typical violence, gays yearning, blood-licking, knife-licking, knowingly hurting oneself, blood kink (i guess?), definitely knife kink, lewd thoughts A/N: Found the dividers here. Big bear hugs to @patchmates loml your help and beta comments mean everything to me my darling.

♦ My Masterlist • If you prefer AO3 ♦ Taglist Signup

Part II

It’s been weeks. Neither of them have spoken a word about their exchange.

Oh, they don’t avoid each other. They eat together, spar together, sit together. But they don’t talk about it. By now, Johnny is half sure that Ghost must have forgotten about it, must have thought it was a fever dream of pain, or simply doesn’t remember it at all. He couldn’t have meant it.

Sweet’eart. 

Because it’s never anything, not really.

Johnny makes Simon’s tea just the way he likes it: with lemon and copious amounts of sugar, always in his favourite cup. When the cup isn’t clean, Soap scrubs it himself. Simon doesn’t like the other cups, says their rims feel strange against his lips. This is what they have always done: Just like Simon makes coffee for Johnny, so strong that the spoon practically vibrates out the mug, grinds the beans fresh, and it’s a roast Soap likes because it doesn’t upset his stomach and yet still manages to make his brain nice and quiet and calm.

Ghost keeps the bags of coffee beans hidden now, has done so since the time Soap had around nine cups and swore he could hear God talking in his heartbeat. He almost told Simon that God sounded a whole lot like him. Almost confessed that, when Johnny pictured the voice of God these days, it sounded like Ghost’s scratchy, dark voice through the mic. Almost said that he would build an altar at Simon’s feet and worship him instead of the good Christian God Johnny has been raised to love if only it meant he would be loved back. By him.

Soap never said any of it, of course. Still thinks about it every time he takes a sip from his mug, the one Simon got for him, the one that says ‘Don’t throw Sodium Chloride at people. That’s a salt.’

Johnny’s world shifts at the edges every time he tries to grasp the way he feels about Simon. And so, he doesn’t think about it. Simple as that.

It’s normal. It’s fine. It’s not anything.

Soap’s glances don’t linger longer, Ghost’s hands don’t find their way to him more often than they did before. They don’t talk more– talk less if anything. Soap stays by Ghost’s bedside until he is well enough, just like Ghost has done for all of Soap’s injuries. This is what they do. It really isn’t anything.

But eventually, another mission rolls around. They still haven’t talked about it. (Because it’s not anything. Right?)

This time, Ghost gets the fucker who tries it before he gets got, and Soap has never been happier to see a goddamn bloodied knife in his life. Bloody knife means Ghost is safe. 

And Ghost’s voice doesn’t cry out for help, and his side is whole and untarnished and he breathes properly when Soap rounds the corner. His eyes are warm, so warm for all the death they bring, and not hazy like last time. And yet still, the way Ghost breathes his name sounds eerily familiar to weeks ago, when Soap thought he might lose him for good this time.

“Johnny.” All his relief packed into that one word, and it’s like a punch in the gut.

“You got ‘im quick this time, LT,” Soap grins, chest swelling with pride. Because that’s how good Ghost is at what he does: He survived, made it through that fucking cunt that stabbed him in the back. Is the dread of his enemies still, every time. Kills like that, but measures Johnny’s coffee to the gram so it’ll be perfect, because he takes care. Because he’s like that.

It’s not anything, but it’s special to Soap.

Ghost’s blade shimmers in the low light when Soap’s gaze fixates upon it.

“Got ‘im with my favourite fucking knife, too,” Ghost grunts, staring down at the body in front of him. “Wasted on this bloody bastard, can’t believe this is what it’s come to. The fuck do we even have guns for anyways- knife’s always been more effective for hand to hand, but God, do I hate the cleanup after.”

He kicks the body at his feet, and Soap has to take a moment to breathe when he sees – really sees – the knife in Ghost’s hand: It’s the one Johnny gifted him for his last birthday, with a carved handle and a double-sided edge; the metal of the blade twisted and hammered over and over to make a beautiful damask pattern. Supposed to make it sturdier, keep the sharpness for longer, combine only the best to make it better than the sum of its parts. It took Johnny ages to find the perfect knife, and one that Ghost would not already own, but his research was worth every second when he saw the way Simon’s eyes lit up.

Now, the blade is coated in red, Ghost’s fingers holding it easily, twirling it slowly.

“Gun’s no fuckin’ better, LT,” Johnny grunts, gesturing pointedly at his own tac vest that’s covered in blood and viscera. “Fuckin’ close range combat. Get ye dirty every time.”

“Hm.” Ghost’s fingers stop twirling the knife. A thin rivulet of blood drips from it. Ghost stares down at the blade, and Soap thinks he can see him snarl even through the mask. “Meant the knife itself, sweet’eart.”

Sweet’eart.

There it is again, spoken in those low, rough tones only Ghost can manage, that sinful inflection, the fatal tilt of his head to accompany it. It’s just a word, it’s not anything, not really, but all of a sudden, no air is left in the room.

Soap makes a pained, strangled noise, and Ghost’s eyes meet his.

Everything he is, everything he wants, is laid bare in the darkness of his warm irises, is written into the shadow his white lashes cast onto black. It’s Ghost who stared down at the body of the man he killed, but it’s Simon’s eyes looking at Johnny now. Reality grows thick like syrup, and all Johnny can do is stare and stare, and wait for his mind to catch up to the moment.

Simon’s eyes go impossibly soft for a moment, when he stretches out his hand and pulls at Johnny’s very fucking soul with his next words, so gently Soap might not even notice it’s gone.

“Johnny… come here, sweet’eart.”

It’s one breath, two steps across the room, stopping so close to Ghost that Johnny can feel his body heat. He raises his hand slowly, sliding it down Ghost’s arm until Soap is gripping the knife over gloved fingers.

“Thought you didn’t remember,” he mumbles, so quiet it’s just a whisper of air from his lips. But Ghost’s gaze goes sharp and dark at the words.

“As if I could ever forget a thing you’ve said to me, Johnny.” He cocks his head, and all of a sudden, his eyes are heavy-lidded and sweet, his voice a low purr that makes Soap’s chest vibrate in turn. “You think I could ever burn the memory of you callin’ me love out of my mind? Nothing in this world or the next could make me forget the sound of tha’. Should be fuckin’ ridiculous with the accent, but-”

“Love,” Johnny breathes, lets the world melt away until it’s just them in it. Grips the knife harder, pulling Ghost’s hand towards himself with it.

“Johnny, the fuck are you-”

Soap drops to his knees. Stares up at Ghost like he is the idol on the altar Johnny worships at. Maybe he is. Has become it so naturally. It’s pathetic, really, the way Johnny’s heart beats so fast that it wants to explode out of his chest as he stares up at Simon and thinks that this must be a dream.

Ghost cradles Johnny’s head in his hand, and Soap can’t help but sigh at the relief that comes with being touched like that. Like he is all Simon has ever wanted. Johnny’s words are pleading, sweet like he can be only for Ghost, begging for permission, starving for approval.

“Let me clean it for you, love. Please?”

A shudder runs down Ghost’s body when Soap pulls at his hand, until the cold, hard metal of the knife is right in front of his face. Lets his tongue dart out to lick at it, knows exactly what he looks like when he does. What this must look like. Debauched, his cheeks red, his eyes swimming. Begging before anything has even begun.

“Please, just let me- I want to- Ghost-”Soap is vaguely aware he is babbling, too caught up in how fucking perfect it feels to look up at Simon like this, to be the object of his desires, the sole thing Simon’s dark eyes are focused on. To be known- to be beheld.

Soap is careful at first. Presses his tongue to the flat of the blade, licks up drops of blood and watches Ghost’s eyes go wide at the sight, watches his pupils dilate and his broad chest heave with laboured breaths.

“Fuckin’ hell, Johnny.”

Soap smiles, doesn’t care about the coppery taste of a stranger’s blood on his tongue, not if it gets Ghost to look at him like that. Not if it makes Simon’s fingers twitch under his own like all he wants to do is bury his hands in Soap’s hair, tug at him – God, tug him right where he wants him, his face pressed up against thick thighs, inhaling the filthy scent of him and getting his mouth on his cock– finally–

Soap runs his tongue along the blade, barely feels it when it nicks him, barely registers when the cut goes deeper, sharp as it is.

Johnny has seen Simon sharpen his knives, has watched his precise movements as he does, knows he has done it hundreds of times before, knows how meticulous he is. Knows Simon keeps his blades sharp enough to split a fucking hair, but in this moment, Johnny would happily cleave his own tongue in two if only it meant Ghost might keep looking at him like that.

Blood drips down Johnny’s chin, and it’s like Ghost wakes from petrification. He pulls at the knife frantically, and as much as Soap wants to protest, he loosens his grip around Ghost’s hand to let him draw back, mourning the feel of the cold blade against his hot tongue.

“Ye do nae have tae protect me, Ghost, I-”

Ghost just shakes his head, wipes the knife clean on his own shirt, purges the blood and the dirt and the spit from it. His breaths come raggedly, and his voice is uneven when he speaks.

“Fuck, I- Can’t let your blood mix with that of enemies, Johnny. It’s a holy fuckin’ thing to bleed for me, sweet’eart. Would be blasphemy for me to taste you less than pure.”

The words are a sacrilegious prayer, offered up to Johnny’s worshipful mouth before he proffers the knife again, pressing it to Johnny’s waiting lips.

“Again,” he says, and it’s the sweetest word Soap has ever heard.

It makes his blood sing and his heart race as he lets his tongue lap at the blade again, prepared this time for the dull throb its slice leaves in its wake. Barely feels the bite of steel until his blood, warm and bitter, drips down his chin again. Is too focused on the way Ghost’s pupils seem to swallow the whites of his eyes in the low light, staring down at Johnny like he’ll never get to see anything else ever again. Like he doesn’t want to see anything else ever again.

When the knife clatters to the floor, it’s with sweet surrender that Ghost drops to his knees as well, fingers frantically wiping at Johnny’s face, cradling his cheeks, kissing away the blood until forehead presses against forehead.

Ghost’s mask, hastily tugged up, is stained red as he licks into Johnny's mouth, moaning quietly.

“My good boy,” he mumbles into him, lips barely leaving bloodied skin. “Oh, my sweet boy, my perfect- fuck- sweet’eart, come here, let me taste you-”

Blood and sweat mix and the world shatters off its axis only to glue itself back together again, everything in its place and yet not the same as it was before. Simon’s lips meet Johnny’s, Johnny’s canines biting down until he tastes copper and salt, and all he can think is:

This just might be something.

Part I ⮜ ♦ ⮞ Part III

I've added a CoD option to my taglist!

Taggies for the eternals @patchmates @purgetrooperfox @certified-anakinfucker @ulchabhangorm @pinkiemme @baba-fett and uhh some others who seemed to enjoy the story so far (lmk if u don't want to be tagged anymore no hard feelings) @almond-orchid7 @colonelcaroldanvers

[ligbi]

Now that we are in a dungeon meshi lull, I want to share the bread recipe I have been using every single week to have Saturday morning bread with my mother. It's essentially this recipe [x] but for people who have not yet tried their hands at baking, I'd like to break down the process so everyone can have a delicious treat.

To start you will need on hand:

Oven that can get to 425° F

Refrigerator that seals and stays cold

9x13 baking pan- glass or other

Salt- table

Sugar- normal

Flour- all purpose (normal)

Olive oil

Yeast

Either drinkable tap water that can get Hot or water and a microwave

Measuring spoons (teaspoon specifically)(the bigger but not biggest one if you have four)

Measuring cup

A large ceramic bowl

Spatula- the kind for scraping

Hand towels or tea towel- kitchen towels. Cheap towels

Pam or another spray oil (buttered flavored if you have that on accident) - optional but useful

Salt- big and crunchy - optional but useful

A piece of twine you can measure and cut, or a rubber band

Big spatula- flippy kind- optional but useful

Plates, napkins, cooling rack, oven mitts, sponge, dish soap balsamic, dipping bowl(s) - your call on what you need for eating and cleaning

Bread knife - or rip it with your hands like an animal. Or use a normal knife

I always start Thursday night- it takes about 20 minutes to prep, and then do the rest Saturday morning- 5 minutes of prep part 2 + 5 minutes of pre oven prep + 30 minutes of cook time. So the entire process is about 30 minutes and a lot of waiting.

To start, you will want to put two teaspoons of yeast into the ceramic bowl (clean). The glass jars of Fleishman can be found at most grocery and big box stores. If you do not want to buy a whole jar, one of the packets they have is about the right amount (they usually come in 3 packs).

Measure 2 cups of hot water. We want about 110° so too hot to touch comfortably but not scalding. You need your water hot to activate the yeast, but too hot will kill it.

Slowly pour the hot water over the yeast, and sprinkle in a pinch of sugar, and mix this brown water with a spatula (scraping kind) for about 10 seconds before letting it sit for 10 minutes. The yeast eats the sugar and the time allows the years to proof. After 10 minutes you will see a type of foam on top of the water, which is proof the yeast is active.

Measure out two cups of flour and add them to the yeast+water. King Arthur all purpose flour is just fine and dandy, you do not Need bread flour and King Arthur is employee owned.

On top of the flour, add two teaspoons of salt. You can use any salt, and can experiment with different flavor profiles. If you go to spice shops or even Renaissance Faires, you can find flavored salts that add a nice kick. You can also use regular normal table salt.

Use the spatula to mix the flour+salt into the water+yeast until you have a goo.

Add one more cup of flour and mix it in with the spatula. Add the last cup of flour and finish mixing it into a dough.

Make sure to scrape the sides of the bowl and that everything is mixed in. The dough should be unable to hold shape well when pushing it into a ball, and there should be no visible white flour left in the dough.

Pour some olive oil around the dough into the bowl. You can eyeball this (1 tablespoon minimum)- you are not drowning the dough but you do want enough to cover the dough and then some. You can easily swap out olive oils for flavored and infused ones. There are a lot of bootleg oils on the market, but whatever you probably have on hand should be fine for your first bake.

Roll the dough around in the oil with the spatula to make sure it is fully covered. While you are not adding in olive oil properly, you can mix it in a little when oiling it up to make it nice.

Drape a kitchen towel over the top of the bowl so it is fully covered. Take your twine or string and tie it tightly at the top of the bowl and cut it it. This can be reused with this bowl in the future. If you do not have twine, a rubber band will also keep the towel in place. We just want to keep the breathable piece of fabric tight over the top of the bowl.

Stick the bowl in the fridge for like. A day- day and a half. If you started at 10pm Thursday night, it should now be about 10:20 with a spatula, measuring spoon, and measuring cup to clean up. The dough will slowly rise in the fridge and you can move onto the next steps after 24-48 hours.

I wake up at a stupid time like 6am on Saturday.

Spray the pam or other oil on the sides and bottom of the 9x13 pan. You can also just use a paper towel to rub olive oil on the sides. We just want everything greased.

Pour some olive oil on the bottom of the pan and tilt it around to cover the entire bottom. Start with a little and add more if needed. More is not bad- it will give the bread a nice crunch while still being soft inside.

Take the bowl out and use that spatula to gently pull the dough away from the sides of the bowl. The dough will have risen and will seem stringy when pulled away.

Slowly pour the dough into the greased pan until it plops out.

Shake it around a bit and maybe poke at it with the spatula to get it centered and not flipped over on itself. The dough will be expanding for the next 4 hours and you don't have to worry about spreading it in the pan.

Cover with a/the same tea towel and try to get it taut over the pan to keep the towel from touching and sticking to the dough. Trying to get the covers of the pan on top of the edges of the towel may work depending on the towel.

Set that aside for four hours. I go back to bed. At some point between here and the next step you should put some dish soap in your bowl and fill it with water. After a 20 minute soak its easy to wash it clean with a sponge.

9:30 or 3 and a half hours later- pre-heat the over to 425° F. If you want Celsius or other measurements this whole time, its about 280 Celsius, 2 teaspoons is about 10 millimeters or .35 oz (dry) and 2 cups is 16 oz fluid.

MAKE SURE THE OVEN IS EMPTY FIRST. Other trays or pans will take some of the heat and the bake will be off.

Once the oven is done pre-heating (it should beep or have a light indicator for this) wash your hands really really well, and pour some more olive oil on top of the dough. You will carefully cover the top of the dough with oil by rubbing it over with your hands. Make sure it is fully covered. There may be bubbles on the top now- that means you've done it right till now. If not, that's fine it will still be good.

Take your big chunky salt (sea salt works well or chunky kosher salt) and sprinkle it on the dough. You do not want to go too heavy, but it will add a nice texture. If you have a salt container with the cracker thingy you turn to get it out, i do about 6-8 cracks while trying to move it up and down the dough.

Take your clean hands (because you washed after the oil and then again just now after the salt) and spread your fingers out and down like shitty claws. Dimple the bread with your fingers by just poking it a lot. Try to avoid the bubbles if you can for a nice look.

If you ever want to put something on top like rosemary or sliced tomatoes or whatever, now is the time. Not me though.

Stick that baby in the oven roughly center and set the timer for 30 minutes.

While it bakes, get your cooling rack/big plate/serving board out, and your oven mitts. And a bread knife/whatever knife you want to use. And a really big spatula (flipping kind).

When the 30 minutes is up, use the oven mitts to pull out the pan and put it on a heat resistant surface like the top of the oven. Take your big spatula and slide that bad boy down a side and try to wiggle it around until it's under the loaf. If you don't have a big spatula, you can always flip the bread out of the pan by dumping it out onto your rack/board/plate.

With the oven mitts, move the pan to your cooling rack and with one hand tilt it up and with the other use the spatula to slide the loaf out onto the rack.

Set the pan and spatula aside to wash later.

Take your cooling rack and put it amongst friends with the knife. Get some plates. If you have any balsamic vinegar and/or more olive oil for dipping, set that out too. Napkins. Drinks. Delicious in Dungeon on the tv. Live. Laugh. Love. Eat.

[wintersongstress]

A Dream’s Winding Way

Part II — The Weaver and the Loom

Pairing: Arthur Morgan (high honor) x Female Reader

Summary: For as long as you could remember, you dreamt of falling in a love so whole and pure it was worth enduring the many griefs in your life. But the world, cold and cruel as it was, robbed that dream from you, and you believed you would forever be broken until you met a man who was scarred in his own way.  

Word Count: 10.8k

Warnings: sexual assault trauma responses, murder, canon-typical violence. 

A/N: Arthur will make his appearance at the end here ♥ thank you THANK YOU @the-halo-of-my-memory​​ for beta-ing 💞 

Part I | ao3 link

                              ~ II — The Weaver and the Loom ~

Snick. 

The bolts inside the cabinet lock slid free. Between your finger and your thumb, the tarnished key in your grasp opened a long-latched door, a swoosh releasing dormant air. Inside the stale cell, relics of the past awaited, felty with dust. A chatelaine belt rested on the shelf, ornate with filigree, alongside a satin pouch, a crystal hat pin, silver spurs with brass rowels, and a wedding bouquet, its once-white roses shriveled and decaying. You paused once, running your fingers over the cool rivets of a sapphire brooch, and overlooked it all, instead retrieving a new vase for the kitchen table—one that would not shatter into pieces when it fell—and a tattered recipe book. 

With the book settled in your lap you opened it with a crack. Antique, creamy pages inked with words fluttered past your fingers, food stains mottling the margins alongside cursive pencil scrawls. A flattened sprig of poppy bookmarked the page for an oatmeal pie recipe. You tucked it back in for time to keep safe. A few gentle turns later you found what you were looking for and rose from the floor of your grandmother’s room, relocking the cabinet, and shutting the door behind you. You donned an apron and began your work.

The rugs, the curtains, all were taken down and rolled up, flapped outside, and beaten with the handle of your broom. You swept the floors of broken vase shards and stray leaves, replenished the oil in the lamps, trimmed the candle wicks, tossed out last night’s dinner, laid a new tablecloth, filled the silver ewer from your grandmother’s cabinet with water and fresh flowers, and scraped the ashes out from the fireplace. Wood clopped as you piled it up in a canvas carrier outside and lugged it in. Soap suds splashed your wrists as you scrubbed the dishes spotless. All the while the clock ticked on, from hour to hour, the day waning, until you could no longer prolong the inevitable, and commenced your grisly task. 

You propped your family recipe book open on the counter and fetched a large stew pot from the wall rack. The cutting board hosted the full spectrum of ingredients you needed, so you set the pot over the stove flame and warmed a dollop of butter and olive oil. The yellow onions you chopped sizzled as you added them in, and, using a knife, you deployed your special ingredient from the cutting board. A few dashes of salt and pepper joined the mixture next, and once the onions popped their flavor, caramelizing, teaspoons of dried sage and thyme hand-picked from your garden snowed from your hand with clumps of chopped garlic. 

Stirring, mixing, curdling, after a few minutes a pour of red wine and a splash of vinegar came next, making the soup bubble fragrantly. You scraped the copper bottom with a wooden spoon, stirring the browning bits of onion and garlic around, and drowned it all in three cans of beef broth from the general store. Two bay leaves fluttered in last before you covered the pot with a lid to let it simmer. 

The Sheriff would have a fine last meal. 

When the first three stars appeared in the evening sky, your cottage was aglow with soft light and welcoming with the scent of a rich dinner. Fine dishes and silverware sparkled on your table with a basket of bread in the center beside a lit candelabra. A fire warmed the hearth, and the alluring shimmer of dusk slipped in through the clean curtains. All was set. You sat in your armchair and waited, staring at the flames. 

Hoof beats. Sweat chilled your palms as the sound drew nearer and you stood to peer out the window. The dot of a lantern bloomed in the distance. You tucked your shirt into your belt and clutched your shawl tighter, holding your heart to tame its wild beating, fingertips bumping the band of your mother’s ring, still hanging around your neck from a chain. The most important thing for you to do was breathe, slow and even, so your blood could thrum throughout your body as it was supposed to and give you strength. It flowed into your heart and you closed your eyes. 

“Ease up,” a voice called. His voice. 

A horse nickered, blowing out its nostrils. Leather creaked as he dismounted from his saddle and the bit tinkled as he hitched the reins, whistling. You could imagine it all, him fixing and grooming himself as he walked up, expecting a girl who would be so happy to see him and enamored with him that she made her home all nice to welcome him after a noble day of hunting outlaws. 

The jingle of his spur was as foreboding as a snake’s rattle as it marched up the flagstone path. You positioned yourself in front of the stove, bending over the pot with a spoon and stirring the flavorful broth, a smile schooled on your face. 

“Honey pie, you home? It’s me.” 

The picture of a perfect wife, you thought, standing in your inviting home in a cooking apron. He would only see what he wanted, blind to you being capable of anything else. 

“Door’s open!” You chimed, and the doorknob turned. 

Some change at once went through the room. In a heavy, dominant rush it all came back, like the strong winds the night before that rattled the window panes and made the trees plunge and bow. You spent all day distracting yourself from the flashbacks of his lurid words, the fondlings, and the sound of his labored breaths. Anguish seized your throat at the footfalls entering your home once again and the pillar of strength you constructed within, had leaned upon, began to crumble. 

You had a hangnail on your thumb. You discovered this while squeezing your fist tight, tethering yourself to the present. It was a welcome, soft twinge of pain for you to focus on and you picked at it, fixing your eyes on the window. The candle before it illuminated the glass, and you watched the sapphire heart of the flame waver, heard the little hiss of it, and glanced beyond. A sky wistful with waning blue, a sunset throwing gold on all that was green, a hush of wind passing through the leaves, and your reflection blending in between. To take it all in brought you forward in time, to a crackling fire and a bubbling soup, and a purpose hanging over your heart. 

It is not happening again, you reflected. And it will never happen again. 

You were safe, you reminded yourself, safe in the present, grounded, and irrevocably turned to face the man who hurt you in a way no one ever had. You looked at him without seeing him, a dish towel in hand. 

“Come on in, I have some dinner on the stove. It'll be ready in a jiff if you want to hang up your things.” 

“I would be delighted,” was his reply. 

He took off his Stetson, hung it on the hook. The sound of his coat being tugged down his arms and his gun belt unbuckling made your heart beat fast and your fingers curl into your palms again. Shaking, you gripped the edge of the counter. Steam from the bubbling pot kissed your cheeks.  

A chair scraped across the floor. “It smells delicious, sweetness. I’m downright famished.” 

You breathed in and out slowly. He folded his leather gloves beside his table settings and you prepared a dish for him. With a gulp and a clench of resolution, you dipped the ladle deep and unearthed the chunks of vegetables, pouring them artfully into a bowl, spoonful after spoonful.

“Any luck tracking down that gang?” 

He sighed, deep and tired. His elbows knocked on the table as he reached for the loaded bread basket. 

“They slipped through our fingers last night, but we almost had ‘em.” Pulling the loaf apart, he ripped a piece and tucked it into his mouth. 

You rounded the table and laid the baleful meal on his place setting, in a daze as he happily snatched up his spoon. 

“Oh my,” he marveled. The polished silver of the utensil disappeared in the broth and came back up replete with the softened wild bulbs. 

“These onions are quaint,” he commented. 

The lie came to your tongue easily. “They’re called pearl onions. I have them growing in the back.” 

And with a pleased grin, he feasted. You sat across from him with your own bowl, your spoon a special porous one so you could pretend to eat alongside him. He dipped his bread in the soup and drained his glass greedily, refilling it himself from the pitcher you set on the table earlier. Before long he scraped the bottom of the bowl and you replenished it. 

You tried not to pay attention to his sordid aspect. The way he sniffed loudly and chewed openly, the dirtiness of his face from riding, the grease slicking his unwashed hair and the matted tips of his mustache, his eyebrows also unkempt and overgrown. You fixed your eyes to the grain of the wood instead, ate your bread with a slice of cheese and a handful of walnuts, munched on the salad of spring greens you prepared, all the while waiting for time to take its natural course as the toxins of the ostensible pearl onions invaded his system. 

“You’ve been quiet,” he observed. His hunger appeared to sate as he scraped up the last dregs of his supper, affording his utmost attention back to his hostess. “Why won’t you look at me?” 

You lifted your chin from your palm. Something in his expression shifted with awareness. 

“Is this about last night?” he went on. When you remained simmering in your silence, he deflated. “Listen, I–I didn’t mean to get so rough with ya. I was drunk, and I’m sorry.” 

Your insides twisted and flamed, refusing to be quelled. You shot up, turning your back to him and crossing your arms as you faced the window. 

“You’re sorry?” you seethed. A drum pounded in your ears; it was the mad pulse of your heart. Tall in your judicial resolve, you whirled and directed your fury towards him in its full magnitude. “Not a bone in your body is capable of being sorry,” your voice shook, low in its tenor. “You saw an opportunity to take advantage of me and seized it. The way you spoke to me—degraded me—it’s impossible for me to believe you didn’t enjoy every moment of your vulgarity.” Split flew as you scoffed at him. “Regret is not within you. Not when I see now that you planned it. All along.” 

He broke into a laugh of disbelief and leaned back to survey you. The worst kind of smile distorted his face, as if your fit of temper delighted him. 

“Yer actin’ like you didn’t want it. Like your cunny wasn’t drippin’ wet for me–” you lunged forward, vision red and nostrils flaring, ready to seize his neck in your hands and crush his windpipe like the frail stalk of a vegetable, but stopped, grasping the back of your chair instead. You despised the idea of having to touch him and were reminded that you would not have to get your hands dirty to kill him. But you were prepared to. How much longer could you stand his gloating and his shameless iniquity? The wood of the chair’s cross rail creaked beneath your unforgiving knuckles. The Sheriff smirked at your little display. 

“I think you’re just ashamed and don’t know how to admit that you liked it,” he argued, pointing his finger at you; then he shook his head. “What nerve you have, bein’ a little cocktease with me. But I didn’t treat you like those whores in town, no, I went out of my way to…to enamor you, bringin’ you flowers while you greeted me in your garden in your lace and your pretty smiles, a pie coolin’ on your windowsill. You know my dear Carolynn never blessed me with a child, and here you were,” he gestured to your frame and the home around you. “Takin’ on the responsibilities of housekeepin’ all by yer lonesome. All you needed was a man to take care of you, and I could be that man. Honey, I want to marry you. I could make you happy! Can’t you picture it?”

Flushed from his diatribe, he pleaded with you, half-rising from his seat until you thrust out a hand in warning. Surprisingly, he heeded your tacit command. Disgust curled your lips into a sneer. 

“Marry you?” you echoed, hollow with disbelief. Your vision blurred and you blinked against the mounting tide of revelation washing over you. His mindset, his reasoning, it was unfathomable, and you struggled to piece together a sentence. “This whole time…that was your object? And you thought that by—by trapping me, and giving me no other choice, that I would accept you?” 

His eyes rolled heavenward and frustration flashed across his oily face. “Lord knows I’ve been patient,” he gnashed his teeth, voice raising a note higher. “I didn’t want any other man to have you. What, you think you’re meant for one of those half-witted grangers in town? They don’t know the first thing about women, let alone how to keep one as pretty, smart, and pure as you. You know it’s downright sinful to keep such gifts to yourself.” 

His words were worse than his touch. You had not one to describe your own sensations; the shock of his inflicted on you completely suspended your power to think and feel. 

“Sinful…” you wandered over his meaning. “You’re a hypocrite.” Releasing the chair, you stepped away a few paces and shook your head, huffing to contain your brimming despisal for this man. You refused to listen to him any more. All throughout the day strands of thought had weaved through your head, firmly knotting into what the shame made you believe about yourself. That you were ruined. That you were worth less. He must have thought he was paying you some kind of compliment, saying what he said. The refutation rose in you to a forbidding height, like the dust before a whirlwind, and your lips parted to release your final judgment of him. 

“You don’t know the first thing about me: about what I want, or what I need. What you did was assume. You assumed I wanted someone to come around and sweep me off my feet, save me from my solitude, and you assumed that I wanted you. A gluttonous, arrogant, entitled pig who can’t take responsibility for his own actions, who would rather blame them on the beast at the bottom of the glass,” you spat with venom. Emotion began to wrack your voice, lifting and dropping it like the swell of a wave, but you plowed forward, pinning him to his seat with the fearsome gleam in your tear-stricken eyes. 

“The worst part about it is you could’ve made your intentions clear! I could’ve been spared from all this pain if you had only the stones to be straightforward. But I guess the prospect of your hurt pride was too much to endure. Deep down, you knew the only way you could have me was unwillingly.” 

Your hand clutched at your breast, wrinkling your shirt and tangling in your necklace chain. You let go and charged forward again, and this time, the chair rail snapped in your hands at your final word. 

“You had no right. You’re the most pathetic excuse of a man I’ve ever seen, and I’ll be glad to see you drop dead.” 

At the crack of wood he sneered. No longer tolerating this speech, he stood, and for a fleeting moment you shrunk back. Until his hand—his fat, pallid hand, still bearing a wedding band—braced itself on the tabletop and he wobbled on his feet. Blood rushed to his face and a delta formed in his forehead as he blinked at the ground, as if his vision was filled with spots while his legs drooped unsteadily beneath him. He clenched his gut and groaned. 

A griefless laugh croaked from you. “You know, they say that wishes and dreams have a winding way of coming true. It looks like you are gonna spend the rest of your life with me, Sheriff.” 

His sight fixed itself on the bowl in your place setting, at the spoon resting in it, and how none of your portion was consumed. He had the look of a man who realized something too late. The vein in his neck fluttered and his breaths sawed in and out of his lungs. Sweat dotted his temples and a thread of saliva spilled from his wobbling lip. 

“Wh–what did you d-do?” He choked out. 

The compass of your soul spun and whirred, before the ruby-tipped point settled decidedly south. 

“What I had to.” 

As his knees gave out beneath him, the Sheriff clutched the table’s edge, and the peaceful, law-abiding chapter of your life ended. The scent of bile fouled the air as he retched and retched, his body rejecting every morsel of the Death Camas he had stomached, and the pallor of his skin colored to that of fish’s belly before the monger’s crude knife carves it open. Not a twinge of sympathy or regret rippled inside as he fell helpless to the floor. Not at his struggle for breath, at his uncontrollable muscle spasms, or the chunks of undigested food dangling from his chin. He would lie there, wheezing and convulsing in a mound of his own vomit, until his heart stopped. You had no desire to watch, and you had no desire to wait any longer for your meteoric flight from this tainted place of grief and despair. 

You unlatched the trunk in your bedroom and sifted through your belongings. Two saddlebags quickly filled. You packed the essentials: bedding and a camp outfit, medicine and provisions, clothing for severe weather, and valuables to fence. Rummaging through the kitchen, yanking open drawers and cabinets, you moved mechanically, occupying your mind with a plan moving forward, all the while a man lay dying on your floor, twitching and choking, sightless and inert. His breath was a mere rattle as you dressed yourself for travel and long riding, laying your necklace with your mother’s ring inside a sack for safe keeping. This was not the time for thoughts and moral ruminations, it was the time for action. 

It would buy you time–and perhaps forego a bounty altogether–if you buried the body. His absence from town would not go unnoticed, but—Oh, yours would not either. Regardless, your next course of action began to formulate itself. You would need a shovel, a rug or a blanket, and a lantern, for the sun had dipped below the horizon and would not light your path. 

As the night closed darkly in, the sunset folded its wings over the rib cages of clouds; the last pulse of color on the shore of the world a glowing, molten shade of marmalade. Insects clacked and clicked in the dusk as you stepped out in your hunting jacket, hoisting your supplies over your shoulder on the dirt path to the stable with a lantern swinging in your free hand. White moths flittered around the light and followed in your grim, resolved wake.

You hung the lamp on a hook behind the creaking door, illuminating the hay-strewn space. Bridles, bits, and martingales populated the wall inside the stable, with rakes and shovels propped up from the ground. An empty wheelbarrow served as a temporary home for your provisions, setting them inside so you could perch yourself on a stool in the corner to strap on your spurs. 

Willa shifted on her hooves to adjust to the weight of the various sacks and pouches you affixed to her saddle, but she complied with a trusting snort. You spoke to her kindly, stroking her forehead, knowing that she was listening in her own way and understood her importance to you. Without her, you would be alone. Without her your future, your freedom, it would all be infeasible. You led Willa out into the night, a shovel tucked under your arm and your lantern restored in hand. 

An owl hooted and a pack of coyotes yipped and yowled, the sound carrying throughout the valley. Willa’s keen ears flicked, along with her long tail, and you gestured for her to wait behind the cottage, hitching her to an oak sapling. You intended to trudge through the muck of the funereal situation as quickly as possible while the night breeze slipped cool fingers through the forest and snuffed out the last tendrils of daylight. You marched back into the firelit house for the last time.  

The stench hit you first. Foul and nose-wrinkling, you tugged your collar up against the smell and regarded the log of the Sheriff’s body, lying rigid. In death, he soiled his pants, as all men do. The body releases everything and the muscles stiffen and lock, blood stagnates in the veins, the skin purples, the tongue lolls out, and the eyes fix wide open to meet the unknown. Nature takes its course. Flies are drawn by some promising whiff of a feast in the air and consume the dead flesh in a quivering swarm of greed. Time passes. Maggots crawl. And bones will be all that remain, until, some day, they are dust for the wind to claim. 

He was the one you rushed to when you found your grandmother cold in her bed. He was the one who arranged for the church to collect and prepare her body for burial beside your parents in the local graveyard. He was one of the persons who offered you words of comfort during the funeral. 

He was the man who hurt you most in the world. 

And he was no more. 

It was a yawning, black moment, the one in which you stood, hesitating on some windy pinnacle, reflecting on not what will be, but what, long since, has been. Your throat choked around nothing. What has become of you? The future stretched out before you gray, interminable, and desolate. Thoughts crowded thick and fast in your mind, and you imagined carrying out the rest of this act—covering his body, dragging it across the floorboards, the weight of it, the slack look on his face, the creases of his fat fingers outstretched from his limp hand, and you knelt to the floor with a gathering horror of your deed, a tremor pulsing in your throat, your heart crumbling to the same ash dropping in the dim fireplace. 

A numbness possessed you to pull up the corners of the rug, to nudge his body to the center of it with your foot, to wrap the carpet around his form and tuck him inside. To do what needed to be done. Your mind turned off. It had to, for it was the only way to endure. There was no choice left for you. But you wished you had listened. To the night, to the change in the wind, for the footsteps of fate and the creeping shadow of the terrible god of chance stepping into your doorway, eclipsing your hope of escape from this dire strait. A darkness was gathering in the hush; the kind something crouches within.  

Fate is a weaver, poised at a loom; the spider over your garden gate. It works silently and unseen, amidst an intricate and silvery web, attaching invisible strands of possibility along a path leading to an inescapable epicenter. Fate, with its nimble clutches, spins and entwines, pulls one thread, wends the other, until the time comes when the unwary traveler reaches a pivot point, the moment when their life goes down one path or another, and the spider strikes the grappling victim caught in its web.  

Back first, you dragged the carpet bearing the Sheriff’s body outside your door. His boots stuck out from the roll, thumping along the ground as you grunted with the effort of transporting him, using the strength behind your legs to shuffle farther along. The light from inside spilled out along the flagstone path, and as you stopped to establish a stronger, more efficient grip, your ears pricked at a pair of unfamiliar spurs clicking and scuffing to a halt behind you. 

A pin-drop silence encased the air. 

Your heart froze. Ice enveloped your ribcage and crystallized the blood inside their elaborate vessels, each breath serrating through your chest like a razor. For a time, only the stars moved with their twinkling. Slowly from the ground, inch by inch, you turned your head and your sight rose to the face of the intruder, the sole witness to your grisly act, and you almost laughed at how twisted fate could be. 

A faltering deputy was fixed in place on the path, taking in the undeniable scene before him. He was no stranger. You recognized him in that slant of dandelion light by the curled tip of his nose, his ruddy cheeks, and the cleft in the middle of his chin. His beard was strong, a shade darker than his hair and not so red as his skin, and he had grown into his jaw, the line of which had become more pronounced and square. He wore wrinkled pants tucked into worn, dusty boots, with his lanky frame swallowed by a long duster, a vest beneath it buttoned all the way, and a gun belt sagging around his hips. Ungloved hands hung at his sides, fingers that long ago squeezed the curves of your budding body dangling emptily. 

Though he scarcely looked it, he was the boy from the orchard with russet hair and dimples all those years ago, whose mother treated you like her own; but he had grown since that uncomplicated beginning. How a broken collarbone led to a friendship, which ripened into an affection and concluded in bitter resentment, was unforeseeable at the time. You never guessed that the two of you would end up like this.    

“Gideon,” you breathed. “What are you doing here?”

The hungry, sweeping motion of his mouth against yours invaded your mind. In the blink of a moment like this, despite the current of the years that swept past and weathered away the discomforting, stony edges of the memory, you could relive the minutest details of your past with him: the sloppy tangle of tongue and teeth and the scratch of an adolescent mustache; the mopey, beseeching expression on his face, begging for more of you. A chill crept across your skin at the remembrance of his neediness and desperation, making it hard to look at him, shame rooted so deeply in you. 

He uttered your name in the same stunned tone, his mouth agape until he swallowed his alarm. “It’s been a long time,” he said, and his eyes, murky, silver, and cold—like a pond in winter—cut to the sagging roll of carpet in your arms. An unmistakable pair of boots stuck out. “And I see much has changed.” 

None of your muscles moved—but the weight of the deceased tired your arms and you ached to rest them. You slowly lowered the rug to the ground, your eyes never leaving one another’s.  

“This isn’t what you think it is.” 

A disbelieving scoff left him. “What I think it is,” he echoed. “I’m thinking that better not be who I think it is. I’m thinking ‘she went from breaking men’s hearts to stopping them altogether’,” his long legs carried him forward and your spine stiffened. His face came into the light. You shrank back. “Something tells me you don’t have one of Dutch Van der Linde’s boys wrapped up in there. See, I knew the Sheriff would be here tonight, and that’s his horse hitched there,” he jerked his thumb in the direction of the animal. “You have five seconds to produce the man I’m looking for alive and well or I’m taking you in.” 

You wished to heaven you could think of a way out of this. What vestige of freedom you could still secure was within your grasp and it made your teeth grit that the bitter waters of life would surge high once again at this crucial hour. It figured; the final wave for you to overcome came in the form of Gideon Taylor, the pouty boy who you had no remorse for jilting. Your fists clenched beside you and you lifted your head, standing tall, measuring and meeting the danger of his presence. 

Holding his stare unblinkingly, you pitched your voice low, words growing frost. “You should leave.” 

Though he had a gun and lasso on his hip and an inflated sense of superiority to empower him, Gideon hesitated. 

“I will, once you tell me where the Sheriff is.” 

His spurs jangled. He spoke to you cautiously, as if you were a skittish animal about to bolt for an impenetrable thicket, the flit of his eyes gauging your every move, and his hand rose out to you while he subtly reached beside him. 

Before you a narrow avenue of escape flickered, shrinking smaller and smaller like the last sliver of the moon in the dark of an eclipse. 

When lightning flashes, the precise amount of moments that pass between the initial burst of light and the thunder that follows measures the distance between the strike and the listener. A blink, a heartbeat, a slow breath. That was how much time you had to act, before the thunder came and the earth trembled. In that slow, blinking, beating instant, you knew how this would play out. 

When his gun began to clear leather your instincts kicked in, quick as a snap. You leapt backwards into the house, throwing the door shut. Fumbling with the bolt, the rusty metal bar slogged its way through the lock, making you cry out in frustration as you strained to jiggle it forward. The bolt slid home the instant Gideon’s shoulder rammed against the boards. 

Your teeth rattled at the battering of the frame. He charged against it repeatedly and your eyes, in darting about the room, snagged on a buffet table. Praying the old lock would hold, you rushed to push it in front of the door and the furniture groaned as you shoved it in place, only for Gideon’s attempts to break in to cease. 

“So, we’re doing this the hard way?” Gideon yelled through the door. Your heartbeat thumped in your ears and your face grew hot at the rushing of blood. You moved to extinguish all the lamps and candles, flooding the room in darkness and the lacy scent of candle smoke. His voice came again a moment later.

“Shit, what the hell did you do to him?”

The body. Beyond the threshold. He must have peeled back the rug, looked upon the Sheriff’s vacant eyes and felt his clay-cold cheeks. A leaden weight sunk into the pit of your stomach. There was no escaping what you did. But a small chance remained to evade capture. You could sneak through the back window and mount Willa quietly, get a head start before Gideon gave chase. You could lose him in the woods near Lady Face Falls and follow the water north—

A bullet crashed through the window. You dropped to the floor. Moving forward, you crawled towards the bedroom, covering your head with your hands whenever glass shattered and chunks of wood flew. Along the way your foot slipped through a sludge of the Sheriff’s vomit and your knee banged against the wood. You bit your cheek so as not to cry out in disgust and pain and shuffled slimily onward by the heels of your hands.

Gideon fired off six shots in total before you made it safely to the other room. Quietly, tortuously, you unlatched the window and pulled it up by the handles in increments to prevent any sound while outside Gideon cursed to reload his weapon faster. You winced as it gave a squeak, but the noise was muffled by the breaking of a window in the front room. A heavy stone’s thump followed after. 

Gideon called out in the dark. “Are you gonna come willingly or do I have to shoot you? There’s nowhere to go!” 

The night air beckoned. Without another thought you swung a leg over the sill and ducked out, making a break for Willa. Behind the cottage, you slid down a slippery bank of pine needles until you reached your moonlit mare, grasping the smooth horn of the saddle and clambering astride to get a move on.

“Ya!” With a kick to her flank, Willa gave a jolt and a toss of her head before starting forward. Moments. You had bought yourself moments to escape, merely. Snatching up the reins, you seated yourself properly and urged Willa through the grove of trees, hunching low to dodge the lash of branches. 

She moved with a swift determination beneath you. With hooves heavy upon the earth, she sensed your urgency. Twigs snapped and spears of moonlight shot through the pine canopy as you wove through a wide belt of trees, your breath coming hard and fogging in the air. 

The lane of a meadow came into view and you burst through the tree line, into the moon-bright open. Willa vaulted over a fallen log and landed in the muddy grasses, your rear hitting the saddle hard while pellets of ice flecked your cheeks as she scudded over a sheaf of unmelted snow.  

“Go, go, go!” Crying out, you nudged her flank again, and Willa obeyed, breathing hard. The prospect of speed and gaining distance from your pursuer outweighed the risk of exposure, riding in the open like this. Her pace transcended into a gallop. You clung tight, blinking against the cold air as it pricked your eyes. The thunder of her feet matched the beat of your heart and the landscape became a blur of stubby trees and boulders smudging past you. In the wind she made Willa’s mane flowed, and you trusted her completely to deliver you from danger. 

A gun fired off in the distance. You were forced to let up, arming yourself with your father’s hunting rifle, the stock firm against your shoulder as you peered down the sight and readied your aim. A quarter of a mile off a glint of moving light came from a lantern, and it struck your heart with a pang to do it—to fix your sights on the pulse of it and fire with violent intent. The sound split through the valley. The empty cartridge ejected. 

Astride his horse, Gideon shouted as it reared up. Your round pierced the dome of his upheld lantern and sent glass and kerosene raining. In the briefly purchased interval you prompted Willa onwards, back into the ponderosas that environed the open meadow and the darkness their bristling boughs afforded before he and his horse finished screaming. 

The farther into the woods you ventured the thicker the trees crept in, until you were forced to a walk. Into the silence of the night you listened, straining for any sound of pursuit. Nothing, only the cold shadows, dim moonlight, and scaly bark of pines passing by your knees. You propped the rifle against your thigh and loaded another brass round into the breech before hopping down from your mount. If the necessity rose again, it would be easier to aim on solid ground rather than swiveling on horseback. 

Pine cones and fallen twigs scattered at your step, and you took care to prowl lightly through the snowmelt. You held Willa’s bridle in one hand, her bit jingling, and led her until the murmur of flowing water pricked your ears. Miserable cold began to set in. At every rustle and riffle of leaf and breeze your eyes snapped to each corner of the woodland on high alert. More than anything, you wished for the warmth of your hearth—to be nestled in your favorite chair like any other evening spent in the solitude of your home. Not gripping a loaded gun in a dark forest, heart racing for your life. 

But at home, you remembered, lay the body of a dead man. To return to such a place was to hold to your ear a shell from the sea of the past, filling you with the hollow echo of what once was and no longer is. Those chapters from before fluttered away—as the seasons did. 

The soil turned mossy and spongy from the lush influence of the river, with trilliums springing up between tree roots and felled, sun-bleached logs. You let Willa walk on ahead, and the music of the water dampened the far-off sounds. Your breath came out slowly as you surveyed the wooded area behind you. 

How smart had Gideon grown in the past few years? Could he track you, undetected? Was he stalking you through the woods, with the patience and guile of a hunter?  In truth, you had no idea what he was capable of, and it made your fingers twitch towards the trigger. Then again, what were you? 

The treetops stirred. A gale whistled down from the mountains, hauntingly cold, and spliced through your jacket, meanwhile the starlight twinkled on. The moonlight turned the river iridescent. Willa drank her fill of water and you settled back into the saddle to trudge downriver. Gideon would lose the tracks you had no time to cover once he reached the stream, but could easily piece together your route. You stowed your rifle and formed a grip over the reins, knuckles over, and moved to fit your boots into the stirrups to give Willa a kick. 

You wondered how you could not have heard it: the low, whisking sound of a twirling lasso. By the time it dropped around your shoulders, it was too late. With a violent lurch you were dragged backwards from your horse into the numbing, snow-fed water. Hard and unforgiving rocks bashed into the side of your face as you slammed into the streambed, the taste of coins flooding your mouth as your teeth cut through your lip and tongue. You wrestled with the unyielding hold of the rope amidst the water flowing around you, the shock of which soaked ice in your blood instantly. Black flowers blossomed behind your eyes. A hard yank snagged the air from your lungs and pulled you free from the chaos of the current. 

Coughing, spluttering, blinking and gasping, twigs and gravel scraped your palms and before you could brace your hands against the silt someone else’s pinned them together and pushed you on your stomach. 

“You’re not gettin’ away now,'' a voice hissed. You remembered those hands on you years before, stronger since, and contempt flamed up in you, compelling the fight in your limbs to kick and scramble beneath Gideon’s hold. 

“Quit makin’ this harder for me than it already is!” he snapped. With force, he wrapped the rope around your wrists in a tight bind. All that was left to fight him with was your ankles and you thrashed your knees to shake him off, but the solid weight of him prevailed. 

“No,” you groaned, and it took all of your strength to. The rope bound your feet together, and a stupor sludged your limbs from the shock of the cold water. You were flipped onto your back, flinching at a face you were loath to look into. Gideon shook you by the shoulders and your eyes rolled.

“Tell me why! Why did you kill the Sheriff?!” 

The river still roared in your ears. Water dripped down your neck, bunched in your lashes. You thought they might turn into icicles, like the great big ones that hung from the cottage roof in the wintertime. Senses dulled and dazed, you could hardly see from the blur of tears and cold, but you caught the echo of his question, and the vial of indignation within you overflowed past the chatter of your teeth and the shivering of your limbs, unable to contain the seething words any longer. 

“You have no idea–” a cough interrupted your speech. “What kind of man you are defending.” 

Blood from the cut inside your lip spattered onto his face and he only blinked as if it were water. His astonishment was beyond expression. By the moonlight, the dark of his eyes narrowed, and you wormed beneath his glaring sneer. 

“He was a great man. Everyone saw the good he did. But you–” he yanked you up from the rocky bed by the elbow, your head lolling. “You were all he talked about. And I tried to warn him about you! You know what he did? He just laughed at me and said I wasn’t man enough to handle you.”

His statement stunned you into silence. Upright, your senses were slow to sharpen with the fog accumulating in your head. The idea of the Sheriff boasting about you to his fellow men sickened you more than the memory of his touch almost. But you had no time to harbor the thought before Gideon dragged you to his mount like a lamb to slaughter. 

Within the narrow, binding circle in which your ankles could shuffle you were pushed along, stumbling over pinecones and driftwood. You were too cold and cut up by the rocks to fight him, but you dug in your heels as you approached the tan horse’s flank, the gelding’s tail twitching. 

You rolled your shoulder as he shoved you harshly forward by the center of your back and searched for your horse desperately. Willa had taken off during scuffle, trotting down the opposite side of the riverbank. You whistled for her, and her head swung in your direction.

Gideon lost what little patience he had and pulled you up by your underarm. “Do I need to gag you as well?” You braced your arm against his horse’s side to keep your footing. “I think I should, since you’ll be savin’ your confession for the judge.”  

“Gideon, stop. Please,” you wheezed. “There was a wrong done to me.” You hoped the pain in your voice would make him pause and see the misery in your eyes, think about the weight behind your words. Maybe he would remember the girl you used to be, and recognize that she was gone, wondering what took the light from her heart. A minnow of doubt darted across his face and his grip nearly faltered, until the breeze blew cold and snuffed any flame of apprehension sparking inside him.

“And you call what you did makin’ it right? Killing a man is against the law,” he elucidated. His spit sprayed across your cheek and you flinched. “But I’ve heard all that I have an ear for. You’re spendin’ the night in a cell.” 

Gideon crouched and lifted you from around the legs, hefting you onto your stomach over the horse’s rump. Blood rushed to your head as your weight gravitated to your abdomen and your muscles strained to support it. The steed’s legs shifted underneath you and you lifted your head with a painful effort to speak your mind as he rounded the horse. 

“The law doesn’t tell you what’s right and what’s wrong; it only says there’s a price to be paid for certain actions,” you snapped. Disdain pulsed through your veins, your blood humming with contempt. 

“Yeah?” Gideon’s feet slotted into the stirrups and he gave a kick, gripping the reins and flicking them to the right. “And you are gonna pay—with your life. What’s that tell you?” 

You balled your fists and squirmed, the weave of the rope digging into your wrists. Gideon started forward, roughly, back into the darkened forest. Your chin knocked against the horse’s hide and you held your head up again. “Men like the Sheriff bend the law in their favor whenever it suits them to get what they want and never pay that price. The law doesn’t protect those beneath it.” 

“Spoken like a true degenerate.” He tossed you a look over his shoulder and scoffed. “God, if my mother could see you now.” At the memory of Mrs. Taylor and her old warmth towards you, you flamed up again, voice coming out in a growl. 

“Oh, you don’t have room in your head for more than one idea!”

“I know better than to listen to this. I know you. A man’s heart is your joy to play with–” 

“And it’s your joy to play the victim! Even now you can’t fathom why I despised you. You filled me with shame. Men like you and the Sheriff, all you care about is what I can give you. My heart, my feelings, they don’t matter. In the face of your desires they mean nothing. They don’t so much as cross your mind. The Sheriff took advantage of me and he would do it without a second thought over and over again unless I stopped it!”

“Shame?” Gideon turned back to you. The cold pinked the tips of his ear and nose, his knuckles also red from their place on the bridle. He went quiet for a moment before going on, the scenery passing by vaguely in shadows and shafts of moonlight. Your sternum ached at the pressure accrued from resting on it, and every time your head bounced along with the rhythm of the horse you glimpsed your bound feet on the other side. 

He spoke softer this time. “You must not remember how sweet I was on you when we were together. But the way you turned so sour so suddenly, when I could’ve sworn you liked me just as much…it made my head spin more than anythin’. I didn’t know what I did wrong.” 

The confession strummed a somber chord within you, twisting your expression grimly. You stepped out of the present, back into the years, while Gideon emerged from the cover of the woods and picked his way onto a pale ribbon of trail that wriggled ahead like a snake. A sign post at the fork heralded the one mile marker to the main road into town, painted white and chipping.

“We were so young. We were children, Gideon. It wasn’t love.” 

It struck you that, at the age you spoke of, you did not know how to say no—the word not being something girls were taught. What you knew of women’s’ relationships with men was the expected role they fulfilled: giving. Giving affection, pleasure, children, companionship. In theory the rationale was not so terrible. Love was a dream. To be in love was everything. But your tryst with Gideon acquainted you with a breed of men who were used to taking what women were expected to give. Your kiss, your touch, your embrace and your body, these were all special to you; a gift to be bestowed, the chance to do so reveled. Not things you were expected to surrender to the first boy who looked at you lustfully, unconcerned with your true, inner value. You wished you knew that then. 

The train of thought led you, for a glimmer of a second, to believe you could have stopped the worse act inflicted upon you by the hands of the Sheriff. As quick as it came it died. He would have found a way to get what he wanted, regardless of pleas, or strength, or precognition. You were not to blame. Bad people would always exist in the world and take advantage of others, and it was no fault of yours. 

Gideon shook his head, sighed, and muttered to himself. Pivoting, he looked down on you with a pinched mouth, his eyes hidden in the shadow cast by the brim of his hat. “Yeah, well. We still knew what we were doing.” The cutting edge of his words dismissed you and he spurred his horse into a faster trot. 

 I think you’re just ashamed and don’t know how to admit that you liked it. A ghost whispered. The soft choke of his death rattle gripped your memory and you flinched from it.

The hardheaded hold Gideon held on his grievances made your teeth clench. If only the perfect string of words existed to compel him to release them, you would draw the strands from the air, thread them together into a net, and cast their influence over his mind to pluck his heartstrings and make him remember the boy he once was; the one who looked upon you so fondly. But the notion came to a halt at that, for was he ever a boy capable of thinking beyond his own wishes, considering the thoughts of others? 

“You’re so selfish. You’ll never change,” you found yourself saying without thinking. But he did not catch your words, and you spoke up as your despisal surged anew. “Maybe you knew what you were doing when you groped me, and ground yourself against me, and kissed me slovenly, but I didn’t. Because maybe you’ve forgotten, but I just sat there. You only ever cared about making yourself happy.” 

He scoffed. “As much as I know you’d like to think it is, this isn’t about what happened between us. I stopped thinking about you in that way a long time ago, along with asking myself why. What you offered—” Gideon cut a withering look to your frame and grunted. “Wasn’t that special. There’s plenty of other girls out there. I’m just glad I didn’t end up in a goddamn carpet.” 

Further and further away your hope slipped. Your heartbeat pounded in your head, making it throb and ache as you hung over the horse’s side and your feet grew numb. Inevitably, water pricked your eyes. A chill breeze brushed past your nose and snot began to dribble from the end of it while your vision blurred and your voice broke.

“There is no getting through to you, is there?” 

In reply, Gideon only spurred his horse to trudge an incline in the road and leaned back in the saddle, steering away from the deeper patches of snow. A knot formed in your throat as you choked down useless tears. He owed you nothing. His nature was not understanding, or reflective, or critical of himself. It was self-righteous and vindictive. The conviction rested in his eyes as unyielding as the laws of justice. An ounce of sympathy from him was as likely as drawing blood from a stone.

Bitterly, your head fell, and you sucked your quivering, gashed lip. One last time, you tried to implore him. One last time, you sought your freedom, because it was the only thing you had left to lose. 

“You can let me go. I’ll never come back here! Whatever you’re trying to prove, you don’t have to–” 

And he slapped you across the face to shut you up. 

The strike stung like nettles and your ears rang. Shrinking away, your mind blanking with static and noise and blinding white despair, fresh blood spilled from your lips from the slap and your trembling body remembered how cold your dip in the river had been. Worse was the wind, billowing down from across the distant mountain peaks, and the shivers set in deep. The trot of the horse went on, up a hill and off the trail through the terrain once more.

In silence, in anguish, in defeat, you wept. Over the side of a horse, bound, slapped, and subdued, you wept and embraced the taste of salt. For your lost girlhood. For the grandmother who raised you and the mother who did not have the chance. For your life, for the ruination of your dreams, from the unfairness of it all. Was this the harvest of all that had been planted for you? Bone-weary, you slumped against the animal’s hide and let yourself rock with each step. If only sleep could take you. You were ready for all of this to be over, to be a dream you could wake from in a sweat and try your best to forget. Bleeding and shivering, you longingly ached for something to fetch you out of your present existence, and lead you upwards and onwards, but you had no heart left for anything. 

Glancing up at the sky, a bank of clouds enveloped the moon. Over wood, over water, the flood of its silver radiance receded, the ensuing darkness weaving a mystery in every drop of dew and creaking branch. An owl hooted, but its mate did not answer. The stars did not have any either as you searched for them.

The tall trees rustled, violently unsure, and the night breeze carried a sickly sweet scent in its passing, as if stirring something hidden under rotting leaves. As Gideon passed beneath them, the ragged shadows cast from the spruces closed in, and in the gloom an old stone rose from the earth like a grave. It may as well have been your own. Darkened by the color of moss and damp, the granite ledge presided over the forest, sundered by some glacial movement from the mountains eons ago while death and rebirth churned in the woods all around. 

Unable to face what was to come, you turned your head. But in so doing, you caught sight of Willa trailing you from a short distance, the spot of white on her forehead unmistakable, and your tears subsided. Your heart glowed and lifted; a wobbly smile dimpling your cheeks. Graceful and poised, steadfast and resilient, she trotted in the passing shadows like she was of its fabric, her coat the same shifting shades of moonlight while she moved like a river, the sinews of her forearms and chest a changeful, inky black above her socks of white. Her hooves were too soft to hear in the spongy dirt. 

Willa’s softly brown and gleaming eyes held a star in them. Every journey you embarked on, she was beside you. She carried your bushels of burdock root and feverfew and fireweed back to your cottage without complaint, conveying you home through the forests and switchbacks countless times, and in turn you took care of her since the day your grandmother bought her from the livery.

The events which occurred in the past day loosened your foothold on your sense of self. But in that moment, pondering Willa, it came back to you. You remembered who you were, and what you believed you were meant to be. A girl brought up to respect the Earth and revere it, who kept hope in her heart always, and dreamed that she could be loved. With crystalline clarity, your mind broke free from its chains and a wind stirred a flame back to life inside of you.

From a drained well of will, you gathered your strength, braced yourself for another struggle and one last trial of endurance. While you raced to think of a way to cut your binds, Gideon’s head snapped around, and you stopped. His revolver was drawn in a flash and his horse whinnied and raked its hooves. He fixed his eyes on the tree line and you strained for any telltale sound while his gelding started to canter to the side uneasily. Something spooked it.                                

“What is it?” you hissed. He ignored you.

A twig snapped close by. “Who goes there?” he called out. Not far off, a ribbon of campfire smoke wove up into the night air and you squinted at the shadows.

Gideon tugged the reins hard to the left and clicked his spurs, venturing to investigate and evade the open clearing. Your head joggled with the movement and you grunted. A patch of ground ahead, though sideways from your point of view, appeared odd, misshapen, the thick carpet of pine needles too obvious to be natural. But Gideon was not watching his tread and aimed his horse’s walk right over it.

A dire creak made you freeze.

“Look out!”

It was too late.

A shrieking snap, and next, the wind was in your ear as the earth gave out from beneath. With a cry, the horse stumbled and reared and everything went upside down. Your heart seized during a timeless, weightless, airless second as a lattice of concealed logs collapsed beneath the load of Gideon and his horse, and you all fell in an outcry.

The sap and pine scent of fresh wood rushed up your nose as it cracked all around you. Unable to reach out for anything or protect your face, the sharp edges of branches snagged at your clothes and stabbed at your sides, needles scraping and stinging your skin. When the slamming force of the ground ended it all, a spike of wood tore a scream from you as it impaled your thigh.

The tumult fizzled to a static in your ears. You roiled on the dirt floor of the manmade pit, curling into yourself like a pill bug at the hot, pulsing throbs of pain in your leg surrounding the intrusion. You cried out at the unbearable and debilitating burning shooting throughout your body. Throat raw, vision white, breath sawing raggedly, your senses came clear enough for half a moment to observe Gideon, still astride his hysterical animal, gripping the bridle and urging the horse out of the pit. He kicked it harshly to vault over the rim back to solid ground.

He spared you one glance before riding off, and left you.

Tears stung your eyes and you wailed out your pain freely. Scratching at the rope around your wrists was useless, your nails only drew blood. All over, your body ached with bruises and fatigue, and it depleted all of your strength to focus on your breathing alone. Frustration and pain tangled in your chest like a mass of snakes, warring each other, and all you could to do alleviate the pain was roll onto your uninjured side. Your leg gushed like an oil-well.

Once everything started to fade, time ceased mattering, and you slipped in and out of consciousness. You blearily wondered why you were still fighting. A cold sweat chilled your neck and your chest palpitated unbearably.

Sounds from afar, beyond the pit, invaded your ears. There were hoof beats. The shouts of more riders, pursuing Gideon most likely. He would be rounding up what was left of the Sheriff’s posse, going after this gang that has been troubling this valley the past few days. No doubt this pit was dug by them, a trap for someone who got too close to where they were camped out. The whole town would be in a frenzy, meanwhile you...fading, languishing in the dirt…no one would find you in time…

With a quavering sigh, you began to let go. There was only so much your body could take; it would so much easier to sink into this grave than crawl your way out. To breathe became like listening to a lake lap a shore with its waves, growing fainter, quieter, and more still.

The moonlight was serene, and the coolness of this cavity of earth was welcome. Tree roots poked from the stratified layers of dirt, worms and centipedes clinging to the moisture therein. Above, a scuff of needles and a snort announced the presence of your most trusted friend.

Willa whickered, eyes finding your curled form in the pit. She paced around the edges. What remained of your hope ached. Through a glaze of tears you tried to speak, to soothe her, but no sound broke from you other than a whimper. But you were not alone. Never alone…in these woods…these mountains…with these familiar stars above���until unknown, male voices dispelled the cloud hovering over your thoughts.

“I’m telling you, I heard something. Someone in pain.”

Footsteps, a pair of them. You fought to stay awake, aware, but your willpower was slipping like the final sands through the waist of an hourglass.

“It’s probably another one of them law boys,” someone grumbled. “Maybe we caught one.”

“As soon as Dutch gets back we need to skip town without kissin’ the mayor goodbye.”

“You’re telling me. We should’ve left after that business last night.”

A haze began to drift over you again, sweeping you under the blessed numbness unconsciousness promised. Your eyelids were so, so heavy.

Willa nickered, the white of her eyes showing as the pair of men presumably approached her.

“Whoa, easy there.” One of the men regarded her, gently shushing and calming her in a matter of moments. In a way only you could—

“Look.”

“It’s a girl. Tied up like a steer.”

A gun being holstered, a thump of feet, and you were no longer alone. A shadow passed over the moonlight on your face. It was too dark to see, to know if you were about to be saved or damned by whoever was crouching over you. Dimly, you hoped you looked too powerless and broken to be mistreated.

“Pl—please,” your weak words tasted of copper. The apricot glow of a lantern warmed your face, and you looked up into a pair of eyes you trusted instinctively.

“What happened here?” The man who asked you this was older, with graying blond hair swept beside his temples. You had never seen him before. He had deep lines beside his shrewd eyes and his mouth was grim, but a kindness of understanding softened his countenance. It had been such a long time since any sincere compassion had looked at you through eyes other than your grandmother’s.

“Deputy—was bringing me in—left me here—“a spasm of pain interrupted your slurred speech. Wincing, you gestured to your thigh with your chin, seeing the pool of red darkening your pant leg for the first time. “Can’t move.”

The older man’s companion joined him in the light of his lantern. He was younger; tall and well-built, with a gun belt slung across his hips replete with ammunition, the brass of his bullets shining. A satchel hung from his side and he unsheathed a hunting knife attached to his belt. The quick gleam of it filled you with uncertainty.

“Easy, miss,” he raised his hands. “We don’t mean you any harm. I’m just gonna cut you free. Hold still.”

In a few saws of the blade the rope loosened its pitiless hold over your limbs; the relief of clutching your wound with your own hands was enough to make you sob. The men grew quiet, considering your condition. All of the blood was draining from your head, like it was all racing to escape out of your leg. The chunk of wood was buried in it, likely holding back a gushing torrent of crimson like the river miles and hours back. You wanted nothing more than to yank it out. It had not gone all the way through.

“We need to take her to a doctor,” the older man asserted, and his companion made a noise of protest. “I don’t know if Susan and Bessie can patch this up.”

“No—“ you cut him off, as forcefully as you could. “I can’t—I can’t go back there,” your breath began to labor and dizziness crept in as you moved to sit with your back against the packed dirt wall of the pit. “They’re gonna—gonna hang me, for killing that awful man.”

Clutching the wound, the blood oozed out warmly between the webs of your fingers, the dark, iron scent of it pungent in your nostrils. Air hissed out sharply between your teeth.

The two men looked to each other in mute discussion.

It left you in a sad whisper: “You should just leave me here.”

“We’ll help you.”

“We will?”

“Arthur.”

The fading began in earnest. You were incapable of protesting what came next. A pair of hands grasped your elbows, guiding you to your feet, which only stumbled because there was no strength left in your legs. Boneless, a broad chest caught you, your head lolling in the pillow of an arm, your nose grazing the fur of a jacket, and you burrowed into the scent of smoke and forest with a groan.

“We need to get back.” The lantern flame was doused, and the arms surrounding you lifted you in their hold. Your lashes fluttered to catch a glimpse of him, the man who held you, but his hat cast a shadow over his gaze and the night around him was dark with blue.

“You’ll be safe with Arthur, miss,” a voice said, but you were far away, lost to memories and hollow dreams. They dragged you down deep with pictures of bluebells in a water puddle, of lightning flashes through a curtain, of useless wrists beside you.

Your last awareness was of a sky made of woods and branches, with all of its stars perishing.

[maxphilippa]

I dont wanna be rude or smth, but the VA of Knife, (Justin Chapman) is uncomfortable with the ship Knife x Microphone, cus the VA of Microphone is his sister irl. Just wanted to give u a heads up.

Oh my fucking God how many times do I have to answer this.

As seen on the picture, Justin doesn't mind if anyone ships the characters that he gives a voice to (Knife, Paper, Silver, Mepad, etc) with the ones that his sisters give a voice to (Mic, Soap, Salt, Pepper, etc), in fact he gives a flying fuck about what people ship so like.

This has been confirmed by Justin. On May 1st. OF THIS YEAR. Just a heads up.

[xinnamonbun]

We're Doing This Again!

I've done: Payjay, Fantube, Silvercandle, Lightbrush, and very soon will be adding Suitloon to the list.

So...

I also forgot to mention this in the last post but there is like one or ship kids that I'm saving for the end that isn't on this list so yeah. There will be slightly more content.

Edit: Wow, Taco won by a LANDSLIDE! Her kid's coming next!

[asbestos-boy-68]

i am not a proshipper. i feel the need to put this here because people have been wishing death on me because of the fact that i ship phonepad. instead of sending me death wishes, please learn your ii lore. mephone and mepad aren’t related. thanks. anyways, intro post.

hi. i’m alex , aka asbestos boy 68.

about me

i’m 16

i am a boy

i’m also a cripple

i’m a scene kid

i’m he / him

i love my boyfriend

i like music a lot (please talk to me about music)

i draw sometimes

i also write sometimes

i also sing and act

i also do photography

i’m cringe ❤️

fandoms i’m in

inanimate insanity

hfjone

smiling friends

superbad

zach stone is gonna be famous

scott pilgrim

garfield

non fandom interests

computer viruses

musicccc<3333333

eas

linguistics

graphic design

photography

ben folds

littlest pet shop

my ships

mephone 4 x mepad (inanimate insanity)!! <3

mecintosh x mephone 3gs (inanimate insanity)

silver spoon x the floor (inanimate insanity)

balloon x tissues (inanimate insanity)

trophy x knife (inanimate insanity)

fan x cheesy (inanimate insanity)

microphone x taco (inanimate insanity)

nickel x baseball (inanimate insanity)

pickle x bomb (inanimate insanity)

test tube x lightbulb (inanimate insanity)

salt x pepper (inanimate insanity)

paper x oj (inanimate insanity) (i was verbally threatened to put them here (jk i love payjay))

candle x cabby (inanimate insanity)

bow x clover (inanimate insanity)

apple x marshmallow (inanimate insanity)

suitcase x soap (inanimate insanity)

toilet x mephone4s (inanimate insanity)

blueberry x lifering (inanimate insanity)

steve cobs x ballpoint pen (inanimate insanity)

airy x liam (hfjone)(yeah yeah throw your tomatoes)

coiny x firey (BFDI)

pen x eraser (BFDI)

gelatin x fries (BFDI)

zach x greg (zach stone is gonna be famous)

seth x evan (superbad)

charlie x pim (smiling friends)

garfield x odie (garfield)

scott x wallace (scott pilgrim)

kim x ramona (scott pilgrim)

my fav characters

cheesy (inanimate insanity)

mephone 4 (inanimate insanity)

zach stone (take a fat guess which one this is from)

odie (garfield)

wallace wells (scott pilgrim)

dni

phonepad antis. leave me alone.

proshippers. i am not one of y’all.

basic dni criteria

true crime community

under 13

thin ice

swifties

music i like

too many to list here but i’ll list the big ones

ben folds / ben folds five / majosha / etc (my beloved !!!) <333

they might be giants

nine inch nails

weezer

orchestral manoeuvres in the dark

descendents (the punk band. NOT disney.)

uncle outrage

millionaires

depeche mode

babymetal

mitski

pet shop boys

joost klein

jonathan coulton

lesley gore

crochetcatpause

party cannon

i am very opinionated. this blog is mostly my opinions. if you don’t like them, just don’t read them. don’t attack me! thanks!

^^ art by @realflops ^^

[ask-inanimateclan]

Greetings and salutations! Welcome to Inanimateclan! Ask whatever you'd like, we're ready with answers!

(Hi, I'm the owner of this blog, Luna! I will not answer NSFW asks, but jokes within reason are okay. Please do not spam either! -🌙)

Allegiances—

(CharacterHub profiles currently available are linked, but they are still under construction. The ask blog is set during early season two and will progress accordingly.)

LEADER-

Buzzingstar (MePhone4)

DEPUTIES-

Ebonyspark (MePad)

Splashpounce (Toilet)

MEDICINE CAT-

Sneezestep (Tissues)

WARRIORS-

Brightlight (Lightbulb)

Paintedflame (Paintbrush)

Redwind (Fan)

Shatterbug (Test Tube)

Splitface (Yin-Yang)

Russetstripes (Baseball)

Silversnap (Nickel)

Floatstream (Balloon)

Bladefang (Knife)

Goldenfur (Trophy)

Swiftshine (Soap)

Slicespots (Cheesy)

Orangepelt (OJ)

Bluestripes (Paper)

Swampnose (Pickle)

Stuttermuzzle (Bomb)

APPRENTICES-

Blackpaw (Microphone)

Marshpaw (Marshmallow)

Applepaw (Apple)

Pepperpaw (Pepper)

Saltpaw (Salt)

Morningpaw (Suitcase)

Cherrypaw + Berrypaw (Cherries)

OUTSIDERS-

Taco

Bow

Dough

MEEPLE-

3GS

Redshadow (4S)

X (MePhoneX)