#snick hat

[wynnyfryd]

Trailer park Steve AU part 10

part 1 | part 9 | ao3

cw: recreational drinking

When they get to Eddie’s trailer, Steve’s mom is sitting on the couch, eyes unblinking as she watches the TV.

There’s just static on the screen.

“Steve?” she slurs when she finally realizes they’re there. Sways a little when she stands. There’s a dreamy quality to her voice, a blank look on her tired face: agreeable but distant, a smudge of campfire smoke curling far over the trees.

Double-dosed her pills again. Jesus Christ.

“Oh, Stevie, baby, it was just awful.” She reaches out for him, and he wishes he could find comfort in the way she cups his elbows with delicate hands. Wishes he could lean into her touch and offer comfort in return, but her tone is so dull and mild that bile rises in his throat. Chemical calm bullshit, and Steve has had enough.

“Ma, just…” he sighs, shrugging her off. Scrubs a hand over his face. Too young and too old for this. “Just go home, okay?” The street is quiet again, all the neighbors tucked back in their houses now that the show has run its course. He doesn’t think anyone will notice her stumbling across the road. “Get some rest. I’ll be over in a bit.”

“Sure, baby.” He leads her to the door, and she turns there on the threshold, eyes glassy and unfocused; looks through him like he’s a ghost. Then her gaze shifts around the room — the hats, the mugs, the clutter; the lived-in explosion of color that Steve’s annoyed he likes so much — like she’s just seeing it all for the first time, and absently, she murmurs, “This place is dreadful, isn’t it?”

“Mom.”

“Hmm?” she asks, but she’s already drifting out the door.

Steve’s face is on fire. He stands there for a moment, just staring dumbly out into the dark. What the hell is wrong with her??

Behind him, Eddie snorts. "Oh, she’s on the good shit, huh?”

Steve whips his head around. Eddie’s eyes are full of mirth, his dimple peeking out, and it startles a laugh out of Steve. He thinks maybe he’d take offense if he weren't so busy being mortified.

But also, like.

It is a little funny.

Or maybe it’s so unfunny that it circles back around.

“Jesus, man,” he huffs, “Sorry. I don’t— I don’t know why she…”

“S’fine,” Eddie says with a casual flick of his wrist. Seems like he means it. He rocks back on his heels, hands in his back pockets, just sort of eyeing Steve up. Assessing. Running his tongue over his lips. They're big, for a guy's. “…You want a beer?”

“Fuck.” That sounds so nice. “Yeah. Please.”

“Have a seat.”

Steve takes the offer when Eddie nods at the couch, too tired to do the whole song and dance of ‘oh heavens no, I couldn’t possibly impose.’ Who’s got the energy for that?

The couch is old. His skull thuds against the un-cushioned back when he sinks down into it, but he’s too tired to care. Worn out as the lumpy springs under his ass, the frayed fabric beneath his arm. A wave of exhaustion rattles his bones, reverberates in his teeth. He thinks he could sleep for sixteen years.

Eddie clears his throat when he comes back with the beers, a sudden cautiousness about him as he hands Steve an unopened can like Steve might claw him in return.

"Sit down," Steve rolls his eyes. "I'm not gonna bite."

Eddie makes a strangled noise. The springs bounce as he plops onto the seat beside Steve, sitting sideways with one leg up on the couch between them, his arm resting on the back. "So, ah...." He gives a wavering chuckle; pulls a lock of hair across his face to hide himself. "Is this the part where I formally apologize for trying to knife you?"

Ugh. No the fuck it isn't. Steve’s too drained for it, absolutely at capacity for more serious shit this evening, thanks; and besides that, it was...

Whatever. It's old news.

Instead of giving a real answer he reaches into his pocket, snicks his own knife open and pretends to brandish it at Eddie, asking, "Eye for an eye?"

Eddie's eyes go huge. "Dude, what the fuck??"

"Just fucking with you," Steve laughs, lifting the can up to his mouth. "But there; now we're even. Shoulda seen your face."

“Ah—!” Eddie’s jaw drops in offense. “Ex-cuse you!”

God, of course he’s more dramatic than all the kids combined.

Steve jabs the knife into his beer, pops the top and starts to chug, throat working as he gulps the whole thing down in four big sips. It tastes like frothy, bitter piss, but it's cold and it soothes the scratch in his throat.

Eddie lets out a low whistle. "Well, goddamn, Harrington."

"Is that supposed to impress me?" "You're not?"

Steve grins and wipes his mouth.

—

They get drunk pretty fast (Eddie refused to be upstaged in his own house, so one shot-gunned beer became two became four), and somewhere along the line the conversations get weird; hilarious and dumb. Saying shit just to say it, chipping away at the ice wall between them with bare fingernails.

Eddie hollers some shit like: "What are you even talking about?" and his arms fling out wide, almost spilling his beer. "The deep sea is so much scarier than the mountains!"

"Are you joking?" Steve throws back. "The mountains have, like, giant cats and shit! Birds of prey with wingspans the size of your van."

"Yeah, and the deep sea has eldritch monsters that live in volcano vents and hunt with no eyes and eat their young for fun or whatever the fuck. You ever heard of an anglerfish? Or a phantom anglerfish? Tell me that shit isn't right out of a Lovecraft story."

"A what story?"

"How am I the one who hasn’t graduated yet?"

Then later:

“Dude, Batman? Seriously?”

“He’s the world’s greatest detective!”

“He’s a greasy little weirdo. You only like him because of your whole…” Steve gestures at his tattoos.

“Whatever, Spiderfan.”

And later still:

"Okay, okay, okay. Fuck, marry, kill... Shit. Y’know this would really be easier in a town where so many people hadn’t died."

Steve grimaces at himself; expects Eddie to call him out. It’s too insensitive, too soon.

Eddie just cracks a grin and suggests, "Fuck, marry, revive?"

—

They talk for a long time. Eddie's kind of charming when he's not being a dick. A nice smile, deep laugh lines. Steve can almost see why the kids are so obsessed with him. He's never met someone so animated; feels like he's talking to a Saturday morning cartoon. The conversation mellows out after a while, and he doesn't realize he's dozed off until Eddie shakes him awake.

"Hey, man," he says, voice just above a whisper. "I'm going to bed. You're welcome to crash on the couch, but, uh,” he scratches the back of his neck, “I mean, your back is probably gonna hate you for it."

Steve rubs his fists against his eyelids and blinks himself awake. Feels jittery and weird, yanked out of the start of a bad dream. When he looks up he sees that he’s got his shoes up on the couch; and there’s dried drool on his chin, and all at once he feels embarrassed, off-balance and panicked like he missed the last step down a steep flight of stairs. Of course he's overstayed his welcome. He's being fucking rude. "My bad," he mutters as he jumps up off the couch. Stands up way too fast, makes his vision tilt and swirl. "I'll get out of your hair."

Eddie reaches for his arm. "Dude,” he says, “you're fine. You can stay if you want.”

Steve moves out of his hold. “Nah, get some sleep; I’ll see ya around.”

Eddie frowns at him, a little furrow between his brows, and somehow Steve feels like he’s in the wrong, like Eddie isn’t the one who just kicked him out.

Like maybe Steve’s just running away for a second time in one night. Always back and away, this guy.

Who's the fucking coward now?

—

part 11

y'all know the drill, tagging whoever commented on yesterday's installment provided your tumblr settings let me <;3 @thealwithnoname @violetsteve @manda-panda-monium @stuftzombie @bronwenmarie @aliea82 @slowandsteddie @acedorerryn @anne-bennett-cosplayer @ahsokatanoss @steveshairspray @hallucinatedjosten @estrellami-1 @ppunkpuppyy @stevesbipanic @silver-snaffles @yourmom-isgay @eddie-munsons-missing-nipple @zombiecreatures @im-a-disgrace-to-humanity @faery-god @hotluncheddie @runninriot @a-little-unsteddie @teatimeeverybody @newtstabber @pearynice @hellion-child @cuips-not-cute @steddieas-shegoes @steves-strapcollection @loguine-linguine @griefabyss69

[spideyhexx]

Billy knew he didn't actually hate you, but it was the only front he'd been able to put up.

Ever since you joined his gang, you've been a thorn in his side. Your constant teasing and that sickeningly sweet smile that played on your lips every time his jaw clenched at your words would send him into a spiral. It's like you always knew the right way to thread words together to make him mad.

He admits to himself he's taken with you. He sees your beauty and understands the intrigue that other men express with ease towards you, but there's just a coil inside him that tightens with anger whenever words fall out of your pretty mouth.

Billy felt poisoned by you. You occupy every part of his mind. He isn't even sure how he's supposed to do his job when he's only thinking about your voice. Or the way you called him out for staring while you sipped on your drink. Or when he saw you come out of your tent, buttoning your shirt up and you just had to comment on his blush.

This morning would be like any other. Everyone is scattered, eating their breakfast. Billy leans up against a post and does the same.

"Mr. Bonney, I recall being promised an extra piece of bread," he hears you from behind him and you swoop in, taking his already half-eaten piece of bread from him. "I reckon that was Jesse, not me," his eyes pierce daggers into you, but it somehow never phased you. At least on the outside.

On the inside, you wanted to melt from his gaze but you're smarter than that. You knew how to keep yourself composed, so all Billy saw was a calm expression and a smile as you ate what was left of his bread.

He'd roll his eyes so hard, you'd think he wanted you to hear it. He stalks off towards a small group of his men who've gathered around to talk. You trail behind him, watching his arm flex as he reaches for his hat and puts it on his head, adjusting it only slightly before leaving it. You always like his hat and the way his little brown curls would peek out in tufts from it. The attraction you had for him was overwhelming at times but the power you felt when you got him so pissed off was enough to fuel your aching feelings for him.

A wild thought enters your mind as he comes to a halt, you a few paces behind him. Annoying him was the epitome of fun for you and why not start the day off strong? Without another thought, you sneak up behind him and yank his hat off of his head, backing away quickly as he turns on instinct, his hand at his gun. He relaxes when he notices it's just you.

"Give me that back," he snaps as the other boys whistle in amusement.

They were all used to your antics by now and loved it when you challenged Billy. You seemed to be the only person to really get under his skin so it was for their amusement too.

A taunt plays at the tip of your tongue like venom. "You gonna catch me?" You tighten your grip on his hat, a smile still on your lips as his mouth opens to say something, but nothing comes out.

Billy's mind is racing. He's still tired and he only got to eat half of his food cause of you and now you have his hat of all things. All he feels like he can do at that moment is let out a little chuckle, shaking his head.

He begins to walk towards you and you both circle one another as all attention is focused on the two of you. "We both know I can run faster than you, sweetheart," Billy tries. He tries so hard to not come off as irritated as he is but it's so obvious. You loved that about him.

His brow is knitted and his lips purse in frustration when you shake your head. "You think so little of me, Bonney."

The two of you circle one another for a bit. You want to just run but you're waiting to see his first move. Billy on the other hand doesn't think you would even run. He knows he can very easily get a few steps closer and grab his hat from you. He's trying to study your face like he wants to read your thoughts, but he just can't. You're too good, too concealed.

"You too scared, Bonney?" A few of the men around you snicker at that and you feel your smile turn into more of a smirk as Billy's face emits more anger. He swallows hard, nose flaring as he watches you like prey. But then again, maybe he's the prey. He takes two steps to move forward and you tsk before turning heel and dashing away.

"Fuck!" He curses as the men laugh and he takes off after you. Billy had to admit that you were faster than he thought, but he still caught up enough to try and reach out his hands to grab you. You spin out of his grasp, his fingers barely grazing your waist before you run off again.

You don't miss the way he lets out a groan and you so badly wish you could turn around and see the look on his face, but you book it. The land is vast where you are, so much room and you take that advantage.

When you're a decent distance away, you stop, "you're pretty slow, Bonney!" You watch him heave it as he keeps running after you and you decide to slow your pace as you continue. Maybe he's had enough. And maybe you wanna see his handsome face up close again.

The lake comes into view as you run and Billy nears closer to you. It's like the adrenaline kicked in for him full-time as you feel your own heart pounding, just waiting to feel him catch you.

When Billy gets close enough to grab you, and he does. His hands grip onto your waist hard and he's tugging you close to him as you let out a shriek. The force of this, however, with both of you running and the hold he's got on you makes him lose his footing. He falls onto the ground, bringing you down with him.

He takes most of the fall and you land on top of him, his grasp on you so fucking tight. Despite the wind being knocked out of him for a moment, Billy's made aware of how your ass is now pressing right against his crotch and it takes every nerve in his body to not just buck his hips up against you to continue the sensation that's rocketing throughout his body in that instant. He knows he's digging his fingers tight on your hips and it gives his clouded mind all the more reason to grind against you, but he doesn't. His grip loosens.

He tries to sit up after a moment and that's when he realizes you're...laughing? Laughing so hard as you roll off of him onto your back next to him in the grass.

You both pant from exhaustion and you place Billy's hat on his chest, patting it before continuing in your fit of laughter. He looks at you with his brow raised. Billy's never had such conflicting emotions course through him before, but he knew he loved the sight of you laughing this hard. And that it was him and only him.

He really did his best to keep his lips from quirking up into a smile, but you were already looking at him. "oh don't hide it, Mr. Bonney, you loved that," you get out as you continue to laugh and that's when Billy noticed you were crying from it.

And all Billy could do, despite whatever had been holding him back, was smile and laugh along.

He drops his head into the grass as you sit up and wipe at your eyes. Billy can't take his eyes off of you. The morning sun hits you perfectly and he's even seen you laugh like this. For this one moment, any anger you've caused him dissipates, and he's left only with some sort of happiness.

You finally look back at him and notice the slight flush on his cheeks as he stares up at you. You try to return your breathing to normal as you glance at his hat, but then you see something else.

"Are you hard right now?" Billy lifts his head up, moving his hat from his chest, and sees his arousal from the situation had been more than he might've expected and he looks at you as you try to hold in your laughter.

"Sweetheart, don't-" but you're already cackling and Billy accepts his defeat in the matter, watching you with a squint in his eyes due to the sun and a smile on his lips.

let's chat about billy, here :)

[onehundredflamingos]

@jegulus-microfic

22 / convict / 1476 words / NSFW / explicit sexual content

“I’m not wearing this,” Regulus complained immediately. He was holding up a pair of thong underwear, white and grey horizontal stripes across it. There was a small patch sewn into the waistband — an inmate number.

“Do you want to be the cop instead?” James asked, holding up his outfit. His was a pair of deep navy booty shorts and a button down crop top. It came with a small hat with a gold star on the front, and a pair of plush black handcuffs.

“Absolutely not, James.”

“Fine.” James smiled, like he had just won the jackpot. “Then you have to be the convict.”

Regulus huffed. He didn’t know why James was so adamant about role playing anyway, but he supposed if James ended up naked in the end, what difference did it make?

“Fine.”

Regulus stormed off to the bathroom, following James instructions to put it on immediately, doing his best to only focus on the fact that he was about sixty seconds from seeing that man in booty shorts.

Suddenly there was a loud bang at the door, enough to startle Regulus into nearly falling over, second leg barely through his jeans he was sliding on over the costume.

“It’s the cops, open up!”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

“Is there a problem, off—,” Regulus started to ask, but was immediately cut off by the sight of James in that outfit. “Holy shit, James.”

“It’s Officer Potter, to you,” James said, blushing. “There have been some complaints recently, I’m going to have to take you in for questioning,” he demanded, hands on his hips.

Regulus sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, deciding this game wasn’t so bad after all. “Okay, Officer Potter.”

James led Regulus to the back of their house and into their bedroom, demanding he be stripped down. “All of our inmates are required to wear the same prison uniform,” he tacked on, puffing out his chest. James reached forward and grabbed at the bottom hem of Regulus’ t-shirt, pulling it up and over his head.

“Hands behind your head,” James said, and Regulus had to hold back a snicker. James was a lot of things, but assertive was not one of them.

Not with Regulus anyway.

Regulus obliged, putting his hands behind his head, palms flush against his dark curls. He watched as James opened each handcuff before disappearing behind him, snicking each cuff shut around each wrist.

“Pants off next,” James said, moving back to Regulus’ front, undoing the button of his jeans and sliding them down. “This is certainly more appropriate,” James said stoically, gesturing to Regulus’ thong.

“What were these complaints for, Officer?” Regulus asked, looking down at James. James looked incredible in the crop top he chose, a piece of clothing that Regulus never would have anticipated to turn him on so much.

“Noise complaints,” James said, shaking his head as if he was truly disappointed. “I’m going to have to punish you, and I expect you to stay quiet.”

“Where would you like me to take that punishment?” Regulus asked, small smirk playing on his lips.

James gestured with a small nod. “Get on the bed, facing up. I want your hands against the headboard.” Regulus obliged, settling his hands on either side of a single dowel lining their spindle headboard, fuzzy handcuffs still forcing them close together.

James climbed over Regulus, straddling his torso as he reached up to fix the handcuffs, wrapping the center chain around the post before clasping it around both wrists once more.

He slid down Regulus’ body and settled between his legs, pressing his lips to the fabric covering Regulus’ cock. He exhaled hot puffs of air along his length, pressed his wet tongue to the tip.

Regulus moaned softly at the sensation, at the blood rushing straight to his cock. He reached down to card his fingers through James’ hair, only to feel the yank of metal and fur against his wrist. He whimpered, wanting to touch James so badly, wanting to guide his head just a bit lower, to force more pressure against his growing cock even with the underwear still on.

After a few moments, James pulled Regulus’ cock out from its confines, immediately licking a strip up the underside, and Regulus unable to hold back the groan that was let loose from deep down in his chest. Regulus hadn’t been expecting him to dive in so quickly; James was usually so gentle and explorative to start.

Not that Regulus was complaining.

James pulled his mouth off of Regulus’ cock just as quickly as he had taken it into his mouth, looking up at Regulus and tutting. “Quiet, or I’ll have to punish you worse than this.”

Regulus liked this James. He nodded.

The first few minutes that James took Regulus in his mourh, he was quiet. So quiet he very well could’ve been not enjoying himself.

But he was — of course he was, but he wanted more.

He let out a moan, guttural and primal and loud.

James jerked his head off of Regulus’ cock, and Regulus nearly grinned at him — a wide smile to rival one of James’ — if he thought he would still get what he was after.

“I told you if you couldn’t keep quiet, I would have to punish you worse, Regulus Black.”

Regulus nodded sweetly. “Whatever you think you need to do, sir.”

James slid his shorts off and settled onto his haunches, pouring lube on his hands and his cock before getting to work stretching Regulus out. Regulus bit his lip, stifling the moans he felt trying to push their way out, quieting all of the James’ and the pleases, until James was finally pressing his cock inside of him.

“That’s a good boy, being so quiet for me now,” James encouraged, grabbing ahold of Regulus’ hips, fingertips digging into his flesh. “Did you learn your lesson? Not to be so fucking loud where everyone can hear you?”

It would be funny that James asked that question — so loud, as he fucked Regulus’ hard, headboard slamming into a shared wall over and over — if not for how good it felt, how empowered James looked in that obscene crop top.

“Y-yes, officer,” Regulus said in a whisper. James reached down and took Regulus’ cock in his fist, stroking him at just the right pace to match his own hips.

Regulus cried out, sound coming unbidden, and James immediately released his grip around Regulus’ cock, leaving it throbbing and leaking at the tip. “Looks like you don’t deserve that after all.” He quirked a brow. “Do you need me to cover your mouth to make sure you keep quiet?”

Regulus shook his head.

“Or maybe I should choke you a bit, steal your breath so you can’t cry out like that?”

James phrased it as a question, but Regulus couldn’t answer — not with James still thrusting into him, not with the promise of that.

He let out a little mewl of assent, the sound making James lips upturn, perfect smile flashing back at Regulus as he reached a hand forward and wrapped his fingers around Regulus’ throat. “Now I want you to stay silent as I make you come all over your chest, do you hear me?”

Regulus managed a small nod, even with James’ fingers curled around his neck, pinning him to the bed. He craned his neck back just a bit, giving James more access, and watched as James continued to move above him.

He was beautiful in his uniform, so confident and proud to have brought this to fruition, to have Regulus quite literally under his thumb.

James increased his pace, thrusting into Regulus hard, hand tightening until Regulus was certain he would have small bruises dotting the side of his neck — little fingerprints as evidence of his punishment for being too loud.

All at once, James was groaning, a small grimace on his face, contorting before settling into something beautiful as he came inside Regulus. James’ entire body slackened just a bit, and Regulus sucked in gulps of air as he followed James over the edge, biting his lip as hard as he could to keep from crying out.

James looked up at Regulus, panting softly, sweat dotting his brow. “Good boy, Reg,” James said, only half breaking character. “You were so quiet for me.”

James pressed a soft kiss to Regulus’ lips.

“James,” Regulus said in response. “Why do you look so fucking good in that stupid shirt?”

James laughed. “I don’t know, Reg, but I’m dying to see what it looks like on you.”

Regulus wasn’t entirely sold on the idea of him playing the cop role, but if he got to bend James over and punish him, he was sure it wouldn’t be so bad, after all.

[musamora]

𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖊𝖈𝖍𝖔 𝖔𝖋 𝖘𝖞𝖓𝖈𝖍𝖗𝖔𝖓𝖎𝖈 𝖍𝖊𝖆𝖗𝖙𝖘 「𝔣𝔶𝔬𝔡𝔬𝔯 𝔡𝔬𝔰𝔱𝔬𝔢𝔳𝔰𝔨𝔶」 ༉‧₊˚

content. f!reader. implied breaking-and-entering, fireworks, metaphors about stars, soft!fyodor, he's secretly down-bad, he's also incredibly possessive. descriptions of moscow (red square, st. basil's cathedral), mentions of eastern european food (pirozhki), references to greek mythology (perseus and andromeda), jokes about greek incest. not proofread. 2.2k+ words.

author's note. starting the last of my fics for the year with the first bungou stray dogs character i've ever written for. thank you for such a lovely year! ࿐ ♡ ˚ .

would you like to see more? fill out the taglist or comment under this post.

synopsis. within the last minutes of the year, sitting underneath the stars, two lovers discuss the stories mapped within constellations. in themselves, they find that some tales are timeless.

"It's so lovely at this time of night."

You couldn't contain your astonishment as flurries coasted to the earth in silent swells, dusting the city in a sheen of sparkling white. With an outstretched hand, you gathered flakes into your palm, admiring them before they melted with the heat of your skin. The riverside stilled as you coasted along the sidewalk, frozen in thickening ice as parents ushered their children away from its tempting surface. Tourists clustered under trees, shivering in their thin hats and coats as they underestimated the spite of Russia's wind. But despite the chill, there was an unmistakable gaiety in the air, smiles strewn on glassy faces as they awaited the new year.

You tailed behind Fyodor as he sauntered forward with broad steps, unable to catch your breath as the basket of freshly baked pirozhki settled heavily in your stomach. Your eyelids threatened to close as exhaustion crept into the corners of your vision; journeying between museums, promenading through parks, and scowering various foods had taken a toll on your energy.

You groaned. "Do we have to go tonight?"

He merely chuckled, the velvety bass of his voice tracing goosebumps down your spine, easily distracting you from the fact that he hadn't answered your question. Your field of vision spiraled into a haze, thoughts shot far in the distance despite the frost attempting to rouse you, left unaware as an assured hand ushered you inside a concealed entrance to the luminous structure slumbering outside of Moscow's main square. You walked forward into the endless darkness, only to bump into something sturdy. Your fingers carded through the puffed fur of Fyodor's coat, tugging on its ends.

"Fyodor?"

With a click, the room was brought to life. The high-vaulted ceiling outstretched to reach the heavens above, walls embellished with intricate frescoes of ancient Abrahamic tales. Flares of resplendent color danced across the floor as moonlight met glass, casting waves of softened light upon your skin. A labyrinth of winding corridors hid in the shadows, prompting any curious wanderer into a trove of antediluvian alcoves and chapels.

Your jaw dropped, gawking at every deliberate component. "What is this place?"

"It was a cathedral erected in honor of Tsar Ivan the IV." His gloved hand puckered altar cloth between his gracile fingers, tracing the embroidery as his mind drifted elsewhere.

You hummed, racking your brain as it itched in anamnesis. "Wasn't that the terrible one?"

He was silent as he released the fabric from his fingers, but the self-satisfied smirk told you everything you needed to know. "Indeed. This place once brimmed with life, hosting religious gatherings and services for the denizens of this city." His boots snicked against the tile, the noise reverberating as it spun towards the ceiling. "It has been left as a relic of time."

You ever-so-delicately brushed your hand against one of the columns, not wishing to disturb the peace of stillness and rest that blanketed the cathedral.

"How marvelous."

Your attention went astray as Fyodor tinkered at a lock, the hinges of a thin door ricketing with unsettling squeaks as he stood aside, uncloaking a never-ending staircase to the unknown.

"After you."

Your muscles cramped with every step, dread buried deep in your gut as your vision remained impaired, the flashlight beam smattering inconclusive rays of light as it aimed at your back. It was almost like the architects had attempted to reach the clouds, their grandiose endeavor churning a flare in your back as you slumped against the wall, your lungs burning with every passing moment. Your spirit was invigorated at the sight of a door through the dime ire of light, basking in your relief as you stepped out the door, the crisp breeze of winter striking your skin as—!

"W-Woah!"

Your feet teetered over the ridge of the roof; only your ankles remained flimsily rooted onto solid paneling as your arms swung out to balance yourself. Fortunately for you, an arm wrapped around your waist, drawing you back against Fyodor's chest. A quick peek upward towards his impish expression revealed everything you needed to know.

"You must be careful, любимая."

Your breath was shuddery, inwardly wavering on whether to punch him or kiss him, the indecisiveness reigning victorious as you pointedly ignored the mellifluous lilt of his tone, hands binding to his arm as your gaze locked onto the ground several hundred feet below.

"Good lord, we're high," you muttered between pants.

His arms braced you further against his chest, leaning away from the perilous drop. "You're trembling." The tension in your grip eased at the sensation of a gentle kiss against the crown of your head. "You know I'd never let you fall, hm?"

"Right." You released the amalgam of tense breath that clawed at your throat, able to balance on your own two feet as you settled your view to the skies.

Your feet shuffled across the panels as you slogged onto a wider expanse of the roof, slumping against a wall as the tension evaporated out through your fingers, the nightmare of plummeting from the roof erased from your mind. However, you swallowed a yelp as the flashlight flickered off, leaving the both of you enshrouded in complete darkness—at least for a brief moment.

Clouds stacked in bunched within the stratosphere, mirroring fragments of light that bounced from below in a nebulose aurora. But despite the wonderment of their decadence, they lost their luster once the stars peaked through their fogged edges, the finite speckles scattered like freckles across the canvas of the heavens. They felt close enough to touch if only you reached out toward them, daring to do so. Your fingers trailed maps of these celestial bodies, finding a sense of peace in their familiar patterns.

"Are you familiar with Ovid's Metamorphoses?" Your voice pierced through the silence.

"I can't say I am."

You withheld the impulse to laugh—he had the entire compendium of books in his personal library. It would be a surprise if he hadn't at least skimmed them, but you decided to humor him this once, scooching closer to point towards a specific cluster of stars.

"Those are the constellations of Perseus, the son of Zeus, and Princess Andromeda, the daughter of King Cepheus and Queen Cassiopeia."

You took his silence as an encouragement to continue. "Perseus found Andromeda chained to a rock as a sacrifice to the sea monster, Cetus, by her parents in order to save her home." Your fingers drew out the character within the stars, a grin upturned on your lips as you envisioned the archaic tale in your mind. "It was told that he found her so beautiful that he slayed the monster, rescuing her before fighting against her uncle for her hand-in-marriage."

"Her uncle?" Fyodor mused.

Your nose scrunched in a grimace. "There's a lot of that in those stories, I'm afraid."

"The couple went on to live happily ever after—an extremely rare ending to most ancient stories."

"There is a simple explanation for that," he replied.

You snickered, already aware that your open-ended commentary would eventually lead to some thoughts from the infamously brilliant man.

His eyes rolled in return at your amusement, disregarding the tightness of his chest. "We hold onto ancient tragedies because they are a reflection of life. Nothing in our world is as simple as a happy ending." A vacant look ruled over his features, a familiar expression that often shielded his thoughts within the dark, contemplative hours of the night. "Most aspired heroes never reach their potential due to their blind devotion to selfish aspirations and goals."

"You're right," you sighed, hands balled against the corner of his cape in an attempt to thaw your frozen fingers. You wanted to say more, but it felt like your mouth was cotton-filled. So, instead, you returned your eyes to the sky.

"Sometimes, I wish I was a constellation." He looked at you. "Even with its flaws, this world is undoubtedly beautiful from above. I like to think the stars admire us just as much as we do them."

And he didn't say anything more; he didn't need to. Instead, he reigned you onto his lap, his coat shrouding your shoulders as he shared its warmth. You leaned into his embrace, basking in the flutter inside your chest.

"You're awfully cold, милая," he grumbled, his fingers mapping your frigid palms.

"Our roles are reversed now," you quipped. "I hope you think about this the next time you decide to stun me with your hands in the morning."

"I'm afraid I might forget," he whistled.

"You little—"

But you found your voice hidden underneath layers of crackling. You ogled as fireworks wiggled their way into the night sky, shimmering onto the city square, the towers of the Kremlin becomen heavenly statues as their structures temporarily glistened. Without a second thought, you grabbed onto his hands, giving them a squeeze with each pop. You were so attentive to the collections of radiant sparks that you didn't notice the eyes boring into your skin; Fyodor's gaze averted from the fireworks to contemplate the interlacement of your fingers.

He surmised you were to be his future the moment you had locked eyes for the first time—his destined, pre-ordained other half as he journeyed to actualize God's promised land. It wasn't a surprise that someone was fated to remain in his keep—another loyal follower, too intertwined in their own aspirations to connect to his cause without deliberate guidance.

But not you. 

You may not have supported his cause with the devotion of his witless flock, but you understood it better than anyone. And most importantly, you understood him. You peered through his intricate plans and performative malice, reading into his cause as you unraveled his intentions. It had been an enticing cat-and-mouse game, the both of you constantly entangled in a mental match, intellect and morals clashing. He knew you were his perfect match from your analytic dexterity, but he had no idea that you would pull at the strings cast around his heart, ones he believed had been severed long ago.

His heart had never belonged to anyone or anything—his mind and will were forever devoted to his cause, but his heart hadn't beat since before he could even remember. The sudden constriction of his chest was so foreign.

You must've been quite the powerful woman to kickstart the heart of a demon, excavating a trove of humanity he had buried within himself with a simple glance of your eyes—and all without knowing, your gentle expression puncturing through his abstruse masquerades, somehow able to see everything except the turmoil that you left in the wake of your very touch.

He found himself less and less concerned about the echoed beat of his heart within the emptiness of his chest, too captivated by your smile as you beheld the heavens with a benevolent expression, savoring the burning red and gold sparks despite their dullness in comparison to you. In spite of himself, your everlasting happiness had become an intrinsic component in his plans.

You were made to remain at his side—not as a brainless devotee, but as his equal and often opposite. The world, so rotten yet somehow divine through your benevolent gaze, may try to pull you away, but he'd have no issue burning cities to their ashen roots if anyone dared attempt to pry you from his hold.

His lithe fingers outlined the constellations of every freckle and beauty mark, star patterns copied onto your skin as his touch drifted your attention from the flashes and flickers to him, your inquisitive eyes scanning his face as he remained unmoved.

"Федя?" 

He shuddered with unparalleled delight at the euphonious sound of his mother language slipping like honey from your tongue, foreign to your lips yet dulcet all the same. Your bonniness beaconed him forward, a heat flowering in his once cavernous chest as he captured your lips, which were as soft as the powdered snow that glinted on your skin. His heavy breath tickled your nose, which crinkled in tandem with your eyes as you drew him in for another. Words became meaningless, his skin seared like static as your arms drew him closer, skin scorched from the cold of your hands against the nape of his neck.

He tucked your hair behind your ear, ensuring that your empyreal features weren't veiled further as flakes of snow flurried once more, your parted lips and shallow breath leaving him in a helpless state of complete limerence. He stirred as his hand brushed against your pulse, your own heart racing concertly with his.

You parted in bittersweet bliss, yearning imbued in your bones as your hands drifted towards one another to intertwine. His forehead rested against yours, your shared breath permeating in spirals within the open air as he peered into your hazy, glossed-over eyes.

His hand cupped your cheek, the frame to a divine masterpiece. "Ты согреваешь мою душу, мое нежное солнышко. Твоя красота вне всякого сравнения; тво�� разум безупречен." He had never looked at anyone like this before, his ire thawed by the brilliance of your tender gaze as if he had melted. "Я бесконечно благодарен, что Бог привел тебя ко мне."

And you laughed. "You know I don't understand anything you're saying, right?"

He kissed your forehead, concealing his smile as his lips pressed against your skin. "You will one day, солнышко. You will."

любимая = darling милая = dear федя = fedya ты согреваешь мою душу, мое нежное солнышко. твоя красота вне всякого сравнения; твой разум безупречен = you warm my soul, my gentle sun. your beauty is beyond comparison; your mind is beyond flaw. я бесконечно благодарен, что бог привел тебя ко мне = i am eternally grateful that god brought you to me. солнышко = sunshine

TAGLIST: @imhandicapableofmath @lovedazai @hauntedsol @ruru-kiss @ishqani @zyilas @lovesick-fairy @fedyascoffin @squigglewigglewoo @kelperspelt @miloofc @thesilvernight0wl @s1eepybunny @dazaisms @deepseafragments @justanotherjester @kotysluny @aureatchi

© MUSAMORA 2023 — do not repost or modify my works for any reason. do not steal graphics w/o explicit permission. reblogs are appreciated.

[aashiqeddiediaz]

kisses and embraces

this is for @eddiediaaz based on this tiktok. it’s grossly cheesy and sappy, bone apple teeth :))

[AO3 Link]

Word Count: 2611 words

It’s a typical night.

Well, it’s the new, teenager-in-house definition of a typical night, which means Eddie’s crawled into bed way too early to flip through his book, Christopher holed away in his own room to talk to his friends and the living room too lonely to sit there without him, idly flipping through channels that he’s not watching.

Instead, Eddie had disappeared into his own room, propping his back against the headboard and stretching his legs over the comforter.

Now, he sits here flipping through the novel, only picking up bits and pieces from the whole thing.

He thinks it’s a romance novel, but hell if he could tell anyone what the plot is. All he’s gotten out of it so far is that one of the main characters is a firefighter.

Must be why he picked it up, then.

His phone beeping takes him away from the book he was only pretending to read, bored out of his mind. The familiar text tone brings a smile to his face instantly, one that makes him glad he’s alone so he’s not embarrassed by the giddy feeling that takes over.

Eddie knows if he looked in a mirror, he’d be wearing the goofiest expression known to man.

Buck: can’t sleep, can i come over?

The questions are a new thing, a product of them getting used to the new changes of their lives. Eddie just doesn’t know how to emphasize to Buck that these are the smaller things that will never change between them — Eddie is always, always going to want Buck in his orbit, and this house feels incomplete without Buck with him.

Eddie: you don’t have to ask, you know that

Eddie: use your key, lock up when you come in.

Not even a minute after he sends the message, Eddie hears the familiar sound of the key in the lock, followed by the door closing, then two turns of the lock again to secure his whole family under the same roof for the night.

Eddie lets out a quiet, helpless sound of amusement as he hears his boyfriend’s familiar tread through the house, footsteps stopping at Chris’ door with a gentle knock.

The low murmurs of their voices filter through Eddie’s closed bedroom door, and he waits as patiently as he can while Buck and Chris catch up as if they hadn’t just seen each other that morning. He knows if he went to drag Buck out of his son’s room right now, Chris would give him an unimpressed look and complain that Eddie gets to see him at work and at home, and it’s not fair of him to monopolize all of Buck’s time for himself.

(That’s a new word Chris learned a few weeks ago, and since then, Eddie’s heard it in too many sentences — but especially when Chris wants Buck all of himself.)

Sue him, he’s feeling a little needy, and a lot grateful that Buck is here instead of all the way at his loft. And more than that, he’s content that his son loves Buck just as much as Eddie does, and Buck loves Chris just the same — though Eddie knows if he asked him, Buck would immediately say that he loves Chris more.

(More than any of that, he’s glad his teenager isn’t too cool for at least one of them.)

“What if I had said no?” Eddie greets as his bedroom door slides open, his shoulders relaxing at the sight of the familiar figure in the doorway.

“You wouldn’t,” Buck says confidently, laughing softly as he shuts the door with a quiet, finite snick.

“Then why ask? You know I’d never turn you away,” Eddie asks, setting his book on the nightstand as he studies his boyfriend. “I don’t like it when you do that. Just come over next time.”

He has to resist asking Buck to move in right there and then, because it’s only been two weeks and he knows that they have a lot to work through before they throw all their hats in the ring. But still, nights like this, Eddie can’t help but wish Buck just lived here full-time.

Hs boyfriend looks exhausted, tight lines of tiredness around his eyes and his jaw set, even with his mouth curved up fondly. He’s even in his pajamas, a tattered pair of sweats and a worn t-shirt that definitely belongs to Eddie, which means he’d tried to crash and found himself too wired to actually sleep.

“It’s the polite thing to do,” he murmurs as he sets his phone next to Eddie’s before crawling onto the bed. In one deft move, he strips off his shirt, bodily parts Eddie’s legs and collapses between them with a muted groan.

Eddie laughs, dropping his hands to Buck’s bare back and holding him close. “Right. You, polite.”

Buck pinches him before pressing his face into Eddie’s stomach and letting out another drawn-out whine. It’s an exasperated sound, directed towards himself, and Eddie watches as Buck writhes to try and get comfortable before propping one leg up, bent at the knee, the other leg extended out behind him.

The restlessness in his boyfriend cracks a little bit of Eddie’s heart, and he reaches out, laying his palms flat against the strong muscles of Buck’s back. Miraculously, Buck settles under his touch. He’s pushed back enough that his foot hangs over the edge, but the way Buck sighs and calms, it’s like he’s never found a more comfortable position than under Eddie’s hands.

He wonders when the marvel of holding him like this will fade. They only stepped into this relationship two weeks ago, but they’ve been some of the happiest two weeks of Eddie’s life. Something about being with Buck makes him feel free, like he’s allowed to accept all this happiness that’s come his way, and he’s allowed to build the life he wants with his partner and son with it.

Of all the things they’ve gotten up to in the last two weeks — a cauldron pot of emotion simmering over until there’s nothing but biting kisses, desperate touches and truly depraved actions that have been a long time coming — this has to be one of Eddie’s favorites.

The weight of Buck between his legs is nothing new, but it feels new when he rests his head on Eddie’s lower stomach, arms thrown up around his waist to hold him tightly, as if Eddie would want to be anywhere but here.

Just him and Buck — Buck, who’s been his partner in so many ways through the years. It’s this newfound intimacy of being romantic partners that makes everything in Eddie feel giddy, like his happiness is racing through his blood to every last inch of him, unable to be contained.

Carefully, he buries one hand in the tousled, loose curls on top of Buck’s head, stroking lightly. With the other hand, he kneads his palm into the broad muscles of his back, content to stay here with his legs cradling Buck safely.

“Tired, huh,” Eddie whispers, stroking through Buck’s hair as he bends a little closer, his body covering Buck’s. The scent of his shampoo reaches Eddie, wrapping around Eddie with intent.

Buck simply hums, the vibrations from the sound tickling the stretch of exposed skin where Eddie’s shirt has ridden up from all his shifting. It sends goosebumps prickling down Eddie’s spine, a gentle warmth of Buck’s affection following along when his boyfriend turns his head to press his mouth to Eddie’s bare skin.

In the last two weeks, Eddie’s gotten to know the definitions of Buck’s kisses intimately. There are the deep, dragging ones that are full of indulgence and heat. There are the slow, muted ones that are kissing just for the sake of closeness, without any expectation of more. There are the casual ones to say hello, or goodbye.

And then there are the reassurance ones — the ones that make it real that they have this now, after fighting for it for so long.

The kiss that Buck leaves on his skin right then is a reassurance kiss. Almost like he can’t believe that Eddie’s here, holding him up as he tries to relax into sleep.

Like this, Eddie can’t bend all the way down without crushing Buck, but he can stretch forward, leaving trailblazing marks over Buck’s skin.

So he does.

With one hand, he gently runs his fingers down Buck’s the dip of spine, down to the waistband of his sweatpants, then back up again. He traces all the freckles and birthmarks and scars that decorate his back, connecting all the dots as his nails trace soft patterns up and down his skin.

Touching Buck is one of Eddie’s indulgences, fingertips pressed to warm skin, marked by the evidence of his life. He’s touched Buck to draw out the most sinful of noises, the whimpers and gasping breaths he lets out, but he’s rarely gotten the time to touch him just for the sake of touching like this.

He explores the expanse of Buck’s shoulder blades, palm kneading briefly over the muscle groove before drifting to the thick muscles of his arms, then back up over his shoulders. With each pass of his fingers, a little more of the tension bleeds out of the tense set of them.

“Feels nice,” Buck murmurs drowsily, his face still planted in Eddie’s stomach. His arms tighten around Eddie’s waist, the flex of his muscle drawing Eddie’s gaze to the stretch of bare skin laid out in front of him. The arch of his back has to be uncomfortable, but he doesn’t say a word.

The way his spine is curved has Eddie’s back twinging in sympathy, but instead of telling him anything, he hooks his feet around him, crossing his ankles to pin Buck between his knees. With one quick motion, he tugs until they’re both laying on their sides, Buck still cradled against Eddie without having to fold his body in half in the wrong direction.

“What’s wrong with you?” Buck mumbles as he scoots up, tucking his face into Eddie’s neck. Their legs tangle, one of Eddie’s slung over his hip to keep him pressed close. Buck lets out a sinful sound of contentment and a flush breaks out on Eddie’s face — he might not want more than this right now, but he’s not a saint, especially where Buck’s noises are concerned.

“Sue me for not wanting you to break your back,” Eddie tells him, mouth pressed to Buck’s temple. One hand is still buried in his hair, holding him tight against Eddie’s body.

Buck tilts his head up, eyes so, so blue as they stare at Eddie with a plea.

That’s another look Eddie’s gotten familiar with over the past two weeks.

With a huff of amusement, Eddie tips his chin down to give Buck the kiss he’s asking for, slow and syrupy. The scratch of their stubble sounds through the quiet of the bedroom, and Buck presses his gratitude and affection into Eddie’s mouth in a way that only feeds the swell of his heart in his chest.

They lay there for a while, exchanging slow, soft kisses with no real end goal, no further intent. Just this very real form of intimacy that Eddie still can’t believe he has. That he doesn’t have to hold back from sharing anymore.

It’s the slow, sweeping movement of his palm to cup the back of Buck’s neck, keeping him exactly where Eddie wants him as their lips slot together, coming together with startling familiarity. It’s the brief slide of their tongues together, it’s the way Buck’s arm hooks around Eddie’s waist, it’s the greedy way they sip from each other’s mouths like they can’t get enough. It’s the way Buck’s palms slide under Eddie’s tank top to press against his bare back, the way each kiss leaves Eddie flying high as Buck’s mouth drips with the sweetest honey.

It’s the addictive pull of his partner that Eddie can’t get enough of, even when his lungs burn from the lack of oxygen — he thinks if he could share just one breath with Buck, he’d be okay.

Eddie takes Buck’s plush bottom lip between his own, tugging gently before giving him one last kiss, tipping their foreheads together. Buck sighs again, his mouth slightly swollen and spit slick as his neck curves further in Eddie’s palm to nuzzle their noses together.

It’s cute and a little ridiculous, and Eddie can’t stop the giggle that slips out, leaning forward to press a kiss to Buck’s cheek before his boyfriend returns back to his spot in the cradle of Eddie’s neck.

“Were you reading when I got here?” Buck whispers.

Eddie shakes his head. “Nah, I was just bored. Don’t even remember what was in it.”

Buck hums again, the ticklish feeling even more pronounced against the sensitive skin of his neck. “Read to me, then.”

Eddie lets out a surprised bark of laughter as Buck’s arms tighten around him, pressed so close together. “Right now?”

“No time like the present,” Buck says, and Eddie feels his lips tip up into a wide smile. “You got somewhere else to be, Diaz?”

Even without looking, he knows it’s one of his favorite smiles — the one with the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, the deep dimple at the corner of his mouth, and the bunched-up cheeks. The one that comes out whenever Buck teases him.

Maybe Eddie’s not the only one who feels needy tonight.

He stretches forward, grabbing the paperback off the nightstand and flipping it open to the first chapter. His voice is still quiet, a thing for only him and Buck to share, but he feels Buck begin to relax further in the circle of his arms as Eddie reads over his shoulder, and he thinks that maybe this is enough.

He’s not even halfway through the chapter when Buck’s soft snores reach his ears, his weight having gone slack in Eddie’s arms.

Quietly closing the book, Eddie reaches forward to turn off the lamp, wrapping his arms around his boyfriend and closing his eyes. His hand starts up a pattern of smoothing up and down Buck’s spine, the repetitive motion lulling him towards slumber, too.

“I love you,” he breathes out against Buck’s skin drowsily, his words lost in the close-cropped hair at his temple.

Where he’d thought Buck was asleep, there are three slow taps on his spine, a silent, sleepy affirmation of him hearing Eddie.

The action makes Eddie’s heart swell five times too big for his chest, tired tears pushing at the back of his eyes, and he presses his lips to Buck’s head to hide the emotional sound that threatens to scrape out of his throat.

Buck holds him tighter as he shifts in his sleep, legs still tangled together, and with the warmth of his boyfriend wrapped around him, Eddie dozes off.

(The next morning, Eddie asks Buck if the book was really that boring, and Buck teases him about reading cheesy romance novels.

Chris walks in and finds them arguing about the merits of a good romance novel, and true to it, he rolls his eyes, grabs one of the waffles Buck’s made, and walks out without a second glance.

Eddie watches him go, then turns back to Buck with another argument on his tongue, only for Buck to kiss it off his lips, claiming that he could romance Eddie better.

He’s right but for the sake of argument, Eddie raises an eyebrow in challenge anyway, enjoying the determined glint in his boyfriend’s eyes.

And the world keeps spinning.)

[maxipad33]

my mouth wide open like a hungry chick: snippet of your maxiel wip? 🐤

omg my maxiel wip yes! i'm always happy to talk about it, the fic is called oubliette and it's a clunky pit of angst that i've been chugging away at slowly!

more abt the fic below in the read more, but some warnings before opening:

cw: non-con, non-consensual drug use

disclaimer: i don't consider myself a writer in the slightest i just really love reading fic and decided to try to write one myself LOL

oubliette follows a canon-adjacent max after he discovers he was drugged and raped despite having no memory of the event. very slowburn but daniel tries to be there for him later in the aftermath and recovery.

here's a snippet of max after getting examined in the hospital:

“Do you want to call anyone?” she asks, and when he nods she leaves the room to give him some privacy. With a gentle snick the door closes behind her, and Max exhales as he’s finally alone. He fishes his phone out of the pocket of his jeans, still piled in a heap on the empty chair in the corner. He can feel the cold linoleum of the floor through his socks. He sits back down, staring at his contacts list, before laying down fully when the wall of names makes him feel lightheaded. He scrolls down, hovers over his mother’s name. She hasn’t spoken to him since…since before, but surely she would… He thinks of his mother, who likes to busy herself with gardening and recently learned how to crochet little hats and mittens for her grandchildren, who used to look blankly out the kitchen window before Jos would come home from work. Max thinks better of it and calls his dad, remembers the way his hand felt so much bigger and warmer than his when he was younger, the way he could grab him and swing him up onto his shoulders in one cool movement, the way he felt bigger than the entire world. The phone rings, and rings, and rings, and clicks over to voicemail. His throat feels tight as he dials again.  Alsjeblieft, he thinks, Papa, he begs, and misses the way Jos’s arms held him tight when he skinned his knee falling off his bike, when he got his super license, when he first won the championship. It’s all going away now, he realizes, and the phone keeps ringing. He doesn’t even let it go to voicemail, just hangs up and dials one last time. His father is slipping out of his fingers, probably slipped out of them a long time ago, when he looked down on his only son and didn’t recognize him, pathetic and lost, sitting alone on a couch in an apartment filled with decay. If desperation was an animal it would look like Max Verstappen, phone clutched in one hand as he lay lonely in an examination room. Papa, Papa, he begs like he’s a child again, but the phone goes to voicemail, and he breathes shakily into the receiver. I’m scared, he thinks, and knows it to be true. “Ik ben bang, Papa,” he chokes out, but the dial tone sounds in his ear and it’s over. Unbidden, a single tear falls from his eye, and then suddenly a flood, and his whole head feels hot as he cries.

[whereismyhat5678]

It seems like you're taking art requests again, sorry if I'm misinterpreting. I've also seen a bit of an increase in gerome and John so I give you this:

I feel like Gerome and Snick would be good friends. Its fun to me cus snick is more of a hyperactive person and gerome can't keep up with him

STOP

That’s so frickin cute 👊💥💖

I’d imagine Snick would become friends with Gerome because they both wear hats, just with different colors-

He’s such a hyperactive critter and Gerome just can’t keep up- GAAAH THAT’S ADORABLE- (Extrovert adopting introvert type of friendship 😭💗💥)

Gerome just wonders why he hasn’t seen him in a while…..

[syrupfog]

You walk into the small doctor’s office, cradling the arm you’re assuming is broken. You took a Lyft here because you sure aren’t going to pay for an ambulance and this place is supposed to be cheap when you don’t have insurance. There is a wholeass reindeer in the waiting room.

“Hello” says the wholeass reindeer. He’s cheerful. “Welcome! I’ll take you right back, how are you today?” 

“Uh,” you say. “Am I hallucinating?” 

“Hallucinating?!” The reindeer yelps, turning and skewering the wall with an antler. “Oh no! Someone should call a doctor!”

A bored voice calls from down the hall, “That’s you, Chopper.” 

“Oh right,” says the reindeer. “Yes! I’m the doctor! Don’t worry!” 

He leads you into a room and directs you to sit on the bed before going over to the desk and smashing his hooves against the open laptop.

As he is a wholeass reindeer, all he manages is to open the notes app and write “sbsickwnididevsha”, which autocorrects to “snicks a disk”. He closes the laptop. 

“Now,” he says, turning to you. “How can we help?” 

“Uh,” you say, unsure about this reindeer’s medical knowledge. “I think my arm is broken?” 

“Oh deer!” says the reindeer. “How’d that happen?” 

You don’t want to explain to this reindeer that you broke your arm at a too intense Zumba session, although you get the feeling he wouldn’t judge. “I fell,” you say instead. “Down the stairs.”

“How terrible!” The reindeer exclaims. “We’ll get that fixed right up for you, don’t worry!” 

He does some tests (tapping the arm with his hoof, singing it a little song, taking a picture with a Polaroid that ends up looking like an X-ray when developed??) and declares—

“Oh yes, our surgeon will be right in, just a moment.” 

…surgeon? 

The reindeer leaves and it really is only a moment until a man in a white coat and furry white hat walks in. 

He’s lanky. He walks in a slouch. He has more tattoos than you expect a surgeon to have, but you’ve never met a surgeon. 

Also he’s, like, smiling. A lot. 

“Broken bone, huh?” He says. You wonder if it’s normal for surgeons to carry six foot long swords. 

“Yeah,” you say, still cradling your arm. 

“Just the one? That’s too bad,” he says.

You disagree, but you keep that to yourself. 

The surgeon, who looks like he has not slept since entering medical school, flips a switch and the room is bathed in blue light. 

“This will hurt,” he tells you. “They say screaming is therapeutic, but it’s also annoying. Don’t.”

When you think about it afterward, you really question your memory. After all, you’ve never been to medical school but you’re pretty sure a surgeon isn’t supposed to cut your arm off with a sword, glue your bone back together with superglue, and then just sort of… smush your arm back on. 

Like. That can’t be what happened, right? 

The surgeon shakes your hand afterward. “That’ll be twenty,” he says. 

“Twenty… thousand?” You ask. 

He looks at you. He looks tired. “You don’t have twenty thousand,” he says. “Gimme twenty dollars or I’m sending penguin after you.” 

There’s a penguin here too? 

You give him thirty. It’s good to tip your surgeon. 

As you exit the doctor’s office, in the waiting room is a man in a straw hat, lounging across three chairs. He stares unblinkingly at you. As the surgeon walks out behind you, though, the man stands, knocking over FOUR chairs in the process. 

“Traffy!” He shouts. “Lunch date!” 

The surgeon hands him your cash. “On me,” he says.

As you open the Lyft app and cross your fingers it’s not surge prices, you test your arm. It really doesn’t SEEM broken anymore. 

Your hand does seem a little… backwards, though. 

Does that matter?

[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.

[its-ya-girl-phoeni]

Silly headcanons about the funni pizza game:

Peppino tends to start rambling when he's stressed (the Italian words peppered in his usual speech become more common as well)

He's also a little self-conscious about his looks (esp whenever Noise mocks his weight)

Theodore dislikes pizza just because he finds it gross

Pizzahead was a rival for Pep ever since the early days of his business, with most preferring his tacky, corporatized pizza rather than Pep's carefully-crafted stuff

Brick is a pretty great therapy animal

Pepperman takes GREAT value in his art to the point he'll stay up for hours (even days) to finish his masterpieces

Noisette loves doing Theo's nails/hair (even if they're hidden under his suit most of the time

Fake!Pep speaks in a kind of hissing fashion with elongated syllables

His laugh also sounds a lot like Real!Pep's, which freaks him out a bit

Noisette sometimes knits/sews stuff for the other tower residents (If you ever see a Cheeseslime wearing a stylish hat, you'll know who made it)

Until coming face-to-face with him in the finale, Peppino genuinely thought Pizzahead was just a regular human, and not literally the cartoon mascot IRL

Snick and Sonic are good friends and frequently spend time together

Snick's voice is literally just Jaleel White's Sonic

[waltwhitmansbeard]

oh my god, you're covered in blood. In Vamp Machina? ^_^

oh my god, you're covered in blood. this is the au. based on this ask.

Keyleth doesn't normally make deliveries, but Zahra is worth the exception. She's become quite the loyal customer since her move to Emon, and she enjoys her dry sense of humor. It's worth the twenty minute detour on her walk home to deliver her usual dried aconite and Keyleth's signature calming tea blend of chamomile, peppermint, and rosehips.

She follows someone into his building, then take the stairs to the second floor, where she knocks on the door labeled 2D. "Delivery!"

There's some shuffling inside, a chaotic fumbling, and then a familiar, "Uh, not a great time!"

She frowns. That's Kash's voice, she's sure of it. He's come in with Zahra a handful of times, and he's peppered Keyleth with quite a few questions about her work. "Kash, it's Keyleth! From the herbalist's? Zahra didn't pick up her order today, so I just thought I'd drop it off for her."

There's a pregnant pause, followed by a strained, "Leave it at the door, please."

Something's not right. He's an odd one, Kash, but he's not usually this...cagey. She bends down to set the paper bag just up against the door, but she knows this nagging feeling isn't ever going to leave her alone, so she tries the doorknob. "Kash?"

It's unlocked, which is weird in and of itself, so she pushes inside, hoping to help a friend in distress.

.

At this point, slipping in through Keyleth's bedroom window is old hat for Vax. He'd prefer to walk in through the front door—it's degrading, sneaking around like he's a teenager and not well into his second century—but an encounter with her bitchy vampire hunter roommate is not what he needs right now. He stretches out on her bed, thumbing through a trashy romance novel she checked out from the library as he waits for her to get home.

He's so engrossed in the surprisingly complex political plot line of this bodice ripper that he almost doesn't hear her enter the room. It's the soft snick of the door shutting behind her that pulls his attention away from the book. "Hey, this is actually pretty good once you get past—holy fucking shit."

Her face scrunches up as her hands start to flap in his direction. "Quiet! I don't want Percy to hear."

Vax launches himself to to his feet. "You're worried about Percy? Keyleth, you're covered in blood."

She sighs, as if his pointing it out is an inconvenience for her. "Yes, I am." She shuffles over to her closet and begins rummaging around.

He feels like the back of his head is going to explode. It's all over her, caked onto her arms, splashed up into her hair. He can smell it, rich and warm and sweet and hers. He swallows thickly. "Do you care to share why?"

She pauses, her back to him. "No." She continues to pull out a change of clothes.

Well into his second century, and he's never met someone as inscrutable as her. "Keyleth, fuck, are you hurt?"

He knows the quiet no is a lie before she says it. There's a stiffness to her movements, a tenderness clearly borne of pain. He comes up behind her, put his hands over hers to stop their movement. "Keyleth." She looks at him, exhaustion seeping into every corner of her face. "Please, talk to me."

He can see them now, a few slash marks through the sleeves of her denim jacket, the source of all of the blood. His heart hasn't beat in many decades but he swears he can feel it racing now, feel its roaring fury in his chest. "Who did this to you?" He tries to keep the trembling rage from his voice, but he knows he fails.

"It was an accident."

"That's not an answer."

"Look, it looks a lot worse than it is, okay? I promise." She puts her hands on either side of his face, and for a moment, he must hold his breath to keep out the delicious aroma of her blood on her skin. "You trust me to keep your secret, yeah?" He nods; he trusts her with every dead bone in his body. "Then trust that other secrets are just as worth keeping."

His teeth long to tear into something, to rend someone's flesh for this. "Are you saying another vampire did this?"

She snorts. "Definitely not." She presses her lips to his, and fuck, she tastes divine. "I'm going to get cleaned up, put some of my healing poultice on this. I'll be fine by morning, I promise." She gathers up her clothes and disappears into her bathroom, leaving Vax stunned and seething. He may not yet know who harmed her, who spilled her blood and left her to limp home, but when he does, he will become every bit the ruthless monster the man in the other room of this apartment knows him to be.

[in-my-loki-feels]

🕯️ 🛼 🍄 🪲 🧩

🕯️ ⇢ on a scale from 1 to 10, how much do you enjoy editing? why is that? Probably an 8 or 9? I really enjoy it because I often find it easier to clean up prose than to get it onto a blank page. But I do really love the excitement of a new idea pouring out of me, so I can't say it's a 10.

🛼 ⇢ describe your latest wip with five emojis 😒🤠💨🎁🐍 (it's a fedora, not a cowboy hat)

🍄 ⇢ share a head canon for one of your favorite ships or pairings That all Lokis miss their brother, whether they would admit it out loud or not. I haven't been able to stop thinking that since Classic Loki said it.

🧩 ⇢ what will make you click away from a fanfiction immediately? Poor (or a lack of) punctuation. I know there are differences across languages about what to use (" vs ') so I try to be understanding, but if the punctuation is all over the place, my brain just can't read the text.

🪲 ⇢ add 50 words to your current wip and share the paragraph here (Switched wips so it wasn't a direct continuation)

"Shall I put it on you and find out?" Loki had never hurt him, not physically at least, but Don was wary of unknown technology. Unfortunately, he hesitated too long. With a metallic snick, Loki snapped the collar into place. Don held his breath for three seconds before Loki snickered.

Thank you for the ask! <3

[jokerman9540]

Wario: “Alright, what are we up against?”

Gustavo: “Well, we need to go through Crust Cove, Gnome Forest, Deep Dish 9 and Golf”

Waluigi: “Golf, you say? I think I’ll have a go at that.”

He smirked, being a master of the sport

Gustavo: “Alright then. I’ll be heading to Gnome Forest, seeing as I know it best.”

Wario: “I’ll go to Crust Cove. I wouldn’t mind a relaxing beach adventure.”

Snick: “And I’ll go the Deep Dish 9!”

Noise: “OH! Me and Peppino volunteer for Golf too!”

Peppino: “WHAT?! No we don’t!”

Noise hurriedly slammed a bottle of milk into Peppino’s mouth, forcing to drink and then gag on the contents.

Funky: “I might as well go too. I’m fairly familiar with the sport.”

Cannoli: “I’ll join you Gustavo, you seem… saner than the others.”

Gustavo: “Umm… thanks?”

Stinky: “I’ll come too!”

Antari: *BLOOP*

Gustavo: “And Antari makes 4. That’s us ready!”

Mona: “I guess I’ll go with Snick, that way I won’t have to deal with Wario”

Pepperman: “Me too! I’ve always wanted to shine among the stars!”

The whole group rolled their eyes in response

Fakey: “Me too?”

Snick: “Sure thing Fakester!”

Fakey made a noise that Snick silently hoped was a cheer.

Old Manton: “Me an’ that apple in the cowboy hat r’ going with the yeller feller.”

Pizzano: “I’m going as well. I don’t wanna miss out on the fun!”

The groups now divided, they entered the gates

[weepingmilkshakedreamer]

n0 0ne:

n0t even a single s0ul:

h0w i zee stinky:

lyricz are fr0m diz btw:

alz0 here'z the c0mic thing i uzed l0l: sugaryspirey.comic.studio/

alz0 fun fact: the y0gurt with the gummy c0nfecti n c0tt0nt0wn hat iz da c0mic studi0 zelf inzert 0f me, like h0w the snick with the t0mat0 t0ppin iz l0l.

[mercurial-madhouse]

Snippet Sunesday

@larryyouknow shared an absolutely beautiful snip this past weekend. I wanted to find something in one of my WIPs that would honor her gorgeous writing, so here’s a piece from Sheet Anchor, my Larry ABO.

Pulling in a deep breath, Harry leans over Louis to snatch up his depressingly-new phone from the nightstand. A precaution they’d said. He has no numbers saved in the directory—another precaution they’d said—but he quickly types in one of the several he’d memorized last month. He’d rolled the digits over and over in his mind every time he’d felt panic beginning to creep up his spine and twine in sickly silk strands around his lungs.

His thumb hovers over the call button. Once he dials there’s no going back, but this is a risk he’d take for only one person: the lad he’s gone to the very edge of this frayed earth for.

“Come on, Lou,” he whispers, squeezing him close one more time.

Louis stays unmoving in his arms; Harry makes the call.

Liam picks up after the third ring.

“Payno, it’s me.” The hush that’s fallen over the empty room where their moans and laughter had been moments before keeps Harry’s voice a whisper.

Something spills on the other end of the line. A crash. Harry flinches, free hand tightening around Louis’ shoulder.

“Shit, hold on.”

Harry nods, realizes Liam can’t see it, but keeps quiet. A door snicks closed on the other end and then Liam’s back with him, voice a shocked whisper that echoes his own.

“Harry?”

The breathy timbre seems to match the too-still air in this unfamiliar room. Harry takes a deep breath, swallows, and lets his voice disturb the silence. “I’m here.”

“Jesus. Are you allowed to do this? Didn’t they say it’s too dangero—”

“It’s Lou.”

“Haz, what—”

“I know. We don’t have a lot of time.” Harry never interrupts his mates; he’s certain his double cut-off now is doing Liam’s head in and Harry only adds to it by plowing straight through the minefield with words he never thought he’d say. “He’s dropped.”

Anyone else want to share a snip? @zannithinks @larry-hiatus @allwaswell16 @chai-hat-tea @huggieshalo @lululawrence @thedevilinmybrain @beelou ?

[cut-content-contest]

Matchups, Round One!

Botsun | beta Alice Yabusame (Your Turn to Die)

playable Zelda (The Legend of Zelda: Skyward Sword) | Vah Manta (The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild)

life indicator rune | early concepts (The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild)

Termina Ganondorf (The Legend of Zelda: Majora's Mask) | Unicorn Fountain (The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time)

cut dungeons (The Legend of Zelda: The Wind Waker) | The Legend of Zelda: Mystical Seed of Courage

Yosuke Hanamura romance route (Persona 4) | devil Joker boss fight (Persona 2)

Moonjumper | Timmy (A Hat in Time)

Sand n Sails | Vanessa's manor third floor (A Hat in Time)

distilled emotions (Psychonauts 2) | Li-Po document (Psychonauts)

human woman (Star Fox 2) | Dinosaur Planet (Star Fox Adventures)

Michael Tutori (Wii Music) | fish render (Wii Party)

"like, half the game" (combined with cut levels of Monty Gator Golf) (Five Nights at Freddy's: Security Breach) | coconut.vtf (Team Fortress 2)

F-Stop | Cave Johnson cube (Portal 2)

Czar Dragon (Final Fantasy VI) | musketeer class (Final Fantasy XIV)

room_water_prebird (Undertale) | unused art (Undertale console versions)

twisted sword | everybody weapon (Deltarune)

unused Ralsei battle (Deltarune) | final boss battle backgrounds (Mother 3)

wolf howls | beast boy (Minecraft)

Rana | Steve and Black Steve (Minecraft)

beta Arceus | beta Giratina/Kimairan | ???-type Arceus (Pokémon Diamond/Pearl)

Pokémon Z | Paldean sea and skysphere (Pokémon Scarlet/Violet)

cut beta pokémon (combined with unused baby pokémon) (Pokémon Gold/Silver) | Kotora and Raitora (Pokémon Red/Green and Gold/Silver)

unused trade theme | Mew (Pokémon Red/Green)

Honey the Cat (Sonic the Fighters) | Tiara Boobowski (Sonic Xtreme)

good Cortex (split from Good Cortex and Evil Coco) | evil Coco (Crash Twinsanity)

8 beta colossi (combined with Spider colossus) (Shadow of the Colossus) | "Hot Coffee" minigame (NSFW) (Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas)

backdash | ancient_bench (Hollow Knight)

extended Abyss | Pure Vessel dream nail dialogue (Hollow Knight)

the Aviary | Daylight Prairie invisible boat | early Isle of Dawn (split from the entirety of Sky: Light Awaits) (Sky: Children of the Light)

arms on the player characters (Journey) | Omori keyhole cutscene (OMORI)

original rabbit designs (Splatoon) | octoling backup dancers (Splatoon 2)

Singing Mountain (Chrono Trigger) | multiplayer sabre (Halo: Reach)

Selph/Self | robo NiGHTS (NiGHTS into Dreams)

fur (Wobbledogs) | Ancient Castle Spires (Neopets: The Darkest Faerie)

Dude (Hylics) | FN F2000 (Hot Dogs, Horseshoes, and Hand Grenades)

BomBom (Angry Birds) | Snick the Porcupine (Pizza Tower)

Golden Deer!Ashe (Fire Emblem: Three Houses) | Jagen death scene (Fire Emblem: Shadow Dragon and the Blade of Light)

Laura Cruz (Tomb Raider) | Kale quest (Eldin Ring)

Dragon King: The Fighting Game (Super Smash Bros.) | Melee selected animations (Super Smash Bros. Melee)

Meteor Slime (Slime Rancher) | SNES CD-ROM (Super Nintendo Entertainment System)

the original story (Bayonetta 3) | Kid Kirby

Bionis Shoulder (Xenoblade Chronicles) | pitcher plants (The Elder Scrolls: Oblivion)

Phoenix Wright heart eyes | early concept art (Ace Attorney)

cut character models | docks mission (Dreamfall Chapters)

Musa boss battle (Skeleton Boomerang) | the plot (Ace Combat 03: Electrosphere)

Starbeans café crossover cameos (Mario and Luigi: Superstar Saga) | Bottles's Revenge (Banjo-Tooie)

Shipwreck Cove (MySims Kingdom) | MySims Agents 2

Shockwave (Genshin Impact) | doki17.mp3 (Doki-Doki Literature Club)

Satsuki Rin (Touhou Project: Embodiment of Scarlet Devil) | anti-piracy measures (Higurashi: When They Cry)

elh (Luigi's Mansion) | Tramplin' Stu (Super Mario Sunshine)

cats (Super Paper Mario Korean version) | dragonhead flower (Super Mario Galaxy)