#the mares out here proving once again if you click with a mare (and are fair to her) she will do anything for you

[feetoffire]

third rotation:

noticing a red mare trend in this field and i am Here For It.

Venezuela: Luis Fernando Larrazabal on Condara. mare! lovely liver chestnut. came in Ready to Go, and used all of the prep time to get a look at the brighter jumps. girl’s got hops but she doesn’t particularly want to use them - not that i blame her, it’s hot. three rails, one foot in the water. drop noseband. 

Spain: Sergio Alvarez Moya on Puma HS. also looking at the bright jumps. all but stopped for the plank wall but they cleared it! three rails down, one time penalty. the commentators were calling this a training round/experience by the end and i’m inclined to agree. 

France: Julien Epaillard on Dubai du Cedre. mare! here’s the other mare in a hackamore. came in fast to the double combination but handled it beautifully. Epaillard is really having to work to keep her steady. double clear - six seconds under. spicy mares with plans are kind of my favorites. 

Portugal: Duarte Seabra on Dourados 2. another one eyeballing the plank and slanted walls. gape and froth. nice round, two rails. two sets of reins. 

Saudi Arabia: Ramzy al Duhami on Untouchable 32. mare! blinkers? she’s fresh and raring to go. froth and gape. double clear. She’s amazing - made it over every jump handily. 

Syria: Amre Hamcho on Vagabond des Forets. withdrew

Austria: Max Kuehner on Elektric Blue P. lots of gape between fences. drop noseband. neat round, only one rail. 

Japan: Taizo Sugitani on Quincy 194. combined noseband, blinkers. nice wide turn to the plank wall; gave them one of the best approaches i’ve seen so far. two rails down, one time penalty. 

Greece: Ioli Mytilineou on L’Artiste de Toxandra. lighter bay with a cool blaze. two sets of reins. not terribly pleased about being asked to collect. three rails down. 

USA: McLain Ward on Ilex. nice walk-canter transition. throws a buck in after the second fence. completely unconcerned about the humidity - the one benefit of being based in florida. nice clean round, knocked the last fence. 

Argentina: Jose Maria (jr) Larocca on Finn Lente. getting a look at the plank and slanted wall before they start. quick ride, one rail down. 

Netherlands: Harrie Smolders on Uricas V/D Kattevennen. micklem adjacent bridle. lovely jump on this guy. storming around the course like no one’s business. double clear. 

Belgium: Gregory Wathelet on Bond Jamesbond de Hay. alright yeah i laughed at the name. hackamore? hackamore! he’s fun to watch. double clear (seven or eight seconds under). threw some bucks/crowhops in after the round. 

Switzerland: Martin Fuchs on Leone Jei. drop noseband. weird, half-stumbled? step in the triple combination but they made it through. double clear. 

UK: Ben Maher on Dallas Vegas Batilly. mare! nose net. hyperflexed before the round starts. gape and froth. completely misjudges the last wall - her hind legs drag right through it. no other penalties. there’s almost ten people putting the wall back together - speed is of the essence, clearly.

Australia: Edwina Tops-Alexander on Fellow Castlefield. red ribbon. rattles both fences in the double combination but doesn’t drop them. nice ride, if a little slow. two rails down. 

Ireland: Cian O’Connor on Maurice. oh my god why do you have him cranked back so far (before the round). double clear. throws a buck in after the round. 

Poland: Maksymilian Wechta on Chepettano. red ribbon. another wide turn to the plank wall and a nice approach. arguing about speed into the triple combination. under time, but three rails down. 

Thailand: Janakabhorn Karunayadhaj on Kinmar Agalux. mare! hell yeah SEAsians. red mare, and she’s spooking at something. blinkers? froth, champing. shadow roll. ducks the double on the first go. racks up a ton of rail penalties, eliminated. for how wild and spooked Kinmar Agalux was, the fact that they kept trying is pretty impressive. 

Germany: Phillipp Weishaupt on Zineday. tight slice on fence 3. drop noseband. one rail down, under time. 

Estonia: My Relander on Expert. fantastic course up until the first water. Something about it wigs Expert out, and she lets him have a look before electing to retire on course. 

Chile: Agustin Covarrusbias on Nelson du Petit Vivier. gape and froth. a little sticky feeling in the first few fences. not the smoothest ride - knocked six poles, racked up a few time penalties. 

Brazil: Stephan Barcha on Primavera. mare! love her tiny stripe. She’s looky - the last several have been. maybe the shadows? two sets of reins. girl’s got scope. double clear. 

UAE: Omar Abdul Aziz al Marzooqi on Enjoy de la Mure. buck! lots and lots of scope. went clear, just barely (literally half a second) over time.

showjumping individual qualifiers here we go:

Israel: Isabella Russekoff on C Vier 2. Micklem (or adjacent) bridle. pretty lighter bay. he spooks (or ‘spooks’) shortly after the final fence. 

Canada: Mario Deslauriers on Emerson. that turn to the ‘bonjour paris’ wall is Tight. in time, only one rail down. Deslauriers has been doing this forever so that really doesn’t surprise me. double reins on an elevator or pelham bit. 

Lithuania: Andrius Petrovas on Linkolns. Linkolns decided something about that jump or the course was not worth it and Petrovas retired. good for him!

Mexico: Andres Azcarraga on Contrendros 2. dropped a stride before the water and still cleared it - horses like that are the best. first double clear round! and an extra little buck. 

Sweden: Henrik von Eckermann on King Edward. Oh that’s right he goes in a nose fly net thing. King Edward is Going today - “jumping out of his skin” yeah you’re right. definitely saw Eckermann grab mane. 

Spain: Ismael Garcia Roque on Tirano. drop noseband. lots and lots of air on Tirano’s part. only one rail down. 

France: Olivier Perreau on Dorai d’Aiguilly. mare! some froth i think. this girl is here to Get It Done. knocked a rail on the last fence. elevator-type bit with converter reins. 

Saudi Arabia: Abdulrahman Alrajhi on Ventago. ah a kicker. tapped a rail but went clear and in time. froth. 

Austria: Gerfried Puck on Naxcel V. okay i’m sure those fly mask things are blinkers but i can’t get a close enough look to confirm. drop noseband. much discussion from this pair - Naxcel has his own plans it seems. elevator-type bit with two sets of reins. 

Japan: Eiken Sato on Conthargo-Blue. red ribbon. Disagreements after the water and over the red vertical. drop noseband, elevator-type bit with double reins. retires on course. 

USA: Karl Cook on Caracole de la Roque. mare! one of the two mares going in a hackamore. her topline still bothers me. double clear. every time i’ve seen this mare she gets shit done. 

Netherlands: Maikel van der Vleuten on Beauville Z. came in a little wiggly to that second jump (we’ve all been there). only one rail down and a 70 second course. 

Ireland: Shane Sweetnam on James Kann Cruz. would like a better look at that bridle. they are tearing through the course in style - no rails in 73.35 seconds. 

Belgium: Jerome Guery on Quel Homme de Hus. converter reins. one rail down, four seconds under time. 

Switzerland: Edouard Schmitz on Gamin Van’t Naastveldhof. quick buck as they get going. two rails down, four seconds under. 

UK: Harry Charles on Romeo 88. always interesting to see which horse’s manes get braided for showjumping and which don't (Romeo 88 doesn’t). the double noseband situation bothers me, and also it seems like you could just use a flash. blinkers. double clear. some bucks just for funsies. 

Norway: Victoria Gulliksen on Mistral van de Vogelzang. Mistral has things to say about the rein contact - tons of head shaking between fences. froth. double clear. 

Australia: Hilary Scott on Milky Way. mare! pretty gray. i don’t think she has a throatlatch. knocked two rails - one in the double combination and one in the triple combination. 

Poland: Dawid Kubiak on Flash Blue B. shadow roll and hackmore. blinkers maybe? two rails down. 

Denmark: Andreas Schou on Napoli VH Nederassenthof. Schou’s shoulders look a little slumped as they come in - kinda odd, for how much we worry about our posture. maybe i'm seeing things. knocks a rail on the last fence. 

Germany: Christian Kukuk on Checker 47. buck. pretty dapples. two rails, i think. 

Brazil: Rodrigo Pessoa on Major Tom. i’m not going to make a built-in sponsor joke. or a Space Oddity joke. i’m not. lovely jump. double clear. i think Major Tom is the third? horse i’ve seen with his fly bonnet tied to the noseband so it won’t flap. 

UAE: Salim Ahmed al Suwaidi on Foncetti VD Heffinck. froth. Micklem adjacent bridle. lots of praise after the round. four rails down. 

Israel: Robin Muhr on Galaxy HM. two rails down. interesting how there are so many dark bays/blacks in dressage but considerably fewer in jumping. 

Canada: Erynn Ballard on Nikka VD Bisschop. mare! big bold blaze. entered the ring fairly quietly. extra little kick over the jumps. i like this pair.

[makriiii]

Caught Ⅱ (Arthur Morgan × f!reader)

Word count: 3k

Author's notes: This is going to be more of a slow burn than I initially set out for. Also, sorry for the slow update!

Warnings: 18+, angst, slightly nsfw, cursing, mentions of blood.

Pt3! Or pt1

Wattpad or Ao3

♡

Caught Ⅱ

The further you got, once again, the colder it was, both you and your horse now having slowed to a nervous walk. Far from anything that could resemble a road or life beyond yourself and your mount.

You were lost. If that were any descriptor. Lost, cold, and tired. You could only hope Van Der Lindes gang was just as lost as you too, but much further, desirably completely headed in a different direction.

Thankfully, the rabbit you saved from earlier kept you from needing to hunt again. Hunting now would certainly only draw attention where attention was not needed, a fire too. Options were limited, to say the least.

The sky above was as dark as could be, yet sparkled with so many lights. The contrast calmed you amidst the just now subsiding adrenaline.

You blew your condensated breath into the air, watching it fade away with the seconds that passed. Bringing yourself to think on how you'd find your way back seemed impossible. The thought of laying your head into a motel bed completely dominated your mind.

You'd have to try to stop somewhere, soon at least, to rest your horse if you didn't want to run the risk of the both of you collapsing. It'd been hours since you got away with a bit of cash and some measly train bonds.

All of it didn't seem so worth it now for a few stacks of paper. But, at least it'd calm Colm some knowing that the score he'd set up wasn't for naught.

A loud crack rang out.

Your mare jumps beneath you, spooking into a quick canter.

Your whole body seized up as you clutched your saddles horn, only a second did it take for you to glance down to where you felt an impact.

A sudden, deep, burning heat spread through your left arm like the blood that seeped from the open wound.

When you finally realized what had just happened, you whipped your head around, and there he was.

That man in the navy union coat. The barrel of his pistol staring you down as he did.

Adrenaline and shock pushed you into action as you unholstered your revolver, aiming it the best you could at him through the darkness.

Each time you barely clipped him, the bullets ricocheting off the nearby pines as he crouched down at your fire, trying to avoid looking like the trees.

You couldn't meet his eye. His hat nearly covered the whole of his face as he spurred his paint after yours.

He shot again, narrowly missing you, to your relief. Your gun clicked empty, quickly realizing you had already used your whole round.

You clutched your arm to your side, beginning to get weary as you rode. The blood from your arm didn't let up.

You grabbed for your second revolver, knowing you'd most likely have another bullet find you if you reloaded now.

You'd been in situations like these before, though only once did you actually get shot, once that didn't disable you as badly as this.

The terrible aching started to really bother you now, but you couldn't focus on your arm, riding and shooting all at once.

Pivoting in your saddle the best you could, you pointed and shot again, but now he was further. Taken a path left that granted him more cover by the evergreens thick trinks.

There was no use wasting your bullets now while he stalked you like prey, waiting for you to drop. The frustration and fear with this man kept you out of the daze you felt approaching.

You made quick glances around, making sure there were no more of his members also out here for your head as well.

He would be the only manageable option.

Every time you turned and aimed, it proved more and more difficult to aim. Like he kept getting further out. The pain in your arm started worsening, making you clutch it closer to your chest with a wince. - Your mind came back to you once you hit the ground. You had fallen off and into the snow, which had at least padded your fall, but nonetheless still knocked the air out of you.

Everything around you started becoming more fuzzy, the details in the land blurry. You had to do something about your arm and the man, but probably the man first.

You stared back up through the trees, squinting and trying to focus in the darkness that shrouded your surroundings. Wherever he was, he wasn't close enough for you to see.

Heaving in breath after breath, you propped yourself up against a nearby tree, weakly pointing your shaky gun as you waited for the blue blob to get closer.

When you figured he was close enough - too close - you hit the trigger.

There was nothing after that but ringing. It looked like you hit him, you thought so. So you dragged your knife out, cutting your shirt to wrap your arm and put much needed pressure on it.

You winced with every poke and prod, and with your torn shirt quickly soaking up the blood, it gave you barely enough time to turn for your chap, slicing a piece long enough to tie around your bicep.

You dropped your knife as soon as you finished and lifted your arm as best you could to apply your make-shift tourniquet above the bullet wound.

All you could do now was hope the bleeding would stop long enough to get your bearings and get out of here.

---

Your head bobbed up and down on hardwood, enough to wake you with a deep groan. Your whole body ached like mad once you slowly regained consciousness.

"She's awake." Stated a deep silvery voice, which made you shoot your eyes open.

"Really?" Replied a man farther away.

"Pretty sure."

Everything that was happening just now started to overwhelm you in your state of being barely cognizant. You stayed silent trying to recall just last night.

From what you could muster, it seemed like death had caught up to you after all, yet you were here.

You'd been shot. That much you could feel. Your bicep burned and tingled with the puncture wounds that had penetrated each side.

When you cocked your head up enough to look at your- where was your jacket? The expected sight replaced with a dusty brown colored coat. 

You remembered falling off your horse, but much beyond that was still hard to recall.

Trying to sit upright, you found yourself tugging at binds, which set off a swift onset of panic as you started to jerk at them, your arm screaming at you to stop with every yank.

"Easy." The first man mumbled. He moved closer for you, grasping for your shoulder that didn't have a terrible stabbing pain in it. You met his eye as he pulled you up with ease to a sit.

He stayed crouched in front of you for a moment, assessing you. A soft and hardly discernible look of concern across his face. Tough but gentle, and he didn't seem to mean you much harm despite the situation you found yourself in.

Upon your upright position, you found your ammo and gun belts had vanished, and the only semblance of your items, your hat, crumpled on the floor next to you.

You took a better look around when something - someone - caught your eye, nonetheless like a moth to a flame.

That man. His union coat still hugged him, his black hat sitting on top of his head. You could never forget that attire. The clothes he wore while he gunned you down in the forest.

You knew exactly what you did to the last man who got a lucky shot in on you, only this time you had to find a way around your limbs being bound together.

You stared daggers at him from behind, desperately wishing he'd at least glance back so you could finally see his face. The face of the first man who had gotten an upper hand on you, the thought filling you with contempt.

You cleared your throat before you spoke, a rough and scratchy feel after how you'd woken. "Look at me, you bastard." Your voice still sounded hoarse over the anger that lined your words, the lack of water you'd been subjected to made its mark.

Even though you didn't call him by name or any of his noticeable features, he seemed to know exactly who you were addressing.

He gave the driving reins to the older man that sat next to him, who had his head turned to inspect you momentarily. 

"I'm lookin'." He announced, smug as could be.

He was intimidating, more so than what you initially expected. That wasn't enough to wane your aggravated attitude though, what else would he do to you know? You knew what he wanted and he wasn't gonna do much after all this.

He stood slightly bent over to hold his balance before jumping into the back where the other man sat with you.

You eyed him with such malice, yet the expression on his face only twisted into a small smirk.

"You gonna untie me or what?" It was worth the ask, unlikely he'd relent anyway.

"You gonna behave?"

"Sure, if you give me back all my shit. My horse as well, preferably, or one of yours."

A deep chuckle rumbled from his chest at your ridiculous request. "I might've considered it had you left it at 'sure'." He drew out a cigarette and lit it just to puff the smoke at you.

Your eyebrows pulled together in annoyance. "Ask me again then."

He snickers at your second most ridiculous request, playing into it. "You gonna behave, girl?"

"Wouldn't dream of misbehaving." You granted, it didn't reach him, though. His expression of pure amusement gave it away.

"Never been much of a genie, so I can't grant any your wishes." He sat relaxed and aloof next to the first man you weren't sure of yet.

"You already shot me. Untying me is the least you could do. I reckon you could just poke my arm if I start actin' unruly." Reasoning with him was difficult, though you were confident you wouldn't try to fight off three full grown men. He wasn't.

"I'll think about it. If you talk nice."

"I talk nice when I'm not tied up."

"And I untie people who talk nice beforehand." He retorts, infuriating you further. "What's a girl like you doing Colm's dirty work anyway?"

"It's none the different than what you'd do for your boss."

"A train robbery alone? I think that's funny."

"Would it have been if ya' hadn't caught me last night?" The edges of your mouth curl up in a smirk at the thought of being so close to remaining victorious.

"What's even in it for you? Ya' Colm's special girl or somethin'?" His accusation made the small smile that lined your lips vanish in place of shock.

He scanned you all the while, his eyes lighting up when his insult hit where he intended.

You knew why he'd say something so ludicrous, no doubt. Not many of the yellow bellied half-wits in this gang would attempt something like this, for good reason too. Colm didn't give a rats ass for his men, yet you liked to think you brought more value to him.

"No." You replied, scorned.

"Really?" He emphasized, hammering down on the nerve he already hit. "Seems more from your end than his."

You wanted to defend yourself, but you were limited in knowing what he'd take your word for. Clearly.

"Doubt he'll even come lookin' for you. Nor your buddy I caught a few days ago."

"We'll see." Your patience - what little you even had of it, kept you at bay, still clinging on to the prayer that he'd undo your ropes.

"Tell you what? You tell us where he's at and we'll go lookin' for him instead."

"I know exactly the same amount as you." That much was true. You hadn't seen him since he made his way up to Colter. As far as you saw, he wasn't amongst the fallen. But whether they saw it as the truth was beyond you.

He turned his head to the man whose company you preferred. "What do you think' Charles? She bullshitting us?"

"Couldn't tell you," He took a moment to think you over. "Haven't had enough time to tell."

Charles. You had the name of one of the three men that rode on this carriage with you.

"I ain't lyin', you'd have to bury yourself into the man's skin to always know his whereabouts."

"Yeah?" I'm sure there's more you can tell us than that." He stops, staring straight into you. "What's your name, anyways?"

"I can tell you about my ma and pop, but anything else?" A small laugh escapes your lips at your own joke, at the absurdity of this all. "You'll have to untie me."

He mumbled something under his breath, a stormy gaze as he eyed you darkly. He makes his way closer to you and to your horror, reached out for your left shoulder.

You winced at the pain he caused when he clutched you, moving you so your back faced him enough to reach your binds.

He cut through the strings he tied you with, involuntarily getting jittery each time you felt his blade touch your wrists or palms.

Finally, the ropes that clasped you had released their tension, letting out your relief with a sigh.

"That ain't gonna last for long, so enjoy it."

You blew him off, rolling your right shoulder that you had been passed out on as you rubbed your sore wrists. "You gonna do my legs too? Or are you gonna make the poor little lady do it herself?"

"Gonna make the 'poor little lady' do it herself." He agreed, with a shake of his head as he rumbled out a chuckle.

You grunted with each movement too harsh you made with your arm while you slowly undid the ropes, bitter at this man and his yapping. Glancing up every so often, you met his eye each time. His never left you as you sat there.

He flicked his cigarette off the carriage, projecting his full attention onto you. "Alright," He chimes, leaning in. "Where's he at?" Some of his initial aloofness replaced with a more serious tone.

"Have you considered asking my associate?" You reply, taking off whoever's coat this happened to be, examining your wound closer. With every poke and prod, you winced out a hiss. The bloodied bandages an unfavorable sight to see.

"No. We invited him in by the fire to eat with us." He mocked with each word that left his mouth. He was starting to lose his patience - to your delight.

"I would've told you all about Colm if you had done that instead of shooting me." You quickly filled with regret at your snide. Your sentence sounding more like an admission rather than a jab at him.

He raised his brows, contemplating for a moment. He took it as an admission as you feared, scolding yourself for it.

"It's not going to get easier for you. Just tell us where he's at, and we'll let you go. Maybe."

"And what if I don't know where he's at? You gonna maybe let me go, or shoot me again?"

He lets out a heavy sigh, realizing he's not getting anywhere with you. By the looks of it, he hadn't slept much - served him right for hunting you down in the forest.

-Arthur's pov-

Upon his initial meeting of you in the forest, he felt slick that he tracked you down through the snow and got a shot in. Yet, after missing, he felt a sudden confliction on whether or not he should kill you.

Bill, Javier, Dutch - they all left him to deal with you, as they all knew he had a track record of collecting O'Driscoll's just fine. The group just didn't want to be out here so late. 

Sneaking around like you did and just about getting away with robbing them blind entirely alone, he had to admit, was impressive, albeit cretinous.

It led him to have some level of respect for you despite being an O'Driscoll.

Wary of your sporadic shooting, he wasn't sure how long you'd keep shooting, nor if it was even possible to not leave you dead out here in these woods. But the hit he had gotten in on you did more to subdue you than he needed - luckily. 

Only when he finally caught up to you did he see your soft features, lacking the facial hair most unkempt O'Driscolls had. You were a lady.

You pointed weakly at him with a stare so contradictory, but your grip on the gun was meek you couldn't aim properly. 

He flinched at the final shot you let out, your bullet sent whizzing past in a direction unseen, an unexpected shot from you. Just how many damn bullets did she manage to have?

Arthur stared at you as you tried to stop the bleeding, seemingly not even noticing you hadn't hit him. Your arm drenched your coats sleeve with a deep scarlet, soaking up every bit that seeped out of the wound.

Silly to state the obvious, but the bleeding, if continued at the rate it was at, you were going to be some wolves meal. 

He was reluctant to approach as you tore away at your chaps to stop the bleeding yourself, though it wasn't long till you finally slumped over. He cautiously tip toed to you, his first worry, your guns. He snatched them both up, confiscating your gun belt in the same breath. 

Arthur took in a deep, exasperated breath. Taking in another O'Driscoll didn't fill him with much glee. The rest of the gang would detest it, too. He could already feel their ornery. But just any O'Driscoll? That was false. He crouched down to examine the wound he had caused you, determining just what had to be done to aid you.

He called a few times to you, patting your cheek with his glove, checking wether you were alive or about to jump out at him, though the latter unlikely. Your cheeks started losing the rosy colour that the wind had cut through. Finest O'Driscoll he'd ever set his eyes upon - as regrettable as a thought that was.

"C'mon, O'Driscoll..." He murmurs, rummaging through his satchel. "Just how much trouble are ya' gonna give me?"

He shook his head. He'd have to make this quick. Your wound was still bleeding, and though your efforts did help, it was unlikely you'd make it out here alone, or alive. 

Removing your blood soaked jacket, he reluctantly unbuttoned your shirt to get to the puncture. 

The exposure sent goosebumps all over your soft skin. It was tough, but he did his utmost to keep from looking any further than your arm, all except a glance to assure there wasn't anything else outstanding for him to deal with. 

With the last of his gauze, Arthur packed your wound to the best of his ability. Every time you threatened to wake up, he prepared for the worst, though it seemed more paranoia than reality - perhaps the darkness and the hour was getting to him.

As he finished, he was relieved you had neither woken or died... both a strange contradiction. He gently buttoned back up your shirt, returning your jacket - have to find you something else soon. The blood on your sleeve started crunching as the ice claimed its territory, quick as it was. "Gang's gon' have me for this..."

He slid his arm gently under your lower back and legs, gently scooping you up. He'd have to tie you up before he set off, wanted absolutely no more blunders from you. The list of troubles you'd given him so far ever growing. 

That brought another line of questioning. A woman like you. An O'Driscoll. Solo train robber. Just what kind of person were you? Crazy one, sure, but how annoying would you be? He'd be responsible for you after all - a supremely risky investment. 

Through the flurry of thoughts and the wind kicking up the fresh snow, he wanted nothing more than what he had come here for. The bonds and the cash. 

Your horse had stopped only mere yards away, to much of his relief, he wouldn't be tracking anything else tonight. 

Arthur trailed up behind your mare, grabbing the loose reins before heading back in the direction you'd came.

---

Arthur could already tell in what ways you differed from Kieran, the one who was an O'Driscoll, yet so vehemently claimed he was not.

You had unfortunately entirely skipped begging for your life, screaming, or crying. You spoke to the one who shot you like there was a guarantee he wouldn't do it again.

It intrigued him. Were you just dumb? Being fearful never seemed to cross your mind.

But the more you argued, the more that intrigue turned to irritation and regret... If only you knew the trouble he went through for you. A stranger.

Arthur knew now perhaps the trouble he would have saved himself would've been worth it. Yet now here you were.

He questioned why someone like you was running with a gang like Colm's. Far too much loyalty and ambition - not to mention insanity.

Despite his curiosity, you were just as reluctant to speak as Kieran. Just as annoying too but in a more infuriating way.

Even as his patience wore thin, he still found himself unable to take the easy way out. There was a chance you knew more. Maybe you were closer to Colm. Maybe there was more use to you.

If that were the case, Dutch would be mighty pleased with what information they could pry out of you with the right motivators. Word count: 3.4k Next chapter

[sleephyjhs]

You Sing Lullabies to your Baby (REACTION)

all members are included under the ‘keep reading’ link

notes: this genuinely has taken me so long and i am so so sorry. when it comes to parent aus i really like to take my time since they’re my favourite, i hope it’s okay!!

m.list | requested

KSJ

Your prolonged absence from the downstairs loveseat caught Seokjin’s attention. The baby monitor had alerted you of your newborn’s disturbed sleeping, but the lack of commotion from upstairs interested him. After pausing the animation film he was determined to finish with you, he traipsed carefully for the stairs so not to further disturb your son.

His fingertips scarcely skimmed the corridor walls as he tiptoed towards the nursery. Through your newfound maternal panic, the panelled door had been left slightly ajar in the rush to attend to your baby; the small opening allowed just the right amount of view to see what had distracted you for so long.

The nursery itself was dark, illuminated only by pastel nightlights that so often fascinated his son’s brown doe eyes. Sleeping in the dark throughout the night was a trait you collectively were glad he’d inherited; tonight was perhaps the first glitch in his habits since birth. Facing away from the opened door was your nursing chair, where you’d positioned your now sleeping son across a flimsy pillow over your lap. His audible muttering was slowly washed away by the sound of your voice, humming a slow lullaby to soothe him.

“And if that mockingbird don’t sing, mama’s gonna buy you a diamond ring~” Seokjin’s eyelids fluttered softly in time with the rhythm of your lullaby. You’d previously claimed to sing your baby to sleep when he wasn’t around, and now he had finally caught you.

Instead of feeling the need to interfere, Seokjin stood away from the light and listened to your lullaby repeat again and again until it was time to transfer your son back to his cot. To avoid being caught by you, he hurriedly hopped back down the stairs and resumed his seat in the couch. His private concert would remain his little secret.

MYG

Finishing rehearsals any earlier than midnight had recently become a foreign memory for Yoongi; coming home to a sleeping wife and baby was too painfully familiar. Finally, the rare occasion of an early clock-out had come around. Your newborn’s night routine was one Yoongi frequently missed, so the new opportunity was nothing short of refreshing.

Despite receiving a text saying to expect your husband home earlier than usual, the closing click of the front door was inaudible from your daughter’s nursery. Yoongi dumped his bag on the chair in his home studio and silently proceeded up the stairs.

His light stepping was a habit that had once caused you many frights, but at least your endless efforts to soothe your wailing daughter wouldn’t be reversed. The dim corridor light hardly caused Yoongi’s shadow to cast on the pale carpet of the nursery as he leaned against the doorframe, allured by the soft melody of your humming.

“Round and round the garden like a teddy bear~” Within seconds of listening to your repeating rhyme, Yoongi smiled brightly to himself. Within a matter of minutes, your exhaustion was more than apparent to him.

Yoongi pushed the door slowly to reveal himself to you as you gently placed your daughter back into her crib. Sighing as she finally appeared sound asleep, he held his arms open to you. A hug was nothing short of what you needed.

JHS

Knowing how well you enjoyed laying in on weekends, waking up to a groggy husband, your absence was nothing short of concerning. The warm imprint of your body still staining the bedsheets - you hadn’t been gone for long. Hoseok raised himself slowly, rubbing his eyes in disapproval of the morning sun. His first challenge of the day? Locating you.

Although he shuffled down the corridor still stiffened by the earliness of your escape, you were oblivious to his looming presence. Less than 10 minutes ago, your daughter decided to raise the heavens with her irritant screams. She was only just adjusting to a room of her own; being out of reaching distance from you was proving to be distressing for her, and of course, you.

“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are grey~” The soft, motherly hymns attracted Hobi towards the door of the freshly decorated nursery, where you stood rocking the tiny infant in your arms back to sleep. He leaned against the doorframe quietly, still struggling to open his eyes fully. Subconsciously, his head swayed from side to side in chime with the repeating melody, immersing him fully in your morning serenade.

Realising how tired he was, Hoseok figured singing lullabies so early in the morning could’ve been enough to send you drowsy all over again. Before his eyes could close completely on his two main girls, he traipsed slowly down the stairs in order to prepare you a well-earned homemade breakfast.

KNJ

As much as you both we’re almost always left exhausted from your busy schedules, if the only time you had together was past midnight then Namjoon would do what he could to make it work for you. Watching a movie at 2am was a risky move - balancing the volume to not disturb your dozing twin boys was hard work.

Just when you thought you’d worked it out, the chorus of agitated cries roared through the baby monitor, “No you stay here, eat.” You convinced Namjoon before he could even place his bowl of food on the coffee table.

Long after finishing his overdue dinner and still no sign of you, Namjoon paused the now-concluding film and crept through the silence towards the nursery where his baby boys had generated a now dwindling raucous. He couldn’t help but feel guilty about agreeing to stay put; one noisy baby was enough for anybody to handle, let alone a carbon copy.

Before he could barge through the door to aid the process, Namjoon paused in the corridor at the breaking of the silence. A small, cloud nightlight illuminated the cosy nursery that homed his boys and projected it’s yellow glow onto you. With a sleepy baby in each arm, you rocked back and forth in the pillowed nursing chair, “I’m sometimes up and sometimes down, coming for to carry me home.”

Maybe you had it all under wraps after all..

PJM

You’d anticipated Jimin’s return from tour for nearly a month, and were over the moon to finally be able to snuggle with your love once again. The daily facetimes were nowhere near as good as the real thing.

Although, the advantage was your new capability to lie. With your forced smile and optional mute button, you were hoping that Jimin never took a moment to suspect things weren’t as perfect as you so convinced him. Admitting your struggles would only guilt trip him into coming home briefly when he could, which was more stress he could’ve done without.

Your daughter could sense her father’s absence, and proved to you that she missed him more than you did. Never before had you had so many sleepless nights. Your mind was packed to the brim with lullabies from all over the world; it was all that worked in getting her to sleep anymore. Instead of preparing for Jimin’s return, her restless sleep pattern drew you back to her room, singing the same lullaby she’d heard nearly a hundred times before.

As you chanted the sleepy serenade to your disturbed, Jimin snuck through the front door unheard. His arrival was far earlier than you’d expected, but your seeet vocal tones whistling down the staircase was a great enough gift for him.

“Wherever you go, no matter where you are, I will never be far away.” Jimin followed the humming trail up the stairs to greet his two girls one again. The sight of you slowly rocking a now dozing daughter was enough to curl his tired eyes into smiling crescents. Certainly, arriving home early was worth the lost hours of rest.

KTH

Following the few, short hours after her birth, you’d finally stumbled across your first obstacle of thousands to come; a sleepless night. Fair enough, being born is a decently traumatic, turbulent experience, and so your daughter was hardly to blame for her discomfort in a foreign place.

The drugs and pain reliefs that were being pumped into you mare you similarly unable to sleep. Taehyung, however, had been long gone since the sunset; supporting you through childbirth was more exhausting than he’d expected. You couldn’t blame him though, he was nothing short of amazing.

Getting in some practice alone was rather ideal for you. A watching crowd would’ve been daunting for any new mother. Lifting your precious newborn from the plastic bassinet, you flicked through the few memorised songs that were within reach of your limited memory.

Just as you conducted your first lullaby of the night, Taehyung suddenly awoke to the distress of his baby. The chair he’d fallen asleep in was far from comfortable, but any surface would’ve done the job. Instead of sitting upright to attend, he waited for a while, fully aware of how long you’d anticipated singing to your precious daughter.

“Sheep safely home have come, bumble bees no longer hum.” Smiling to himself as your gentle voice soothed both your daughter and him down into a snooze, Taehyung took the secret encounter as a chance to further adore you. Interrupting your first bonding moment with your newborn wasn’t on his list of options; Taehyung was more than content to listen to you embrace motherhood as he was certain you would.

JJK

Despite believing your son was well and truly asleep, the inevitable sobbing rattled through the baby monitor eventually. Having time alone with Jungkook was a rarity, but the disruption via your son was hardly repulsed. In fact, you often had to fight for the right to be the one to calm him down.

With it being so late, and him having hardly slept during the day, you knew well that your son was only overtired. Although Jungkook was by far better skilled in the vocal department, sometimes a mother’s lullaby can be all a baby needed. You allowed Jungkook to continue the anime episode without you - it shouldn’t take you so long this time.

Even a few minutes was enough to miss your presence. To grab one last glance of his tiny son for the night, Jungkook soon followed your footsteps to the pale grey nursery you rocked your baby so gently in, “Golden slumber kiss your eyes, smiles await you when you rise.”

Despite your vocal capability having no leverage on that of your husband’s, Jungkook still enjoyed listening to you. Something about your sweet voice that was hypnotising; drowsy in itself. Instead of storming the brief bonding session, Jungkook awaited you in the hall, grinning widely to himself in the corridor. You were beyond precious.

^ i really dont know why i use the namjoon and his twins starter so much but here we are

[katehuntington]

Title: Ride With Me (part sixteen) Fandom: Supernatural Timeline: 2008 Pairing: Dean x Reader Word count: ±5500 words Summary series: Y/N is a talented horse rider who is on her way to become a professional. In order to convince her father that she deserves the loan needed to start her own farm, she goes to Arizona for six months, to intern at a ranch owned by Bobby and Ellen Singer. Her future is set out, but then she meets a handsome horseman, who goes by the name of Dean Winchester. A heartwarming series about a cowboy who falls for the girl, letting go of the past and the importance of family.  Summary part sixteen: The wranglers return and Jo can’t wait to hear about Y/N’s adventures, until a disturbing call comes in. Warnings series: NSFW, 18+ only! Fluff, angst, eventually smut. Swearing, smoking, alcohol intoxication, alcohol abuse. Mutual pining, heartbreak. Crying, nightmares, childhood trauma. Description of animal abuse, domestic violence, mentions of addiction. Financial problems, stress, mental breakdown. Description of blood and injury, hospital scenes, character death, grief. Music: Opening scene: ‘River Crossing’ - Carter Burwell. Dean & Ellen scene: ‘She Is The Fire’ - Gareth Dunlop. Check out ‘Kate Huntington’s Ride With Me playlist’ on Spotify! Author’s note: It’s about damn time, ain’t it? Thank you @kittenofdoomage​, @girl-with-a-fandom-fettish​​ and @winchest09​​ for helping me. You girls are awesome betas and friends.

Ride With Me Masterlist

     “They’re here!”      With two long ranch ropes hanging from her shoulders, Jo walks up to the fence and hangs the bundles by the loops on a post. All the preparations have been made. Garth and her moved the trail horses to the pastures further to the left, creating space for the youngsters. The hay feeders are stacked, water troughs filled. All that’s left now is to get the horses in the right fields, which sounds easy enough, but has proven to be a struggle many times before. Getting a group of young feril stallions into a certain space is like herding cats.      Both excited and in suspense, she rests her bare forearms on the wooden rail, the sleeves of her plaid shirt rolled up. Jo hopes everything went alright and that everyone, humans and horses, are in good health. The blonde rancher peers at the orange haze up ahead, the wind carrying the veils of dust further east. The sun is slowly setting, catching the clouds rising up from the earth and setting them on fire. 

     She and Garth have one task: take the pack horses out of their hands so they can round up the horses and secure the gates. She looks over her shoulder, whipping her blond braid as she turns her head. Garth joins her, a big smile on his kind face, clearly just as excited. Behind him, in the tall doorway, Bobby and Ellen watch the approaching herd, several guests doing the same from the terrace at the outdoor arena. When she hears Benny’s classic ‘grito’ shout above the intensifying sounds of hoofbeats, she knows it’s time for action.       Macy and Jon come down the trail that carves through the property, both with a pack horse by their side. They only slow down when they turn the last corner. After handing over Cash and Aerosmith, the tourists thank them briefly and spin around, pushing the animals into a canter; their job is far from done. 

     As they speed back to the group again over the trail path outside the fenced pasture, Benny is the first to come through the first gate and from then on, it’s chaos. Most of the juvenile stallions follow him, but two hit the brakes when they notice the bottle neck, demanding quick responses from both Dean and Brad. A few others spread out before Benny has lured them through the second gate. Joplin bolts towards the stragglers once Y/N moves the reins towards her horse’s ears. Like she has been doing so all her life, Y/N cuts of the two youngsters, following the movements of the speedy mare. Dean is with her in a split second, ready to back her up if necessary, but Y/N doesn’t need saving. Jo smiles at the sight, proud of her friend, who is proving herself to be one hell of a ranch hand. She might be State Champion in the arena, but out there, working the fields, she rules the world.

     Shouts and whistles rise above the dust. Horses neigh, the ground trembles. Hooves dig deep into the ground, their beats pounding against the earth. It takes some maneuvering, but within ten minutes, the herd is on the right side of the fence, the animals cantering through the field and clinging together like a flock of birds. Once Macy has pulled the gate shut, the spectators on the terrace cheer, the ranch owners clap as well. Jo lets out an excited ‘woo-hoo!’ as well, Garth joining her in the howl. 

     Y/N turns in the saddle, her attention drawn by the applause coming from the ranch, and she smiles when realizing they have an audience. Ted is waiting for his next cue patiently, catching his breath after the intense ride, while his rider pulls his neckerchief down, using the other end of it to wipe his face. It doesn’t help much, the fabric just smudges the dirt and Y/N chuckles at the sight of the handsome cowboy, covered in dust.      “What?” He rubs his nose with the back of his hand.      “Nothing,” she laughs. “You just need a bath, that’s all.”      “Something about a pot and a kettle.”       He leans over, dragging the pad of his thumb across her cheek, showing her the dark smear on his finger. She laughs in surprise, only now tasting the earth on her lips. Playfully she glances at him from under her lashes, locking onto his green eyes, which stand out even brighter on his dirty face. God, she wouldn’t mind sharing a tub with him. 

     Dean redirects his attention to the group when the other wranglers join them. Content, he allows his eyes to pass the riders and their horses, all worn, covered in sweat and dust. The six of them turned out to be a solid group, because they absolutely nailed it.      “Alright, y’all,” he starts, resting his wrist on the horn of his saddle, absently tracing the dressing of his bandaged hand. “Awesome job, that was some impressive teamwork. I know it wasn’t always easy, but we brought them home.”      “Thanks for having us,” Macy returns, smiling genuine. “We would’ve gone in circles if it wasn’t for you.”      “Hey, now! What about lil’ ol’ me? Y’all would have starved to death if it wasn’t for my phenomenal stew,” Benny recalls, fishing for a compliment.       The riders laugh, Brad patting the Southerner on the back and thanking him for the fine dining. They turn the horses to the trail along the fenced pastures, heading towards the stables.

     Jo watches the company of six approach from under her hat, which shields the setting sun from blinding her. It’s an epic sight, the silhouets of the wranglers and their horses, illuminated with an edge of gold, dust clouds in their wake catching the light. Benny is right up front, accepting the small applause from the other guests with a ‘thank you, you’re too kind’. He looks like he just crawled out of a coal mine, his distinctive blue eyes standing out from the dirt.       She sighs with relief when she notices the three tourists, excitedly sharing conversation with each other about their epic Wild West adventure. They are all unharmed and clearly had a good time, which means they will pay the invoice they will receive once they check out in a couple of days. Maybe they’ll even throw in a tip; God knows the ranch needs it.

     Behind them, the last wranglers follow. Dean and Y/N ride stirrup by stirrup, exchanging a look that has the blonde cowgirl frowning. What’s going on with those two? The moment passes when Macy gets off her horse, Jo’s cue to help her tack down, while Garth assists Jonathan and Brad. She loosens Jimmi’s singe and glances over the horse’s back. Dean has allowed Y/N to pass through the fence first, turning Ted around to close the last gate from his saddle.      Joplin speedwalks onto the square as enthusiastic as the morning she left, not a trace of fatigue with the feisty little horse. As the mare and her rider pass by, Y/N makes eye contact with the ranch owner’s daughter, who follows her with her gaze, confused. The suppressed smile creates dimples in the intern’s cheeks, her lips pulled together in a thin line, as if she’s trying to contain herself. Almost like she has done something bad, something Jo told her not to do. Underneath she’s glowing, her eyes giving the sheer happiness away. Y/N averts her eyes again and steers Joplin to a free spot on the tack up area and only then Dean moves into Jo’s peripheral vision. His expression has similarities to Y/N’s, yet isn’t quite the same. For one, he’s way worse at hiding the sly smirk that reaches from ear to ear, not to mention the mischievous sparkle in his emerald greens. 

     Jo does a double-take, bouncing her eyes from the head wrangler to the intern and back. Then it clicks.      “You despicable dickwad,” she hisses.       Her piercing glare bores into Dean, who has aided Ted to halt next to the horse Jo is tacking down. Playing innocent, he raises his eyebrows at the insult as he dismounts.      “What did I do now?”      ��Jo narrows her eyes at her cousin. “Oh, you know damn well what you did.”      She lifts the tack from Jimmi’s back, pulling the damp saddle pad from underneath, after which she barges off, muttering to herself. Three days. I left those idiots alone for three days! 

     She enters the tack room, the heavy saddle on her hip. Still shaking her head disapproving, she hoists it over the high beam and hangs the wet blanket on the drying frame. When the door opens behind her, she spins on her heels and faces Y/N, who’s holding Joplin’s saddle, bridle hanging from her shoulder. Guilty, she tips her chin down, looking back at Jo while she bites her lip. The ranch owner’s daughter sighs, deciding to cut her some slack.      “You better hurry up hosing down your horse, ‘cause you have some explainin’ to do,” Jo tells her. “And hose down yourself while you’re at it. You look like you crawled up a chimney.”      Y/N chuckles, putting the tack away. “Oh, how I missed your honest judgement.”      “Missed you too, sis,” Jo returns, a smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. “Now get goin’, I need a drink and I need to get you drunk, because I wanna know everything. Meet me at the saloon in thirty.”

     A half an hour later, Y/N has taken a seat at one of the small round tables in the corner of the saloon, tapping her fingertips on the dark varnished wood. She’s freshly showered, her hair still damp, held together in a French braid. It’s nice to feel so clean again, no sticky sweat on her back, no sand in her bra, no dirt up her nose. Jo didn’t lie when she mocked her friend for looking like a chimney sweep; Y/N was shocked when she saw herself in the bathroom mirror. Dust as makeup foundation isn’t really the look she is aspiring for. 

     Funnily enough, Y/N has grown fond of this new version of herself, the one that isn’t so fussy over the details. After her shower, she didn’t even bother with her usual makeup and hair routine, a little bit of mascara was all she put on. Old her would have been self-conscious, especially knowing she’ll most likely meet the man she wants to impress. Old her would have ironed her shirt and polished her boots. Old her would have sighed at her reflection, nervous and disappointed, never pretty enough. But for three days straight, Dean looked at her as if she was the only girl in the world, no matter how dirty, dusty or sweaty she was. He even told her she was beautiful, with or without makeup. 

     The way he said it, the way he meant it, quieted that dreadful voice in her head and beckoned the small suppressed girl to step forward, into the light. That little girl’s voice grows louder when she accomplishes something. When she’s accepted, successful, appreciated… loved. But as it goes in business, one bad review might destroy what all the good accomplished. Her confidence is fragile, made of glass. She’s aware that when it falls, it will shatter. Maybe that’s the exact reason why she seeks confirmation. Glueing all the pieces together has proven to be difficult before. Some pieces go missing, others don’t fit together perfectly anymore. Cracks remain visible. And every time that brittle heart is stepped on, it’s harder to put it back together.

     “So!” Jo sits down opposite of her, roughly pulling her off the train of thought. “You better start talkin’.”      She shoves a large margarita glass towards her friend, keeping her delicate fingers around the neck of her beer bottle.      “I want details. Well, not all the details. He’s my cousin after all, I have no desire to know that much,” she corrects herself, thirstily gulping down her IPA when she pauses, keeping the beer in her mouth for a second before she swallows. “Hmm, so let’s start with… what the hell were you thinking and why didn’t you take my advice?”      “I couldn’t have stopped myself if I wanted to, Jo,” Y/N confesses, taking a sip from her beverage.       The blonde cowgirl sighs. “At least tell me it was a moment of weakness? One isolated incident?”

     Another sip, this one a little slower, hoping her friend can’t detect the blush.      “Oh, come on, Y/N,” Jo utters. “He ain’t a bad guy, but you know how he treats women. Remember Casey? Because I bet Dean doesn’t.”      “I don’t think this is like that,” she ponders, shaking her head. “The way he was with me... it’s different.”      Jo leans back in her seat, taking a swig from her drink, looking at her friend even when she tilts her head back and allows the golden brew to slip down her throat. She’s not judging her friend over her decisions, not really. She just wishes this fling with Dean won’t hurt her feelings, despite years of observation that say otherwise.      “Honey,” she starts empathetic. “I hate to break it to ya, but that’s how he’s been with every girl he had sex with. He makes them feel special and then he--”      “- I didn’t have sex with him,” Y/N corrects.      “Wait, what?” Jo cocks her head back, somewhat confused. “You didn’t?”      Y/N chuckles, shaking her head. “No. We kissed, we got a little handsy, but we didn’t have sex.”      Dumbfounded, her friend blinks, needing to process that information first before she responds. Then she nods impressed.      “I knew you were smarter than that,” she grins.      Y/N smiles, amused about how wrong Jo’s assumptions are. “It wasn’t me.”      “What wasn’t?”      “It wasn’t me who suggested taking it slow.”      “Then who--” the first words have fallen from Jo’s lips already before Y/N’s message sinks in and she realizes what that means. Eyes full of shock stare at her. “What?! Dean?!”

     Y/N laughs now, covering her mouth with her hand to keep the noise down. Oh, this is priceless.      “Dean wants to take it easy?” Jo double checks. “We’re talking about the same Dean, right? Dean Winchester? Cowboy Ken Doll with the cocky attitude?”      The tequila mixed with lime juice almost resurfaces through Y/N’s nose and they both laugh when she spills some.      “The one and only,” she giggles, wiping the spilled drink away with her sleeve, not bothered by the stain.       “Hold up. Let’s take it back,” Jo leans in, making sure no one can listen in. “You’re telling me that he had the opportunity to hit a homerun, but didn’t take it?”      “He had several opportunities, actually,” Y/N admits casually.      Perplexed Jo averts her gaze, focusing on nothing in particular, unable to grasp what is going on.       “Did he say anything?” she carefully checks, her frown marred with worry.      Jo assumed Dean was into the intern, but now that he passed up, she’s starting to doubt it. That is so unlike him. The thought crosses her mind that Y/N will most likely get hurt, just not in the way she was trying to prevent. What if the attraction isn’t mutual, but her dear friend hasn’t picked up on it yet?        “Yeah, he did,” she starts off. “We had a pretty deep conversation last night. Just the two of us.”      Jo raises her eyebrows. Another surprising fact; Dean having deep conversations. Have the stars aligned? Is she in a different universe?      “What’d he say?”

     Y/N becomes a little more guarded, unsure if it’s her place to discuss the matter with Jo. The small bit of information Dean shared with her about his past feels top secret, and she doesn’t want to break his trust when this circles back to him. She decides on keeping it plain.      “We talked about us, how to proceed from there. He said…” she smiles at the memory, remembering the sincerity in his voice and in his eyes. “He said he really cares about me, and that because of that, he doesn’t want to rush into it.”      Jo can’t believe her ears. “He said that?”      Y/N nods. “He also said he wants to be with me, Jo. Like really be with me. He just needs a little more time. I think he wants to make sure this lasts.”      “Well, I’ll be damned,” Jo huffs. “How about that?”

     The double saloon doors behind them are pushed open with a shriek, a few guests coming through. Y/N’s heart skips a beat when Dean enters as well. He looked good on the trail ride, in his long stockman coat, his leather fringed chaps, covered in dust and sweat. But my God, he looks even finer now. Dean also showered and changed his dirty jeans for a pair of clean dark ones, a navy blue button up hugging his strong back, shoulders, and arms. He trimmed the stubble that was transitioning into a beard, the shorter facial hair allowing the sharp line of his jaw to come through. Still standing on the doormat, he takes off his hat while scanning the saloon. Is he looking for her? When the cowboy finally spots her, he instantly smiles, the expression reaching his eyes. He holds her gaze when she smiles back happily, shooting her a wink, before heading for the bar. 

     “Ha...” Jo scoffs, amazed by the exchange she just witnessed. “Maybe there is hope for him after all.”      Y/N chuckles, clinking her glass to Jo’s raised bottle, the sound clear as a bell. Beaming, she steals another glance at the handsome cowboy by the bar, who has trouble keeping focus on the conversation with Bobby and Benny, looking over at her briefly every now and then. Taunting him, she takes the remaining beverage before her in one swig, licking the salt from her lips. When she checks on the head wrangler again, his eyes are glued on her, the sight of her downing her drink in one shot clearly having an effect on him. Jo observes the interaction like she’s watching a tennis match and scoffs.

     “Judging by the look he just gave ya, he’s not gonna be able to ‘take it slow’ much longer, because I’m positive you and your margarita just gave him a boner.” She gets up from her chair. “Want another one?”      Y/N nods, chuckling at her comment; Jo has so much faith in her cousin. She can’t really blame her, though, with Dean’s track record, but Y/N knows that this time it will be different. 

     She’s halfway through her second drink when she starts to feel the influence of the alcohol on her system. The music seems a little louder, the candle-shaped lights on the wagon wheels hanging from the ceiling sway slightly. She tells Jo about her adventure off the grid, about singing songs by the campfire at Willow Creek, about swimming with the horses at Eagle’s Nest, about her night ride with Dean. And of course about her moments with the wrangler. Jo stops her when the intern shares a little too much information about the heated kiss in the water, the ranch owner’s daughter putting her fingers in her ears and singing ‘lalala!’ to overrule the juicy details.

     Dean can’t tell what the girls are talking about, but he has a hunch. He smiles content with a beer in his hand, watching them giggle and clearly having a good time. Y/N taunts him every now and then, and he can’t help but smirk when she sips from her cocktail again. She’s gonna be the death of me, he thinks to himself.

The saloon is pretty busy, guests lingering after the arrival of the herd, having a few drinks to celebrate. He takes a second to absorb the ambiance. Cheerful conversations, laughter, eight-balls colliding on the pool table, country tunes playing. It’s much like the evening right before the new intern arrived. He had no idea how his life was going to change, but it did. His gaze lingers on her again, her wide smile and sparking eyes lighting up the room. God, she’s breathtaking. His chest grows a little tighter, but he has grown accustomed to the sensation. It terrified him at first, but now it feels comforting and warm. Dean knows what it means, he understands it, and although he’s still intimidated by what lays ahead, he is excited. This could be the beginning of a new chapter, hell, a whole damn book.

    “So, you and Y/N, huh?”      Staggered, Dean snaps out of it and turns his head to the person on the other side of the bar. It’s Ellen, who apparently noticed her nephew’s longing looks. She’s restocking the fridge under the counter, a dish towel draped over her shoulder and an amused expression on her face. The arched eyebrow surfaces frown lines, her knowing smile reaching her light brown eyes. For a second Dean considers denial, but stops himself, very much aware she will see right through it. Instead he stays quiet, a blush on his cheeks which his freckles can’t hide.      “Please don’t tell Uncle Bobby,” he pleads, keeping his voice down.      “You don’t have to whisper, he’s deaf as a doorknob.” She sets four bottles of IPA down on the counter, flipping the caps off swiftly. “And I personally think he wouldn’t mind.”      Dean scoffs. “Oh, he would. He told me not to get involved with her.”      “Well, he told me I wasn’t allowed to buy Jo a horse for her sixteenth birthday, and look what happened,” Ellen reminds him, the memory of the surprise gift with four legs still vivid, causing them both to chuckle. Bobby was grumpy at first, but Jo was ecstatic. One glimpse of his happy daughter took the old man’s bitterness away in an instant.      “He won’t make a fuss, honey. Believe me.”

“What makes you think that?” he wonders, nursing his beer.      “Because I’ve never before seen you look at a girl like you look at her,” she returns, hinting at Y/N.      The corner of Dean’s mouth curls up a little as he drops his gaze; she knows. He’s not surprised that Ellen is able to read him like an open book, she always had her way of deciphering what was going on in his head. He exchanges a look with his aunt, before she walks away with a tray of beer, the unspoken understanding saying enough.

     Just like on that evening when Y/N walked into his life, the phone rings. Not Bobby’s cellphone this time, but the landline. Ellen whips her hair over her shoulders while serving out the drinks, her hands still full.      “Can you get that, Dean?”      In response, the wrangler stands up from his stool and circles to the other side of the bar. Before he picks up the phone, he glances at the display, frowning when he notices the area code. 207; isn’t that up North?      “Gold Canyon Ranch.”      “Yes, hello. Is Y/N nearby? I’ve tried to call her cell, but I can’t reach her.”      Dean looks over his shoulder at the intern. She didn’t bring her phone on the trail, she wouldn’t have had reception up in the mountains anyway. The man’s tone on the other end of the line sounds serious.      “Yeah, she’s here,” he returns. “Can I ask who’s calling?”      “Her father.”

     Dean freezes, staring at the liquor stash on the shelves in front of him. Fuck. It’s her father. Her father! The wrangler has exactly 0.2 seconds to collect himself, but several thoughts already chase each other in his mind. Holy shit, and I’m messing with his daughter. And I was worried about Bobby?!       “Uh, I - I’ll get her,” he stammers, leaving the phone next to the machine.      Before Dean turns around, he takes a breath. Why would her father call? Just to check up on her? It seemed urgent, and he tried to reach her before. What if something has happened at home? Dean closes his eyes as he feels his stomach constrict. What if she has to go back?

     The cowboy swallows thickly and makes his way to the table in the far corner. He can see her expression fall when she notices the concern on his face, instantly reading in his body language that something is wrong. When he reaches her and Jo, he leans on the table, his knuckles white on the surface.      “Your father’s on the phone,” he notifies.      “What?” she returns, staggered. “My dad?”      Dean nods. “Yeah, he said he tried to call you.”      She quickly reaches for her back pocket, where she usually carries her Iphone. She got so used to not having the device on her, that she didn’t even miss it.      “Did he say what it’s about?” she asks, confused, as she gets up from her seat.      “He didn’t,” he says, trying to keep his tone unchanged, not wanting to worry her more than necessary. “You can take the phone in the kitchen, you’ll have some more privacy.”

     She nods a little bit dazed, takes a beat and then heads to the kitchen. Jo and Dean walk with her, staying behind the bar, offering her space. Through the round windows in the doors, they can see Y/N pick up the phone, but her voice is shut out, the saloon too noisy.      “I wonder what’s going on,” Jo says out loud.      The head wrangler doesn’t say anything, but grinds his teeth, his jaw set. His heart is beating faster than it should, drumming in his ears. Trying to distract himself, he grabs a beer from the cooler and flips the cap off with an opener, but he can’t stop his head from over-analyzing. Shit, what if this is it? What if her father wants her to come home? They were just beginning to grow closer, he was finally allowing himself to feel something. What if it blows up in his face?

     “Dean.”      Jo calls him back from his spiraling thoughts and he turns to peer through the small window. What he sees might just confirm his fear; Y/N has her hand clasped over her mouth. She’s facing away from them, but whatever her dad told her, it clearly impacts her, the pale fluorescent light harshly illuminating what seems to be a tragic scene. Dean’s hand is on the door handle before he can think twice, but his cousin grabs his arm.      “Give her a moment,” she insists.      Reluctantly, he waits, keeping a close eye on her. After another minute, she hangs up, but remains where she is, still processing the news.      Now Dean does push the door open, stepping into the kitchen, cautiously. “Y/N? You okay?”      The young woman who has him worried turns around, as if for a second she forgot he and Jo were waiting for her. Her eyes are glazed over, emotion evident, but Dean can’t quite guess which. As if she’s unable to believe what she just heard, she scoffs.      “I’m - I’m going to ride at Congress,” she stammers.       Her best friend’s jaw drops, staring at her stunned.      “Congress?” Jo checks. “As in the All American Quarter Horse Congress?! The biggest show of the year?!”      Y/N nods, still not sure if this is real.      “I sent in an application in March after I won the State Championships. I wasn’t sure if I had enough points to qualify, and when I didn’t hear back, I just figured...” she pauses, chuckling. “They sent the invitation to the university campus. Mom and Dad only received it last week.”

     Her eyes meet Dean, who stares back surprised. He has heard of Congress. It’s the most important Western riding event in the country, the event every equestrian owning a Quarter horse dreams to be a part of. It’s the biggest single-breed horse show in the world, the competition where the best face the best. Earning a spot on the starting list is a mission in itself, entering the massive arena is an honor. But right now, he couldn’t care less about statistics. He huffs a laugh, his shoulders relaxing in relief; Y/N isn’t going anywhere. Even better, her wish is about to come true, and witnessing her happiness right now, is all he could wish for himself.      “Holy shit...” he stammers, grinning wide.      “You’re going to Congress!” Jo exclaims.      The blonde cowgirl can’t contain her excitement any longer and jumps into Y/N’s arms. Knowing exactly how much this means to her friend, Jo hugs her tight. Absolutely glowing, she returns the embrace, the kitchen filling with their laughter, while Dean watches with a wide smile on his face.      “Well, if this ain’t a reason to raise our glasses, I don’t know what is,” he comments.      “Yes! I’ll get the tequila!” Jo announces, dashing back to the bar to gather the liquor.      “Wait! I have to train Meadow, I can’t waste another day. Congress is in three weeks!” Y/N protests, when her friend grabs her wrist to drag her out of the kitchen.      Jo snorts. “You had two margaritas, hon. You’re not getting on that poor horse.”      “But I should at least lunge her, and my freestyle needs work…” Y/N protests.

     Before they move through the double doors, she pleadingly glances over her shoulder at Dean, but for once the cowboy agrees with his cousin.      “You can train first thing in the morning, Yankee,” he assures.      “See? Now let’s celebrate!” Jo has already turned the music down, catching the attention of the ranch workers and the guests.      “Y’all! Guess who qualified for the All American Quarter Horse Congress?!” she exclaims, pointing at her friend, proudly.      “Well, slap my head and call me silly,” Benny responds surprised.      Garth grins wide, too. “I knew our Yankee could ride, but dang it! That’s impressive.”            Ellen, who was wiping down a table, leaves the cloth on the counter and dries her hands on her jeans, before opening her arm for Y/N as she closes the distance between them.      “Sweety, that’s amazing. Congratulations,” she says warmly, hugging the intern who is becoming a part of the family.      Bobby comes over to congratulate her as well, same as the other ranch workers, and even the tourists she spent the past couple of days with. In the mix of receiving all the praise, her eyes meet Dean’s, who watches her from behind the bar, a content smile playing on his lips. She mirrors his expression and in that little moment they share, time stops. As if for a second it’s just the two of them in the saloon. They don’t need words, he doesn’t have to wish her best of luck, she doesn’t have to hear him say it. The subtle wink he sends her way, combined with the warmth in his eyes is enough; he’s happy for her.

     “I don’t know about y’all, but I think we should drink to this,” Benny - of course - proposes.      “Free round on me!” Y/N promises, earning a loud cheer.      Chuckling, Dean takes the first pint glass in hand and pulls the lever of the beer tap towards him, letting the golden brew swirl into the shaker. He has a feeling this will not be the last round, and Y/N, for once, is indulging in the fun too. She’s always so focussed, eye on the prize. He appreciates how committed she is to achieving her dreams, how passionate she is, but sometimes she forgets to stop and enjoy how far she’s come. He replaces a full glass for an empty one without wasting beer and starts to hand them out. Today they will drink on recent victories, tomorrow they will work on the ones that will follow.

Thank you for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to like or reblog my work, shoot me a message or buy me coffee (Link to Kofi in bio at the top of the page).

Read part seventeen here

[lady-divine-writes]

Kurtbastian one-shot “Where the Ice Grows” (Rated PG13)

Summary: Now that Kurt is free from his self-imposed prison, he wants to move on with his life, try to go back to the future he had dreamed of all throughout high school. But he's known only fear for so long, he doesn't know how to move forward.

He doesn't know how to grow. (1875 words)

Notes: So just to recap, in Special Delivery, we're seeing Kurt and Sebastian travel the country, retracing the footsteps of Sebastian's childhood, the trips his mother took him and his brother on, while Kurt tries to come to grips with the future. This is from their trip to Vail.

Read on AO3.

Kurt eyed the gray mare suspiciously, then his boyfriend, who stroked the horse's nose, murmuring soothing sentiments.

“You really expect me to get on this animal?” Kurt asked. And Sebastian chuckled, delighted at how perfect a snob his boyfriend sounded.

“Yup. The place we’re going is too far to walk, especially in the snow.”

Kurt climbed the pair of wooden steps a portly stablehand brought him, the cheerful man helping Kurt get his balance before instructing him how to mount the mare. “Is the goal of this trip to make me suffer?”

“Nope.” Sebastian watched Kurt hoist himself onto the horse’s back with the grace of a seasoned rider. He shot Kurt an accusatory look. “You say you’ve never ridden a horse before?”

“N-not once.” Kurt's voice shook, looking leery as the mare shuffled forward and back, getting used to the weight of her new rider. "But I've mounted other things ..." 

Kurt meant to follow up with a story about how a good friend from high school, Brittany, had taken him and Finn to motocross once. She'd said he was a natural after he climbed on his bike. That was, of course, before his epically embarrassing crash seconds later. But Kurt didn't, stuttering to a halt, his mouth hanging open as his comment registered. The stablehand sputtered, and Sebastian shook his head, grinning so hard, it looked painful.

"I'm not touching that one," Sebastian said, mounting his Arabian – a sleek black stallion that looked as if it had been born to run. And Sebastian definitely had the seat of a natural-born rider. His parents probably made him take lessons when he was younger, Kurt thought. Wasn't that what the uber-wealthy did? Kurt wondered if there were horses on the Smythe estate. The subject didn't come up when he was there, but he wouldn't be surprised. 

Sebastian seemed so at ease on his stallion. Kurt didn't know for sure, but he didn't think his mare liked him too much, the way she snuffled when he tried to speak to her, tossed her head and shook her mane when he attempted to pet her. He was certain that she would have preferred Sebastian as a rider, what with the rapport they'd been building, and felt cheated getting stuck with Kurt.

Sebastian looked at his boyfriend, rigidly seated in his saddle, trying so hard for Sebastian’s sake. Kurt had been such a good sport during their trip, patiently following Sebastian on his every whim, to every bizarre, touristy, or even hidden locale Sebastian dragged him to.

Little did Kurt know (because Sebastian had yet to tell him) this ride through the hills on their rented horses was less about recapturing Sebastian’s childhood and more about Kurt.

About the spark that had started to extinguish in his eyes.

For weeks, Sebastian sat and watched Kurt in bed, at his desk, on the couch, with his sketch pad opened to an empty page, pencil pinched between his fingertips - sitting, staring, but not drawing. Kurt had wanted a stab at going back, retracing his steps, living the life he felt he was meant to have. But roadblocks had thrown themselves in his path. Unexpected ones. Obstacles of self-doubt.

It hurt Sebastian to watch the frustration, the pain, the disappointment on Kurt’s face every night as he packed up his sketch pad and surrendered to sleep.

“Remember to have them back here before the sun sets. That's in two hours,” the caretaker, Mabel - a husky woman dressed in denim overalls, a quilted coat, and thick, rubber boots - commanded. “Once the sun goes behind the mountains, the temperature will plummet.”

“That’s more time than we need,” Sebastian assured her. With a click of his tongue, Kurt and Sebastian left the stable, making their way up the hillside towards a spot Sebastian found years ago with his mom, and quite by accident. 

Kurt’s mare followed Sebastian’s stallion - a good thing since Kurt had no interest in controlling his horse whatsoever. Nor could he, his hands gripping the reins so tightly, they were digging through his gloves. He did his best to relax, watch the scenery pass, as the beast trodded along. 

He would love to come back during the summer. During this time of year, everything was basically white on white with more white. The snow and ice-covered landscape surrounding them was so overwhelmingly white, Kurt thought he might go blind. Everything looked identical covered in its blanket of snow. Depth perception didn’t exist here. A tree fifty yards away looked like it was growing right next to him. 

It was disorienting. 

Sebastian stopped his horse, waiting as Kurt caught up. He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a black glasses case, and handed it to Kurt.

“Here. These will help.”

"Thank you." Kurt popped the case open. The glasses were Gucci because of course they were. Kurt chuckled. He wasn't complaining about Sebastian's incredible wealth. Not by a long shot. But it struck him as funny considering the financial state Sebastian was in when the two of them met: his cruddy apartment with the broken heater and his shower that drooled water; his burner phone; how he rode the bus everywhere. Now he was pulling five-hundred-dollar sunglasses out of his pocket like they were Kleenex.

Kurt slid the frames onto his nose. He felt ridiculous wearing sunglasses while riding a horse like a way-too-chic-for-words drunk cowboy. But once he saw the world through the tinted lenses, he didn’t care how he looked. They lessened the glare, changed his aspect, and he could see correctly again. He could finally appreciate the snow-covered wilderness for its desolate beauty.

Desolate.

That’s how everything looked.

Just like so many other places they had visited.

Kurt was beginning to sense a pattern.

Sebastian brought his horse to a stop beside a small cluster of trees, tying the reins to a sturdy branch before helping Kurt do the same. Sebastian took a moment to hold Kurt in his arms, missing the press of their bodies together during the long ride. He'd originally wanted them to ride double, but with the cold and the climb, he worried about the horse’s back. So he opted for singles instead. He had rented the mare for Kurt because the stablehand told him she was the calmest animal they had.

It also didn’t hurt that her name happened to be Elizabeth.

“Do you have some obsession with these desolate landscapes?” Kurt asked. “Because we seem to visit a lot of them.”

“Desolate?” Sebastian chuckled, his warm breath burning the frozen tips of Kurt’s ears. “Is that all you see?”

"Well ... kind of. Yeah," Kurt said guiltily, suddenly feeling like he was missing something obvious. But obvious to Sebastian didn't mean obvious to Kurt.

Sebastian took Kurt’s gloved hand and led him the rest of the way up the hillside, stopping at a ledge overlooking a large lake. They stopped as close to the edge as Sebastian dared go. He held Kurt in front of him, arms wrapped securely around Kurt’s waist. The land below them seemed to stretch out for miles, but the lake looked close enough to touch. Icicles covered everything. They decorated the branches of the trees, glittering in the afternoon sunlight.

The sun, too, seemed close enough for Kurt to reach up and grab in both hands, but he couldn’t feel its warmth on his face. It was a strange combination of intense beauty and intense sadness.

“Oh God,” Kurt breathed. “It’s beautiful! Like some fairy tale wonderland! But why are we here?”

Sebastian sighed. He could feel the sadness seeping out of Kurt, even as he gazed around him in awe. He had locked himself behind an iron gate for so long. Now that he had his freedom, he didn’t know how to handle it.

“You’re so frightened, gorgeous,” Sebastian said, mouth hovering close to Kurt’s ear. ”Of life. Of failing. You think you’re broken, that that's all you are. So you’re stuck in a place where you can’t look back, and you can’t move forward. That’s why you can’t create.”

Kurt froze. He didn't think Sebastian was paying that close attention.

He wondered how long ago he'd noticed.

“You’ve sort of become your own desolate landscape,” Sebastian continued. “So beautiful, so full of potential, but …”

“So, you’re trying to get me to see the beauty in desolate landscapes." Kurt sniffled. "But you pretty much proved my point.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Salton Sea, Death Valley, here … there’s tons of beauty, but nothing new grows. Animals survive in those places; they don’t live. Plants maintain, but nothing worthwhile blooms.”

“Are you sure about that? Or could it be that your scope of what type of growth is worthy of notice is a little narrow?”

Kurt turned his head to look at Sebastian, confusion clouding his eyes. “I don’t understand.”

“I think I’ll let our landscape here do the explaining for me.” 

"What on earth does ...?"

"Shhh." Sebastian raised a finger to his lips. “Listen …” 

The two men stood quietly, listening to the sounds of nature around them. But as far as Kurt could tell, there were none. The wind didn’t blow. No animals scurried among the bushes and trees, nor crunched in the snow. Not a single bird flew. The only sound Kurt could hear was a faint crackling and popping coming from the direction of the lake.

“I'm sorry. I don’t get it,” Kurt said finally.

“What do you hear?” Sebastian asked.

“I don’t know. I hear … uh … Rice Krispies Cereal?”

Sebastian kissed the back of Kurt’s head. “That’s it!” he said as if Kurt had just told him the secret of the universe.

Kurt shrugged. “I still …”

“Kurt, I tell you to look for growth, and you automatically think of trees, flowers, grass …”

Kurt nodded. "Duh."

“But there is none of that here. Not right now. It’s all hidden under the snow. But one thing here does grow, is growing as we speak. And that’s the noise you heard.”

“Then do you mind cluing me in? Because I’m at a loss.”

“The ice.” Sebastian leaned a cheek against Kurt’s hair. Kurt shivered, moved back closer to him. “Up here where the snow covers everything, the ice is growing.”

"What?" Kurt gasped, peeking out over the ledge from the safety of Sebastian’s embrace. 

“Didn’t expect that, did you, gorgeous?”

Kurt shook his head, staring down at the ice-covered water, at a loss for words.

“You can still create, Kurt,” Sebastian whispered. “It’s in you. You just have to learn to do it in unexpected ways.”

Kurt thought about what Sebastian said as they rode the rest of the way down the hillside, straining to hear the snapping of the ice on the water over the crunching of snow beneath the horses’ hooves. He sat in quiet contemplation the whole way back to the hotel. That evening, after a long, hot shower and dinner in their room, Kurt took out his sketch pad and began to draw. Sebastian fell asleep that night to the sound of Kurt’s charcoal pencil scratching feverishly over the heavy paper, at peace, with a smile on his face.

[copias-thrall]

Whoops!

Mary makes bad decisions and Suey is exasperated about it.

(Start at the beginning)

*mentioned drug use*

You knew Mary was going to some kind of after party for opening a Battle of the Bands (which you were explicitly not invited to because apparently Mary and you can’t be trusted together), so you’d just assumed you wouldn't be seeing him.

You’re in the middle of making some tea when you hear a few thumps outside of and a scrabbling at your door. You tense—wondering if you should go for Masher—but then the door is banging open, and Mary is stumbling through, giggling … and behind him trail two women, similarly laughing. 

You freeze.

You watch Mary as he tries to hang up his leather jacket—he misses, and it falls to the floor.

“Whoops,” he says, and the women laugh. He bends over unsteadily to grab the leather, then rights himself even as he lists into a wall trying to hang it up successfully. When he sees you, he’s face brightens as he holds his arms out. He’s still in his bloody shirt and ripped jeans.

“There’s my baby doll!”

When you don’t move, he gestures you to his embrace with his hands. Your eyes flick to the two women (who seem to be holding each other up)—their black hair is done if a little disheveled; both faces in differing executions of heavy, winged liner and fading red lipstick; one is in a black mod dress with studs on her boob cage and the other is in a fishnet top with black zipper jeans; and they’re both in boots with heels. You’re in the hoodie covered with food stains—the hood not only on your head, but cinched tight and tied under your chin—and your batman sleep pants with the hole from the crotch halfway down your thigh, since your laundry basket only made it as far as outside your bathroom door, because: ugh, later.

“Suey,” he whines.

The saucepan makes a gurgling noise behind you, and you make a sound of surprise. You hold up a finger to him, then turn to carefully pour the bubbling liquid into your mug—you also use the opportunity to shove your hood down and run your fingers through your ratty hair, trying your best to fluff it. There’s a low murmur of voices behind you, which you do your best to ignore.

When you finally do turn back around, Mary and the two women have moved from the doorway to your living area—he’s looking at you expectantly, and their heads are swiveling all around as they sway into each other. Reluctantly, you shuffle over to Mary, trying your best to keep your thighs squashed together.

Just when you’re within reach, Mary pulls you into him, rocking the two of you. He’s still in his full stage makeup, and he smells like he’s been sweating under stage lights all night. It’s not necessarily a nice smell, but it’s definitely one you’ve come to associate with him.

“This is her!” 

The gaze of the two women snap to you, and you tense, waiting for them to appraise you … but they just grin at you. Boob Cage lunges at you—well, lunges as though she’s stuck in molasses—and takes your hand.

“Oh my god,” she says in a nasally-affection, “you do exist. We thought Mary was being grumpy.”

“Uh …”

Fishnets leans forward precariously, and you’re afraid she’s going to topple them both.

“Look at you. So cozy! My feet hurt so much.”

You quickly glance up at Mary, but he’s looking down at you with sleepy eyes.

“I-I mean … you could take your shoes off?”

“Oh my god, that’s so nice of you!” says Boob Cage.

As if their strings were cut, the two of them droop down to pull at their laces, and your hands go up reflexively in case they lurch.

“Why don’t you sit on the couch while you do that?” you grimace.

You watch as they seem to register the couch, but then Mary is tugging you toward your bedroom and rubbing his face in your hair. You allow it only because it’ll give you a chance to interrogate him (and change).

Once through your door, you round on him, but suddenly he’s kissing you—his mouth tasting like skunk spray. You push him away with a hand to his chest, and he goes easily, as if made of paper.

“You’re hot,” he says languidly as he sways.

You sandwich his face in between your palms, despite the transfer of cake makeup; you peer into his eyes and see that his pupils are blown wide. You’re no stranger to Mary showing up at the wrong end of drunk or after toking with his band—but this is something clearly different. Maybe later you’ll be angry, but right now you feel the need to caretake.

“What did you take?” you ask, trying to catch his gaze.

“Pssh,” he says, his hands clasping limply at your wrists. “Just a shared joint.”

“Just one?”

Mary stumbles back a bit, catching himself on your dresser and giggling.

“Yeah.”

“From Marty?”

Mary’s brows furrow.

“No,” he says slowly. “One of Moxie’s friends.”

“Moxie?”

“Yeah. Moxie and Roxie.” He sweeps a hand in the direction of your living area.

“Wait—” you say, suddenly distracted, “their names are Moxie and Roxie?”

“Goth names.” Mary makes a dismissive gesture. “They do everything together. Best friends since high school or something.”

He sashays toward you again, and you stop him with a hand.

“Ok … but why are they here, Mare?”

His arms still come out and encircle your waist.He pulls you into him and rubs his face on yours.

“Had to prove ‘em wrong. Had to show ‘em my hot girlfriend.”

You push him away and move toward your chair pile to paw through your clothes.

“Well, a little head’s up would’ve been nice, Mare. I look like a hobo.”

He presses into your back, his hands groping at your curves through your clothes.

“You look soft and welcoming.”

Mary presses kisses then bites to your neck, but you continue to search through clothes mountain. You extract a pair of lounge pants that you don’t wear because they’re too tight around your belly despite their softness, but at least there are no gaping holes in them. You pull two of Mary’s large tees out before discarding them—no one wears Mary’s shirts but you. Mary’s octopus arms encumber clothes searching, but you manage to find two oversized shirts of your own for Moxie and Roxie.

He squints at you. “Why do they need clothes.”

You sigh. “Mare, they’re not going anywhere else tonight, and they might as well be comfortable.”

His lips are hot and wet on your ear. “Oh? And where are they going to sleep?”

You push him away and glare at him. “Oh the couch! If they share ‘everything’ then surely they can share the fucking couch. Christ, I’m going to put some coffee on.”

Making sure to pull the hem of your hoodie down over your hips of the new lounge pants, you leave your room. Shirts in hand, you walk out into your living area, confused at first when you don’t see Moxie and Roxie. Mary stumbles after you as you investigate further. 

“Oh!” you exclaim as you peer around the couch to find Moxie and Roxie sans clothes and going at it on your floor. You watch for a moment as they kiss and rub against each other before you realize that you’re being creepy.

“Just putting some sleep shirts here!” you squeak as you toss them to drape over the arm of your couch. When you turn, it’s into the solid wall of Mary’s flat chest.

“Mmm,” he rumbles. “That gives me ideas.” He presses you into the island that separates your kitchen area from your couch.

Oh for fuck’s sake.

“Mary,” you say in your Teacher Voice, “please go and wait for me in my room.”

“K,” he says, and then he swerves and weaves back to your room.

You press your head into your counter until you hear a particularly throaty moan, and then you sigh before making your way into your bathroom. Once there, you take a moment to sit on the closed toilet, head in hands, before performing your nightly ablutions.

When you try to make your way into your room quietly, you end up tripping over your laundry basket—but the only noise that’s made is your grunt as you fall on top of it as the soft mesh collapses. You stay there for a moment, contemplating your life choices, before scrambling into your room.

You find Mary naked and propped up against your wall, his hand flying between his legs as he jacks his hard cock. As he hears the door click shut behind you, his face turns toward you.

“Please ,” he whines. “Please touch me. Suey.”

Sighing, you clamber onto your bed and squeeze in between Mary’s back and the wall, wrapping your arms around his waist. You hook your chin over his shoulder.

“That’s it, buddy,” you breathe.

Mary leans his head back onto your shoulder as he continues to jack his cock. His mouth drops open and he pants. You snake your hand down and start rolling his balls in your hand. Mary jerks against you and grunts. You bite at his shoulder, and Mary freezes—his balls tightening and his chest heaving—before his hand continues, and then he’s spurting cum up his stomach.

“There you go, there you go,” you chant as he twitches in your arms. You at his face as he becomes limp. When you look over at his face, you see that he’s passed out, and you roll your eyes. You manage to extract yourself, and you make yourself useful by grabbing the cum towel to clean him up as best as possible.

You kick off the lounge pants and wiggle out of the hoodie—so that you’re just in one of Mary’s tees (it’s how Mary likes you)—before situating you both into a comfortable sleeping cocoon with you as the big spoon wrapped around Mary.

It’s a fitful sleep at best. To be honest, you’re a little wary of having two strangers unsupervised in your space, and you keep jerking awake, your dreams full of burglars and slasher villains. You’re sure it’s probably fine—but you’d rather not be sorry, so when you flail awake again a little after 6am, you decide to just get up. Mary doesn’t seem to have moved at all.

After tucking the covers in around him, you pull on your shortie shorts before leaving your room for the bathroom—where you flip your head upside down to brush your hair out before giving a faint line to your eye, which you smudge. Except for the dandruff you brush off your shoulders, you’re pleased with the result.

When you tiptoe the 5 steps into your living space, you see Moxie and Roxie tangled together on your floor—one pressed up against the couch and the other half under your coffee table. The sleep shirts still hang limply from your couch armrest. Sighing at the laundry you really are going to have to do later, you tug the afghan off the back of your couch and surreptitiously drape it over the two sleeping women.

Opening your fridge, you survey the contents you’re willing to spare. With a whole unopened “mega” pack of bacon, you’re feeling bacon rich—but you’re running up against your egg allowance for the week. You decide that at 2 eggs per person, you can get away with 6 if you cut them with some milk.

You find your very strong mug of tea on the counter from the night before—which you gulp half of—before getting a coffee drip going. Then you start frying up 4 slices of bacon—1 per person—expecting the smell to wake the household. When it doesn’t, you just shrug and start whisking the eggs and milk with a fork. When the bacon is done, you lay the strips out on a folded piece of brown paper bag before carefully adding the egg mixture to the frying pan. You’re not magnanimous enough, though, to add even the fake cheese that Mary prefers.

Just about when you’ve judged the scramble to be done, you hear Mary moving about in your room. You see him shuffling—squinty-eyed and hair half squashed—in your robe (and while it wraps around him better, it does fall a little short) from your room. He encounters the laundry basket like a Sim: stopping in front of it for a beat, then walking around it and into your bathroom. You begin to plate the food—a dollop of eggs, toast, and a strip of bacon each.

You can hear more than see the girls begin to move about—there’s some knocking about and a quiet murmuring of voices.

“My fucking head. The fuck are we?” you hear Fishnets yawn.

“Fuck me. Weren’t we with Mary?”

“Yeah, but this isn’t Mary’s.”

“You’re at his girlfriend’s,” you say loudly.

There’s a thump and an Ow before you see two heads pop up out of the edge of your afghan.

“There are shirts,” you say, pointing toward the armrest.

There’s a lot of shuffling about, and you turn your back under the pretense of dealing with the coffee pouring. When you hear the movement behind you stop, you turn back around. Moxie and Roxie are standing awkwardly on the other side of the island, swimming in your shirts, eyes wide and looking peaked. You note that their gray pallor and red eyes probably aren’t due to embarrassment. Smiling—hopefully invitingly—you slide the food plates and mugs toward them.

“Here,” you say, and they take both slowly. 

With shaky hands, they sip the coffee. They look at each other, a whole conversation passing between them before Mary comes bustling out of the bathroom.

He looks up sluggishly before he spots Moxie and Roxie—and then he freezes.

“Good morning, Mare Bear,” you beam at him. “I have eggs and coffee for you.”

His bleary eyes dart between you and the girls. You hold up a coffee mug, and he continues toward you—albeit cautiously. When he reaches you, you turn your cheek to him and point it, saccharin smile in place.

“Uh … morning—baby doll,” he murmurs as he pecks your cheek and takes the proffered coffee.

Moxies and Roxie are giving him sideways glances as he takes his place next to you, still in your robe.

“So,” you start as you hand him a food plate, “what did you crazy kids get up to last night?”

They all look at each other shiftily, hands wrapped around coffee mugs. You dive into your breakfast.

“Dig in—please,” you chirp. “I don’t know what you guys took, but you all look like death warmed over. I think a little grease will help.”

Mary squints his eyes at you.

“Took?”

You squint back. “You guys were high as fucking kites.”

He keeps your gaze. “We didn’t ‘take’ anything, Suey. Just shared a joint.”

“Uhhh …” comes from Boob Cage.

You turn to her.

Boob Cage is looking chagrined. “It might have been laced with something.”

“Roxie!” gasps Moxie.

Roxie turns to Moxie. “I’m sorry . It’s from Kincaid … but it was free.”

“I thought we agreed to stop going to him after the Unfortunate Incident!” Moxie pinches the bridge of her nose. “You dumb fucking bitch.”

“What was the ‘Unfortunate Incident’?” you ask.

Roxie looks at you with big eyes as Moxie looks resigned.

“Kincaid sent a girl to the hospital. I guess he laced her joint with rat poison and meth or something.”

“I thought that was just a rumor,” murmurs Mary.

Moxie shakes her head. “I don’t know the girl personally … but one of her friends told me. He spent the night with her in the ER.” She turns to Roxie. “Which is why we don’t fucking get drugs from fucking Kincaid.”

Roxie just hangs her head. You feel Mary slip his arm around your waist.

“Well,” you say, “please eat some food. It sounds like you guys could use something solid in your stomachs.”

The lot of you start picking at the eggs and bacon. Moxie looks at Mary and then at you.

“So … what happened last night?”

You feel Mary tense, so you lean into him.

“You guys showed up pretty out of it, so I went to get you something to sleep in. When I came back out you were having sex with each other on the floor, so Mary and I left you to it and went to bed.”

“Oh, wow. Hey sorry. We were all having a pretty good time at the venue, I guess we wanted to include you?” She laughs.

“Mary’s always been lots of fun,” quips Roxie brightly, letting out a soft Oof when Moxie elbows her.

“Not that much fun,” says Moxie hurriedly.

You smile at them. “Oh, I know. The night we met, he fucked me in the men’s room.”

Mary—who’s only been getting tenser, his arm tightening further—looks down at you and adds, “Only because someone was fucking impatient.”

Roxies laughs. “Oh yeah! One time—”

Mary slams his hand down on the counter.

“OKAY. No need for a trip down memory lane.”

Moxie is clearly trying to communicate “Shut the fuck up” to Roxie with her eyes. Roxie furrows her brows.

“Why not? I thought we were—”

“I’m sure Mary’s girlfriend isn’t interested in parties from forever ago.”

“Oh my god, that’s right. I—” Roxie stops. “Oh! That’s why we came here!” She looks at you. “We thought Mary was just trying to blow us off.”

Moxie tilts her head. “Oh yeah – that is right.” She laughs and turns to you. “Cuz he totally shut this down.” She gestures between herself and Roxie, then seems to realize what she’s just said and grimaces.

Roxie nods. “Yeah, he’s usually—”

“He’s usually nowhere near us. Like, at all. Ever. Mary, who? I don’t know her.” Moxie gives a nervous giggle.

You cant your head up to Mary, who looks like he wants to leave his body and exist on the spirit plane. 

“You told me you were a virgin.”

Mary gives you his grump face as Moxie spits out her coffee all over her eggs.

“OM MY GOD, I’m so sorry!” she says as she wipes her chin and you hand her a paper towel.

“It’s fine. Eat, please.”

Moxie and Roxie get back to their food—though Roxie looks like she wants to ask a question and knows she’s not allowed. You look at Mary’s plate and notice he hasn’t touched anything.

“If you don’t eat some of that, I’m going to feed it to you myself.”

He gives you a look like that’s actually an appealing proposal, so you hen him to the rusting cafe table and chair. You settle sideways onto his lap before scraping some eggs onto a triangle of toast, which you bring to his lips.

“Here,” you say as you cup one hand under the bread, and Mary takes a bite.

Despite the (now silent) presence of the Oxies, Mary doesn’t seem self-conscious about losing himself in eating breakfast from your hand. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice that the two women are looking over at you two now and then—but you pay them no mind. Mary finishes all the food—occasionally saying Bacon when he wants a bite from that—and washes it down with the coffee himself. 

Once done, he wraps his arms around your middle and rests his head on your shoulder. You carefully sink your fingers into his stiff hair so that you can lightly massage his scalp. When you look up you can practically see the hearteyes emanating from the Oxies, but you raise a finger to your lips.

When Mary shivers, you register that he’s still only in your robe, so you tsk at him.

“Go put some clothes on before you freeze.”

He sighs. “Yes, ma’am.”

You flush a little, wondering if the Oxies heard him, but you don’t look over at them.

With Mary gone and breakfast over, the Oxies begin the process of searching for their things—a slight scavenger hunt ensuing when a left shoe is found to be MIA, and which is eventually located under the couch.

As you hear Mary shuffle behind you, Moxie says, “Would you mind terribly if we wore these home?” She plucks at the top of yours she’s wearing. “You know how it is putting on last night’s clothes.”

You’re about to tell them Sure , despite your reluctance—knowing you’ll never see the tops again—when Mary steps in (now in a fresh different shirt and a pair of your sleep pants) and wraps his arms around your waist.

“Let’s leave Suey her clothes, guys.”

“Oh yeah … sure, right,” says Moxie, deflating a little.

“But you can use the shower first. If you want,” you’re quick to add, a thought that comes seemingly out of nowhere—it’s not like you want them to accept. “There are towels in … uh …” You look at Mary—who’s looking at you like you’ve lost your damn mind—and ask, “Are there towels?”

He shakes his head. “I didn’t do any this week, which means nothing’s clean, because heaven forbid you wash anything.”

You scrunch your face at him. “It’s better when you do it. You know I’ll just forget to put them in the dryer, and then they get all musty. And I got the basket real close!”

“You’re a disaster.”

“Oh my god—you guys are so cute,” says Roxie.

“No we’re not,” the two of you say in unison. Roxie just beams at you.

“Ok, then,” Moxie sighs wistfully. “Well, just go change. C’mon, Bitch.”

When they’re both in the bathroom, Mary looks down at you.

“What the fuck.”

You wince. “I don’t know … old habits die hard, I guess.”

“What old habits?”

“Oh. Um. Growing up? Hostessing. It used to be one of my ‘duties.’ My parents threw a lot of soirées. It was part of my ‘training’ or something. For when I was supposed to throw parties.” 

You flick your hand as if to wave the information away. Mary squints down at you as if he’d like to inquire further, but then the bathroom door opens, and the Oxies emerge looking fresher even with their rumpled clothes and bare faces.

“Ok, well! I guess we’ll be going then!” chirps Moxie.

Roxie comes forward and grabs your hands. “Thanks so much for the food.”

“Oh uh, no problem.”

“You guys really are so cute.” And then before you know what’s happening, she’s in between the two of you and snapping a selfie.

“Oh, ok …” you say as Mary belatedly puts his hand up.

“C’mon, Rox,” hisses Moxies as she pulls her friend away.

“What? We have lots of pictures of Mary.”

Mary presses his fingers into his eye sockets.

As the two of them wobble into their shoes, you realize that they showed up without coats last night.

Shit.

“Uh, so … your coats.”

The two of them look at each other, then at your hooks where their coats aren’t hanging.

“Are they … not here?” asks Moxie.

You grimace at her. “I’m afraid you weren’t wearing them when you came in.”

Mary starts, but you put a hand on his arm. “Your jacket’s here.”

Roxie looks at her friend. “Oh shit. We must have left them at the club again.”

Moxie sighs. “We really need to stop doing that.”

“We’ll have to take a cab.” Roxie suddenly makes a pained face. “My wristlet with all my cards is in my coat pocket.”

Moxie’s face pales as she scrabbles in her tiny purse. “I only have $10—and you know my card is maxed out.”

There’s a pregnant moment where all four of your stare at each other.

You sigh. “I think I might have some mad money stashed about?”

“Hold on,” says Mary. He disappears into your room and reappears with his wallet.

“Mary, no … I can—” you start, but he shrugs you off.

“I got it, it’s fine.”

Mary fishes out two twenties from his worn wallet and offers the bills to Moxie. She eagerly plucks them both from his fingers, smiling.

“Thanks, Mare Bear,” she quips.

You bristle, and Mary snaps, “Don’t call me that.”

Moxie shrinks away a little. “Oh …ok. I guess we’ll just …” She throws a thumb over her shoulder as she backs toward the door.

Roxie smiles and waves. “Bye, guys!

They finally leave, closing the door behind them, and you slump. You turn to Mary.

“I can’t deal with this right now. I’m going back to bed.”

You’ve just about made yourself comfortable under your covers when Mary appears in the doorway.

“Am I allowed to join you, or …?”

“Just don’t talk.” You lift your head. “And no funny business—I’m not in the mood.”

You feel him crawl into bed with you, and then he tentatively wraps an arm around your waist. When you don’t eat it off, he wiggles closer and presses into your back.

“You’re still mad,” he murmurs into your ear.

“I’m not mad.”

“You seemed fine when—”

“Mary,” you snap, turning toward him slightly. “Shut up.”

“Yeah, ok.”

When you wake up again, it’s a little after noon and you’re sprawled over Mary’s chest.

“Hey,” he says.

“Mm,” you rumble. “You been awake this whole time?”

“Nah. Not too long.”

You’re content to continue to lie there and to suck Mary’s heat out of his body and into your own, but he’s apparently been waiting for you.

“So. You’re mad.”

You let out a heavy sigh.

“I’m not mad. I just wish you’d take better care of yourself and not bring groupies into my home with you. Rat poison? Jesus, Mary.”

You can feel Mary tense under you.

“Oh, what? Like you take care of yourself?"

You lift up to look at him “Excuse me?”

“Can we talk about the pile of mail that lives in the corner? Or the fact that you never have clean clothes? Or how you’d rather let the garbage overflow than just taking it out to the chute? You don’t think I worry about any that? Sometimes I’m afraid to not see you for too long, afraid of what state I’ll find you in when I come back. If we’re gonna talk about shit, how ‘bout we talk about that?”

You sit up. “What the fuck, Mary?! You’ve known me for—what?—6 months? When I’ve been living on my own for 5yrs? I suddenly need a big, bad, scary Mary to take care of me?! And how the fuck is any of that even close to accidentally taking meth or whatever? Yeah, I can see how similar that is to unopened mail.”

He sits up too. “That’s just a rumor! You’re really going to take Moxie’s word on it? It could’ve just been really strong weed!”

You cross your arms. “You guys were definitely on something stronger than just weed, Mary. What if something happened! I wouldn’t’ve been able to help, and you guys were beyond useless.” 

“Oh so, you’re the morality police or something?”

“I’m the ‘at-least-know-what-you’re-putting-in-your-body’ police!”

“Christ—you’re acting as if I took an unknown substance for funsies from some sketchy dude in a dark alley. It was a joint from two girls I know.”

“Oh yes, it was made very clear how well you know them.”

“Is that what this is about, then? My former fuck buddies? I thought we were past our sexual histories!”

“You brought them into my home! You suggested we fuck them together!”

“No I fucking didn’t.”

“You did . Twice.”

Mary suddenly looks unsure at your vehemence.

“Well I was—”

“High off some unknown substance?”

His face contorts again.

“Shit fucking happens. I didn’t fucking do it on purpose.”

“So it’s just ok? It’s ok you didn’t know what you took? Ok that what you took made you think it was fine to bring the Oxies here?”

“I—the who?”

“The Oxies.” You make an impatient gesture at him. “Moxie and Roxie.”

“Well. That’s clever, but I’m too mad at you right now to be amused by it.”

“You’re mad? You’re mad ?! In what world do you show up high as fuck with groupies, unannounced, into my place and get to be mad at me?”

“Fine, maybe it was dumbass high logic, but it made a sort of sense.”

“Fucking how?”

“They—” He looks down, rubbing at his wrists. “Fine, they hit on me, ok? Yes, I’ve been with them in the past. But I told them no, ok? And at first they were being real pushy, like ‘why not?’. So I told them I had a girl. And they were just. They thought I was blowing them off because: who’d wanna make that kind of commitment to me? So I thought I’d show them. That you were real. That you were awesome.”

“Well … poop.”

Mary raises an eyebrow at you. “Poop?”

“Yes: poop. I still think you made some pretty shitty decisions, but I can’t deny your high logic.”

“Oh. Well. Who wins, then?”

You twist your lips. “I don’t think either of us win. I think that’s the point.”

“Well that’s fucking unsatisfying. Now what?”

You throw your hands up. “I don’t know! I can’t even make breakfast! We already had it!”

Mary thinks for a moment. “You … could make lunch?”

“Lunch … yeah,” you say nodding. “I could do that.”

“I could help?”

Lunch is a small affair. You heat up a can of minestrone soup while Mary makes “garlic bread”—by sprinkling some garlic powder on buttered bread—in the oven. The oven warms up your small space considerably—which is good because you’d shoved the afghan into the laundry basket. (“You got it so far, Suey. So far … you only had one more step.” “I’m telling you—I still would have forgotten it in the washer.”) You instruct Mary to leave the oven door open ajar—to let the residual heat waft out—and then the two of you plop down on the couch with lunch.

“I can’t believe you gave them cab money,” you say as you purposefully slurp your soup (much to Mary’s annoyance).

“Well, did you think I was going to let you give them money?” he asks as he dips his bread in until it gets soggy ( disgusting!).

You shrug. “I just wanted them to leave.” You laugh. “It kind of reminded me of when you got that cab for me, though. The bathroom night.”

“That’s what made me think of giving them the cash, actually."

You smile at him. “To be honest, I didn’t think you’d go for it when I asked you to pay for me.”

“That’s because you thought I was a fuck boy.”

You give him a wry glance, and Mary shoves his hand in your face.

“Don’t be a bitch.”

The two of you finish your food and lie down on the couch tangled together, Mary grumbling about the lack of a cover. He runs his fingers through your hair and then begins to kiss you—a soft press to your lips, then to the apple of each cheek, and then an attempt to kiss your eyelids that you stymie by turning your head with a noise of disapproval. Undeterred, he works his way down to your neck—adding his teeth—as a hand snakes under your shirt, running lightly over your belly before continuing up to its real objective. He grabs a handful of one of your tits, and rolls it around in his palm.

Despite where his head’s at, yours is somewhere else entirely.

“What are their real names?”

“Hmm?”

“The Oxies? Do you know their real names?”

“No, why would I know that?”

“Pillow talk.”

He looks up at you, his ministrations stopping.  “Jesus, Suey.”

“What?”

“Can we not talk about the Oxies right now? Or, like, ever?”

“All right.” You trace circles on his back through his shirt as he gets back to it. “Should I have a Goth name?”

“What?”

“Should I have a Goth name?”

“No, I heard—no. You already have a Goth name.”

“I do?”

“Yeah. ‘Suey’.”

You scoff. “That’s just the nickname you gave me.”

“It’s ironic. I’m very clever, see.”

“Whatever.”

His hand slips down and presses in between your leg in pulses, and you gasp, your hand sliding down to grab at his ass.

“Mmm—now I’ve got your attention.”

He brings his hand back up to suck his fingers into his mouth before he’s making use of the gash in your pants to slip them in between your lips. He’s just started rubbing at you in earnest, but it’s not what you want.

“Oh fuck … eat me, Mary,” you pant.

Mary doesn’t even hesitate, he just slides down your body—yanking the material out of the way—and wiggling his tongue in between your lips to lap steadily at your nub. You moan, grabbing what tufts of his hair you can. His tongue laps and presses and taps, and you rock into him as you gasp with each movement. He pulls you by your thighs into his mouth, and he inserts a finger into you.

“Oh god, another,” you cry out, fingers clenching into the roots of his hair.

He pulls his one finger out, and then swiftly reinserts it with another. You make an embarrassingly high pitched moan and clench around his digits, head lolling back into the couch. Encouraged, Mary laps at your clit faster as he thrusts his fingers in and out of you, angling them until you twitch at contact with your G-spot.

You’re panting and squeaking out little noises of pleasure as Mary builds and coaxes your orgasm—pointing his tongue so he can press at your clit, then relaxing it so he can swirl around it before flattening the muscle to run it roughly over the growing hardness. You can feel your climax growing at your clit throbs and the sweetness of the pleasure starts to expand. It starts deep in your cervix and spreads outwards, little sparks stoking the fire at each flick of his tongue until you feel your pussy tightening around his fingers.

“Don’t fucking stop!” you cry out.

He tap tap taps at your G-spot, and you find yourself arching off the couch with a moan before your climax breaks, bursts of purple behind your eyes as you go Ah ah ah ah in time to the pulse and spasm of your cunt.

Mary knows exactly what you like, giving you slow, languorous laps and gentle thrusts of his fingers as you ride your orgasm out. You’re sloppy and boneless, and Mary nibbles the inside of your thigh before tilting his head to look up at you, head pillowed on your other thigh.

“Can I fuck your tits?”

You laugh. “Yeah, ok.”

Mary wipes his mouth off with the edge of your ripped clothes, and you tetch at him.

“Go get the lube,” you say as you begin to squirm out of your shirt.

Mary—who’d been just about to yank his (obscenely-tented) pants down, whines.

“It’s in the other room, can’t we just—”

“I know you could give a fuck, but you’re not spitting on my tits, Mare.”

He pouts, but scampers off to get your bottle of lube. You’re out of the band tee, your nipples beginning to pebble, before he comes back with the item in hand.

“You need to keep better track of your shit. I found it under a pile of what I think you said were clean clothes,” he says as he set it on the coffee table.

“You moved my piles?” You frown.

“I lifted the bottom of one and carefully extracted this.”

“Because I know where everything is.”

“Mhm,” says Mary as he shimmies out of your sleep pants, his cock now only half hard. He climbs back onto the couch—straddling your waist—and reaches down with a dry hand to fondle each tit and thumb each nipple. Turning, he gives the bottle a few pumps to fill his hand with the lube, which he generously applies to your sternum and breasts.

A few more pumps, and he’s coating his cock—stuttering out a grunt with eyes closed—as he strokes himself, with wet squelches, back to full hardness. Once satisfied, his eyes open, and he wipes the excess off on your chest.

You make a face at him, which he ignores.

“Hold your fucking tits together,” he rumbles lowly.

As Mary positions his cock, you squish your tits together, fingers interlacing for a better grip. Before you’re even settled, Mary starts thrusting, the shiny, pink head of his cock appearing and disappearing from your cleavage. You look at him, but his gaze too is fixated on where your décolletage swallows his member. Your eyes are drawn to watching his stomach muscles contract as he thrusts.

Mary starts thrusting faster, exclaiming “So soft!” in between grunts. 

Because of the lube, your fingers are starting to slip, causing Mary to grumble whenever you readjust.

“Keep them tight!” he pants.

You decide to add in some dirty talk to distract him.

“Mmm … you like my tits?”

“Oh, fuck yeah.”

“They’re so big and soft.”

Mary grunts. “So big.”

“Do my great big tits feel good around your cock?”

“Fuck, so good.”

“Do you like how your cock looks in between them?”

Mary speeds up. “Fuck—your tits are so big. I can’t even see my dick.”

“Mmm, I bet you can’t wait to cum all over me. Maybe I’ll catch some in my mouth.”

Mary’s eyes close and his jaw drops.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck—I’m gonna cum on your tits.”

You think he means that once he shoots his load, your tits will be covered, but instead he draws back and starts jacking his dick. You squeeze your breasts—which are now shiny with lube—and then Mary’s grunting as he shoots his release over each one. After he’s that satisfied he’s squeezed all the cum out, he settles his weight onto your abdomen and slumps.

“Fuck,” he says as he runs his fingers through the mess. “You look so hot covered in my cum.”

“Your kink is showing.”

He smirks at you. “Mebbe.”

Taking your discarded sleep pants, he wipes off your chest before snuggling into you. When you glower at him, he sighs.

“Jesus, I’ll do a load before I leave, ok? Can we just lie like this for half a second?”

“Yeah ok,” you say.

This is more Mary’s thing than it is yours, but you’ve learned to enjoy it as long as he respects your time limits. Despite your sticky chest, Mary presses his face into your clavicle, a hand resting on a tit, and one leg over yours. You card your fingers through his hair and press a kiss or two into the crown of his head—happy to make him happy.

“What’re your plans?” you ask after a bit. “I wasn’t really expecting to see you today.”

You feel Mary huff against your skin.

“I really should go back. Not that any of us thought we’d be working today, but we’re trying to ride the holiday momentum.” He looks up at you. “I might be a little scarce, but it should break before New Year’s.”

“Ok.” You think for a moment. “I’ll be away for a couple of days for Christmas … but I’ll be back for New Year’s.”

You’d accepted an invitation to spend a few days with a few college friends at a mutual friend’s house warming extravaganza—he married a rich girl who could hang, and they’re going all out for their tree trimming. You’re cautiously hopeful at seeing the gang again. You hope no one loses a hand.

“Family?” he asks cautiously. You explain to him. “Ah. Yeah. The band is doing its usual thing. But … there’s a New Year’s party?”

“Ok.”

Mary traces his finger up and down your torso. “You could … come if you wanted?”

You bury your nose in his hair. “I could do that, Mare.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You feel Mary melt a little further into you, and you extend your internal time limit.

⬅️Previous | Next ➡️

[linneawritesstories]

This is a repost of a story I posted previously in a different format.

“If you treat creatures kindly they will return the favor.” He watched as his teacher reached out to the dragon. His breath rushed out when the creature’s aggressive scales gently tapped her palm. “No one really wishes to be cruel.”

- @givethispromptatry

There was a dragon in the hills on the outskirts of Kingsbury, and Jarrod was going to kill it.  

Not that he was a knight. Oh, no. Jarrod was a Spellcaster and apprenticed to Kingsbury’s resident Spellcaster. His teacher, Leona, said that he had promise and might even be as powerful as her one day. That was high praise from the best Spellcaster in the three kingdoms.

Of course, his teacher also said that power was useless without skill, and that he had a long way to go in that area.

Jarrod first heard of the dragon when a group of townspeople came to visit Leona after dinner one night. Leona sent him to the kitchen to wash dishes so that they could speak to her privately, but Jarrod left the kitchen door open so he could listen. According to what Jarrod heard, the dragon took residence in the hills sometime in the last fortnight. Since then, the surrounding villages lived in terror whenever the dragon flew overhead to hunt. The dragon was huge and red, they said, and local farmers and ranchers had found mangled livestock in their fields in the mornings.

Delegations were sent to the King to request aid, but so far had proved fruitless. He was preoccupied with the war with Clendyne to the south and wasn’t concerned with a dragon terrorizing small farming communities.

Please, the townspeople begged. Spellcaster Leona, please slay the dragon for us.

But she refused.

Continue reading below or on my official website.

Jarrod could not understand his teacher. She possessed more than enough power to slay a dragon. Had they not travelled to the north coast last summer, where she slew a krakken? The bards still sang songs about it, and would continue to long after her death. Jarrod could only dream of that level of fame.

Part of Jarrod’s studies was reading about magical creatures. He could tell you about mischievous mermaids and the tricksy Fair Folk. He knew how to defend against vampires and werewolves. He knew that dragons were big, with razor-edged scales tougher than any man-made armour. They spewed fire and some could even summon lightning. But perhaps the greatest danger was that they were resistant to magic.

When Jarrod asked his teacher why she would not aid the townspeople, she told him that the dragon had not caused any harm. No harm! It was terrifying people and butchering livestock. It had to be stopped.

If Leona, Spellcaster Extraordinaire, would not do it, then her apprentice would.

She would be furious if she caught him, so Jarrod waited until she was asleep before creeping across the landing and down the stairs of their little cottage. (That was another thing he didn’t understand. She was renowned and beloved. She could live anywhere and earn piles of gold, but she chose to live in the middle of nowhere in a tiny two-bedroom house). His feet avoided the creaky floorboards with the ease of long practice and he made his way into the kitchen.

Some bread, some cheese, some cured ham. That should be enough for the walk to the dragon’s lair and back again. It wasn’t far on horseback, but he didn’t dare borrow his teacher’s prize mare without asking her. She would skin him alive, or worse, ship him back to his parents in Delphany.

He did not want to return to his parents. They loved him and wrote to him and still called him their daughter.

The front door squeaked when he pushed it open. He froze and held his breath as he listened. But there was no sound of footsteps, and his teacher did not call his name. He stepped onto the stoop and eased the door closed. The latch settled with a click, but he ran down the road without waiting to hear if the sound woke Leona.

The walk was long and tedious. Leona had one lantern, and Jarrod hadn’t dared take it in case she got up to wander in the middle of the night as she was apt to and noticed its absence. But he was a Spellcaster, so he pooled his magic in his hand to create a light bright enough to illuminate the path ahead of him.

He wasn’t sure where the dragon built its lair, but he knew he was on the right track when bones crunched on the path under his boots. He followed the scattered bones up the hillside. The climb got steeper and steeper, until he found the opening of the dragon’s lair.

A burrow had been dug in the side of the hill, recent enough that the black mounds of dirt that were pushed aside were beginning to sprout grass and wildflowers. Jarrod gulped. The darkness in the burrow was impenetrable. His light did not illuminate the far side. There was no sound or movement from within, and Jarrod couldn’t guess how deep it went.

Going inside would be suicide, but Jarrod wasn’t sure what else to do. Wait here for the dragon to pass by? That would be silly. So he gathered his courage and called out, “Hey! Dragon!”

His voice echoed off the sides of the lair. The sun began to rise in a thin red and gold line that broke the horizon. Leona got up with the dawn. She would realize he was missing soon, and he wanted the dragon to be slain before she did.

He wanted her to be proud of him.

The sound of wingbeats made him look up. It was the dragon, descending from the sky toward him. It was coming fast!

The dragon was red as the rising sun, as he had heard. Jarrod’s best element was fire while water was his weakest, which made him a poor match for a dragon. Still, he chanted the incantation for his best fire spell as the dragon came within range.

Fire blasted from his hands and surrounded the dragon in a great ball. The dragon cried out once in surprise before the fire blew off it as though it were nothing.

Jarrod had no time to cast another spell before the dragon was upon. The earth shook under Jarrod’s feet from the dragon weight and the force of impact as it landed. The dragon was three times his height, and its barbed tail swished back and forth like an angry cat. It batted at Jarrod with a paw. Each toe was tipped with claws as long as Jarrod’s forearm. He had an instant to think that he was done for before the ground in front of him exploded upward.

The rolling earth knocked the dragon off balance. Leona took advantage of the distraction to plant her body between her apprentice and the dragon. Her dreadlocks blew back as the dragon regained its footing and roared, a sound of such power and fury that Jarrod cowered behind his teacher.

To Jarrod’s astonishment, his teacher bowed to the dragon. “Forgive me, Friend, for the behaviour of my apprentice,” she said, and her tone was both respect to the dragon and muted scolding for Jarrod. He withered a little - he knew that he could expect a tongue-lashing later.

But he had to stand up for himself. He was trying to do good! He was trying to help people, and make his teacher proud! “But Master, the townspeople said that the dragon was killing their animals. They’re afraid. I just wanted to-”

He stopped short when she fixed a look of muted fury on him with one brown eye. “And because something is frightening to others, that means it deserves to die?”

He knew what she meant. People who didn’t know her often found her tattoos and piercings, scars and dark skin scary. “No, but they said-”

“And did any of them say that they saw the dragon kill their animals?” She straightened from her bow and approached the dragon, which had stopped hissing and waving its tail. It stood still as she held out a hand to it, palm outward. “Dragons don’t eat livestock, fool. They know it draws negative attention from humans. It was most likely the mountain lion that air-headed mayor kept as a pet and released when it ate his dog.”

Jarrod opened his mouth, then closed it again. He had heard the gossip about the mayor’s mountain lion, both when the man first acquired it and again when he claimed it had “escaped”. The townspeople kept their children indoors for a week because they were terrified the mountain lion would eat them. The timing matched up. But.

“It attacked me,” he said, stubborn.

Leona’s shoulders rose and fell in an aggrieved sigh, but she did not look away from the dragon. “Of course it did. Here you are, about to invade his home. And who struck the first blow?”

He had no response to that.

“Is it a crime to defend your home? That’s what you meant to do by coming here. As for the townspeople, they don’t understand the mystical creatures of the world. They don’t even understand Spellcasters like you and me, though they’re happy to make use of us.” The dragon watched her and made no move to attack as she approached. “If you treat creatures kindly, they will return the favour.” He watched as his teacher reached out to the dragon. The dragon leaned forward, and Jarrod inhaled sharply, certain it was going to breathe a gust of fire and burn his master to ashes.

His breath rushed out when the creature’s sharp scales tapped her palm. “No one wishes to be cruel.” Leona rubbed the dragon’s nose. “What a beautiful colour you are! I haven’t seen a dragon as red as you since I left my homeland. The ones around here tend to be more blue or purple. My name is Leona, and I am the Spellcaster around here. May I be privileged enough to know your name?”

Although her back was to him, Jarrod could tell she was smiling from the tone of her voice. His stomach twisted that she seemed to appreciate this big brute of a creature when he had tried for a year to get her to care for him as something other than a nuisance that broke into her home and refused to leave without mastery of Spellcasting.

The dragon pulled away from Leona’s hand. Jarrod tensed, certain that this time it really would tear her to ribbons, but instead it took two steps back. Its shape swirled and shifted. Jarrod watched with open-mouthed fascination as its outline shrank and formed into something more familiar.

The dragon was now a young man, his skin as dark as Leona’s own. His hair was in a multitude of tiny braids the red of hot coals while his eyes glittered like golden sparks. Not the amber eyes of a cat or wolf, but true molten gold. It was mesmerizing. Jarrod didn’t dare get close. And when the man smiled, Jarrod half-expected his teeth to be pointed.

The dragon-man bowed to Leona. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Spellcaster Leona of the Hills,” he said, and in his voice was the musical cadence that could still be heard in Leona’s voice though she’d left her home country over a decade ago. “I am called Kipkirui. And what may I call your apprentice?”

Those unnerving eyes landed on Jarrod. His went dry. He could not speak. Leona sent an exasperated look over her shoulder at him, then turned back to Kipkirui. “He’s called Jarrod. We again apologize for the trouble he has caused you.”

This time the look she sent Jarrod was one that warned him not to disagree or say something stupid. “Yeah, sorry,” he muttered, rubbing his arm.

Kipkirui smiled at him as well, and Leona took that as a sign that she no longer needed to defend her apprentice. She went to fetch her bag from where she’d dropped it when she came to Jarrod’s rescue. She slung it over her shoulder. Jarrod watched her and did not notice that Kipkirui approached him until Kipkirui was in front of him and holding out a hand.

“We must start over. I am happy to meet you, Jarrod.”

Jarrod squirmed but could see no way around it, so he clasped Kipkirui’s hand and shook it once before dropping it. He mumbled something that might have been agreement and stared at the ground. Kipkirui towered over him even in human form, which was annoying. Jarrod wished he could be so tall.

“What brings you to these parts, Kipkirui?” Leona returned to them and shot Jarrod another look for being rude again.

Kipkirui took his eyes off Jarrod long enough to answer her. “Well, I am an adult now, so I had to leave my parents’ burrow and find my own. I heard that the flowers in this country were beautiful, so I thought I might settle here. I do apologize if I frightened anyone. Humans are more used to dragons where I’m from.”

Leona grunted in agreement. “That’s true. I heard that humans and dragons used to be on better terms here, but that ended because King Lennox tried to eradicate them from the land. That was about... six generations ago? He didn’t succeed, but...” She shrugged. Public opinion of dragons remained smeared by his campaign. “Anyway, you’re welcome to come to my house. We can have a meal and Jarrod and I can show you around.”

Horrified, Jarrod stared at her. Invite a dragon into town? What was she thinking? Just because Kipkirui could take on human shape didn’t mean he looked human. If Jarrod encountered him without knowing that he was a dragon, he would have assumed Kipkirui was one of the Fair Folk.

But Kipkirui agreed. “It would be a pleasure,” he said. And Jarrod knew better than to argue, so they went back to Kingsbury together.

[adrischrv]

REGNUM [L.H] -Chapter 8

Summary: In a dystopian future, a tragedy leads Prince Luke to become King of Gardenstone. From her neighboring kingdom Maredale, our protagonist Amberly must choose between King Luke and King Ashton of Lauxwell to close the alliance that the three kingdoms are destined to make. In the process and after, Amberly will encounter mysteries, a love triangle, and betrayals that will define her future. (Basically, enemies to lovers)

Word Count:  4,246

MASTERLIST.

The next day I arrived at the stable on time, not wanting to argue with Luke anymore. Fortunately, years before I had had the whim of raising my mare back in Maredale, a whim my mother fulfilled on the condition that I take care of her. Although limousines and cars are quite common, all three kingdoms have moderate amounts of them and therefore it was easier to acquire a horse. I took care of the mare I called Mer, there were nights I spent finishing a book in the stable with her company and mornings I left the palace early to ride on the beach before the people woke up. I hoped they were taking care of her at home. All the knowledge I gained with Mer had been used to wonderfully caring for the five horses in the stable. 

Michael arrived in the middle of the hayride. He explained that he had heard the workers say that my work in the greenhouse had been splendid and how happy that made him already. He also told me that he now lived one floor below me, which explained why I´d seen Lidia come up and down more times than usual that morning. 

I told him about the gloves, Luke, and accidentally Ashton. Something clicked in his head that he didn't bother to share, he simply asked me not to worry. He immediately left under the excuse that he had some very important business to discuss with the King. 

The days went by quite quickly. My routine was the same for a week: waking up, getting directions from Michael, going down to the greenhouse, pausing for food, and going upstairs at night. I was working desperately to fix the greenhouse and was increasing the speed and time I spent listening to Calum speak for his Jhin about movements on the border. 

The girls in the kitchen gave me the lost information they were hearing and I slowly connected the narrative. There were going to be three major events in the next few weeks: a campout in the town of Mudtry, the Birch Celebration that was typical of Gardenstone, and another unnamed event for the time being. The information on the last one was very little but it existed; it would have guests from all three kingdoms so it earned its place on the list.

Ashton and I went out every weekend. We traveled around the palace exchanging thoughts, ideas, and the occasional kiss. We weren't a couple, but something that didn't know the difference between naivety and love told me we weren't far off. His company... just felt good, fair, and free. 

I was going down to the kitchen to start today's work. I knocked a couple of times on Michael's door and no one answered so I walked around hoping to find him on my way. Said and done, as I entered the kitchen I saw him leaning against a counter enjoying an apple. He was wearing a suit, it wasn't common for him. 

“Why so formal, boss?” I asked, taking an apple from a basket next to him.

I understood the reason for his location in the kitchen when the servants rushed past him. 

“Thank you for noticing. I must say that your comfortable attire is much better than the dresses you wore at first, it made me nervous," he joked and pointed at the servants with the apple he kept eating. “I dress like this for the same reason they do; Luke woke up wanting to travel to Lauxwell for a few days; they're preparing his trip and I will be in charge of the not-so-important stuff while he is away.”

“What about Calum?”

I poured two glasses of orange juice, he took one and thanked me with a nod. 

“He'll stay here and take care of the more important stuff, which I won't do. Luke asked that no one should accompany him but a few guards.”

“Why is he going to Lauxwell? I thought he hated the place as much as its residents.”

I looked through the conversations with the girls in the kitchen; they didn't mention this trip once. It had been sudden for everyone, even for Luke himself. 

“To spend time with Lauren," he replied casually. 

I quietly drank the rest of my juice. Spending time with Lauren? She had been here as long as Ashton, I didn't see them talking once and suddenly he wanted to spend time with her. Not just any time, time alone. That's why he didn't bring company. 

“Wow, are you okay?” Michael interrupted my thoughts, thanks to the sea. I nodded. “I lost you for a moment, is it because of Luke?”

I took the glass to the sink and started to wash it. 

“In a way, not having him around for a while sounds like a vacation. I will count and appreciate every second.”

I wanted to keep digging, to find out what Luke would be doing at Lauxwell and why he had decided to go "spend time with Lauren" all of a sudden. There was something that Michael wasn't telling me, he wasn't telling me anything. I stopped my tongue from asking, interest in the subject would only boost Luke's ego if that was possible. 

“I think you're doing a lousy job of hiding whatever it is you're feeling. That brings me to what you will do today.”

Michael pulled at my waist, dodging the servants who were going back and forth on their way to the west wing of the palace. We climbed a few stairs, this wing was noticeably emptier than the rest of the palace, it seemed like it was night plus the few windows were open. I recognized the beginning of the corridor we were heading down, we passed Luke's office. 

“You and I will take advantage of His Majesty's absence these days and do what you should have done from the beginning, your real work.”

We kept walking until we hit a wall, it had paintings of different trees and flowers on it. Michael ran his hands over the wall until he found what looked like a brick that had come out, pushed it and the gears started working, leaving the spiral stairs insight with the sides illuminated. 

“Come on, ladies first.”

I advanced and we began to go down the stairs. Judging by the look of the structure I could tell that they were using it constantly and it didn't seem so secret. 

“What will I do, exactly?” I asked, not encouragingly. 

“Maredans who crossed the border are here to formally present their needs, concerns, and so on. I had Calum bring them over before Luke was awake, now I owe that bastard a bottle of the finest wine in Greenbush.”

We got to the top of the stairs and I noticed we were underground. Michael opened a door that led out into a very wide hallway, on the other side he opened the door again to a room with people sitting inside, families, elders, Maredans waiting for answers. At the end of the rows of people, there was a desk and next to it a guard guarded the place. 

“This is a secret between you and me, understand?”

I smiled broadly and held back the urge to embrace him. I noticed tears forming in my eyes. 

“Wait, you said that we will both take advantage of the situation, what will you do?”

He smiled. 

“Bring more people, of course. I trust you will take enough time with each person in this room, however, we will see as many citizens as possible so that once Luke returns you can spend another week in the greenhouse without worrying about them... your people.”

I nodded repeatedly. 

He took one last look at the room and opened the door. 

“Michael," I called, making him stop. “Thank you.” 

“It's nothing," he smiled. 

¥

I never believed that what people tell you about time passes more quickly when you do what you like is true, but attending to the Maredans and listening to them proved me wrong. 

Most didn't come for lack of work in Maredale but to discover the magic and potential of Gardenstone. It was very rare for people to leave their kingdom with what they had become accustomed to in their own homes, what a nice irony. I didn't blame them, sometimes even your own house is too small if you fill it with dreams and hope. 

Michael kept his word to bring people. We provided housing and work for those who needed it in Greenbush where Michael would have them all under his care and helping out in his vineyard as his employees. One family or another asked for the possibility of having businesses in the capital of Gardenstone and we had to put them on hold because it was very risky for Maredan businesses to rise out of nowhere near the palace but we promised to help them when we could.

No one-not even Ashton, who was constantly being asked to postpone appointments-knew what we were doing. For the first two days, we went unnoticed by everyone around the palace, our main concern was that Luke would arrive in less than expected. The "expected" was getting more and more confusing for me. I avoided thinking about the whole situation between Lauren and Luke, right now I had to take the employment contracts I had collected today to Michael... even though the matter was hidden and always bothering to be attended to behind my back. 

“...You know you can't do that. You can't tell him, it's not your place.”

It was Calum coming out of a door followed by Michael with whom he had a heated conversation. The Duke gave Calum a knock when he saw me in front of them.

“Princess, what a surprise!” he exclaimed. 

The man shivered, throwing a transparent bag on the floor. I reflexively squatted to return the bag to his hands. I looked at its contents for a few seconds; a gold ring was inside it, this one had a hole right in the middle with diamonds embedded around it; it was missing a stone. 

The bag was taken from my hands before I could say anything about it. Calum looked at Michael angrily and even a little terror crept into his brown eyes. 

“We'll discuss this later, Clifford. In the meantime, don't do anything stupid," Calum looked at me sideways, not a trace of joy or his characteristic sympathy. “Your Highness, Duke, excuse me.”

He apologized and went on his way in a hurry. Michael stood still, looked at me once when Calum was out of sight, and snorted cynically. 

“Come on, start your interrogation," he said as if he had known me all my life. He pointed to the door through which he had left moments earlier and we entered a strangely empty office. Nothing but the basics in it. Then he closed the door behind him. “I'll spare you the first question, we are in King Robert's old office.”

“Why? I was looking for you... “

He took the papers. We stood in the middle of the room, I thought it was disrespectful just to be here, but judging from the look of the chairs he hadn't sat here either. We shouldn't be here. 

“Calum called me, what you saw in that bag is evidence the investigators collected from the great hall. It was analyzed all this time and they can't find the DNA of the bearer..." He came over to the desk, stretched out two photographs of a rope cut in a part of the palace I didn't recognize. “It was right under this rope, I'll let that clever head of yours guess what it cut off.”

I blinked a couple of times, puzzled. 

“The chandelier.”

The same chandelier that ended the lives of Queen Susan, King Robert, and Prince Jake. What all this time seemed like an accident had been orchestrated. 

A chill ran through my body. The person who had wiped out most of the royal family was still outside, could be anywhere... could be anyone. 

“That's right, it wasn't an accident. And not only that," Michael walked slowly through the office, "I'm sure and I could swear by the Forest that I've seen the ring somewhere before. Perhaps the person who committed this tremendous atrocity decided to rob the Royal Jewelry store moments earlier. We came here to find a jewelry box that my mother gave to my aunt - to Queen Susan on her last birthday but it's not here.”

“Of course not, this is an office. You must look in her room.”

He snapped her tongue and crossed his arms a few steps away from me. 

“We did, it's empty. Calum had to bribe a couple of guards to get us into the royal room. What did we get? Nothing. We lost three weeks of beer.”

“No, I mean the Queen's other room. The one that's only hers, not the one she shared with the King," I replied, running my hands over my elbows, trying to relieve the tension. “It will probably cost you a year's worth of beer, but you can always tell Luke.”

The Duke burst out laughing as if he had told a pretty bad joke that ended up being good. 

“Discarded at all. He must not know, not now…”

Luke knew nothing about this. I realized late, very late, that I was hearing about the royal family before the King himself.

My impression must have been noticeable on my face, Michael realized, he came over to reassure me. 

“Don't be afraid. The King doesn't know... What's wrong with that, right?” he laughed nervously. 

I sighed, I was seconds away from hyperventilating. “Why doesn't he know?”

If I thought the punishment for slapping Luke was going to be bad, then keeping secrets from the kingdom was going to be much worse. 

“Hey... hey... “ Michael whispered, I felt my heartbeat increasing its volume second after second. “You needed to know, at least this I had to tell you…”

“There's more?!” I exclaimed, covering my mouth. “Michael, I'm sure there are at least thirty reasons why this is wrong... “

The shaking of my arms was muffled at the touch of his hands. They felt rough but helped to calm me down for a second. 

“I can't tell Luke. I prefer to keep my reasons to myself. But you can…” his closeness was comforting to the extent that he spoke. “You will tell the King.”

I opened my mouth to deny it when the slamming of the door hit Michael. The figure who came in knew we were talking about him the moment he did. 

“Your Majesty," Michael said, "What did you think of Lauxwell?”

I couldn't tell if the cold that flooded the office was coming from a window in the hallway or coming from Luke's presence. His jaw tightened, his cold, sharp gaze fixed on the closeness between Michael and me. I gently slid away from the Duke, leaving a considerable distance. 

“What are you two doing here?” he asked, his attention focused on Michael.

“Your Majesty, you haven't answered my question.”

“Bad, horrible. Lauxwell doesn't... need Gardenstone” Luke responded by interrupting Michael. His words were like knives. “Now respond.”

I saw Michael out of the corner of my eye. I forgot my panic at the sight of him in his eyes. I was hoping - we were hoping for a clever and quick excuse to get out of his mouth so that we could avoid all possible topics. If Luke found out what we had done with the Maredans - or that he hadn't been working in the greenhouse, or that his parents had been killed... Nothing good could come of this. 

I held the photographs tightly in my crossed hands behind my back, made mere balls of paper into my fists. I didn't know why Michael didn't want to tell Luke what he´d discovered seemed the least logical thing to do, but I was going to keep it a secret and trust his words. I had nothing else to do anyway. 

“We wanted to be alone for a while.”

Michael responded. The silence lasted for millennia. 

“It is a crime to lie to the crown, cousin.”

Luke still didn't look at me, my presence had never bothered him so much.

“It's true," I said. “We needed to talk alone about the job and the place was lonely.”

I didn't lie, it was true. My hands began to sweat between the photographs. 

A more unsure, choppy sigh came from Luke. He heaved aside, leaving the path clear. 

“Out, then.”

I left the office first, Michael walked behind me. Luke held him at the door with one hand.

“Thank me for not telling Ashton about this... it's not wise for you to get into trouble with two kingdoms, cousin.”

Michael swallowed his saliva at the... Warning?

Luke let him go, following him at every step like a prey. 

“Oh, another thing," we turned to Luke's voice, he was speaking to his cousin but loud enough for his words to reach my ears. “Send a woman... the prettiest one you can find. Lauxwell stressed me out a lot. I'll wait in my quarters.”

I wasn't surprised at all.

¥

Lidia was across the room holding my sleeping clothes when I came in, throwing the crumpled pictures on my bed as I closed the door. 

“Amberly...what happened? The girls in the kitchen say a lot of things.”

I fell in the middle of the bed carelessly crushing the pictures. The stress and tension of moments before were just a few moments away from flooding me. 

“Ask, do it,” I muttered covering my face with both hands. 

I felt a weight next to me. Lidia was sitting on the bed, her facial expression full of doubt.

“They said that His Majesty King Luke found you and the Duke in King Robert's office, may he rest in peace.”

I rested my elbows on the bed, raising my head a little to look Lidia in the eyes. 

“It is true, but we didn't do anything wrong," I said quickly, feeling her relief. “I would never do such a thing to you, Lidia.”

She nodded with a sideways smile. 

“I wouldn't blame you, I'd be crazy not to prefer a princess to a maid," she raised a hand in silence when I wanted to protest. “Wait, there's more. One of the girls is dating one of the guards who accompanied Her Majesty on her trip to Lauxwell. She said nothing happened between him and Her Majesty Lauren. Pure business.”

"Lauxwell doesn't... need Gardenstone," Luke had said. Maybe it was true, it was nothing but business. 

“How nice," I replied, rejoining the bed. “I... it's…” 

Lidia gave me the clothes to sleep with a chuckle. 

“You don't have to answer everything, not now. Take a breath, Amberly, you need a distraction…”

Someone knocked on the door. I forgot the situation I was in for a moment. 

“There it is, just in time." Lidia laughed as she walked to the door. “I promise to entertain your lover as much as I can. Use what I gave you.”

I looked at the garment in my hands, it wasn't my sleeping clothes. A mint silk dress with a "V" neckline was what was in place. I whispered a "Thank you" to Lidia in an act of complicity. 

¥

Ashton's fingers cautiously untangled from my hair as we parted for air. I brought my right hand to the cheek of the black hair who sank into the caress, putting a genuine smile on my face, I barely could see his.

The moonlight above us added certain intimacy. The flowers and trees around the blanket we placed on the lawn covered more than we expected. 

I was straddling him. My dress and his dark green suit without so many wrinkles- worth mentioning. I ran my index finger across the bridge of his nose, Ashton closed his hazel eyes.

“I like your nose..." my finger stopped over his mouth gently. “And those naughty lips of yours…”

He laughed, even with his eyes closed. One of his hands caressed my partially uncovered back, an electric sensation ran through my whole body. 

“It would be a pity if my features were unpleasant for my future queen…”

I returned my hand to my lap, my hunched posture changed to the right, and my smile... My whole face was unemotional because of the impact of his words. 

Ashton noticed the tension that slipped through my body, opened his eyes, and straightened his posture, both hands embracing my waist. 

“Wouldn't you like it, Amberly? To be the queen of Lauxwell?” he whispered in my ear, a warm and sensual tone. “I´m dying to see you on a throne beside me.”

I burst out laughing nervously. The closeness of our faces barely allowed me to hide the surprise.

I´d thought about it, I knew that the talk would come eventually, especially with so many unserious political conversations on previous dates.

Did I want to be the queen of Lauxwell, to leave my place in Maredale and Gardenstone to reign alongside Ashton? 

“I... there are so many things I want to do…”

“To be an ambassador for Maredale here, for example?” he asked amusingly. “Please, we both know the position is too small for you.”

“But it's mine.”

His face - his beautiful face - was stiffened by my words. He blinked twice trying to process what I had said and spoken before giving me a chance. 

“Yes, and so did your title of Princess. You can move up in that case, to be Queen.”

“I'm a princess because my mother has a kingdom, Ash," I interrupted, he didn't like it. “Being an ambassador I got it, I did, and you encouraged me.”

“I did, but I didn't expect you to be in an office your whole life," he said. “Or do you expect Luke to promote you to 'something else'? Is that it?”

The abrupt change in attitude caused me to get up without warning, Ashton imitated me. I looked for warmth in his eyes, a sign that he didn't mean all this. 

“Answer me, Amberly," he spoke loudly, "Do it.”

I took his face in both hands, it was beginning to boil with anger. 

“What's wrong with you?” My concern went unchecked. “Of course I don't want Luke to do that, if it were up to him I'd go down from my post to... pick up dirt from his horses.”

“This is no time for jokes. You don't want to be the queen of Lauxwell but Gardenstone sounds more appealing?”

I put my hands on his chest. I convinced myself and hoped that decreasing our distance would stop whatever we were doing. 

“What does Gardenstone have to do with this? It's not even an option.”

He walked away from me, there was no warmth in him anymore. His eyes were glowing with a challenge. 

“What's an option for you, then? Luke?” he continued, speaking quickly, angry in all his glory. “It seems so. He almost slit his beloved cousin's throat for finding you together in the office.”

The air got stuck in my chest, Luke had said he wouldn't tell Ashton. Unless he had regretted it.

“I heard, Amberly. Everyone in the palace knew about your impromptu meeting.”

I felt pain in my chest, I had never seen him like this before... at least not with me. I had to fix it. Something in all this was wrong, I just didn't know-how. 

“It wasn't what you think, nothing happened…” I stepped forward, he didn't flinch. “I can't explain to you what was happening because even I don't understand it.”

“And that's not suspicious? You expect me to believe that they were talking innocently?” He laughed mockingly. “Over the mountains! No one in a million years would settle for that.”

I let go of the air I was holding back. Something in me... no- my cowardice wanted to explain everything and cry. But inside, deep inside me, there was fear, and there was also something in me that was asking me to make things right for once. 

That "something" fired the fear, or put it to sleep for a second, and left me with that princess who couldn't put a zipper on her mouth. 

“You'll have to. Listen, I don't plan to be an ambassador all my life... crown or not, caring for and protecting my kingdom comes first and I will do it at all costs. You told me to take a chance and I did. These are the consequences.”

He was silent, watching like an emerald owl from the darkness. 

“I have to go, I won't leave Lidia up late," I bowed. “See you, your majesty.”

I turned around, holding back the desire to go back in time and stay in the caresses of a while ago. 

“Amberly," he called, I turned around again. He kept that dominant air. “Answer my question.”

I sighed, I wanted to move but my feet were stuck in my position. 

“Although I am flattered by your proposal, I cannot give you an answer. Not today. Not after... this.”

I waited for him to say something, to forgive me- that he would run quickly behind me and turn us in circles as he kissed my face. 

It didn't happen. 

[borisbubbles]

32. AUSTRALIA

Montaigne - “Don’t break me”

🤡 KLOUN  🤡 🤡 KLOUN  🤡 🤡 I MOU KLOUN  🤡 

HA HA HA HA -- Afrodyti Fryda -- Jessica Charro 

Normally I wouldn’t be ranking Montaigne this low, actually :o I do feel like there is *some* potential to be had from her entry and it could’ve been reached greatness in Rotterdam, but since ESC has been cancelled, we’re going to see none of it. So, all I have to go by is the live AD version I just posted, which... I lowkey dislike? Let’s dissect this sucker. 

Song Analysis

Every once in a while, we get that sort of avant garde-esque entry where I’m like “Okay, I get what you’re doing and I like the idea but the execution, babe. It just ain’t there.” I think “Don’t break me” might be the new textbook example of that archetype? I know some media love portraying “Don’t break me” as... what was the Wiwi headline again?

The problem is, it don’t add up.

Like, what exactly is alternative about this entry? Not the music, despite the statements claiming otherwise. Montaigne wrote this song together with established “indie” songwriters DNA, hits of other ’indie’ miracles “Don’t come easy”, “Tonight again” and “#WeGotLove”. “Don’t break me” is equally indie, that is to say, not indie at all and blatantly mainstream. Ain’t nothing wrong with that, (DBM is hands down the best song DNA have produced for ESC) but don’t sling LIES at me. 

Secondly, the staging, we need to address the staging, hunties cuz boy it ain’t holdin’ up. (lol I’m merely channelling Wiwi Adams because that’s what the spirits whisper to me - that is to say, pink gin & tonic). There are some *conceptual* strong points to me, clearly spliced in to fabricate some perception of free artistry, but the execution of it is lacking. In lay man’s terms: IT’S SO FUCKING INCOMPETENT OMG I should stan... but don’t because, well.

Et tu quoque, Sennek?

Montaigne herself said she styled her marionette-frock after mr Mime (Mimes aren’t marionettes? Am I missing something?), but it’s Not Very Effective when your style is more inline with Grundel Toad. YES, One Shot Camera Angle, yes super artsy and creative were it not for the fact that Trijnwreck Oosterhuis already pioneered this and it came off similarly feeble. 

I however am not *that* offended by “Don’t break me” or its act as many others appear to be though. Again, the song is decent and it’s mostly brought down by a lack of performing experience on Montaigne’s behalf. While not good, it’s salvageable at the very least. 

However, I’m more annoyed that this (decent) mainstream song is being sold as innovative and mold-breaking, neither of which it actually is. This is the root of the problem imo. The utter denial of "Don’t break me’s” own mainstreamness and the desperation to prove the opposite. 

And honestly, this even applies to Montaigne herself? Her appearance, creative decision making and hell, even her own social media posts read a bit too much “How To Be Different For Dummies.” to really make it believable. ”I AM ALTERNATIVE. HERE’S MY PORTFOLIO OF UNCONVENTIONAL HAIR COLOURS AND UNIBROW STYLES TO PROVE MY POINT SO YOU DON’T HAVE TO TALK TO ME. WANNA SEE MY ARMPIT HAIR? I JHERI-CURLED IT YESTERDAY.” Her brand of off-beatness feels shallow and uninspired because it is. She  being conformist with regards to her own nonconformity and that makes her a bigger slave to societal norm than you and I. 

NF Corner

Lol this was not a great Aus Decides. Sadly the standard wasn’t nearly as high as it had been last year. I cheered *FOR* Montaigne at the time, that’s how bad it was. There were several *atrocious, easily last in this ranking had they won”-entries she needed to slay (DIE JACK! DIE MITCH! DIE CASEY!) and she did. A pity my interest very quickly evaporated, but oh well, such is life. Fortunately there were a few... decent-ish entries that I’d like to share. Don’t hold you breath, though - this selection had no Electric Fieldses.

Vanessa Amorosi - “Lessons of Love”

“Lessons of love” almost completely passed me in studio -  I liked it mostly because “Absolutely everybody” was a BOP and I was edging for a good performance, which... Vanessa delivered honestly. CRAWLING OUT OF A CAR CRASH <3 The one-woman vocal bidding war she engages in once the first chorus hits. The rainy drizzle <3  The song’s merely adequate but Vanessa’s affect and the staging are enough for me. A ballad that in fact isn’t boring and provides a host of tiny little gems I can cling onto for three minutes, what a treat!

Now I’m mentioning ballads, (um, this is about Aus Decides 2020; of course ballads are being mentioned), this one was pretty good too. 

Didirri - “Raw Stuff”

“Raw stuff”, like Vanessa’s song, completely passed me by in studio version (except, I didn’t even bother simulating appreciation here - disheveled, homely men aren’t my thing, cf.: Salvador). “Oh a stripped down power ballad with personal meaning” well am I ever not interested?

And then the live disarmed me, lol. I have NO idea why but it just clicked for me. iDidirri managed to give it certain sincerity, a certain pathos that I could empathize with and the staging (which was highkey good - Non-boring piano ballads! The Concept!) provided me with enough sustenance. I also firmly believe that had “Raw stuff” made it to an actual ESC stage, it could’ve won the whole thing - it has that Salvadorian quality, minus the pretence. Alex Callier quaking in his boots rn. 

But anyway, the ONE song everybody and their dog loved was of course also a fave of mine. It is, of course,

Jaguar Jonze - “Rabbit hole”

CHASE ME IN TO DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE

From pretty much second one Jaguar IMMEDIATELY unleashed her inner psychotic weirdo self, flailed her body around on designer furniture (dislocating her shoulder!!! what a trooper), LITERALLY tore down the walls around her and snagged every wig in the audience. SHE’S A JAGUAR, A MARE, A GAZZELLE

*THIS* how you indie. Not Mundaigne’s safer-than-seclusion puppetfest. You inject genuine personality quirks into your song and performance, don’t give *a single* fuck about what other people think. And like any good indie song, you aren’t rewarded for your nonconformist attitude by “professional” juries. 😁

and now she has coronavirus! STAY STRONG GIRL :( (lol she streamed a jam sessions a few days back, I’m fairly certain she well) WLU!

Australia 2020 & Australia 2021

“Don’t break me” is one of those entries where qualification *entirely* depends on how good or bad the live was. Usually you can tell whether X will (not) qualify UNLESS their live is much worse than expected (or better if they’re a projected NQ). This does not apply to Montaigne; The “Don’t break me” we saw at Aus Decides definitely *would* have NQ’d, but who knows about the modified, improved version. It could’ve Katherine’d itself, it could’ve Sennek’d itself, it could’ve KMH’d itself. Who the f knows and I ain’t gonna spec on it. What I do know is that the subpar singing and dancing would not be present in the final product because, you know, rehearsals. The real hurdle for “Don’t break me” was something different: namely Montaigne herself and her compulsion to break the mold by not breaking it at all. All the decisions w/r/t the staging and styling can be traced down to her and these decisions suck because they are being made for the wrong reasons. Like, you don’t *NEED* tryhard symbolism when your (actually pretty goodish) song already possesses good and transparent lyrics. It’s okay to be MAINSTREAM, Montaigne, it is OKAY to be Mundaigne. Don’t let your ego get in your way. LOVE YOURSELF, sweet Jessica and BE YOU!!! For all our sakes...

  FREAKY! FRIDAY! FACTOR!

Australia deserves a few senheads, I think. Not many because, yep, a whole NF with self-composed songs and they STILL went for the ballad that had a DNA co-writing credit. SIGH. However, I do believe the *funk* of Montaigne’s ordinary uniqueness, and how it bled into mainstream indie song, is kind of a Freaky! thing (it’s similar to how Alanis Morissette’s “Ironic”, a song about irony, contains zero examples of actual irony - which ironically enough makes it one of the most ironic songs ever penned), if a severely diluted one. Oh well, beggars cannot be choosers, I guess. 

Score: 1 Senhits out of 5.

[afy2018]

You’re a Queen (Revision) Chapter 1

Waverly awoke in her cold narrow chambers- only the bare minimum for Purgatory- to the sound of Stephani Jones, her Lady’s Maid, gently calling to her from the fireplace as she sparked it to life. Her mistress dismissed her to the doorway as she began her day. Waverly wished she could just dismiss her completely as the days preceding the anniversary of her father’s passing were always difficult no matter how many years had gone by, and only exacerbated by her sister’s desertion of her rightful place in their fief.

Once she tore off her nightgown, Waverly pulled out her black and silver dress she had imported from Holland with the box of British brass brooches and faux pearl jewels that were to adorn her clothes. The routine of her base skirt and gown proved to take less time than normal as Waverly summoned Stephani to help her with the rest of her dress and hair before the clock struck eight.

She went through her usual regimen which ended with her going down to dine with her Aunt but was quickly intervened by their butler, Percival Crofte, with a salt-crusted letter. Waverly plucked it from his hands and ripped it open, quickly skimming the words before handing it back to him as she changed course to the main chambers to meet her impending guest.

Her heart pounded in her chest and she began to break out in a light sweat from her layers and nerves. Her finely dressed doormen opened the grand room as she approached them. She entered the hollow chambers, her clicking shoes echoing through the entire room as the servants and noblemen silently watched her. Once she situated herself in her simple throne, Waverly nodded to Nedley, a greying man who was as loyal as a dog but just as opinionated as her aunt, to let in her old friend.

The doors across from her opened to a lone figure standing in the archway where her servants once stood. The young ruler sat back in her chair and watched as the visitor tentatively approached her. Once she was only a few feet away, Waverly took in the view of her guest that she no longer recognized. She looked over the features she once cherished so many years ago that disappeared in the now shockingly masculine attire she wore.

Waverly stood on the platform that raised her chair above the stone floor and began her descent towards her. After a few moments of staring at her, she dismissed her guards and noblemen alike to talk with her long lost friend. As the hallway’s doors closed, Waverly walked straight up to her guest, watching as she flinched at her speed, and punched her shoulder.

“WHERE have you been?” she hissed at her. Before she could answer, Waverly quickly pulled her into a tight embrace, “Welcome home, Wynonna.”

She felt tentative arms wrap around her as her sister loosely hugged her back and tucked her bare lips against her beaded shoulder. Waverly let her go and gazed upon her rugged appearance. From what she could see, her sister had dawned gentlemen’s attire with road worn boots wrapped in a fine cloth to cover their grime. Although her vest was plain in color and pattern, the cloak she had draped around her shoulders was deep emerald with a border of gold stitching that made her seem nobler than her rank allowed. She had a sword sheathed to her hip and dark leather gloves that were untouched by the weather.

“You are alive,” Waverly gasped. “You never wrote… well?”

Wynonna only nodded in response before finding her voice for the first time in the archaic castle, “Do you remember the stories Father used to tell us about the homestead? He talked about how this place wasn’t meant to house the noble or royal. It was originally a place for people to pass through when they were heading to and from the Phantom River Palace. It had not been until the fifteenth century that the Good Lord Earp established Purgatory as a fief,” she rested on her heels and continued, “I am only doing what Father always told us and explored the world. I have seen things and people I would have never thought existed had I not just gone out into the world. My dear sister, I have lived and-”

“And I have been here,” her sister interrupted.

“Yes, you have. I do not plan on staying any longer. I was just passing. I’m glad you got my note, I’d hate to catch you by surprise.”

“Yes, this morning, actually.”

“Mm, I sent it three weeks ago, shame it took that long,” Wynonna turned on her heels and began out of the main hallway and to her next journey.

Waverly chased after her older sister through the old hallways of their once-prosperous fief. The banners and coat of arms that were once lit by the chandeliers and candelabras for evening parties now hung against the decrepit walls of their home. They continued further down the palace hallways as the younger woman tried to get her sister’s attention. She jogged a bit before tugging on her thick cloak.

“Please, you need to stay here. Your absence has left our home in complete disarray!” Waverly berated her, her tone biting into her sister’s conscious. “Take responsibility for one thing at least once in your life!”

Wynonna stopped in her tracks and turned around to face her, only cocking her head to the side as she tried to hold back her rage. Carefully, she spat, “God, do you know what I had to go through after… after everything? You think your life was hard running this place with everyone caring for you, preparing you and holding your hand along the way? I was shunned, no one wanted me after Father croaked, not even you. You all thought I was a demon, a witch, some sort of… I don’t know, so come back when everyone hates you, then you can act like your life’s been hard.” She stood back from her sister, waiting for any response she knew would have to be coaxed out of her.

Waverly couldn’t look up at her, knowing that any mention of her memories would trigger something not only in her sister but within herself to flee. She also knew that torn look Wynonna got in her eyes of betrayal, and it killed her to remind her about their trauma-even though it was her fault. The older woman only watched her sister, huffing the air from her lungs in annoyance. She tore off her gloves, collecting them in her left hand as she placed the other one on her sister’s shoulder. Looking into her large eyes, Wynonna quickly pulled her in for a quick embrace, getting stuck as Waverly clung onto her. She sighed out a shuddering breath and kissed her forehead before her sister finally let go.

“I’m sorry,” Waverly apologized.

“No, you’re ri[ght]-” she almost comforted.

“Excuse me, Madam,” their advisor Nedley interrupted. “Sir Dolls is here to see you.”

Wynonna pulled her gloves on again and rested her hand on the hilt of her sword, nodding to the greying man, “Bring him to the main chambers, I’ll address him soon,” she commanded.

The voice she took on surprised her, after all of her travelings and escaping, she had thought that the tone would be lost to the nomadic gangs and foreign oceans, but it seemed to just be waiting at the edge of the Purgatory woods. She only cleared her throat as he went to their guest and turned to face her sister again.

“When did you stop wearing dresses?” Waverly asked as she looked upon her sister’s masculine fashion.

“When I set fire to them and bought a more efficient wardrobe. What have you been doing while I was gone?”

“I have been running our fief ever since Aunt Augustine approved it for me.”

Wynonna only shook her head, turning to watch as their advisor finally disappeared behind the door. “Do you know who Sir Dolls is.”

“A knight from our Duke’s Army. He was sent three fortnights ago.”

She shrugged and placed both hands on the hilt of her sword. “Is he attractive?”

“Seriously?”

“What, might I not dream of my knight in shining armor?”

“Ugh, I will leave you to your meeting with him,” Waverly said dismissing her sister’s comment.

“Wait, where are you going?”

“I’m off, Purgatory is your responsibility now, go visit Aunt Augustine in the dining room,” she nodded as she backed away from her.

“Yay, so much fun,” Wynonna sarcastically remarked. “I just hope I get unlimited access to the armory.”

She smiled at her and left her sister to her own affairs as she walked to shock yet another family member. After Waverly changed into her riding kit, she went to the stables, looking for her blood bay mare. Her horse was a young and spry beast that could have kept up with Wynonna’s wild spirit had she been paired with the older sister rather than her. She quickly had her saddled up and set off for her own time alone in the forest.

Waverly sped through the stables and out of the castle gates. Her destination was whatever she could find and as she followed the path from her home and through the glades, Waverly broke off to the barely beaten path that led to a stream. She felt the change of air as the trees burned their scent in her nose and throat. The only sound she heard was the huffing breaths her mare let out before she began to settle and slow down through the trees to avoid the low branches and roots. Waverly heard the sound of scampering critters and fearful does sprint to safety. She began to notice the distinct sound of water running through the pebbles, splashing and spilling onto the large rocks.

She dismounted at the water’s edge and went to a petrified oak that had fallen three years earlier. Waverly sat on it and listened as the low stream of crystal clear water rushed below her. It was a peaceful sound that numbed her ears and thoughts from everything else in the world. She felt a calming air rush over her body and begin to relax her muscles. The silence echoed in her head and vibrated through her soul as she lost herself in the pattern the water made on its surface as the stream rushed and trickled over the beautiful river worn rocks.

The only thing that broke her trance was a soft rustling as a horse came galloping through the trail somewhere nearby. She heard the horse’s hooves rapidly near her until they finally stumbled to a stop. Waverly slipped back into the low stream and glared up at the young rider. She gritted her teeth as the owner of the blue dun quickly dismounted. They were clad in silver armor that clanked and flexed with ease as they went to help the royal back up.

“You have some nerve scaring me,” Waverly muttered as she was helped up.

The knight took off their helmet, revealing a kind face of the young soldier in her padded cream colored coif. “I apologize, ma’am, but have you seen a man in red running around here recently?”

“No,” Waverly assured her, surprised at how gently the knight spoke to her.

“Hm, I’m almost sure I saw him running through here not too long ago.” Seemingly giving up and pulling her attention to the woman before her, she untied her coif and tucked it inside of her helmet. The young knight revealed her bright red hair that was tied back in a loose bun. With the loud clanking of her armor, she placed her hand over her heart and introduced, “I am Dame Nicole Haught of the Duke’s Royal Army. Again, I dearly apologize for frightening you.”

Waverly waved away her apology and went to her mare, “It’s fine. I am Lady Waverly Earp of Purgatory.”

The young knight sank to her knees, her hand still over her heart, “Lady Earp, I’m so sorry, a thousand apologies, M’Lady. I hope you can forgive me.”

“Oh my,” she chuckled, “Please stand, I’m not that important I only rule over a fief, or I once did.”

Nicole pushed on her knee to stand up and brushed off her armor. “Well, seeing that I’ve lost the thief I-”

“What is a Duke’s knight doing here chasing a lowly thief?” the lady interrupted as she walked back to her.

“Hm, yes that is a fair question,” Haught laughed to herself. “Serving his people as always. Say, is there a tavern nearby? I seem to have been turned around a bit and feel the need to relax before I get back to my duties.”

“Oh, well, there is a pub near the Purgatory castle actually, it is on the outskirts but… I’m babbling aren’t I, yes I am,” she chuckled as Haught pulled on the coif again, hiding her fiery red hair.

“No, no, babble on,” she joyfully responded.

Waverly blushed a little at her endearing words and looked down at the stream again. “I was planning on going back to the castle. You can follow me if you would like.”

“That would be wonderful, your highness,” she sincerely nodded before pulling her helmet on again.

“Perfect, then we should be off.”

They smiled at each other and mounted their beasts. Haught flicked the face of her helmet down and slid onto her horse. As she waited for the lady to mount her mare, she asked, “You said that you used to rule over the fief, who is it now?”

“My sister, back from her journeys.”

“So, what does that mean for you, Madam?” Nicole inquired.

“Ah, well, that means that I can explore my home and the beautiful terrain it has been blessed with,” she smiled as she gestured to the forest. “Well, when I’m not being interrupted by knights.” Noticing the way she tensed up, Waverly quickly added, “All meant in jest.”

They raced back to the castle through the dense trees and shrubberies before breaking through the glades to the dirt road to Purgatory. Nicole caught up to the speedy royal, smiling at her behind the metal helmet. As she studied her through the narrow slots of her mask, the young knight soon found her eyes more than curiously wandering Waverly’s figure as she expertly rode her mare. They slowed down once they cleared the glade, seeing the fortress and castle in the distance with the shops and houses that smattered the exterior of Purgatory. Waverly slowed her horse to a trot, wanting to talk to the knight as they neared her home.

“So where do you hail from?” she asked.

“I’m from Phantom River. I was sent here to aid the fiefs around this territory with any ruffians.”

“Really? We actually have another knight from the Lionheart King Carlo, Sir Dolls.”

“I have never met him, but there are many soldiers in the Duke and King’s armies. He might be apart of his royal highness’ personal armies. I’m just a guard.”

“Duke Carlo has more than one army?”

“No, but his brother has special forces who watch over him and are by his side every day, there is a section whose duty is to watch the people he deems important and then he and the Duke have my people who help keep order amongst the fiefs and towns.”

“How interesting. So you were sent here, why?” she tried again, trying to squeeze out as much information from her as possible.

“Well the fiefs of Purgatory, Derelict, and Haven are to be mine and another knight’s territory but to be completely honest, I was glad when I was assigned to this territory because I have always wanted to meet you.”

“Me?” Waverly laughed in disbelief.

“Yes, I have heard of your bravery in fighting off our Neighbors to the North. You saved the Duke’s most important road and his soldiers. You are seen as a legend… M’Lady,” she formally added.

“Oh, um, thank you. How long will you be staying?”

“I have been here for almost a month but I only have a week left on my contract.”

“Only that long? I insist that you stay longer, seeing that you are a part of the Duke’s Army, you are a special guest to us.”

“Oh, thank you, M’Lady,” Nicole responded, dipping her head.

“Please, this is the least I can do for a knight, truly,” she assured her. “Do you have anything else before we move you here?”

“Nothing that isn’t strapped to my steed,” Haught noted as she patted the back of her horse.

Little conversation transpired between them as they finished their journey to the local tavern. It was a centuries-old beaten shack that had been passed down between generations of local Purgatory citizens. The current owner, “Shorty” Seanan, was a trustworthy old man with the heart of an explorer but the knowledge of any other citizen there. He had always been able to learn from those who passed through the bar about the outside world that he dreamed of seeing. In turn, he would inform Waverly of the people he met and the stories they shared with him. It always made her pine for the adventures she dreamed her sister had. They were only dreams though as to the entire town of Purgatory, Waverly was the stable child, the one who survived her sister’s insanity.

The two women hitched their horses and walked into the busy bar. At the moment, there seemed to only be locals in their usual spots with Seanan watching his latest patrons walk into his business. He beckoned the Lady over and handed her a cup of ale.

“Good morning, Waverly,” he politely greeted. Haught noted his grand smile that broke through the thick grey and white beard. “How goes it?”

“Mm, I was feeling low until I met this lost puppy in the woods,” she joked gesturing to Haught. “Perchance, have you seen a man in red tear through town?”

“No one that seemed suspicious,” he shrugged. “Would you like anything to drink, lass?”

“Would you happen to have any lägers?”

“I do,” he proudly nodded, pouring her a stein full. He shooed away her money, “No need to pay madam, you are a friend of Waverly.”

“Thank you, I never caught your name.”

“Seanan, but friends just call me Shorty.”

“Shorty Seanan, I am Dame Nicole Haught of the Duke’s Royal Army.”

“A Royal Knight in this area. Well well well, welcome to Purgatory,” he nodded.

Waverly found a spot by the window where they could talk and drink. She found Nicole curiously regarding her and the patrons of the tavern.

“Do you have a question for me?” she asked her.

“I just have never heard anyone address a noble so casually. People never addressed a noble like that back home.”

“Well, that is not how we do it here. You will find that we are much more independent than where you are from,” Waverly explained. “I just wanted to let you know before we got to the castle.”

“How did your family gain power? You’re not related to royal blood, are you?”

“At first no, but my mother was a Gibson of the Lavelle-Obere family.”

“Really, so do you ever visit them in Lyon?”

“I have never met any of them. I barely remember my mother.”

“Did she pass away when you were young?” Nicole asked, catching Shorty’s protective eye. “I should not pry, nevermind.”

“The Earps have really been the only ruling family here with a few suitors from other wealthy families here and there. We Earps stick together despite the distance.”

“Is that your motto?”

“No, but it should be,” she smirked with a quick swig from her cup. “But enough about me. How did you become a knight, what’s your backstory?”

Nicole chuckled and shrugged, “I hail from the Kingdom of Ireland, the O’Haught family, specifically, from the Shannon Basin. But, uh, Shannon could never hold me still so I was sent to the academy out here to hopefully put some sense into me.”

“Did it work?” Waverly asked.

“I haven’t the faintest clue,” she flirted in her Irish accent, “did it?”

“Cheeky, I think Purgatory already has you under her spell.”

“Mm,” she chuckled, “I think the citizens have helped a great deal.”

Waverly cleared her throat as she stared at the empty cup in front of her. “I should introduce you in Court if you are going to be a guest here, that is.”

“I do not want to be a bother, really.”

“No, I insist. We will be glad to have a guest. It has been a long while since the castle had visitors.”

“If you insist-“

“I do. Now, it is,” Waverly paused as she looked up at a clock, “only a quarter past four so I would assume everyone is still in the castle…Well, I would assume so. We might want to go soon, I’m not too sure what my tribe’s up to as of recent events.”

“You mean your sister’s return?”

“Yes, exactly,” she confirmed as she stood up, pulling on her black pelisse and leaving money on the table for her old friend.

Nicole followed her to their horses, watching as her hostess effortlessly pulled herself onto her mare and waited for her to join her. She followed suit and then went down the street a few strides behind as she was trained until Waverly slowed down to match her pace. Nicole continued to watch her, silently regarding the farms and shops that they passed.

“For a noble, you wear a fair amount of black, seeing that these aren’t your colors.”

“Only today,” she cryptically informed her. “I’m surprised the Duke allows his knights to wear their family’s cloaks,” she asked back.

Nicole nodded, “My own personal touch.” She took a moment to fix the silver fox shaped hooks to her black green and purple plaid garment. “It is not a cloak, by the way. This is a traditional piece called a brat. Being the Child Ruler Lady Earp, have you ever traveled outside of Purgatory?”

Waverly sighed, trying to hide her eyes as they neared the stables, “No, I haven’t. Between lessons and watching my Uncle rule over my future affairs, I did not have time to explore. What about you? How long have you been a bonafide knight?”

“Seven years,” she proudly stated. “Seven years and I still forgot to give you this.” Nicole reached back into her saddlebag to produce a letter with a gold wax seal imprinted with the Carlo family emblem. “My contract with the Duke's official signature.”

“Keep it for now. So, a month and I have never even heard of you.”

“I should have been more vigilant but Derelict was more of a handful than I thought.”

“Ah, yes. They must either think you are an angel or hate you to send you to Derelict.”

“I like to think I’m an angel.”

“Your hubris would say otherwise.”

“Only when I’m beguiled by a pretty lady,” she tested.

“Try not to forget yourself, Haught.”

“I apologize, M’Lady,” she quickly corrected.

“But I’m glad I have that power over you,” Waverly teased.

From behind her helmet, Nicole gawked at her audacious flirting, only recomposing herself when they arrived at the stables, dismounting and unsaddling their horses. Waverly brushed out her mare’s mane with care while Nicole watched and smiled at the royal woman’s tenderness. Waverly then switched out the mane brush and began brushing out her mare’s coat. Nicole gave her blue dun stallion a sugar cube while she waited on the side. Waverly smiled as she peeked over her horse at the knight before she put away the brushes.

“I have never seen noble care for her own horse,” Nicole noted as she walked towards Waverly.

“I pride myself in caring for those I depend on,” she replied starting towards the castle.

“And what is your trusted steed’s name?”

“Ignis. What about your stallion?”

“Lex.”

“Law in Latin?”

Nicole shrugged and smiled, “He was given to me when I was far enough along in my training.” She took a moment and smiled, “You know Latin?”

“Yes. If I cannot travel, then I should at least keep myself educated.”

“Intriguing, a very learned noble. Most of the others I have met are pompous people who know no more than those they preside over.”

“Glad I’ve made a lasting impression on you,” Waverly flirted, her back to the knight once more as she took a few short cuts out of the stables. They walked into the castle through a side door for the servants where they found a maid making her way to Waverly. “Please prepare Dame Haught’s room. Preferably a guest room in the west wing. Her belongings are on her horse in the stables.”

The maid nodded and went to prepare the guest room as Waverly left to make a meeting for Nicole, letting her follow her in silence through the open corridors until they came upon the grand doors to the main chambers. She walked in, seeing her sister sitting on the throne with their Aunt behind her as Sir Dolls knelt down in the center of the room. He had been explaining his reason for his assignment in their fief and his confusion of not being informed of Wynonna’s return. Waverly stood in the back, watching her sister ogle the knight as he mindlessly recited his speech to her. She curtsied to him as he walked up to stand next to the older Earp sister.

“Wynonna, Dame Nicole Haught of the Duke’s Public Army has arrived to watch over our fief.”

Waverly sat in the chair next to her sister, Sir Dolls dipping his head to the younger woman. Nicole walked to the center of the room and produced the letter she had tried handing to Waverly earlier, holding it out for Dolls to retrieve. He tore it open and read it aloud:

“‘For Lady Earp of Purgatory. I have been informed that you are lacking the proper number of law enforcement in your area. I have sent over one of my finest Dames to aide in replenishing your forces. I hope she is of use to you. ~Duke J.C.’” Dolls regarded the letter for a moment, his eyes darting to Nicole for a moment before turning to his mistress. “It is official, the Duke’s stamp is on this.” Dolls confirmed handing the paper to Wynonna. “What is your decision?”

“Well, keep her. I would not want to anger Carlo so early. Go get clean and you can discuss your placement with Nedley.”

“Thank you, your highnesses,” Nicole bowed, standing up as she was whisked away to her chambers.

In a brief moment, she caught Waverly’s eyes, winking at her, while the blonde maid led her out of the room. She followed her to the small room that would become her personal chambers for the duration of her stay in Purgatory. It wasn’t anything extravagant, but it was better than the farmhouse she was staying in Derelict. As she pondered on her new home, Nicole wrote a letter to be sent to the old mayor of her change in lodging and mission- something she was more than glad to do. In her brief time in Derelict, she had already chased around over twenty thieves, helped behead five murderers and hang nineteen other criminals. In the Shannon Basin- and even in Phantom River- there wasn’t as much crime to worry about. On more than one occasion, Nicole had to lock up her horse and belongings in order to protect them from any thieves. Crime seemed to come in waves with a few days being quiet with the usual bickering amongst the locals to major crimes and brawls which ended in major injury or death.

Nicole sat back in a cheap chair in the corner. Hearing it creak loudly under her weight, she instantly sat back up, looking down at the old wooden seat with the worn and dusty velvet cushion which now had an impression of her rear. She closed her eyes and moved the chair to the open window, feeling it loosely shake in her hands. Nicole restlessly huffed as she sat back in the chair, now feeling it shake under her. It really wasn’t the worst situation she was in, but she expected Purgatory to be at least a bit nicer. She couldn’t completely remember how it looked when she was last here, but when she was eleven she had followed her parents to this casual town with its charismatic rulers. In her time alone, the young knight reflected back on her old memories as she regarded the beautiful mountain range that guarded the small town within the valley below.

Waverly escaped the main hall after their guest’s departure but was swiftly as she left the room, her sister joined her in the hallway with her old mischievous smile. She stood in her tracks even as her sister tugged her towards the stables.

“Whatever you have in mind is going to have to wait until tomorrow,” she evenly told her.

“Not even an adventure?” Wynonna playfully whined.

“Not tonight, it is too early for you to get into trouble and skimp out on your duties.”

“You mean like you did this afternoon?”

“Yes,” she proudly admitted, “But I was not getting into trouble. How are you acclimating to power?”

“It is pretty nice, but I’m surprised I have not been confronted by any old flames from town.”

“I think once all of them know that you are here, every one of your past mistakes will come creeping out of the woodwork, I can assure you of that.”

Wynonna comically threw up her hands and asked, “Well what do you do for fun around here?”

“I’m almost sure that what I find fun, you will think is boring as can be,” Waverly submissively stated. “I do know that there is a plentiful stash of booze in the basement from our old parties.”

“Mm, and you would not happen to have to key?”

“Our key master has them all, but I know that Uncle Curtis had one in his office, you remember where that is, right?”

“Yeah,” she nodded heading down the hallway. “Aren’t you gonna join me?”

“No, I’m going to check on our guests.”

“Hm, okay. Want me to bring anything from my plunders?”

“Mm… no, thank you.”

Waverly left her sister to her own devices as she meandered through the open corridors of her home. It wasn’t anything grand but it was the only place Waverly really knew. Kept behind closed doors and inside the basin that entrapped Purgatory, she rarely ever made it past the forest and mountain passages to explore before being called back home. The only place she had visited outside of the fief was the grand palace in Phantom River which housed the Duke of their fiefdom. It was a grand manor with Gothic architecture that was popular at the time it had been constructed with grand windows that flooded the large rooms with light for any occasion that was hosted there including one for herself. The party held thereafter she aided the King’s Army through Purgatory while fighting off their Nordic foes was a grand affair with the Duke’s extended family, even his own brother attended to celebrate her achievement.

Once she entered the North Wing, Waverly quietly rapped on the wooden door to Dolls’ room. He answered instantly, still clad in his tabard and trousers, but his belt sitting on the bedside table. Standing closer to him, Waverly noted his gentle features. She had never seen someone that looked like him in person. His skin was so perfectly dark with little to no imperfections. He was a very kind spirit with a polite demeanor and proper grammar Waverly thought not quite possible for knights. Dolls bowed and kept his distance as he was taught, the untouchable guardian for Purgatory he had been assigned to be.

Waverly returned to the West Wing, attending to Nicole before retiring to her own quarters until supper. In the long corridor of rooms, the young Lady went to her guest’s chamber, rapping on her door and patiently waiting for her to open it. Nicole stood before her in a very different outfit. She had ditched her heavy armor and chainmail for a long green and white jerkin that buckled in the middle and up fairly high on her neck. She stood before her with her hands behind her back in attention while she waited to be addressed.

“How are your lodgings?”

“Not too bad especially with the view of the mountains,” she gestured to the window. “Thank you for being so kind as to let me stay here.”

“I’m glad you are enjoying your room,” Waverly smiled.

“How are you, M’Lady?”

“I’m quite well, actually. I’m, uh, glad our paths crossed,” she confided in her. “There has been a lot happening, but I know that you will do great things to help us and Nedley. I do hope you do not feel too cramped here.”

Nicole waved her hand, “I think I’ll fare perfectly well while I’m here and at this point, I’m glad I’m somewhere else. Would you like to come in?”

“Sure.”

Nicole took the other chair from the desk and placed it by the old velvet one by the window. “I’m actually quite glad you came by. I wanted to apologize again for overstepping my boundaries. I hope I did not offend you, M’Lady.” Waverly sat in the chair, lounging in the creaking chair as she listened to her. “I hope my mistake has not set us back.”

“I’m sure it hasn’t,” she assured her. “Tell me a bit more about yourself. If you are going to stay here, I would like to know at least a bit about my guest.” Waverly relaxed into the chair as she regarded the graceful mountain range. “For instance, why do you cover up your accent?”

“I try to sound less conspicuous when I’m not home. You Brits haven’t always been the kindest to my people, so I just try to blend in.”

“So why do you not fake it around me?”

“I guess I just trusted that you would not judge me based on where I grew up.”

“Mm, you are right, I try not to judge based solely on appearances,” Waverly shyly agreed. “Now, tell me, you do a fair amount of traveling, where have you been?”

“Ah, many places,” she began, placing her hands on her knees and standing before her hostess. “I have been all over the Fief and England.”

“Have you been to London?”

“Only for a short while when I was young. Duke Carlo sent me and a few others out there to shadow Royal Guards and Constables before we were sent back to implement their policies.”

“Sounds amazing,” Waverly smiled, “How was the city?”

“Cramped, in all honesty, and we were stationed in the Royal Barracks alongside the other Guards. The city was dark and there were people everywhere, shoulder to shoulder, no matter the time of day,” she chuckled. “It was a fun way to explore the city.”

“So did you drink your way through London?”

“No, not entirely, but I did gamble my way through Wembley.”

“Oh my.”

“Well, I learned that I don’t have great luck, but I at least got the chance to immerse myself in the city while I was there.”

“How much money did you lose?”

“More than I’m willing to admit,” she laughed. “With your sister in power, you might actually have time to explore outside of Purgatory.”

“Maybe, but I would not mind a guide to take me on my adventure. Where else have you been?”

“One of the first places I was stationed was Leeds back in 1619. It was a fairly quiet town when I was last there. Not much to do but the people were kind, so I was able to make some connections while I was there.”

“With whom?”

“Some of the cloth traders, but I ended up spending the most time with the Pressman family and their tribe in Harewood.” Nicole took a moment to watch her hostess’ reaction, smiling as she elicited a longing gaze from her. “I’m sure they would love the company of such an intriguing person like yourself.”

“Oh, I think you might have mistaken me with someone else, I am not that interesting,” she dismissed. “But I would love to travel to Leeds someday. Anywhere else you have been?”

“Only random deployments around England and Scotland. I never got the chance to ask you, but what have you always dreamed of doing?”

“I… nothing interesting, I just want to explore the world.”

“You must have read something in your books. Something that sparked your desires more than anything else?” Nicole meandered around the room as she waited for her to respond. She spent the silence gazing at the old novels on the shelf, dust resting upon them undisturbed for years. She plucked out a fictional book from the highest shelf. “Have you read the books in here?”

“No, especially not those ones,” she joked.

“Ah, yes. I can see why not,” she noted as she looked at the surprisingly clean book in her hands. “Hm, but not this one. It’s not in English, do you know what this says?” she asked handing Waverly the dark maroon book.

She brushed her thumb over the silver lettering pressed into the cover as she read it out loud, “Phaedrus, it’s a dialogue piece from ancient Greece.”

“A dialogue, of what?”

“Of persuasion, death, and… humanity,” she explained.

“Interesting never heard of it.” Nicole flipped through the book, stopping fairly early on as a few words caught her eye. “Humanity, what do you consider a topic of humanity?” she asked, folding down the corner of the page.

“Well, um… I-” Waverly cut herself off as Nicole walked to the balcony, “I consider it… what are you doing?”

“I think I hear someone,” she whispered as she looked over the edge. “Dolls and your sister are talking down there.”

“Where?” she asked as she joined Nicole by the wall.

“I think they’re bickering.”

“Why?” she wondered as she peered over the edge.

Nicole pulled her from the edge as Wynonna looked up at them. “Hm… I’m not quite sure.” They silently tried to listen in to the conversation, failing as they only heard the inflections in their voices as the two argued below. Nicole clasped her hands nervously against her chest and turned to face her hostess. “I wonder if supper’s ready.”

Waverly escaped from the dining hall to her chambers where she began to undress. She slipped into her light nightgown and scanned her library for any books she wanted to read again, but knew that she would have to go back to Nicole’s chambers to find her favorites. Her head sank as she rolled out the small kinks in her neck, pressing her hand to her back to hopefully relieve some of the pain from her corset. After her usual routine, she watched the setting sun from her bed and shielded her eyes from the rays that reflected off of her vanity. She blew out the remaining candles by her bed and slid under the covers, feeling the warm pan of coals underneath her protect her from the cold nights.

A sudden knock broke her lucid mid-slumber. Using the remaining light from just between the Cloody Pass, Waverly walked to the door, opening it to spot Nicole in her brat and jerkin, her sword strapped to her hip.

“Dame Haught, what are you doing here?”

“Dolls sent me to watch over you.”

“Why?”

“Something he and Wynonna spoke about,” she explained, “What we thought was their disagreement.”

“Well, you can tell them both that I am perfectly capable of watching over myself, I have gotten by just as well without her for the past seven years, thank you, madam.”

“I understand, but I-”

Waverly waved her hand to silence her before placing it on Nicole’s shoulder, “Try not to worry yourself, I will talk with Wynonna about this.” Nicole quickly nodded and stepped out of her way as she awaited her next order. “Go back to your room, if I lose I will retrieve you.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Waverly began her trek through the ever dimming castle to the old Southern Wing where she and her sisters once played and created trouble. She silently passed by their old playroom and the chamber their Governess lived in. Beyond that were their rooms that had been refurbished by Aunt Augustine only a year after the disappearance of her elder nieces. Waverly couldn’t stand this wing, nor the Eastern side where her parents’ and Aunt’s rooms were, and spent her time avoiding the hallways as often as she could in the cramped fiefdom. She sighed as she locked eyes with Wynonna’s door before finally knocking on it, only a moment passing before her sister opened it.

“I have no need for your protection, I have gotten by just well without it. I know your gesture was out of love, but I find it rude to use a guard to protect me from night terrors.”

“Night terrors? I-”

“I sent her back to her room-” Wynonna only rolled her eyes and pulled her into her room. “What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to protect you and this town from… Them.”

“You will have to be more specific,” she huffed, regarding the room she was in.

“The Revenants, I saw them on my way, er, their banners. They were making their way back over Lover’s Pass like last time.”

“Last time? You mean the last time when…-”

“When everything went to hell, yes,” she confirmed, her eyes worriedly glancing at her sister then down at her own necklace. “Just like last time,”

“We are not prepared to fend them off again, there are far too many of them and I doubt the Guerilla tactics you learned from your hiatus will be of use.”

“We need to prepare then. You remember how to spar?”

“Of course I do. I had nothing better to do with my time.”

“I know you don’t want a guard, but will you humor me and keep each other safe? I have Dolls with Aunt Augustine, so you aren’t alone in being watched over.”

“What about you?”

“No one knows I’m here except for us and the servants.”

“What about when they do find out, because they will, Robert will.”

“Well, if I die then I die and I guess you’ll have another go as the ruler.”

“Don’t joke about that, Wynonna,” she huffed, “I’ll let her guard my room, just… if you go after them bring us along.”

Waverly stepped out of the unfamiliar room and started towards her own chambers before her sister could protest. She took the same route back to Nicole’s room this time and knocked on her door, not wanting to spend any more time awake as the night finally settled in the valley. Nicole stood before her with her hair down and only in her black trousers and white button-up, having removed her outer clothes for her own slumber. Waverly took a step so she stood under the doorway.

“Did you win?”

“I’m only humoring my sister. May I come in?”

“Wouldn’t you rather stay in your room, if you don’t mind me asking.”

“I’m far too tired to care,” she huffed, finding her spot on the love seat by the fireplace.

“Please, take my bed, I’ll stay by the fire,” Nicole offered. “It’s the least I could do for you.”

“No, I’d rather stay by the warm fire tonight.”

“I insist, please, sleep in my bed, your maid placed a bed warmer underneath so I would not freeze,” Nicole almost commanded. She stood and neared her hostess, placing her hands in the same spot her belt would have been. “My duty is to protect those who inhabit Purgatory, and that includes you.”

“And they say yours is a dying breed,” she joked defeatedly as she went to Nicole’s bed. “At least find your spot in here once the fire dies.”

Nicole closed her eyes and shook her head, “I’ll have to decline your offer, M’Lady, thank you.”

[mareshmallow]

Beauty and the Beast (not really) Pt II

Part I

Her prison cell wasn’t a cell at all, but rather a modest, plush bedroom.

Mare tried to hide her surprise when Cal led her up to the east wing as he called it and not down into some filthy cell. Sure the room was grand and all, but it was still something to keep her contained. That was further evidenced by the click of the lock which Cal had shut.

He had left an hour ago and barely said anything which suited Mare just fine. Her time inside her comfortable prison had been spent looking around for any manner of escape. All she had come up with was a few tied up bedsheets. Her room was located at the top of a tower, and unlike the princess who had managed to get down with her ridiculously long hair, that seemed very scientifically impossible to Mare.

She huffed in annoyance and boredom as she wandered the sitting room for the fifth time in the past hour. It was a large space with two flower printed sofa’s, a few table stands and one glass coffee table supported by elegantly carved metal legs in shapes of vines and fruits. The ceiling was painted in a sky blue accented with gold. The walls were coated in a flowery print which Mare thought looked ridiculous. The amount of flowery things in this room was ridiculous. Thank goodness she didn’t have allergies or else the situation would have been much more miserable.

Mare scanned the room, hoping to stumble across some secret passage of sorts. In her novels, castle’s were filled with them. All she needed to do was find them. A rattling sound outside of the door halted her in her tracks. Mare dove for the sofa and snatched up a book that had been laying on the coffee table all the while trying to look as inconspicuous as possible.

The charade of a calm appearance was all for naught as a cart strolled in with a teapot and cup seemingly all on it’s own. Mare furrowed her brows as she came to inspect the cart. What the hell was this even? Did Cal send this? Mare had an inkling that there was more to this castle than met the eye.

“Are you just going to sit there or can I leave now?” a voice said seemingly out of thin air. Mare jumped and scrambled away. Instinct screamed at her to pull out the knife her father gave her, but what good would that do against an invisible target? Besides, she was saving it for that Beast.

To her disbelief, the pot turned at gave her the most unamused expression she had ever seen. It raised a painted brow and Mare resisted the urge to collapse in shock. “You-you…” was all she could get out. The pot rolled it’s eyes. “Yes, yes I’m a talking appliance, now let’s get on with it,” it said dismissively. “Do you prefer sugar with your tea?” it asked, ignoring Mare’s openmouthed stare. It turned it’s gaze on her with exasperation. “I don’t have all day, what do you want?”

Mare gulped down her fear and confusion. She would have to sort that out later. “I don’t want your tea. What I want is information,” she said carefully. She could’ve sworn it’s lips tilted upwards into a small smile.

“Well at least you’ve got somewhat of a brain on you. I was starting to wonder,” she commented. She bristled at that. Mare couldn’t help but think that this was truly a terrible day if she was being berated by a teapot. “And where’s your brain? Lodged in your spout perhaps?” she spit back. Her fingers itched towards the knife. She had no idea what this strange talking teapot was capable of.

The teapot let out a whistling noise in what she assumed was a sound of amusement. “That knife won’t help you much, girl.” As if in response, the cutting knives that lay on the tray spun in an neat arc, their edges gleaming in the soft rays of sunlight. It was menacing to say the least. Mare gritted her teeth and stepped back, acknowledging her defeat.

“That’s a good girl, very smart of you,” the teapot said. “Now, do stay right here. They’ll be here to address you shortly.” With that said, the cart wheeled itself out. Mare let out a deep sigh of frustration. She did not want to see him again, for she was fairly certain she wouldn’t be able to contain herself before the time was right. Doubt wormed its way into her heart no matter how hard she tried to fight it though. When it came down to it, when the perfect moment really did present itself, would she be strong enough to use the blade? To be haunted by the memory of blood on her hands till the rest of her days?

Cal was an unpleasant person, but could she really kill someone?

It doesn’t matter, she thought. I’ll find out.

Mare slumped into the bed feeling utterly exhausted. The past few hours had been so strange that Mare was convinced that this was all a bad dream. Well, she had thought that until she cut herself with the knife to prove that this was her new demented reality. Mare idly rubbed her fingers over the cut. It would definitely leave a scar, but she didn’t mind.

Another slight rustle at the door made Mare jump. She then settled herself to sit in, refusing to stand for him. It was a small childish act of rebellion but she couldn’t help but feel resistant. When the door swung open, Mare didn’t look. The clomping of feet didn’t sound like him though, compared to his graceful steps, almost dancer-like she thought. No, this was someone else. She turned her head but to her surprise she couldn’t see anyone. Out of panic, she jumped from the bed, grabbing a pillow though she wasn’t sure how much use it would be.

She peered down at the floor only to inch back in shock. No, no, no, there’s absolutely no way this is happening, she thought. You’ve been confined in a strangers castle for plucking a rose, seen a walking, talking teapot, her mind hissed. And this is the strangest thing you’ve claimed to have experienced?

Unfortunately her mind did have a point. But that did not provide an explanation as to what was before her. 

“Sorry miss, did I startle you?” the candelabra inquired, peering up at Mare who could only stare back in shock. It–he–had a thick french accent. The small clock next to him rolled his eyes, it’s hands twitching in annoyance. “Oh no, of course not. This is just another ordinary day for her, you know? Conversing with candelabra and teapots and the like,” it spit with sarcasm.

The candelabra shot the clock a glare. “I was only trying to be polite. Thanks for that captain obvious.” The clock let out an exasperated hiss. Or at least Mare thought it sounded like a hiss. “Honestly Rafe, why do you have to do this now?”

“Um I’m not the one making such a big deal out it?”

“I’m not making a big deal out of it!”

The candle raised it’s eyebrows.

“Well you–!”

“Okay, okay,” Mare said once she finally shook herself out her dazed stupor. She held out her hand, gesturing for them to stop. Their words halted and they looked at her, like they had forgotten she was there at all. Mare tried not to bristle at that.

“You weren’t supposed to be here anyway,” the candelabra muttered.

“God knows what you’d do without me, possibly terrorized this poor girl,” the clock shot back.

“I said enough,” Mare repeated, this time with an edge sharpening her tone. They paused at that, finally giving her their attention. “First off, don’t speak about me like I’m not here, secondly stop your pointless bickering, and lastly, where is the–” Mare hesitated. She couldn’t very well call him beast, could she? “–Owner of this castle?” she demanded, feeling out the new words. Oh did she have many names for him, but being disrespectful wouldn’t help her much. She knew she would need help, and that began with determining where his staff’s loyalties lay. 

“Er,” the candelabra stuttered while the clock shuffled nervously beside it.

Mare raised a brow.

“He’s in the west wing,” it said at last, almost reluctantly. This had to be important information, Mare thought. But how?

“What is in the west wing?” she asked, feeling her eyebrows narrow in curiosity. “It matters not, my lady,” the clock cut in smoothly. That only rose her suspicions. “Come now, dinner awaits us.”

“Dinner?”

“Yes dinner, a formal evening meal, typically held in honour of a person of importance, though it may also be casual–”

“I know what dinner is,” Mare snapped. “I want to know why he wishes for my presence. Aren’t I his prisoner?”

“Are you being held or tortured in a cell?”

“No.”

“Are you not at this very moment being kindly invited to a wonderful dinner by two of the most handsomest appliances you’ve ever seen?”

“That debatable actu–”

“I don’t see the problem, and you must be starving,” the candelabra added. He held out a still burning candle stick as a handshake. Mare shied away from the flame. “My name’s Rafe by the way, and this grumpy buzzkill,” he nodded to his right, “is Tyton.” Tyton grunted as a way of a formal greeting. “The charming pot that was just in here goes by Farley though her first name is Diana. Call her that though and you’ll find that you’ll probably be dead by morning surrounded by her favourite knives and tea bags.”

“She’s sweet once you get to know her,” Tyton offered. Rafe snorted. “Yeah and I’m as cool as a cucumber. Helloo,” he waved his flaming hand, “oh wait, I’m literally on fire.”

Tyton didn’t respond to him. Instead he turned to Mare. “In truth, the Master does not know of this and we intend to keep it that way. Think of it a gesture of kindness.” He smiled warmly at her.

Mare dragged her eyes around the room. It was the finest she’d ever been in, but that did not change or help to ease the truth as to why she was there. To serve time for a foolish crime. As if reading her thoughts, Tyton said gently, “it is only a prison if you make it so.”

Mare hated to admit it but feeding her thoughts on hate wouldn’t do much for her growling stomach. But if she was to escape, she couldn’t very well be a sack of bones running through those woods alone.

While this was still the place keeping her confined, that didn’t mean she couldn’t spin it to her advantage. That began with investigating the mysterious west wing and its secrets. Hopefully it contained a tool in helping her to rid the world of the beast for good.

But before she could do any of that, she needed to eat.

Mare stood, dusting off her skirts.

Tyton beamed while Rafe only gave her a lazy smile and gestured at the door. 

“Be our guest.”

*** This is hella late but I’m tagging @breebarrcw, @lilyharvord, @maudthebookeater, @chaoslaborantin, @redqueenfandom, @iris-cygnets.

[airheadandco]

The Curse 07

Discord drifted aimlessly, floating around, following the winds of Chaos wherever they may lead him. Something big was about to happen he just knew it. He hadn't felt such a powerful chaos storm brewing since those two mares had defied him.

It had been a long time since he hadn't left Equestria and he genuinely enjoyed the change. There were so many things to toy with! Those blue flowers, for example, had such untapped potential for chaos! He simply had to bring some to Equestria... after a bit of alteration of course.

He wondered what kind of exciting new things he would discover and/or create in this new land. Maybe a new race with feet for heads? Or jackalopes with ridiculously long legs?

Oh! Good one! I should totally note this one down for later use.

"Discord!"

Or maybe open portals to other dimensions all over the country... Nah... Too boring.

"Discord!"

As Mama Discord said, never let otherworldly eldritch horrors do your work. If you want it done well, do it yourself.

"DISCORD!"

The draconequus stopped in mid-air, his annoyance clearly displayed on his face. Airhead didn't let it intimidate her.

"Urgh, what is it?"

"I-"

"Let me guess," he interrupted, closing on the unicorn, "I have wronged you in some way and you seek revenge?"

"Ye-"

His expression switched to interest all of a sudden. "Wait..." he interrupted again, putting his toe on Airhead lips. "You're different... No, no, don't tell me, I want to guess...Let's see... Hum, you're not from here..." He closed on the mare, sniffing the air around her. "Smell like magic... From another dimension maybe?" He shook his head, a talon placed under his chin in a thinking pose. "Still not it... But I'm getting warmer."

Without warnings, he produced tweezers with which he took a hair from Airhead's fur, which elicited an indignant yelp of pain from her. A snap of talon later, there was five more Discords in white blouses workings on different machines while the first one analysed the hair with a microscope conjured from thin air.

"Hum... yes... yes... I know! Time travel! I got right didn't I?" "Huh... yes..." Airhead admitted. "Haha!" he exclaimed, snapping the copies away. "I knew it! So what's the deal? I should come with you if I want to live? Find an almanac?" "What?" "You're right. No spoiler! I want the surprise!" "Enough!" Airhead finally snapped. "I'm here to stop you!" "Stop me?" Discord guffawed loudly, his body falling backwards and floating a few centimetres from the ground. He stopped after a time and looked at Airhead. "Wait you're serious... Let me laugh some more!" He said before doing exactly that. "What make you think," he let out between two bursts of laughter, "that you can stop me." "I'm not afraid of you!" "Oh, but you should..." he answered darkly.

He rose to his whole size looking down on the unicorn. Despite her protection and preparation, Airhead felt the full weight of the chimaera's power. Her horn and the runes on the bones lit up with magic.

It’s too late to turn back now.

Pony and Draconequus faced each other for a long time, waiting for the other to move.

They moved at the same time. Discord tried to click his fingers but Airhead's magic was faster.

The spirit's toes didn't meet with their usual snap nor their reality altering impact. Discord sent a intrigued look at his paw, only to see them encased in marshmallows.

"You clever girl..."

The bones lit up again. The blue flowers grew wildly around the Draconequus, ensnaring him in their grip. The spirit's body cartoonishly inflated like a balloon and popped up under the pressure, unleashing a hoard of tiny Discords running and sliding on the plants. They quickly grouped up and fused to reform their original body.

"You little..." Discord started while putting a marshmallow in his mouth. "Hmmm... Schtrawberry..."

Another magic ray went in Discord's way. He avoided it by twisting his serpentine body. More rays went his way. Discord avoided them all, amused at the tentative.

"You'll have to do better than this," he jested as he convoked a bullfighter attire.

"If you insist," Airhead answered through gritted teeth. The wind started to build up around the draconequus. Discord watched as dark cloud gathered above and around him.

"Ohoh..." he said as hail and snow fell heavily around him. He tried vainly to fight it off with an umbrella but the elements proved stronger than the device.

"Ohoh..." he repeated as ice started to grow on his body.

The wind slowly receded the clouds dissipated, revealing Discord, now encased in a block of ice with only his tail and head sticking out.

"Bravo, little one" Discord mocked. "That was really impressive. I would clap but I am a bit taken at the moment. I hope you don’t mind if I give you the cold shoulder. "

"You will leave my tribe in peace..." Airhead said, breathing heavily. "Your tribe?" he chuckled, seemingly unbothered by his situation. "So this is what it's been about?"

"You know it is!"

"No really. I had not even noticed its existence."

"Lies!" "A bold claim, and certainly full of wisdom considering who I am. However, if I may present a counterargument: Why would I lie?" As if to prove his point, Discord slid free of his icy prison, as effortlessly as one would leave their clothes. Airhead's horn lit up again, but this time, the Draconequus scoffed at the attack. The magic passed harmlessly through his body. Discord snapped in retaliation and Airhead's horn grew wings and flew off her head while her bone-suit left her body and started to dance in circles around her.

"Am I convincing now?"

Despair and confusion were growing inside Airhead, muddling her thoughts and eroding her assurance. Has she been wrong all this time? "I saw it! With my own eyes!" "Really? Well let's watch," he said, producing a bucket of popcorn. "Watch, my incredulous unicorn."

In her early youth, Airhead had all it took to become an extraordinarily talented bonemaker. Her knowledge of the magic of the Bone Equines ran deeper than most. She could feel it, flowing between the members of the tribe, flowing inside her, through her very bones and thanks to her education and years of observing her parents work, her knowledge had only grown deeper.

She had all it took, save for one quality that youth often lacks. Patience.

On that fateful day, Airhead stole a bone, a blank unicorn horn, free of any magic and tried to put a spell in it. It was a very special spell, born from youthful idealism and impatience, one that would link the whole tribe as one and make everyone's magic instantly accessible to everyone. It would have been the pinnacle of Bone Magic. One shared bond for everyone, and all would benefit from the full potential of their magic. It would have changed the life of the Bone Equines forever.

However, it failed.

Airhead was not a unicorn, she had never formal training in magic, she had never used this kind of magic, she simply wasn't ready... The spell grew in power faster than she could keep up with and soon she lost consciousness as it became out of control.

It acted as a hungry predator, seeking and sucking all the magic it could find. It spread like a disease upon the unsuspecting tribe. Unicorns, earth ponies, pegasi, buffaloes and deer were emptied of their very essence in a matter of seconds. One after the others they fell, victims of a spell that was meant to help them.

And so fell the tribe of the Bone Equines.

"And I had nothing to do," the draconequus chuckled as a tearful unicorn watched her tribe die.

The end of a tribe... featuring nobody for once. Airhead is alone to face her mistakes.

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[oh-my-otome]

Otome Sitch: Fatherhood

Continuing with the last otome sitch, where you have a pregnancy scare, this time Precious Anon requested the suitors as fathers! 

Three of these suitors are fathers canonically in at least one of their routes: two from MidCin and one from SLBP. 

I used a random generator, and kept randomizing until I got these three daddios in the proper category, boy or girl, for the baby that they have in their routes. 

Here we go! 

Shigezane and Kyo are the laid-back, cool dads. They know all of the latest slang, but thankfully don’t embarrass their sons by using it in front of their friends. For the most part. There have been some cringe-worthy slip-ups. 

They enjoy a close relationship with their boys, but that time they spotted their son in town and jogged over to say “hi,” only to realize that their son was walking hand-in-hand with his girlfriend, gave them a pang of longing for the days when he was only knee-high.

* * *

Sakamoto and Hijikata are surprisingly hands on. They watched you like a hawk for the first few weeks after your baby was born, and now they can do a better swaddle than you can.

They’ve deciphered your infant son’s cries in no time and can tell a hungry cry from a wet nappy one with their eyes closed. 

Sakamoto can get your son to fall asleep by dangling his pocket watch in front of his tired eyes, while Hijikata is highly entertained by putting his reading glasses on your son’s sleeping face.

* * *

“Just wait here,” the young boy whispered, with the back of his hand framing his mouth. 

“I’ve known him a long time,” Kenshin said, his voice just as low, as he pressed himself against the wall, the two of them sidling closer to the door.  In playing their favorite game so many times, they had long ago made a mental map of which squeaky tell-tale floorboards to avoid.

“It’ll never work,” he continued, as his son peeked around the door frame on tiptoe. “I think I might have even tried it myself one time,” Kenshin added, looking down at the list in his hand, and back up again. “Pretty sure he threw a shoe at me.” 

Clicking his tongue at his father, the boy flashed a confident grin even as he pressed his index finger to his lips in a gesture of silence. With a theatrical shake of his head to swing his bangs from in front of his eyes, the boy stepped forward into the room.

“Kanetsugu, father says you lack proper posture.”

“He what!? Him of all people?” Kanetsugu straightened upon his cushion in an unconscious display of proving the boy wrong.

“I bet him that you could keep your helmet balanced on your head if you bent over. Without the ties.” Kanetsugu gave a snort at that, as if it were common knowledge. “Father just laughed, though. Said there was no way.”

Incensed, Kanetsugu snatched his helmet from the shelf, his eyes blazing as his brows drew down on the bridge of his nose. 

“Laughed, did he!?” he fumed as he fit the armor on his head, bending in a crisp bow that had his back almost parallel to the floor.

“Now see here! I’ll show you posture! First a bow and then--” There was a swift breeze, and Kanetsugu was aware that his head suddenly felt lighter. He stood up just in time to see a flash of the little lord’s kimono as he ran from the room, carrying his bulky helmet.

“Dad! Run! I got it!”

With a sudden snap of realization, Kanetsugu gave chase.

“The two of you and your damn scavenger hunts!”

* * *

Leo and Giles have a friendly rivalry with each other, every time there is a children’s spelling bee or trivia tournament. After each event, they take turns paying for ice cream or pizza, but more than once one of them will “forget” whose turn it is and their wallet just so happens to be “at home.”

* * *

Mitsuhide and Saito: helicopter dads. Always in the way following behind their toddlers, they can’t leave the house without a big bag filled with all kinds of stuff “just in case.” 

Saito, of course, always has bandages to spare, while Mitsuhide has no qualms with using his own sleeve as a bib if he has to.

* * *

No one was sure exactly how it happened, but Louis’ son seems more like Sid in temperament, and Sid’s like Louis. When they’re with their own dads, they’re just fine, but when they get together for gatherings, all kinds of mischief would ensue-- such as the frog in the punch bowl incident that was not to be talked about.

* * *

Hideyoshi, Keiki and Haru are the types of dads who want their children to have everything that they never had. As such, they sometimes don’t know when to put their foot down. While that may be one of their flaws, they still respect their own family traditions: young Toyotomi helps his father tend their personal vegetable patch that they cultivate together each year. Keiki and his son happily live dual lives in the capital and helping in the kitchen at Shiki. And Haru and his son make an annual trip to see the cherry blossoms in their hometown.

* * *

It was a given that Nobunaga would have your son climbing trees as soon as he learned how to walk, but you were surprised to see this general fall so easily at the hands of “the enemy.” 

Whenever they play fight with their wooden swords, your young son always manages to easily take down one of Japan’s strongest fighters. Nobunaga lies prostrate on the floor with over-dramatic cries of “you got me!” to your son’ delight.

You will never tire of how excited Takasugi gets whenever there is a festival. Previously, you couldn’t even get him to go if you paid him, but now he’s elbowing kids out of the way so that he and your son have enough room at the ring toss stall.

If they’re not coming home sticky from eating so many sweets, they’re wobbling toward the general direction of your house, barely able to see over the mountain of stuffed animals they won.

* * *

Your infant son tends to be fussy sometimes, so Shingen puts him in a wrap, tying it securely to his body, so that the baby is snug and warm against his chest. To your horror, he gets his mare into a fox trot-- baby and all. The motion gets your son to sleep in no time, but you can’t help wringing your hands.

* * *

Anytime your son cries, Mitsunari comes flying. He plucks the baby from your arms and settles himself in his library, a haori flung over them for warmth as he quietly reads your baby to sleep. Of course, your son is too young to understand what his father is saying, but the look of affection on Mitsunari’s face as your son snuggles up to him, eyes already drooping with sleep, is just precious.

* * *

“What about this one?” Okubo held out a thin book.

“Read it,” said his son flatly, not even looking up from his calligraphy.

“You barely even cracked it open!”

“Book osmosis.”

“That’s not a real thing!” Okubo cried, tossing it like a Frisbee toward the rest of the books in the corner. He had been trying all afternoon to get his son to read something. Anything. He needed to see it for himself. It shouldn’t be possible.

“How about the one on the--”

“Lame twist ending.”

“Fine! The one with the--”

“Butler did it.”

Okubo let out a scream of frustration before swan diving into a stack of books and emerging with the first one he laid his hands on.

“This one!” he shouts, thrusting it under his son’s nose. The boy moved back automatically, accidentally leaving a black slash on his parchment, ruining his meticulous hour of practice. 

“You can’t have possibly read this one, yet! Your mother just bought it the other day! Let’s see your photographic memory handle this!” Feeling triumphant, Okubo joins you in the kitchen.

“He really does have a very good memory, though,” you say, rinsing off a pot in the sink.

“No one can read a book once, in less than an hour, and absorb every last word to the point of being able to recite it from memory.”

“Which book did you give him this time?”

“That new one you just bought. About the red letter.”

You drop the pot in the sink at the same time Okubo realizes what he’s done, his eye going wide.

He peals out of the kitchen with a screech.

“Son! Wait!”

“Do you know what time it is!?” you ask, as you slam your hand down to push yourself up in bed. You can’t take the off-kilter warbling a second longer. 

“I think the sun just went down a while ago,” Kojuro begins, shouting over the sour notes being played on his flute. He rocks your toddler back and forth gently, rhythmically. The only semblance of rhythm in this situation, actually. 

Your daughter bounces in time with the “notes” she’s “playing” as they echo off the castle walls with all the cadence of a cat being run over by a cart. Kojuro looks on in a state of pure rapture. She’s clearly a musical genius.

“Just how long have you two been-- the sun is coming up! Go to bed!”

* * *

“Dad, shouldn’t you be more...I don’t know...”

“More what?” Saizo struggles to say around the dango stuffed in his mouth. He picks a few of them clean from their skewers and reaches toward his daughter for more. 

“No! No! Don’t throw the skewers away! I can teach you how to stab a man with them!”

“Dad!” she cries, looking offended, “anyway, shouldn’t you be a little more...stealth about this. Mom will know it’s you.”

“Us.”

“You, dad. I don’t even like dango!”

“A crying shame, really.”

With an exaggerated huff, his daughter soundlessly drops one tree branch lower, careful not to shake even a single leaf out of place, and presses her back against the tree bark. Saizo reaches down to hand her another empty skewer at the same time she reaches up to give him the last of the dango he has yet to inhale.

He peers down at her between bites, but she’s looking away from him, haughty and indignant, just like how her mother can be some times. She really did get the best of both of them: his hair, the color of dappled moonlight, and her mother’s eyes. 

His agility and her mother’s cooking prowess. 

He first combined the two when she was old enough to start cooking without her mother’s guidance. 

“A game,” he called it, when she was younger. “We’re on a mission to sneak into the kitchen!” She used to love doing that when she was so much smaller. They’d stay up late making dango, and eating it, both of them, while they chatted happily in hushed voices. Then they’d wash the dishes and disappear without a trace. 

“We’re like real ninjas, dad!” If she only knew. At breakfast, they’d share conspiratorial smiles as they said they weren’t really hungry. 

It was their favorite game! Their precious father-daughter time! 

But she “doesn’t like” dango, now. He can’t count how many times she’s shouted at him that she’s “too old” for this and that.

He noticed that her posture shifted, and she seemed to be gazing down along the garden path. Saizo stiffened involuntarily. Did his wife find out they had “borrowed” her ingredients again? It wasn’t that she minded, it was losing his touch that annoyed him. He may have retired, but he didn’t want to get rusty. 

He followed her gaze and saw a teen, with the top half of his blue kimono pulled down, the sheen of sweat on his muscled back glistening in the sun. 

“No.” Saizo’s voice was a low rumble of warning as he leapt down beside his daughter without a sound. For all he trained her surreptitiously, his daughter jumped and almost slipped from the branch.

“Wha-- dad! I’m not--”

Sasuke, meanwhile, continued to train unaware.

* * *

“Dad, stop giggling! You’ll scare them!”

“It tickles, I’m sorry! Okay, I’m good now.” Kondo wiped the tears from his eyes using his shoulder, careful not to disturb the birds perched on him. He was sitting on the ground with his arms stretched wide, palms up. 

“They’re coming back! Let me give you more!” his young daughter cried, ladling more birdseed into his upturned hands. Finally, finally, he would get to interact with animals without them shunning him and running away. He’s waited so long!

“Look!” she said in a stage whisper, “It’s a squirrel this time! Quick, sit still!”

Kondo did as instructed, and the squirrel inched closer. The birds flew away on its approach, but Kondo remained where he was. It picked up the scattered bird seed that had fallen through the gaps in his fingers, and moved steadily closer with cautious steps, until it reached the hem of his hakama where a large seed lay.

“Uh...sweetie...”

“Shh, dad, you’ll scare him!” she said, but Kondo was already starting to slide his bottom backwards a little as the squirrel not only gathered the seed, but continued to prod around his pants leg.

“I think this is enough for today...” he tried to stand up, as the squirrel looked around to see if there was any more food to be had.

“Dad, wait!” but as Kondo pulled himself up, the squirrel latched onto his pants, deciding to stick with the source, hanging on for dear life.

“This isn’t fun anymore!”

* * *

Toshiie and Yuki full of energy when it comes to their daughters. If they’re not on their hands and knees pretending to be a horse, they’re giving piggyback rides or drawing in the dirt. They’re exhausted but happy at the end of the day, and your daughter never has a problem being “too tired” to take a nap, as many young children have complained.

* * *

Byron, Nico, Alyn and Albert stood watching their daughters play in a mud puddle. There was something satisfying about seeing their children do something proper young lords like themselves were never allowed to do. 

As they chatted about their work and their wives, something went whizzing by them, and they ducked out of the way just in time to see a ball of mud splatter on the ground 

“Whoa! Just a little off center. Sorry dad!” said little Burckhardt, wiping her muddy hands on her pinafore.

“Now, what have I told you!? Calculate the trajectory properly before you throw! Don’t stand there doubting your math while something sails through the air!”

“Excuse you, Burckhardt?” said Alyn to Albert as he stepped up beside his daughter. 

“Don’t worry, dad,” replied young Crawford coolly. She flipped her auburn pigtails over her shoulders with a flick of her head as she packed more mud onto her ball. Handing it to her father, she stooped to make another one. “We can make up for it with pure speed.”

Byron’s eye slid toward his daughter, who met his gaze with a determined glint. They nodded silently in unison and she tossed her father the mud ball she was holding, which he caught smoothly, without looking.

“You had better start kneeling. Wagners don’t surrender!” she jabbed her finger toward the Burckhardts and Crawfords. On her mark, her father’s mud ball streaked across the gap, hitting Albert square in the chest. 

Little Crawford took aim and her mud ball landed true, knocking Byron’s eye patch clean off, her father’s cry of “that’s my girl!” sounding over the top of her head.

Suddenly, there was a barrage of mud that seemed to come from all directions.

“You can’t hit us,” came Nico’s voice from the left, “if you can’t see us,” he said form the right. Following each phrase, there was a gust of wind, as if someone were running past, but indeed there seemed to be no one there.

“You were saying something about speed?” It was little Meier, this time, but from where? 

As one, Byron, Albert and Alyn stood shoulder to shoulder, forming a circle, their daughters peeking out from the center, mud balls at the ready.

“Now!” Nico cried. From above! But it was too late. As the men below looked up at the father and daughter crouched in the tree above them, they could do nothing to stop the onslaught of mud balls being rained down upon them.

* * *

Rayvis and Robert may live lofty lives, but they prefer to have their daughters understand early on that not everyone can live that way. They bring their daughters with them to see the town, and when they notice that they have outgrown some toys and clothes, they ask their daughters if they would be willing to donate them.

When they go to market, their daughters are in tow, and whenever they can, they ask their opinion on what their child would like to donate to the food pantry in their school.

* * *

“I can’t. No more.” Okita sank into a crouch before giving up and laying down on his side in the grass. He considered wiping the sweat on his brow, but he didn’t have the energy for it.

“You promised to play!” his daughter whined, her head tilted to the side.

‘Is that what I used to look like? Is that what I used to sound like?’ he wondered, exhausted. She looked so much like him that he accepted that it must be true.

Little miss Okita tutted at her father, poking him lightly in the back with her wooden practice sword.

“I will! I just need a breather!”

“Ooh! Never mind, she’s here!” his daughter shouted. Okita looked up just long enough to see her long ponytail swinging in the breeze as she ran toward her friend, before closing his eyes again, and placing his arm across his face.

“Took you long enough, Yamazaki,” he said wearily, “had to spar with her myself.”

Yamazaki sat in the grass beside his old friend. He waved at his daughter at her cry of “dad, watch this!” The two were engaged in their usual playful duel of who was best: a samurai or a ninja. 

“Hard to imagine you got bested by a little kid,” Yamazaki chuckled, looking back at Okita, “look at you all tuckered out. For shame.”

“Shut up!” Okita replied with what was intended to be a kick in Yamazaki general direction. He could barely lift his leg and Yamazaki had no trouble batting his foot away.

Sitting upon his elbows, Okita looked over at the two girls. Young Yamazaki performed a back handspring just in time to avoid the slash of his daughter’s wooden sword, both of them laughing as they went. It was no surprise that Yamazaki passed on his agility, but Okita remained amazed at his daughter’s inexhaustible stores of energy.

“I don’t know how you guys could stand me back in the day,” Okita started, weariness tinging his every syllable.

“Never said we could.”

* * *

Ieyasu is certainly raising an outdoorsy young lady. If they don’t have their bows slung over their backs on their way to the training grounds, they have their field journals in hand, the edges of the pages worn with use, as they look for plants and wildlife they have yet to identify and sketch.

There wasn’t a retainer in all of the Tokugawa brave enough to remind Ieyasu that he still had the flower crown, that his daughter made for him, on his head as he conducted his war council.

* * *

Katsura is a little too helpful when it comes to his daughter. Though he meant well, he was almost in the midwife’s way, when you were in labor. He enjoys walking through the town and showing her off while he’s out shopping. Katsura is the very picture of a proud father.

He won’t tell you, but he cried a little bit when “daddy” wasn’t her first word. 

It was “Koma.”

* * *

“So embarrassing.” 

“Unbelievable.”

The Ladies Date and Sanada knelt with their daughters on their laps at one side of the hall while Yukimura and Masamune crouched a few yards away, arms outstretched.

“We’re finally settling our feud once and for all!” Masamune said, giving the signal.

On his mark, the ladies gently set their toddlers on the smooth floor. They were matched for pace as they crawled toward their fathers, but they changed course just before they reached them-- baby Date determinedly going to Yukimura and baby Sanada giggling as she crawled toward Masamune.

“It doesn’t count!” Masamune starts.

“Do-over! That’s a clear do-over!” Yukimura agreed.

The ladies gather their children and leave the hall, shaking their heads.

* * *

“You look exhausted!” you remark, as Todo throws himself heavily upon the bedding, placing your baby daughter gently beside him. The bags under his eyes are darkening each day and he seems a little slimmer now that you look at him closely. 

With a laugh, your daughter sits up and grasps at his sleeve, which he acknowledges with a tired smile, too worn out to even turn and look at her.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Just fine,” he says, the weariest you’ve ever heard him, dragging a hand across his face. “She didn’t go far this time,” he says between yawns. “Do you think we should put a leash on her?”

You whirl around to tell him that you’re not about to put a leash on your baby, when you notice she’s no longer by his side.

“Shit. Not again!” you can hear Todo’s voice trailing off as he quickly fades from your vision the way a drop of dye disperses in water. 

He reappears before you in a matter of minutes, clutching your daughter for all he’s worth, completely out of breath. As you take him in, you notice that his clothes are torn, and both father and baby are damp with snow.

“Where was she this time?” you ask, beyond surprised, at this point. The Todo clan genes are a little...special.

“I...I have seen some stuff today...” he begins, looking completely shell-shocked. 

Taking your daughter from his clutches, you hand him a piece of parchment and a brush that you pre-dipped with ink in the short while that he was gone. Having done this so many times since she’s been born, you already have a system.

“You’re fine now. Just draw it on the paper. I’ll tell you where you’ve been.”

Todo sits down shakily and beings to draw upon the parchment in large strokes. With trembling hands, he passes the paper to you.

“Ah. That would be a woolly mammoth. Pleistocene epoch. We call it the ‘Ice Age.’”

[easkyrah]

Prompt for: "I'm not a stop along the way. I'm a destination." Either Nessian or Elorcan. You'll probably ruin me anyways. Thank you for your fanfictions and making my heart bleed.

—Decided to try something new: a new writing style and one not full of angst. For the former, here’s a Nessian AU of a Cassian x Reader fic. 

Y/N: Your Name

“and then she knew, you could be homesick for people too”

I’m not a stop along the way. I’m a destination.

Cassian had been your childhood friend, stuck by your side as soon as you came crying out of the womb. Your mothers had been best friends, attached at the hip as well: they attended the same book club, listened to the same music, and graduated all their classes together. It only made sense that you and Cassian be the same.

While you were in kindergarten, he had been a second grader, boasting that he was no longer considered one of the runts; he had sworn that it was his duty to protect you, pinky promising with a solemn face. While you were in fourth grade, he had graduated to middle school; he had sworn to walk you home, even if he had to trudge through the muddy trails to reach your elementary school. While you were in high school, he had graduated to Illyrian College; he had sworn to take you to prom, the best night of your life.

You applied to Illyrian College, keeping your promise to Cassian. You didn’t even to reassure him—he had your heart. Of course you’d never tell him that.

As months passed and everyone stopped gushing over you and Cass, you didn’t. Little did they all know that your heart belonged to your studies so you would be accepted into the top-tier school on a full-ride scholarship to Illyrian College. Everything you did was to ensure that you would see Cassian again, and be attached to your best friend at the hip again.

In first grade, you’d swapped friendship bracelets, giving him a hot-pink wrap of plastic, Cassian giving you an ugly brown strand to match your eyes, he’d said. You’d cried, an emotional little girl, but he had stroked away those tears with the pads of his thumbs as you inhaled his musky scent of firewood and mint.

Sometimes he’d come back home on breaks, lifting you up in those strong, muscular arms of his, grinning from ear to ear, and dimpling. Binge watching Netflix shows, wrapped in a single blanket on the loveseat couch, you’d fall asleep against his hard chest, content and safe within his embrace that offered warmth and security. He’d carry you to your room, and kiss the top of your forehead. One time you had caught him, and he had denied the entire ordeal, blushing furiously. To shut you up, he had crawled under the sheets next to you, grumbling that the guest room was too far away. He had been your living heating furnace, and when you awoke, you’d be cradled into his arms once again, or the smell of bacon and toast would fill the air. Minutes later, he had entered your room, a tray of steaming breakfast with two cups of orange juice.

You’d swap stories of your senior adventures, and how you had soared above your teachers’ expectations. It seemed like you would be valedictorian, while Cassian had been an All-American athlete in track and field, and wrestling. Sports had been Cassian’s outlet, just as writing had been yours.

Everyone didn’t see why you weren’t dating, and neither did you. Except you had an inkling why: Cassian saw you as nothing more than a younger sister. He was so oblivious to how you had dressed fancifully in a daring sensation just to garner his attention, not the other males at her school. Yet he had taken you to prom, asked you out bachelor style, ordering a white horse and bouquets of red roses. After he had mounted off the mare, he had gotten down on his knees, ruining his pressed slacks.

“I love you,” he whispered into your ear, biting the tip of your earlobe. His hazel eyes had watches shivers wrack across your body, and he’d released you with a satisfied smile, expectantly awaiting your answer. 

You had said yes, of course. This was the boy who had tickled you relentlessly and poked fun into your normal, boring life. This was the boy who had been angered when he had found out that you had applied to Hybern College. This was a boy who had ignored you for a week, not answering any of your texts or your calls or voicemails or private messages or emails.

It was during this week that you’d gotten closer to Jurian, who had been hit by a baseball bat during a frat party one of his friends had invited him too. All Jurian remembered was that the aggressor had an Illyrian tattoo and some initials inked over his arm that wove across his shoulder. You’d brought coffee and homemade food to the hospital, where Jurian learned to see through one eye. The bat had smashed through his eye, and later on, during a dare, something had infected his eye.

The infection proved to be deadly, as Jurian thought he had been having a seizure.

You had called Cassian while loitering in the patient’s room.

He had not answered.

You missed him. You missed the boy that uplifted you, kissed your forehead, and made you breakfast. The boy who watched shows with you and provided you with vanilla ice cream when you were feeling low. The boy who helped you choose your professional attire for interviews and forced you to run at least a mile around the track with him on Saturday afternoons.

You had attended every single one of his wrestling matches and his track meets, cheering for him in the sidelines. When he went to the locker room, he’d always meet you in the back, demanding a quick kiss on the cheek for good luck. Every time he came victorious, in first, he said it was because you were his lucky charm, always there for him. And you were.

Except now he wasn’t. He’d taken off the pink bracelet you’d given him ages ago, said it wasn’t manly of him. Said that even though it didn’t bother him, it bothered his friends who jested him on the playing field. 

During this week of silence, you decided to apply last-minute for other colleges, not wanting to be caught between this rivalry. You knew Jurian had applied to Hybern, while your heart remained to its’ rival, the Illyrian college harboring the boy you had loved from the earliest haze of your memories. Finally clicking the submit button for your essays, recommendations, and other final pieces, you had leaned back against your seat, soaking in the silence.

Your room had never been so silent, Cassian always jabbering away. He’d once taken in a dog despite your protests, pleading with that own puppy face of his, begging you to attend the dog’s injuries. So you had.

Cassian had named the dog after you, kissing its’ forehead, as the dog eagerly slobbered over him and you. He’d taken the animal to the shelter, gloomily, the next day. One of his friends had quickly adopted it after seeing Cassian apparently mope around the dorms. Cassian had chattered about this friend for weeks, praising the kindness shown.

Your heart ached for the boy who loved so freely, and lived so merrily. Never before had you seen him so angry, demanding that you had betrayed him. When you had mentioned Jurian, he had stormed out. A part of you thought he’d been jealous, but the raw anger and not sheer disappointment radiating from him had you wondering what personal issues caused him to react like that.

He had used to tell you every private detail. Time had changed that, and your childhood friend was drawing away from you. You had apologized in all your messages, saying that if he really wanted you too, you’d phone Hybern, telling the college you wanted to withdraw you application.

He hadn’t answered. 

You stopped contacting him.

When the hospital released Jurian, he switched into most of your classes, escorting you around the hallways and sneering at other males who thought they had a chance with you. Although he was a poor substitute for Cassian, but he managed.

Jurian and you had opened your college letters together. He’d been accepted into Hybern college, and so had you— in addition to Illyrian College, with a full ride scholarship academically.

You had fought with yourself to not text Cassian, allowing him the space he needed. Jurian and you had celebrated the night of, drinking and dancing the worries away. He’d attempted to slobber you with a kiss and reached for your hips, but you had slapped him away, imagining a different, dark-haired male.

It was then you knew that Cassian wasn’t just your childhood friend. He was more than a simple girl’s crush, not after had had played such an integral role throughout your life.

You knew you loved him when “home” turned from a place into a person.  

But you never talked to him. You never went home. 

The week turned into a month, and soon graduation neared. There was the very likely chance that he wouldn’t attend, to see one of the most important moment in your life. Soon, time flew by, and you had pulled on your heels and your graduation cap, forcing yourself to school your features into a smile and hold your head high.

You’d be giving the first and only speech to finish off every senior’s high school career as valedictorian.

You spoke of hope and courage. You hoped to see Cassian here, your eyes eagerly scanning over the mass of people. You hoped you would have the courage to call him later tonight, informing him of your decision to accept Illyrian college’s offer.

You spoke of resilience and fortitude. You hoped that your ages-long friendship with Cassian would be enough to preserve through this silly, petty fight that was entirely one-sided. You hoped that you could capture the fortitude Cassian had illustrated through every match and event as you would click the accept button to the college he attended.

You spoke of strength and family. You hoped that you would be strong enough to text Cassian after months of his absence. You hoped that your entwining memories of laughter and joy would be enough to remain within his circle of family, and perhaps, so much more.

The crowd had erupted into cheers and clapping as soon as you finished. The ceremony had passed quickly, your classmates lifting you up on their shoulders and thundering their voices into the sky as invincible humans, living in the moment of perfect pleasure.  

Your mind had wandered to the boy who taught you that it was okay to cry and to scream as long as she got up and did not give up. As you reached for your diplomacy and held the it in your hands, tears had leaked down your face.

A thumb brushed it away.

You looked up, and your heart stuttered.

Your childhood friend, your first and only crush, the male who your heart belonged to.

Cassian.

His love had roared louder than your demons. His friendship had roared louder than your nightmares. His presence had roared louder than depression.

And it had died out, like all things would and do.

He gave you a broad smile, and your mood instantly skyrocketed. He dimpled, telling you he was beyond proud of you. He hugged you, kissing the top of your forehead. A flicker of memory rushed through you, of what once could have been and what once was.

As your own arms wrapped around him, the dark ink of the Illyrian college symbol filled your vision, along with the simple, two words: NA. 

You had frowned, wondering how those two words could have meant so deeply to him that he’d get a tattoo. And maybe once, in another dimension, you would have known.

And then your eyes flickered to the female that had silently strayed by his side as he held you, a stormy presence that weathered your mood, beating against the hope building within you.

Your childhood friend had stepped away from you, and embraced the other stony-eyed female in his arms.

“Y/N,” he grinned, happiness radiating from him. “This is Nesta. Nesta Archeron.”

NA.

Nesta Archeron.

And then you knew that this boy was not your childhood friend, but a grown adult who now belonged to another.

And Cassian then had fully kissed the Nesta Archeron on the lips, wrapping his arms around her hips.

And the place where he had kissed your forehead burned, a true betrayal.

Because during that one week, he had met the woman of his dreams, leaving the female of his past. Because during that one week, he had given his smiles and shared his laughter with this tall, beautiful woman. Because during this week, he had kissed her, kissing away the memories of the girl who had given him a pink bracelet that now sat at the bottom of his trash bin, a forgotten reminder. 

A barking noise had them almost reluctantly pulling away from each other, and your eyes had widened at the sight of the ever so familiar dog bounding in front of you, ears flopping back. 

The female—Nesta—had regarded you with cool eyes, and merely said, “This is my dog, Y/N.”

You had stared accusingly at Cassian, who had sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck. He had kissed the top of Nesta’s forehead, and your stomach churned. “Nesta, this is Y/N. The girl I named our dog after.”

Our. You knew that you were no longer Cassian’s support and backbone; maybe you never had been, a little, foolish girl.

Girl. You knew that he didn’t see you the way you saw him, now. That he didn’t even see you as a childhood friend, or even a younger sister. Just a girl.

You had revered Cassian, excitedly recalling your adventures together to your classmates. You had told of him as your hero, your strength, your armor.

Cassian reached for Nesta’s hands, and there, you caught glimpse of a ring.

But not just any ordinary ring.

That was Cassian’s mother’s ring, given to him when she passed away. Where you had soothed and stayed near Cassian’s side until he learned to smile again. You had given him tea and talked with him late at night and made him chocolate chip cookies and forced him to traverse to the gym.

He had once put that ring on your finger, saying it looked pretty.

And now it was on another female’s finger, where it looked gorgeous. And looked like it would stay.

You swallowed, and bit down on your lip.

You had walked away, ice forming around your heart. Jurian had waved you over to his group of friends, a smile on his face. And you had let him wrap an arm around your waist, and pull you in for a hug. You had let him kiss your forehead, hoping that it would wash away the former affection that had been there.

It didn’t.

Your thoughts your graduation night had been filled with dark ink, staining your heart, and circulating the darkness through your veins and blood. You had immediately answered your phone that night, thinking it one of your classmates, Jurian.

“Have you decided where you wanted to go?” A warm and rough familiar voice had flooded you. You could hear another female voice at the other end of the receiver, and Cassian’s chuckle of mischief.

You heard the small laughter from the other end, belonging to the woman who had taken your home, the woman who Cassian had spoken so highly of. 

Coldness had swept through you.

You had cleared your throat, and told Cassian you had made your decision. Hybern College.

The other end had went silence for several heartbeats, and Cassian had strangled out a, why?

You had stared at the door, where your childhood friend would have once burst through, demanding an thorough explanation in person.

But he had strayed too far. 

You had mustered up your will, and looked out the window instead, where the moonless sky had allowed the darkness to loom and creep.

Cassian had asked why again, the same female voice murmuring in the background. Sound had crackled on the other side, and Cassian’s deep sigh filled the air.

Your finger had hovered over the end call button. You had squared your shoulders, and said loudly and firmly, “Because I’m not a stop along the way. I’m a destination.”

Because he had not stayed for you— hadn’t chosen you. 

You hung up, pulling out your laptop, where you opened two tabs. One for Hybern College, and the other for Illyrian College. You had waited the night for Cassian to call again, for him to plea to rethink your decision.

He didn’t.

He didn’t call or reach out in the morning.

And you had a feeling why, when you saw social media filling up with pictures Cassian proposing to someone that was not you. 

And you had accepted Hybrern College for your future as soon as the night next had risen, your heart strung along with another’s who had fallen for another.

Nesta Archeron.

[knightrepentant]

Encounter 001

Monday 17th of August, 1885

Though the hour was late, I found myself sitting in no small discomfort onboard the evening train out of Manchester, trying in vain to read my notes by the compartment’s meagre light. Across from me, a man is slumped against the window, snoring. Loudly. The steel cap of my shoe colliding with his shin proves sufficient to quell the noise, at the cost of his waking up.

               “No, no I was just resting…!” He squinted out of the rain-speckled window at the hulking landscape beyond, “How much further is it?” I sprung my watch from its pocket and clicked it open,

               “We’re twenty minutes out of Pendle, Niccolo, have you reviewed the case notes at all?” Niccolo waved one hand briefly, telling me all I needed to know,

               “Missing persons is all it really says, Allison, I’ll hear the rest when we arrive.” Niccolo grinned, lay down along the entire seat and shut his eyes once more.

               Pendle railway station barely deserved the name. Little more than an uncovered stone platform and the smallest ticket office possible. A light drizzle was hissing upon the ground and Niccolo and I hunched our shoulders as we made our way towards the main road. A pub offered warmth and shelter, and I shook rain from my coat at the threshold and saw gladly a roaring hearth. But however much it beckoned, there more pressing matters, and I approached the barkeep,

               “Good evening, sir, I wonder if you could direct me to the…” I glanced at my notebook, “Ashworth farmstead?” The barkeep, a thin rake of a man in a stained apron, put down his cleaning cloth,

               “Old Tim Ashworth, is it? His farm’s easy enough to find, even if the weather’s awful. You police types, then? Tim’s a straight lad, I’ll tell you now, not a wicked bone in his body.” I held up a hand,

               “Fear not, sir, I haven’t come to arrest him, only to find him. My name is Allison Hackett, a detective working with the Greater Manchester constabulary. The one practically standing in your fireplace is Niccolo Ferrera, a consultant from Florence.” The man’s blank look offered nothing in return, so I pressed on, “I believe you meant to direct me to the Ashworth farm?” The lights came back on in his eyes,

               “Oh, of course, it’s a ways along the east road, about two or three miles, you can’t miss the sign.” I nod in thanks,

               “I intend to stay here upon my return, I trust you have rooms available?” That got his attention,

               “Of course, madam, the house’s finest!” Our business concluded, I bade a most reluctant Niccolo abandon the glow of the hearth and we two bowed our heads again beneath the rain.

               The road out of town was well-used and treacherous terrain, the drystone wall saved my skirts many times over, but our endurance was rewarded as the oppressive rain began to ease, and the clouds to wither away. So far from Manchester and its hundreds of gas-lamps, the sky overhead was awash with stars, a million points of light spilling across the heavens, and they enraptured me so that I almost missed the signpost for the Ashworth farm. In the far distance, I could discern a single light. I did my best to make myself less like a sodden cat come crawling out of the rain on the walk towards the farmhouse, wishing dearly that I had brought my umbrella. Niccolo shook himself like a hound as his only attempt at presentability as we gained the doorstep, then rapped smartly upon the bare planks of the door.

               So long were we stood there that I was startled from a reverie when the door suddenly snapped open. In the three inch gap between door and doorframe I discerned a pale, fearful face.

               “Yes?” I tried to smile warmly,

               “Would you be Mrs. Ashworth, wife of Timothy Ashworth? My name is Allison Hackett, the Manchester constabulary sent me to investigate his disappearance.” The face did not change as the door was opened, and we were invited inside. Mrs. Ashworth collapsed stiffly into a chair, arms wrapped tightly about herself. After a minute of silent waiting, I took the chair adjacent,

               “I can’t imagine how distressing this must be, Mrs. Ashworth, but I have questions I must ask you. Exactly when did you notice your husband was missing?”

               “It were last Thursday, yes, Thursday night.” Her eyes kept darting from window to window, and her trembling only grew worse,

               “He went missing during the night? Could you guess as to what time, that night?”

               “Close to midnight. We got woke up by our old mare braying in the barn. Tim thought it could be thieves or sheep rustlers, he took his rifle so to scare ‘em off. I waited at our bedroom door…” Grief twisted her face, and through tears she stammered, “…but he never came back! I heard him yell, heard the rifle go off, then…nothing. I went to the window, but it were all as still as you see now. My babes woke up crying because of the gun, so I sat with them until morning.” At that moment, I saw behind her a young man come into the room, bearing a sullen glower,

               “You here to find my dad?” I rose, offering my hand,

               “I am indeed, Allison Hackett, private detective. This is Niccolo Ferrera, a colleague of mine from Italy. Might I ask your name?”

               “John Ashworth, ma’am.”

               “A pleasure, John. I was just asking your mother to try and recall anything she could about your father’s disappearance. Is there anything you can add? Did you see or hear anything that night?” I held my pencil poised over my notebook, but John seemed to huddle in on himself, glancing warily towards his mother, and shook his head slowly. “I understand, from what your mother tells me, it all happened very fast. Now I must ask a favour of you,” I tucked my notebook away, “I should like to examine the scene, this barn where you keep your mare. It may help me learn where your father might be.” John began to nod, but his mother’s hand snapped around his wrist like a vice,

               “Don’t you go out there, Johnny!” I stepped forward,

               “Please, Mrs. Ashworth. I won’t let him come to harm, I promise. Niccolo will be in here watching the barn, we won’t be a moment.”

               The sky was completely clear now, as we made our way to the barn, not fifty feet from the house. John lit a lamp, a pool of orange amidst the hay. I cast my eyes around, scouring every surface, peering into every shadow,

               “Is it just the mare you keep in here, then?” John nodded sharply,

               “Aye, and she was making more noise than I thought a horse could.” I moved past the stalls to the centre of the barn, and stopped abruptly,

               “Do you smell…eggs?” The lad sniffed the air and grimaced,

               “Rotten ones.” I bade him cast the lamp around, trying to see if any patterns lingered in the straw, but the mare had trampled it thoroughly. My spirits fell,

               “That seems to be the only oddity I can find.” John let the lamp fall, his face despondent, “your mother was right about one thing, however, there is gunpowder residue here. Your father did fire his rifle, but at what? He obviously missed for I see no blood anywhere, there are no signs of a struggle so I surmise the shot scared away any intruders.” I turned to John, “It’s like he won the contest before simply walking off into the night. I’ll have to return in the morning and do a wider search of the farm…”

               “He didn’t walk off!” John was scowling hard at the floor, his free hand tightly clenched in a fist. I frowned for a moment, then realisation dawned,

               “You saw something. What did you see?! Why did you not say so before?”

               “I didn’t want to scare my mother! And…I was scared myself! They took him!” Ice filled my stomach and I seized his wrist,

               “What?! He was taken? Taken by whom?! Tell me anything you remember!” But John began shaking his head, tears lighting the corners of his eyes,

               “I couldn’t see…I didn’t want to see! They…they were so quick. They headed for the barn, the mare was screaming so loud!” The young man collapsed to the hay, clawing at his hair and face, “Dad! Dad’s in there!” Before my eyes, John’s face contorted into a mask of terror, and he seemed not to see me as he spoke in a trembling whisper, “One of them is outside the window. No, no, no, I don’t want to see!” I pulled his hands away and stared into those fear-wide eyes,

               “John! Johnny, you’re safe! It’s just me, you’re safe!” Those eyes seemed to see me again, and the tears began flowing freely as the boy clasped me tight.

               “They took him,” he gasped, “They took him.”

               “Where, John? I won’t ask any more of you if you tell me, I promise.” I felt his arm move and followed his pointing finger upwards out of the barn doors. The great black dome of the sky hung overhead, and suddenly that glittering expanse felt so very threatening.

[duanecbrooks]

Media Impact     It's time to once again let you in on what is My All-Time Favorite. And to remind you once again that I am not nor have I ever been a high-culture maven nor an aesthete nor even a real and true intellectual but am and all during my adult life have been a geek of the Meghan McCain stripe.       Got all that? You do? OK, so My All-Time Favorite Media is...Heart and Soul magazine's 2003 cover story on my girl Robin Givens.               Literally everything about said article shines. The cover of this particular Heart and Soul issue features Robin sporting an especially dazzling smile and is emblazoned with a particularly ingratiating headline: "Robin Givens: On Mike [Tyson], Money, and Being Misunderstood." Open up the magazine and flip through a few pages and there's Robin again, again wearing a notably uplifting smile and bent over rightward in a quite fetching manner, with the words "Robin Redux" on the bottom of the page. Flip through a few more pages and on the "Contributors' Page" there's a pic of the (as shall be demonstrated, very talented) writer of the Robin piece, Janice R. Littlejohn, who is shown to be a not-bad-looking woman, probably (then) in her early-to-middle-40s, herself equipped with a highly beguiling smile. In her space she engagingly compares meeting Robin to "[c]oming face-to-face with the most popular girl in high school. 'It was like meeting up with the girl who you thought you knew everything about, but [then] realizing how much you have in common.'" We're then let in on the fact that Littlejohn is "[a] freelance television, entertainment, and lifestyle writer in California" and she appealingly reveals that she's attempting to make her life more pleasurable with "food, travel and trying to find the perfect couch for my new house."             Now to the Robin piece.               Let it be said first off that my lady looks positively stunning throughout, first giving yet another stunning smile while lying upon her stomach with her legs up in the air and outfitted in Maroon pinstripe pants, a beaded Chaiken tank top, and metal Mare olive heels. Turn the page and there's Robin again, this time wearing a L'impasse white floral gown and a Elisabetta bracelet. Turn the page once again and there's my woman once again, this time decked out in an Anja Flint olive jersey dress, a Stephen & Co. gypsy-like necklace, and a Barry Cord cocktail ring. And in all--all--of the photos Robin has an enticingly cheerful expression.           Here's where we come to the actual Robin article.             The aforementioned piece begins with a rather appealing quote from the subject herself ("I feel okay now. I know what I want instead of what you think you're supposed to have. I know what makes me happy"). Then Littlejohn paints a sensitive picture of the two of them agreeing to eat at this one restaurant on the Upper East Side of Manhattan and her expectation that "[s]ince the media has been less than flattering to Givens [that's a considerable understatement]...I expected her to be guarded." (As it turns out, she was all the while "relaxed and friendly"). Eventually Littlejohn deftly captures, as the two of them walk along, "fans [of Robin] beginning [sic] to take notice--gawking, waving and doing random drive-bys, yelling, 'You look good, girl!'" From there Littlejohn skillfully depicts where Robin was at that point in her life ("At 38, Robin Givens is a woman reborn, clearly revelling in a new sense of self outside the Hollywood spotlight--a nascent inner tranquility that comes from embracing life's simpler things. She divides her time between Maryland, Kentucky and New York...fancies herself a connoisseur of fine Italian and French food, frequents American diners and loves chitlins and pig's feet"). Littlejohn proceeds to stylishly sketch where Robin was professionally (the latter "is no longer defined by the trappings of a box-office-driven career. Acting is simply what she does") and offers up some insightful words from Robin's Boomerang/Head of State co-star Chris Rock ("I'm clicking through channels and see Boomerang and think, 'Hey, what's Robin Givens doing? Haven't seen her in a while.' When I met her for lunch, I said, 'You should get back out there.' It was kind of a pep talk. 'Get out there. You can act'").               Littlejohn's article continues. She elicits from Robin some admirably searching words from her subject concerning how it was like for her growing up without a Dad ("[Y]ou just feel this sort of unworthiness, and the pattern begins there...If you're not good enough for the first man in your life to stay, then why should any of them stay?"), incisively delineates what was Robin's public image pre-Tyson ("Givens has long been known for her love life, beginning with a romance with a Saturday Night Live comic named Eddie Murphy. She's had public romances with Brad Pitt and tennis pros Murphy Jensen and Svetozar Marinkovic, whom she married and quickly separated from") and draws from Robin some telling observations regarding Tyson's words during that infamous 20/20 interview they did by Barbara Walters, which was responsible for Robin's 20-year reign--especially, sad to say, as crowned by blacks--as The Most Despised Woman In America ([Tyson told Walters] "'The best punch I ever gave, she went from that wall to that wall...and she was out.' I thought. 'This is definitely not going to be acceptable.'"). Following are some intensely perceptive words from Robin's good buddy Tiffany McLinn, one of the Lifetime network's Intimate Portrait executive producers ("[Tyson] was really popular, and people were completely on his side...[A]t the time he was married to Robin, and so people really vilified her...She didn't have any rep before [hooking up with Tyson]--it's just because of that marriage [emphasis mine]"). From there there is a deftly-done sketch of my lady's professional standing during that period ("She starred in TV projects such as The Women of Brewster Place and The Penthouse, and she was on her way to box-office stardom with critically applauded roles as Imabelle in 1991's A Rage in Harlem and the next year as Jacqueline Broyer in Boomerang").           Going forth: Our portraitist gets Robin to present some genuinely moving recollections concerning her then-emotional/psychological life ("I had gone through hurt, and I mean it really hurt, and it hurt me and it hurt everybody close to me and it was serious for me, the pain that I felt. So it was interesting to have agents going, 'Yeah, but you're on the cover'"). After pointing out--and this is a fiercely individualistic statement, considering the fact that it's being made by a black writer about a black celebrity/entertainment figure in a black-oriented magazine--that Robin realized "that she was just another cog in the Hollywood machine," Littlejohn's probing gets Robin to freely acknowledge: "At that point I realized I wanted to be a healthy, happy human being, not just have a successful career. That's what I realized was the most important thing to me." Littlejohn, to her great credit, also gets Robin to own up to the fact that "I'm not looking for vindication. I'm not looking for people to go, 'Aha!'"                 And there's more. Littlejohn, with laudable journalistic professionalism, paints a picture of Robin as an absolutely hands-on mother, quoting her as asserting: "Nothing makes me happier," then quoting McLinn as contending that Robin and her sons are "like the Three Musketeers...[Being a single mother is not without] its challenges. But [Robin] is first and foremost a mom, not an actor." Robin then movingly tells of her renewed spirituality ("[Y]ou can call it anything. I mean, I now have a relationship with God") and in time laughing and "carefree," (Littlejohn's description) claims: "I have no ambition for a career." (To this Littlejohn adds: "At least not a career outlined by Hollywood's terms," going on to delineate the sporadic work Robin had done around that time [periodic television series like Courthouse, periodic independent pictures like Book of Love, her then-current work producing the Uninvited series for the Heritage Networks]). Following is a quite sprightly portrait of Robin doing a photo shoot, wherein she's "wearing jeans, flip-flops and a white tank top under a black salon cape" and "[h]er hair is in spiral pin curls, and she's wearing no make up." Littlejohn effortlessly captures Robin's admirable good humor during this shoot ("I think we shoot me just like this, whaddaya think?").                 And the conclusion to the article is honestly uplifting. Littlejohn makes the exceedingly perceptive observation that "while Robin Givens may not have always been in fashion, she has always been popular. Now with age and life experience, she has an outlook that matches her newfound confidence." (Robin afterward shares said outlook: "I know that if you hang in there, He'll work it out for you"). And the absolute end of the piece is outright heart-melting. Here Robin "smilingly" says: "I've been through enough to know some stuff, but [I] still have a lot of living to do. You know when little stuff would bother you? Now it's like, 'This is me. Take it. Leave it.' It's feeling comfortable in your own skin. As a woman."             In sum, Littlejohn's Robin profile certainly, definitely proves the aptness of the title this one IMDb-message-board-post writer bestowed upon Robin: "The sexiest black woman in entertainment" (actually, she shares that title with Paula Patton)--and proves that she's a highly articulate, intelligent, thoughtful person to boot.               Heart and Soul magazine has long, long, long since stopped doing cover-making celebrity interviews. Too bad. Janice R. Littlejohn's Robin Givens article should have won the aforementioned publication a National Magazine Award. Hands down.