#tight jodhpurs

[kakecomics]

THE 40s: THE QUEEN AND TRADE YEARS 1. is barely out of his teens 2. is a queen 3. or a bit of a rough trade 4. dances with strangers 5. works in an office 6. or wears a uniform 7. has big hair 8. smiles sweetly 9. knows how to dance a Finnish waltz 10. irons his trousers 11. wears shoes 12. a sports jacket 13. and doesn't shrink from a bow tie 14. has serious eyebrows 15. has a narrow waist 16. and likes it to be close to yours (is that a gun in your pocket?)

THE 50s: THE LUMBERJACK YEARS 1. is in his early 20s 2. gets a haircut 3. keeps smiling 4. lives in the great outdoors 5. gets his muscles from logging trees 6. keeps that [waist], though! 7. has a knife 8. wears wading boots for work 9. really likes wood 10. starts wearing blue jeans 11. goes where his feet take him 12. has small nipples 13. and a washboard stomach 14. loses those eyebrows 15. knows how to handle a big stick 16. but doesn't have sex on his mind

THE 60s: THE BIKER YEARS 1. is in his late 20s 2. wears biker boots (machine's parked outside) 3. starts going to the gym 4. doesn't forget his pecs 5. grows a wider waist 6. grows his hair in a fringe 7. and sideburns 8. has lots of body hair 9. grows serious nipples 10. wears a soft leather cap 11. with a phallic logo 12. smokes 13. likes tight white T-shirts 14. doesn't go anywhere without his leather jacket 15. lives in his jeans 16. button fly, of course! 17. lost his belt 18. starts bursting at the seams 19. has 'fucker' written on his back (just in case) 20. is popular in bars 21. guess what he's after 22. smiles less 23. but is very happy to see you

THE 70s: THE CLONE YEARS 1. is in his early 30s 2. gets a serious haircut 3. but keeps the sideburns 4. and tries out a moustache 5. doesn't have a bike but gets around 6. grows veins 7. goes to gay bars 8. looks happy but doesn't smile 9. always has his poppers handy 10. gets a Tom belt 11. buys leather shorts 12. with a zip fly 13. wears biker boots 14. loses his body hair 15. likes a bit of SM 16. and doesn't spare the whip 17. knows his hankie code 18. gets his ear pierced 19. keeps up at the gym (late afternoon) 20. and grows his pecs 21. because he knows bigger is better

THE 80s: THE FETISHIST YEARS 1. in his late 30s (pushing 40?) 2. after '85 is often black 3. gets his head shaved 4. or has a mohican 5. and loses his sideburns 6. develops a love for hard leather caps 7. and starts to smile again 8. grows a big moustache 9. pumps more iron than ever 10. and knows big tits are here to stay 11. (not sure what happened to those nipples, though) 12. has cast iron hips 13. and his neck outgrows his face 14. sometimes has a foreskin 15. gets a sword-belt 16. jodhpurs 17. with a button fly 18. and a wide belt 19. wears riding boots 20. is clearly identifiable as one of Tom's men 21. uses a condom 22. and knows biggest is best

TOM'S MEN Tom of Finland: The Art of Pleasure

[genderlessghoul]

Hiiiiii my darlings, we all know I love love love to talk about the ghouls, my babies, so today I wanna take a look at the different ghoul costumes and talk about the evolution of their costumes.

Opus Eponymous :

The first ghoul costumes, I really like what they did with them despite the fact they probably had a very limited budget to work with (which shows in Primo's costume ngl). They're pretty simple and they will set the example for the next few eras. The masks are nothing complicated but I do like that they have some structure despite being completely blank. I like the shape of the capelet a lot, it reminds me of gothic architecture. The arm "wraps" add some nice shapes in the design and I really like the leather on the bottom of the robe and on the capelet. They're of course wearing grucifix necklaces, as they will up to Meliora.

Infestissumam :

We still have a robe, like the Opus design. The rope as a belt has been replaced by a wide fabric belt and the capelet design was changed for a much simpler one. We get the introduction to the elemental symbols, which are stitched on the waist sash. Each ghoul's respective element is highlighted by a lighter colour. The masks are now starting to get more inteicate designs, this version being inspired by the last mascarade costume of king Gustav iii.

Meliora :

We can still very much see the influence of the Infest design in Meliora's, despite the loss of the hood and capelet. The top went from a full robe to a mid-thigh jacket but kept the belt sash. The elemental symbols are no longer stitched on it, replaced by a logo that I think is meant to be a mix of all of them, but I could be wrong. The elements are still found on the costume as a patch on the right side of the chest. We have new metal masks, full faces with horns and without any mouths.

Prequelle :

A true departure from the previous costumes we had seen so far, the only element still remaining being the masks, which are almost the same as Meliora except for the cut-out mouth. We also have a different mask design for the ghoulettes. The cut of the jacket is more reminiscent of Terzo's uniform than it is of the previous ghouls, which is also inspired by king Gustav iii. It also matches most of Copia's outfits during that era. Despite not looking much like the previous version, it was (and still is) a huge hit with the fans.

Impera :

Forget everything you thought you knew about the ghouls, Impera throws it out the window. The shape of the masks that defined two eras is completely gone, replaced by steampunk inspired helmets. The robes or long coats are now military style jackets. The tight Prequelle pants replaced by Jodhpurs. Every metallic piece that was once silver are now bronze. I've talked to great lengths about the Impera costumes and why I love them so much. Them being so different is a big reason why.

[everythingelseisextra]

Everything Is Fine

Request: No Description: Tired of being stuck in the same life every day, you decide to face your anxiety and go into town. You spend hours going unnoticed, until someone, finally, speaks to you. Warnings: idk there's mentions of alcohol? also the reader has anxiety? Word Count: 1547 Author's Note: This will be a multi-chapter fic slow burn Tommy x horse trainer reader. I am absolutely begging people to read it. I'm putting a lot of myself into this and hopping people like it. I'm a little nervous to post it, to be honest. Please lmk whether I should continue or not.

It’s been weeks. You do your work, lifting bales of hay and dragging buckets of water to and from stalls. You exercise the horses and deal with the insanity that comes from off-the-track animals. You go until you’re dizzy and sweating and then finally take a break to breathe and drink and eat. And then you go home, and you sleep in your tiny bedroom, and eat breakfast in the gray light of dawn, and it’s fine. Everything is fine. And your whole life is just a constant cycle of fine. Trying to shake it from you feels like trying to swim to a shore you don’t know exists, while the sea expands around you, endless. There’s nothing wrong with it, you think. There’s nothing wrong with the act of treading water, unless you start to drown. But you can stay afloat. You can always stay afloat. And everything is fine. 

It’s been weeks since you moved here, and, for the first time, you decide to go into town. You take your time, body heavy, weighed down by the faint storm in your mind, and duck your head as the cab pulls up. You can’t afford a car. Silence fills the small interior as the driver moves off, heading towards the faint outline of the city on the horizon. The countryside looms, pale green hills cut through with brown and gray paths, and you’re small, insignificant, because there’s so much around you and so little inside you. Soon, the hills smooth into flat, paved sidewalks and roads, and the car wanders through the wreckage that is Small Heath, the closest town to your property. Around you, shouts and the murmur of other vehicles, flashes of dark-dressed people, children running amuck on the streets. 

“Where to?” The driver asks, their voice quiet. 

“Wherever’s closest and serves alcohol.” You place your hands in your lap, staring out the window at the black and gray around you, the shadows dancing across stone walls, the flicker of lamps as being lit as night draws close. 

The driver nods.

After a few minutes, you’re greeted with a dark exterior, matching the rest of the city. Nothing special, but you didn’t ask for anything special. You asked for alcohol. You pay the driver and step out of the car, looking up at the words The Garrison resplendent in gold above the entrance. Some light in this city of devils. You shake your head, questioning your own sanity in setting foot in a big city like this. You’re from the country. You’re made to live small days and dream small dreams, stay in the quiet outskirts. And, yet, here you are. 

You enter, with some trepidation, and quietly make your way through wooden tables to take a seat at the bar, eyes on the grayed photos decorating the wall in front of you. You close your eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath, and let your thoughts flow freely, trying not to judge yourself. The chatter of voices surrounds you, and the creak of chairs as weights shift, the clatter of glasses on tables. You’re dressed differently than everyone else in this bar. You hadn’t changed after work. Jodhpurs and a tight, tucked-in shirt, no overcoat. You release a tense breath and look up as the bartender approaches you. 

“Gin, I guess. Last Word, if you can do that.” You hate how shy you make yourself sound. You can face off a twelve-hundred pound animal with no fear, but become timid at any form of social interaction anywhere but your property. It makes you cringe. 

The bartender, a young blond woman, smiles faintly and nods at you. You go back to looking down at your hands in your lap, ears tuned to the noises around you. You catch phrases from conversations, little sayings, the chatter filtering in and out like a badly tuned radio. You receive your drink and sip slowly, waiting for the alcohol to find its way into your system and calm you, if only a little. The hair on the back of your neck raises; there are eyes on you.

As the night goes on, you find yourself in a cyclorama of constant movement, with you in the center. People come in and out. Shouting, standing on tables, making drunken toasts. Chairs get knocked over, thrown, laid on. The bartender calls to some of the men, smiling her little smile, and, at one point, sings a lilting tune that you faintly recognize but don’t know the words to. All the while, you’re still, silent, your own anchor in the blowing storm of the sea. 

No one sees you. No one cares. You finish your drink and sigh. Maybe part of you hoped someone would notice you, come over and speak to you. Maybe part of you wanted something more than fine. Maybe part of you thought you were some kind of special, some kind of chosen, the main character of your own story. Maybe part of you—

“Never seen you here before.” A voice next to you, low and gravelly, but soft enough that you don’t jump. 

You open your mouth to speak. The words are on the tip of your tongue, but you can’t seem to let them out. You shake your head, frustrated. The words are there. You can feel them burning on the inside of your throat; never been here before. You can’t speak them. You can’t even look at the man beside you. 

“Who are you?” His accent is different than yours, stronger. The softness starts to dissipate from his words and you grow tense, trying to breathe, trying to hold it together. 

Again, you try to speak, but can’t find the words. 

“I asked you: who are you?” He steps towards you. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch icy blue flicking over you, dark, high-quality clothing, and a cap held loosely in his hand on the bar, glinting in the golden light. That gets your attention, and you turn your head slightly, trying to get a good look without actually looking. Slim slivers of silver line the brim of the hat. 

“When I ask a question, I expect an answer.” Now there’s a threat in his voice and you pointedly look away. 

“I’m not from around here,” you say. You don’t want this man to know you. You don’t want a man who carries hidden weapons and threatens on the first meeting to know who you are. 

His head lifts slightly, so he’s looking down at you, and his mouth opens a bit, his tongue at the inner edge of his lips. Thinking. When he speaks, the threat is gone, the faint burn of his words completely erased. “You race horses?” 

You shake your head. 

“Why are you dressed for riding, then?” His arms cross, the cap on his left side. You track it silently, still not looking at him.

“I train them.”

“For racing.” He nods to himself, starting to look away from you, seeking his next target.

“No. After.”

He looks back, those piercing eyes back on you. Half of you wants to shrink into nothing, and the other part— well, the other part is fascinated with the idea of being someone else for the night, slipping into someone else’s skin and walking around, of being brave and social. His eyebrows raise slightly, a request for more information. 

You sigh, turn yourself in your seat, and face him. Brave. “I rehab horses that injure themselves on the track. Instead of shooting them, they give them to me.”

“Never heard of that.” You’re caught in his gaze, trapped there, and the most you can do is stare back. He sounds dismissive. 

“It’s real. You can come see it for yourself.” The words escape you before you ask them to, before you have time to think them through. Inviting a stranger to your property, where he could do anything he wanted to you in the middle of nowhere, where your screams would travel over the hills and reach no one. 

“Who are you?” He asks again. 

You shake your head. “I’m no one.” 

“Where are your stables?” 

You bite the insides of your cheeks for a moment. There’s no way of getting out of this. You already invited him. “A straight shot into the Northern countryside from Small Heath.”

He gives you a single nod. “Expect me tomorrow morning.”

You close your eyes, a faint burning sensation in the back of your throat. “Okay.”

You hear him start to walk away, heavy footsteps on the wooden ground, then, they stop, and your blood goes cold. 

“Thomas Shelby,” he says, and you open your eyes to find him looking over his shoulder at you. You get your first, non-panicked look at him. Small, well-muscled stature, with the posture of a man who doesn’t mind taking up space. Pitch black hair, shaved in the typical anti-lice style, with pale, porcelain skin and sharp cheekbones. And those eyes. Those eyes that look with such pointed intention, like every glance is a web of planning and strategy. 

“What?” So distracted by his appearance, you don’t catch his words. 

“My name. Thomas Shelby.” His head turns away from you, and his next phrase is faint. “Remember it.”

Part Two: Commit to the Bit

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Omg I don't know how I never noticed this but after seeing your diasomnia baton post I realised that I absolutely despise their dorm uniform pants

I used to think that they diasomnia students had drip but I take that back

It just feels wrong to have such baggy pants with the top of the uniform

Idk what do you think? Btw can we have a dorm uniform fit check

[Referencing this post!]

To be fair, we mainly see the upper half of every character so it’s easy to forget what the bottom half looks like. I’ve found that the characters’ shoes are often really wonky (like the weird elf shoes in Broomquet cards) 😭

As for Diasomnia’s pants… I actually don’t take an issue with them at all. Those pants make a lot of sense given the inspiration for the dorm (which Yana has stated in an 2020 interview to be “bodyguards and dragons”). Diasomnia is meant to look militant—and that style of pants, from what I understand, are popular in military uniforms of the late 19th and early 20th centuries.

These flared breeches have roots in equestrian fashion, as polo and horse riding were activities favored among army officials, particularly the cavalry. (Note that half of the main cast in Diasomnia, Silver and Sebek, are in Equestrian Club.)

This style of pants is called jodhpurs. Diasomnia’s are more specifically an “old” design (shown above). They may look a little silly, but jodhpurs were considered quite fashionable back in the day. Additionally, the design was very functional for equestrians. Having a looser fit around the thighs allows for more freedom of movement—which is necessary for certain horseback maneuvers and helps with staying on and controlling the horse. The entire leg needs to be covered in fabric in order to protect from friction.

Prior to the development of riding breeches, equestrians would wear tall boots. The drawbacks to this were that 1) the boots were expensive as heck, and 2) the boots were complicated to put on and oftentimes required the help of a servant. When jodhpurs came onto the scene, these problems were resolved. Being entirely made of a non-stretchy fabric, they were much cheaper to produce than the riding boots. The lower part of the breeches is tight and form fitting, making it ideal to pair with short boots (which are easier to put on/take off by yourself).

Modern day or “new” jodhpurs look more like this (pictured above). As you can see, they’re much more slim and have transitioned into a stretchy fabric that still allows for movement. They basically do the same thing as the older iteration, they just look different and are made with a different material!

You’re probably thinking the “old” breeches look weird because you’re much more used to seeing the “new” style! Personally, I think the “old” style makes more sense for Diasomnia’s draconian aesthetic.

Aaand here’s my current personal ranking of the dorm uniforms. (I think I gave my thoughts on them a long time ago, but my opinions may have changed since then.) This is based solely on looks but does NOT account for dorm leader variants (just the standard dorm uniforms mobs wear)!

Heartslabyul — Whimsical, fun. Somehow both casual (sneakers, white T-shirt) yet also formal (vest). I’m a sucker for the Alice in Wonderland aesthetic and asymmetry in designs so this is really my bias speaking.

Pomefiore — So pretty!! Interestingly based on a kimono despite Pomefiore being based on a European tale. Very unique direction to take this uniform. The sleeves are the best part; they remind me of really fancy curtains and I bet they’re fun to watch swishing around.

Octavinelle — Can’t go wrong with a cool and simple suit! It’s elegant… a classic. No complaints other than maybe it’s too “traditional” looking compared to other designs.

Diasomnia — Cool at a glance, but also seems like a nightmare the longer I look at it because of all the straps. It looks like you would be standing very stiffly once it is on, so I get this sense of discomfort and feel bad for the students wearing it. There’s a weird… spiked strip running down the back, which makes it impractical to recline against a chair/couch or a wall. RIP Silver every time he naps 😭 Still giving this a pass because I think it fits the intimidating vibes of Diasomnia so well.

Ignihyde — Nothing to remark on other than it’s one of the least fussy of the designs (though it lacks the class of Octavinelle’s). That works against Ignihyde; the main thing that grabs my eye is the weirdly blocky jacket and that’s not enough to keep me interested when I find the blocky jacket really ugly. There is nothing else for me to look at.

Savanaclaw — Exposed arms… That’s a nope for me 💀 Biker cowboy aesthetic is also a big nope. Colors on this are so odd; the shirt and jewelry are so earthy and then BOOM you got this bright ass yellow sash at the waist.

Scarabia — Exposed arms (again). Also not a fan of the saggy hotpants or the shoes that expose the feet. Y’all are in the DESERT. Exposed skin = more sunscreen and bug spray application needed to protect yourselves. Sounds like a pain…

[vivwritesfics]

COMING AT YOU WITH A SOFT BOY RHETT!

He’s working on his ranch when a horse comes onto his land and it’s fully tacked but there is no signs of the rider. It’s spooked but he manages to calm it down and catch it. He’s tacks up his own horse and goes on the search for the missing rider! - nurse-sainz 🥰🥰🥰

I'VE BEEN THINKING ABOUT THIS SOOOOOOOOOOOOO FUCKING MUCH

Rhett x english rider omg

Rhett Abbott sleeping in his truck was nothing new. He was usually sleeping off a hangover, and that morning was no different. He knew he had chores to do, which might have been why he slept in his truck. Waking up when the run rose (well, that was the goal, but it wasn't always the result).

Today, as with most days, Rhett didn't wake up because of the sun. You'd think he'd be used to the sound of horses, after living on a ranch for his entire life.

But this, this was different. The horses that his father had trained, they didn't stampede towards the house like that. They had been taught better than to come to the house.

Rhette sat up, grabbed the Stetson hat covering his face, and looked out of the truck windows. "Shit," he muttered as he pulled on his shirt, covering up his bull rider tattoo. He placed his Stetson on his head and climbed out of the truck.

There he was, a pretty white horse with a dappling of grey spots on his ass. He was fully tacked up, wearing a saddle, a bridle, and some fancy ass boots around his legs. The mane was plaited, along with the tail.

"Woah there," he said as he approached the horse. Since cantering towards the Abbott house he had stopped to much on the grass. He raised his head towards Rhett, who held his hands up as he approached.

His eye ears went back and he let out a snort. Rhett slowed his steps. He reached his large hand towards the reins. But he couldn't get close enough, not without the horse rearing up. "Little shit," Rhett found himself muttering.

As the horse cantered to the back of the house, Rhett moved his truck, blocking the horse in. He climbed out of his truck and made his way around to the horse that definitely didn't belong here.

As he walked around to the back of the house, the kitchen window opened. "Who's horse is that?" His mother asked.

Rhett shrugged his shoulders. He hadn't seen it before, didn't know there was anything other than cowboys riding around Wabang. He certainly hadn't seen this fancy looking thing in the show jumping saddle.

When Rhett asked his mother for a carrot, she happily handed his over. As soon as Rhett had the carrot, it was easy enough to grab the horse. He was far more interested in the carrot than running away from Rhett. "Who are you?" Rhett asked as he held the reins and stroked down his face.

For a total of five minutes he put the grey horse in the barn while he grabbed his own. As soon as he was mounted, he grabbed the grey ponies reins and rode off.

Rhett was a cowboy. Rhett liked going fast. Rhett's horse was used to galloping across the field until they were out onto the rode. The grey horse was making it near impossible. He stayed at a stubborn walk when Rhett trotted off, stretching his neck out until Rhett could get no further away.

So, Rhett was stuck at a slow walk as he made his way around, looking for anybody that was missing a horse. Most of the usual cowboys, most of the usual other ranch owners, laughed when they saw the fancy pony following him.

Rhett let out a sigh as he began riding along the road towards the Abbott Ranch.

"Sparrow!"

Suddenly, the grey horse was pulling against him. Rhett didn't let go, though. He turned himself around to see a girl. She had a black hat on her head, but not like his Stetson. That one was for safety. Long, shiny black boots were on her feet and she wore these tight, black Jodhpurs.

Definitely not a cowgirl.

She ran over and grabbed a hold of the reins. "Oh, you are in so much trouble," she said and kissed the horses face. "Sparrow, I swear. You gave me a heart attack!" She pulled the hat from her head and tucked it beneath her arm as she kissed the pony a couple more times.

And then she turned to Rhett. He didn't recognise her, not at all. But her face twisted in confusion. "Rhett?" She asked. "Rhett Abbott?"

"Uh, yeah," he said, adjusting his Stetson on his head. "And you are?"

She held out her hand towards him and gave her his name. Rhett shook it. "I've seen you at the rodeo a few times," she said. "I... thank you for finding Sparrow. I thought he was ready to go out alone, but I think somebody needs a little more training," she said and released his hand.

Rhett swallowed. "I think he found me," he answered.

Immediately, her face dropped. "He... he broke onto your ranch?" She asked and Rhett couldn't help but grin as he nodded. "Shit, I'm so sorry!" She cried. "Let me know how I can make it up to you."

Rhett couldn't deny that she was cute. Not his usual type, not the usual cowgirls he had wearing his Stetson and riding his cock. Well, Rhett wanted to know more. "You can let me take you out f' a drink," he said, leaning forward.

He watched as she placed her foot in the metal stirrup (incredibly different from the one his foot was placed into), and climbed up into the saddle. Immediately, Sparrow was moving. He walked in an agitated circle as she tried to stay looking at Rhett. "So, if I want to find you, Sparrow should know where to go?"

"An' you can give me your number. Y'know, in case he forgets."

[overseer-picard]

As a real life horse girl, I present:

Starfleet Captains as Different Kinds of Horse Girls

The actual canonical horse girls:

Kirk: The Show Off. Kirk is genuinely a great rider with soft hands and a good seat, but due to this high skill level and his natural disposition, he can be overconfident and do dumb things that result in injury and/or (according to McCoy) death. He loves a flashy horse with high chrome (white markings) to match his own dashing looks.

Picard: The Spiritual. Picard seeks connection with his horse, who he sees as an equal, and hones his skill-set as a rider to maximize this communication. Riding is a relaxing, emotionally cleansing activity for him that centers his mind. He has this quote stamped into his saddle: "When you first meet a horse, his instinct tells him you are a predator. Gain his trust, and you become his protector."

Pike: The Cowboy. Pike's horse is his companion and he rides to reconnect with the past when times were simpler. Not picky with breeds or looks, he’s content with his fuzzy Quarter Horse. He relishes the freedom of open skies and endless plains, the solid earth beneath him keeping him grounded.

NOT canonical horse girls (but could be if they just believed):

Janeway: The Competitor. Dressage, cross country, show jumping, she does them all. Hair slicked back, jodhpurs tight, boots polished, Janeway enters the ring to win. And she does. She chooses horses that have the same fire and intensity that she does and together they are an unbeatable team.

Sisko: The Polo Player. Ball is life, even on a horse. Sisko's team of competitive polo ponies are trained to a tee. He relishes the intensity of the game, the teamwork, and the difficulty of the hand-eye coordination. Winning isn't as important as the thrill of not dying.

Archer: The horseless. Archer is the kid you knew in middle school who was obsessed with horses and knew everything about them but never had one. Instead, he settled with pretending his dog was a horse. I cannot emphasize enough how much this man oozes naive horse girl energy.

Freeman: The Rehabilitator. Freeman rode competitively when she was younger but now has found a great sense of purpose in seeking out the broken and forgotten horses. She focuses on the "dangerous and un-fixable" off-the-track thoroughbreds and rehabilitates them to become their best selves.

*I do not know enough about the various Disco captains to have thoughts on them but Saru has actual horse energy.

[duhragonball]

Dragon Ball Super Manga ch.97-99

Cell Max is running wild, but don't worry, because Goten and Trunks are here to pad the story give Piccolo and Gohan a breather.

To be fair, the boys do a little better once they turn Super Saiyan, which kind of begs the question of why they didn't just turn Super Saiyan from the start. This page's sole purpose is to have the Gammas notice their "resemblance" to Saiyaman X-1 and X-2. This would be annoying enough even if they did look alike, but they don't. Look at them! Trunks and Goten have tights and some sort of Stormtrooper midriff thing going on. The Gammas are wearing jodhpurs and bellhop jackets. And Goten and Trunks' color schemes are clearly reversed from one to the other. The Gammas match perfectly except for their red and blue capes.

The only real similarities here are the numbers on their costumes, and the fact that there are two of them. Oh, and Gamma 1 has a red cape, and Goten has a red cape. Eerie! What are the odds of two superheroes having red capes? You almost never see that. I mean, there's Superman, Thor, Great Saiyaman, Dr. Strange, Spawn, Great Saiyaman 2, the Scarlet Witch, Supergirl, Great Saiyaman 3, Power Girl, Steel, but other than those characters, I can't think of anyone else!

Then they all pose together and attack Cell Max in concert. It looks impressive, but their quadruple-team fails to do any damage. The Gammas acknowledge that Cell Max is still getting used to moving around in his body, so he's not fighting as effectively as he will be later in the story. So that's why Goten and Trunks can do this well without actually hurting their opponent. And that's fair.

What doesn't make a lot of sense is the Gammas' role in this part of the battle. Of everyone involved in this battle, they alone understand the danger Cell Max poses to the world, because Dr. Hedo told them about Max's powers. That's why they went in first when Cell Max first emerged. They knew they had to shut him down as quickly as possible. And they're not rusty like Goten and Trunks, or unfamiliar with their bodies like Cell Max. If there's a window of opportunity here for Goten and Trunks to fight Cell Max without looking outclassed, then you'd think the Gammas would use this chance to target Max's head and finish him off.

Of course, they can't actually do that, since that's not what happened in the movie, but that's the problem I have with all of this. Toyotaro keeps shoehorning Goten and Trunks into this story, and their scenes tend to interfere with the plot instead of adding to it. The Gammas have a cool gimmick and aesthetic with the super hero thing. It works. They don't need two more characters aping that look right beside them. At best it's redundant, and at worst it just cramps their style. It'd be like if Frieza had a teen sidekick following him around repeating everything he says. It would kill his whole vibe.

Okay, so once Goten and Trunks fuse into Gotenks, the battle plays out mostly like it did in the movie, but there's one part that got changed up and it caused some controversy in the fandom. Remember how Pan almost got killed, and Krillin called out to her and told her to fly, and then she managed to fly for the first time?

So in the manga, Pan has the same moment, except she doesn't take flight. Instead...

In this version, Krillin just flies over and grabs her. And that makes sense. Why would he just assume she can fly on her own? Why not just zip over and get her? However, this kills the character arc Pan had in the movie. She started the film wishing she could do more advanced training, but Piccolo won't let her because she can't fly yet. Then in this scene, she does fly, and when the movie ends she shows Piccolo and he proudly agrees to start giving her the advanced lessons.

Fans didn't like this version, because Toyotaro appeared to be saying "no" to something the fans enjoyed in the movie. Krillin doesn't need a hero moment in this scene because he gets a couple of hero moments when he helps fight Cell Max. He saves 18 and distracts Cell Max with a solar flare. Krillin's fine. So it sure looks like Toyotaro just scrapped Pan's big moment for no discernible reason. This happened in Chapter 97.

Hey, check out this cool shot of Orange Piccolo fighting Cell Max.

Right, back to what I was saying.

So in Chapter 98, Toyotaro redeems himself by having Pan fly for the first time, just in a later part of the battle. When Big Orange Piccolo gives the last senzu bean to Gohan in the movie, Gohan just eats it and that's it. But in the manga, Cell Max attacks Piccolo and knocks it out of his hand. No one can catch it, until Pan goes after it and follows it over a ledge. Gohan's worried, but then it turns out she can fly now so she was never in danger, and she gets to help him this way.

Is it better than the movie? I can see a case for this version, but one thing that bugs me is that it seems a bit contrived for Pan to notice the senzu bean and be able to follow it through the air the way she did. I believe she could and would catch it for her dad. That's fine. But I'm not sure she would understand the need from where she was sitting in Bulma's aircraft.

For that matter, I don't know that it makes sense for Pan to understand what a senzu bean is, or why Gohan would need one so badly. Someone might have explained it to her at some point, but Pan's only three years old. I wouldn't expect her to know everything about everything.

Anyway, it goes to show how much can change from one chapter to another. People were mad about Chapter 97, but only because they didn't have 98 right there in front of them to show them it wasn't that big a deal. This is one major reason why I don't like to read the manga as it publishes.

From here, well, I think I'm just down to cool shots of the fight with Cell Max.

I don't think much is different here, but the art is cool, and this is one of my favorite parts of the movie.

I think this is a manga-only bit. Cell Max works over Piccolo with ki blasts, and it looks like Piccolo blows up, which triggers Gohan's Beast form, but then later it turns out Gamma 1 was protecting Piccolo with his force field, which allowed him to withstand the blast.

Also, when Cell Max tries to use his wings to escape the attack Gohan has planned, Toyotaro has Gamma 1, Krillin, and 18 cut off his wings. Not sure we needed this, but sure, it gives those characters one more chance to shine.

And then Piccolo holds Cell Max down and pleads with Gohan to take the shot, and that's the end of chapter 99.

And that gets me all caught up. Now I just have to wait for Chapter 100, which is supposed to drop on December 20. Hopefully, it'll wrap up the Super Hero adaptation, but I wouldn't put it past Toyotaro to drag this thing out another three chapters with some sort of press conference featuring Sergeant Nutz, Saiyaman X-1 and X-2, and Cleangod.

There's been talk of a big surprise twist or something in chapter 100, but I'm not holding my breath. Usually when this franchise has a big announcement, it's about the date for some actual announcement later, and that announcement usually turns out to be something the fans kind of already heard about anyway. "Yes, we will be releasing a Chapter 101" is the sort of thing I would expect them to "announce" in chapter 100.

It would be cool if Chapter 100 ended with Black Frieza showing up and killing Vegeta or something major like that. Or, I don't know, maybe Goten and Trunks turn evil. Those would be shocking developments, but I doubt this manga would go that far. We'll just have to see...

[suburbanswirl]

Faux leather jodhpurs by PS of Sweden, silk bow blouse by Escalier, leather buckle gloves by Wilsons, and leather riding boots by Frye.

[bootslave]

[plistommy]

I’m a sucker for Regency romance fiction. Steve Harrington, only son of Duke Of Hawkins, falls in love with lowly stablehand Billy Hargrove, and they must keep it secret, ESPECIALLY from Steve’s arranged fiancée Lady Nancina Byers. But what happens when Billy’s drunken lout father Neil figures them out? What if he demands his whore son bilk the young Lord of all he’s worth if they don’t want to be found out by Steve’s father, or worse… the Ton…

TW abuse!!!

The sun was shining for the first time after weeks of cruel rain. The warm wind was soft on Steve’s face as he walked through the courtyard to the familiar stable.

It was a beautiful day for a ride.

”Good day is it, Lord Steven?

”Good day indeed.” Steve smiled at the stablehand as he opened the heavy door.

Billy.

The man had been working for his family for years now. Steve had come to know the man, too pretty for his own good with those beautiful blue eyes and strong body.

He was really the only friend Steve had. Or a secret one, at least. Steve really didn’t have anyone else to talk to than his family and his soon to be wife, Lady Nancina by arranged marriage.

Nancina was a kind woman. He liked her. He even thought they could be great friends. But he didn’t want to marry her.

His heart belonged to someone else.

But… his father demanded it, like he always did with everything. He was the Duke. And you never disobey the Duke Of Hawkins.

Especially if you’re his only son.

”I’ve got your mare ready for you.” Billy said, that deep voice making Steve warm in all of the good ways.

”Thank you.” Steve said softly, loving how the younger man's lips turned into a smile. A real one.

Steve brushed past the other, bending down to pick up his helmet, shining like it always did when Billy had cleaned it for him after every ride.

He heard a groan coming from behind him and he turned around quickly, concerned if the blond man had hurt himself, but all he found was those piercing blue eyes staring right at his ass.

”Those… are a sin.” Billy murmured, gripping the shovel in his strong arms tightly.

Steve blushed red, but smirked and gave a small wiggle to the other man before he finally stood up.

”Just for you.” He said with his charm and Steve loved the reaction it always got from Billy.

Okay, so they weren’t just… familiar with each other. Or just friends. They were more than that, had been for almost years now behind the closed doors.

Billy huffed a little before dropping his shovel next to the wall. ”Only you today?”

Your family isn’t around? Your fiance? Is what it meant.

Steve smirked and took a step forward.

”Yes. Father and…. others are gone today. Only me present.”

Steve wouldn’t be at the stables like this with his wedding coming up in six days. There were rare times when he could, but never this close to an ’important day’.

And Billy knew that.

He didn’t even blink before the other man was on him, arms wrapping around Steve’s waist as he picked up the Lord on top of one the tables. Steve happily spread his legs to get the other closer to him.

”You’re a sinful man, my Lord.” Billy moaned and it made Steve laugh.

”My Lord? Please, call me Steve… you know that, Billy.”

Billy groaned into the kiss and squeezed Steve’s ass that still had those unbelievably tight jodhpurs on.

”My Darling…” And oh did that name make Steve whine as Billy purred it into his ear.

He felt rough hands, working hands slip inside his trousers and soon a thick finger was teasing his hole as the man between his legs moved closer.

”Wanna make love to you, Sweetheart. Please?”

Steve’s head hit the wall.

”Please…” was all he could get out before Billy was removing their clothes.

If only they would’ve known they weren’t alone.

—

Billy was walking back to his home, a small and cramped wooden house close to his Duke’s residence.

He didn’t get a room like their servants did, but he didn’t mind that, he liked his own space and it wasn’t a bother to anyone. He was always early at work, always respectful and always quiet. That's how the Duke liked him to be.

When he got close enough, he could see a figure standing on his small porch and not just any fucking figure.

His bastard father.

”Took you long enough.” A grumpy voice said.

”Wasn’t expecting you, Sir.”

The old man took a long drag of his cigar, keeping his harsh eyes on Billy as he came to stand before him.

Billy was waiting for the man’s usual cruel words. How he was such a disappointment as his only child, a son and how he wished he would’ve left him to die when his mother had left them for a man over the seas. How easy it would’ve been to take him into the woods for wolves to share.

He didn’t let those words get under his skin. Not anymore.

”So tell me, son.” Neil took a step forward, towering over Billy’s frame as he blew smoke into his face, but he didn’t react. That’s what Neil wanted.

Instead, he stood on his ground. He knew how this goes, every single time.

”How long have you been fucking the Duke’s son?”

Billy’s eyes widened. And Neil smirked.

”What do you mean, Sir—”

”Do not lie to me, son!” A slap ”I saw what you dirty fucks were doing at the stables. Don’t think I haven’t noticed it before. How that ’Lord’ looks at you everytime you walk by and how you…” Neil grabbed his collar.

”How you beg to fuck him. Like a whore.”

Billy was fuming. He felt his whole body shake as his father looked down at him, still feeling the sting on his right cheek. He wanted to punch him, hell, murder him, but Billy knew he couldn’t. Was too afraid to and all he could do was to fucking take it and look straight into the other’s eyes so he wasn’t disrespectful.

”Now…” Neil said, breath smelling like alcohol ”You have to do something for me, son. For me to forgive you.”

Billy gritted his teeth.

”You don’t want the Duke to know, isn’t that right? Or the young Lord's precious little Lady Nancina? Don’t want to lose that precious job I got for you or your… ’Darling’.” he mimicked Billy’s words at him, but with disgust.

Billy wanted to kill this man. Fucking burn him alive.

But, he nodded ”Yes, Sir.”

”Good.” Neil said and finally let go of him.

”For this to go away, you’re going to leave him dry. Take everything. It’s going to be easy, you already have the whore in love with you, so nothing but sweet little lies and your cock can do the job.” Neil grinned ”Isn’t that right?”

He knew his father was a cruel and a disgusting man, but he didn’t think his father would go this low. Especially for his own fucking blood. He always had hope, but he should’ve buried it a long time ago, because the man would never change and didn’t want to.

Billy was used to getting punished. He was used to the words thrown at him. He was used to getting hurt.

But he wasn’t going to hurt Steve.

Not the man he loves.

The man who makes him the happiest he’s ever been just with his presence. The man who holds him close as they kiss. Who praises Billy for just being him even if he was just a stablehand for the other man.

He would rather die than to do this.

”Son.” He heard. It was a warning.

When he felt a hand on his throat and his back hitting the wall behind him, he yelled out ”Yes, Sir!”

His father held the hand for a while, making Billy struggle until he dropped it and gave him a small pat on the shoulder like he wasn’t just trying to kill Billy.

”Good. I’m expecting you in six days. Do not disappoint me.” And then he was gone.

Six days.

Oh fuck.

The wedding.

Billy’s breath got caught in his throat and he wanted to cry as he slumped down to his porch.

How could he hurt his beautiful Steve?

[dragonflies-draw-flame]

For prompts: Secret Relationship/Otherworldly/In Another Life. 2,309 words.

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Armitage Hux/Kylo Ren Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Supreme Leader Kylo Ren, Grand Marshal Armitage Hux, Alpha Kylo Ren, Omega Armitage Hux, Unexpected Heat, Weird space fruit as lube, Oral Sex, Unexpected Soft Kylux, I didn't see that coming either

Summary: A gift received during diplomatic negotiations unexpectedly sends Hux into heat. Ren is more than happy to assist him.

Read below or on AO3.

“A gift for you, Grand Marshal.”

A small platter was slid before him, upon it a shockingly pink, fuzzy-looking fruit. It was sliced decoratively, its muted green insides gently oozing dewy droplets.

Hux concealed his confused displeasure. This fruit was not on the list of expected dishes Mitaka had painstakingly prepared for him, and Hux did not like taking risks with unknown foods.

The ambassador leaned forward at his hesitation, a webbed hand gesturing reassuringly.

“A delicacy for you, Grand Marshal, to…ease the proceedings.”

Hux already felt very confident of the success of their proceedings so far—the planetary council had agreed to more of Hux's terms than he had expected, but not wanting to spoil the extensive progress he had made by causing offense at the refusal of some culturally-significant fruit, he glanced discreetly at Ren.

Just eat it, Hux, came Ren's voice, startlingly clear in Hux's head as always. It has a very positive Force energy. I don't believe it means you any harm.

Hux almost strained his eyeballs from the effort it took not to visibly roll them. How the kriff can a fruit have a “positive Force energy”? he sent back, mustering a tight smile at his host and taking up his fork.

The fruit was sweet, thankfully, and slightly tangy, rich like the salted confections his mother used to sneak him when he was young. Hux swallowed a bit harder than necessary, and quickly ate the rest.

—

Negotiations and three-day conversation finally concluded, Hux was more than grateful to return to the Finalizer. He slipped back into his Grand Marshal uniform, thankful to be out of the ceremonial garb he had worn for the visit, no matter how much Ren had complimented him and grabbed his ass and eagerly stripped it off of him after hours.

The bridge came to attention immediately upon his arrival. Updates were given, decisions made, personnel dispatched. Hux stood before the endless stretch of stars beyond the viewport, lips curved, confident in the conquest that lay before him and Ren.

He was allowed exactly seven minutes of such imperial bliss before it was abruptly shattered.

A flush, first, creeping across his cheeks and then across his cheeks. He shifted, adjusting his stance discreetly. Then, dampness. So little as to be almost imperceptible, but enough to cause Hux's heart to begin to pound, a steady thrum in his veins.

No, he thought, his fingers tightening where they wrapped around his wrist. Impossible.

Then, suddenly: not impossible. A gush of hot slick, warm and wet and running down the inside of his jodhpurs.

He paled, panic rising in his chest. His suppressants always worked flawlessly. How in the sith hells could he be going into heat right then?!

The sudden sick memory of the dewy pink fruit came to mind, and the ambassador's accented words: to ease the proceedings. His lip curled, furious.

“Mitaka!” Hux barked, spinning, stalking towards his office at the fastest speed decorum would allow.

Mitaka was one of exactly three people on the Finalizer that knew of Hux's omega status. Ren and Phasma were the other two.

Mitaka all but sprinted into Hux's office after him, eyes wide. “Yes, sir?” he squeaked.

“Lieutenant, your report about the culinary customs of HV-482 did not report anything about a small pink fruit, with pale green flesh and apparently served as a delicacy.” Mitaka’s reports were normally exceptionally thorough. “Do you have anything to say about that?”

Mitaka blanched. “Um—ah—”

Hux gritted his teeth. “Quickly, Lieutenant. Do you know it or not?”

Mitaka’s shoulders trembled. “Ah, a pink fruit with—with green flesh?” he stammered. “Um—sir—”

“Mitaka!” Hux’s voice may have been a bit shrill, but he did not have time for deliberations. He could feel slick dripping down, warm and sticky, past his knees. “Spit it out!”

“Well, sir, yes, I, um, was aware of the fruit.” Mitaka lifted his chin, blinking rapidly. “It's an unusual delicacy that is only served specifically to omegas in diplomatic settings if, um, the hosts determine the visiting parties are a, um…involved couple.”

Hux could not help the heat that bloomed across his cheeks. Mitaka didn't seem to notice, or perhaps he just took it as evidence of Hux's rage, because he continued, nervously.

“So, I, ah, did not want to compromise your privacy by alluding to your, um, secondary gender in my report. Especially because it was not pertinent, because you and the Supreme Leader are not, um…together.” Mitaka swallowed audibly, wetting his lips. “And you dislike unnecessary information, so I omitted it. Because it was…not pertinent. As I said.” He flicked his eyes up to Hux, as if for desperate confirmation.

Hux was well-past the point of pretending. His uniform was starting to cling to him, suffocating, and that familiar heat was wrapping its irritating tendrils around his abdomen. The insides of his legs were now streaked with slick, down inside his pristine jackboots.

He brought his fingers to his temple, taking in a deep breath through his nose.

“Comm Leader Ren immediately,” he gritted out. “Tell him to meet me in my quarters. I will deal with the bridge on my way out.”

Mitaka’s eyes went as round as his gaping mouth. “Oh. Oh.” His voice wavered. “Um. Yes. Sir.”

Hux swept past him.

—

In his quarters Hux immediately began to strip, desperate to get his soaked undergarments off. His greatcoat was hung up as respectfully as possible, his tunic undone with fumbling fingers. His hands shook as he stumbled getting his foot into his boot jack, bracing himself on the wall for support, trying to breathe.

How the fuck could this have happened? He was in no position to go into heat now, not when he and Ren had so many more important matters to attend to. They had recovered in the wake of Starkiller’s destruction and Ren's ascension as Supreme Leader, but there was an immeasurable amount of work still to be done.

He set his boots down, toes forward, lining them up as best he could with his blood rushing in his head and slick dripping down to his ankles and his cock as hard as duracrete. It would have to do. He could fix them and everything else later, when this ridiculous inconvenience was taken care of.

Once he had been thoroughly and unremittingly fucked.

Hux grumbled, clenching his jaw, damning his biology yet again.

He was down to his briefs when he heard the chime of the door moments later. The presence of an alpha called to Hux like an irritating siren song, and he practically ran to the doorway of his bedroom, uncertain whether he wanted to shout at Ren first or jump his bones.

Or maybe both at once. Hux excelled at multitasking, after all. His ire was up, quavering in his very blood, and his libido so vibrant he thought his dick would explode. Both, he thought. Definitely both.

Kylo's face stopped him in his tracks, however. His dark eyes were bright, curious, his expression confused but awestruck. Beautiful, Hux's lust-addled brain unhelpfully supplied.

Ren’s lips parted when he saw Hux, looking him up and down, taking in his quivering, pinked chest, his drenched briefs, his pale legs lined with shimmering trails of slick.

Ren sucked in a breath, coming closer as if in a trance, eyes never leaving Hux's body. His nose twitched as he sniffed lightly.

“You're—you…” His mouth hung open, wordless wonder writ on that strange face.

Much to his annoyance, Hux blushed, as if he could possibly get any redder. He had not been through a heat since starting his whirlwind of a relationship with Ren two years ago.

He hadn't allowed himself the time for one.

“Yes, Ren,” he snapped, trying to save face. “I’m in heat. I hope you're fucking happy.” He clung to the door frame with white-knuckled hands, trying to resist the overwhelming urge to physically attack Ren, to shove that stupid enormous prick of his inside of himself immediately. “‘Positive Force energy’? ‘Doesn’t mean me any harm’?!”

“Hux—” Ren put up his hands, took a step closer.

“It’s because of you that I'm in this predicament, Ren!” Hux spat, livid. “What’s the use of your kriffing space wizardry if you can't protect me from karking heat-inducing fruit?!”

“Hux—”

“No, Ren!” Hux snarled. “I don't need this right now! We don't need this right now!”

Ren stepped closer, his hands reaching for Hux's waist. Hux trembled with the effort it took not to go to him.

“The galaxy will not stop for a fucking heat, so why should I?” Hux’s lips quivered. He wanted to die from the shame. His resolve broke. “Look at me, Ren,” he whimpered. “I'm disgusting. It's disgusting. I'm—”

Ren grabbed him, pulling Hux into his arms, against his ridiculous chest. Hux surrendered, burying his face into the dip of Ren’s collarbone, humiliated.

“You're amazing, Hux,” Ren whispered. “You look amazing. You smell amazing.” He tipped Hux's head up to meet his eyes. “I didn't think I could want you any more than I already did, but…” He glanced down over Hux's body, huffing out a breath and shaking his head. “Fuck.”

Hux searched Ren's face with trepidation, certain he was being ridiculed. Then Ren shifted his hips, and the long, hard intrusion into Hux's thigh cleared his doubts at once.

“Kylo—” he gasped, breathless.

“Shh,” Ren murmured, taking Hux by the shoulders and stepping back a pace. He knelt. “Let me.”

“I—”

“Hux,” Ren interrupted, with an edge of exasperation. “For once. Just let me.”

Hux shut his mouth, peering down at Ren with as little suspicion as he could muster.

Ren raised his eyebrows. “Thank you,” he quipped.

Hux narrowed his eyes and bit his lip. He didn't think he had ever heard Ren thank anyone before.

Sitting back on his heels, Ren undid his cape, tossing it carelessly to the side. His gloves followed, and his belt, and his tunic, a haphazard pile of black on the floor. Hux stared at Ren's muscled chest with unabashed want, fingers itching to grope.

Ren leaned forward. He picked up Hux's right foot and brought it to his lips. Hux sucked in a breath, eyes wide.

Then Ren met his gaze, lashes lowered, and tilted his mouth over Hux's ankle, and suckled.

Hux whined at once, loudly, pathetically. He sagged against the doorway, durasteel cutting into his palms as he held on to it tightly, in utter disbelief at the Supreme Leader of the galaxy licking slick off his toes, that talented tongue slurping against Hux's skin like it was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted.

It was unbelievable. It was shocking. It was undeniably, overwhelmingly erotic. Hux tilted his body into him.

Ren licked up his calf, gentle lips on the curve of scant muscle there, his tongue hot and warm and soft against Hux's slick-streaked skin. Hux shuddered, wetness seeping out of him now, the fire in his belly raging. Ren pushed apart Hux's legs, nudged that big nose between his knees, and up the plane of his thigh, where the slick was now a solid sheet of dampness. His big fingers curled around Hux's leg, one possessively on Hux's narrow hip bone, another hand at the top of Hux's knee, holding him in place as he licked him clean.

Hux thought his heart might burst. He thought his brain might combust from the sensation, from the thought of Ren being so subservient, kneeling before him, cleaning him with his own mouth. Hux was, for once, well and truly speechless, and his mouth gaped, powerless to look away from the events unfolding before him.

Then Ren repeated the steps with Hux's other leg. More slick had already made its way down his clean leg, encouraged by Ren's ministrations, but Hux didn't dare move or speak. His eyes were impossibly wide, as awestruck as Ren’s had been when he entered Hux's quarters. His mind helpfully thought about what would happen when Ren got to the top of Hux's second leg, and how incredible that hot mouth would feel on his twitching cock, and his eyes fluttered shut, already impossibly close.

“I can do that,” Ren rumbled, amused.

Hux cracked open his eyes, squinting down at Ren, panting. He nodded, desperately.

Ren set Hux's leg down, hooked his fingers into the waistband of Hux's sodden briefs. He peeled them down and off, slowly, tantalizingly, dark eyes taking in the revealed skin before him. Hux held his breath as Ren leaned in to take the tip of his cock between those plush lips.

He never ceased to be amazed at how good Ren was at giving head. That mouth was practically made for sucking dick, and Hux thrust into it helplessly, unable to hold back any longer.

“Ren—oh, stars!”

His head tipped back against the doorframe, relief flooding his body as he finally, finally got glorious friction on his cock, and he sucked in great gasps of air, hands searching blindly to anchor themselves in Ren's thick waves.

“I'm—Ren—”

Let go, Hux, Ren's voice commanded in his head.

Pleasure crested through him as his orgasm took him, as he drove his hips into Ren's hollowed cheeks, fingers tangled tight in those dark curls, emptying himself into Ren's throat.

He could feel himself slip out of Ren's soft mouth after, those enormous hands loosening their grip on Hux's ass. He opened his eyes, looked down at Ren waiting below him, peering up at Hux as if for affirmation.

Hux tried to catch his breath, stroking Ren's hair, tucking it behind one large ear.

“Good boy,” he murmured, inspired.

Ren's eyes flashed. His cock throbbed noticeably in his leggings.

“Now get up here and fuck the kriff out of me,” Hux demanded.

@kyluxshortshorts

[writerswho]

Bestie can you please write a scene where the reader sees the Tardis for the first time and does the whole "it's bigger on the inside" bit but then follows it up with a your mom joke

Hi, sorry for the delay. I don't know if I managed to do it the way you imagined because I'm not familiar with jokes and had to Google it to make sure I knew what it was, but I think I got it. I hope you enjoy it.

You don't know how on Earth you end up in the middle of a cross fire between fish people and lizard people, but you're certain you don't want to be there any more. You try to run, dodging the bullets (wait, are those lasers?). You fall on your face and curse under your breath because, of course, you would fall flat on the floor. Even when your life literally depends on it, you still cannot manage to run in a straight line. From a glance, you see a blue box, just big enough for you to ride inside. You run to the box and the moment you cross the doors, you think that maybe, very probably, you hit your head harder than expected when you fell. 

The inside of the small blue box is giant, its interior resembling a cave with huge curved crystals forming a semicircle around what appears to be some sort of control desk. 

There are two people around the table, and they look in your direction as you pass through the door. One of them is short and blonde and has questionable fashion sense, matching braces and rainbow with a pair of high-waisted teal blue capri trousers. The second person has the most exceptional hair you have ever seen in your life, with golden curls that shine in the carve-like room light. They wear dark gray jodhpurs trousers and a white leather jacket buttoned up with a fur waistcoat over it, a wide black leather belt around the waist and leather boots that are extremely high. There is a holster attached to one leg. 

Stunned, you take a step back, leaving from the same place you entered. You continue walking backwards without breaking eye contact with the two people or the inside of the blue box. 

“Do we need to do this now?” the person with the space hair asks. 

“Come on, you love this as much as I do,” the one with the rainbow replies. Both have fond smiles.

Totally ignoring the surrounding danger, you scan the outside of the box. It is a normal police booth, the kind you see in old movies and series, the ones you are sure you have seen in some old photographs of your grandparents. You circle the booth clockwise, then retrace your steps counterclockwise. You knock on the cabin, kick it lightly, look for hollow or false spaces or anything that explains the difference between the outside and the inside. You return to the starting point in front of the double doors that are open, showing the two people enjoying your little show. 

The sounds of the battle grow louder, and their smiles falter. 

“Not to be rude,” says the one with the hair, “but we're kind of in a hurry to get out of here. Do you want a ride or not?”

You think you say yes, as you find yourself inside the box once again. The doors close behind you with a loud bang that brings you out of your stupor. 

“Oh, they are going to say it,” comments the one in braces. 

“It's bigger on the inside,” the words escape from your mouth as if you had a greater force compelling you to say them. “Like yo mama.” They look at you in surprise and amusement, the one with braces and rainbow stripes crackles loudly, it's as if they could roll on the floor for laughing so hard at any moment. You feel your face burn with embarrassment, wishing you had stayed outside. Facing fish people and lizard people is much better than this kind of humiliation. 

“You know, in all these years, this is the first time anyone has said this,” the one with the questionable fashion sense says. 

“Hold tight,” is all the other say as they start fiddling with buttons on the big round thing in the centre of the room. The other tries to help, tinkering here and there, but every time they do something, the one with the extraordinary hair undoes it. The whole room starts to shake, and you feel that maybe, in fact, you were safer with the fish and the lizards. However, there is no turning back now, so you hold on tight and hope for the best. 

[dragimalsdaydreams]

[image ID: 2 images of the same front-view, full-body screenshot of Sucrose from the game Genshin Impact.

the image first is an unedited screenshot of how Sucrose appears in-game. she's pale-skinned with amber-gold eyes framed by big, round, wood-framed glasses. her minty-teal hair is fluffy and short-cropped, with a long rat tail extending her hair from the back (not visible from this front view). two long, pointed, fox-like ears extend from the sides of her head, matching the color of her hair, and pulled down in a bashful position. Sucrose is wearing a very short black + navy blue skirt/romper with long white sleeves, navy ribbons/frills, and gold filigree accents. she's also wearing a matching hat, gloves, and boots, sheer black stockings, and a short white cape (not very visible from the front).

the second image is a heavily edited version of the first. Sucrose now has a minty-teal, fox-like tail to match her ears. a little doodle to the side shows the rat tail being cut off with an emphatic, "NO!!" she's now wearing a brown vest and brown jodhpur pants with mint/gold accents, while the colors of the gloves and boots have been shifted to match. her cape has been extended into a much longer design, shaped after insect wings with a mint-teal gradient, dark teal "veins", and gold accents. a white/teal lily is pinned just under her hat, with two of the stamens extending out much taller than natural, to give the impression of "insect antennae".

end ID]

WHEW this one was unexpected! I've always thought Sucrose was cute, but I honestly didn't think about her all that much. but the recent Windblume gave me a greater appreciation for her character... as well as a newfound irritation for her outfit, lmao. the more I like a character, the more I end up scrutinizing their outfit, sigh...

anyways, design notes and more in-depth image desc under the cut!

barring Tighnari (he's a special case...), I usually start a redesign with shape design in mind rather than color design, as it comes more naturally to me. but Sucrose flipped the script-- I hate how the navy clashes with the mint more than anything else.

[image ID: the two versions, cropped to the torso area.

the original design features a skin-tight, black romper, with a short, navy blue "skirt" wrapped over the top, but split down the middle. the bottom edge of the skirt has thick, navy blue frills. long white sleeves with wide, flared cuffs sit on the shoulders, detached from the romper, leaving a gap of bare skin above the bust. an Anemo vision and black/white bow pins the sleeves up at the base of the throat, sitting just under a fluffy black collar. two leather straps are pinned to the sides of the skirt, one side holding bubbling alchemy tubes. gold filigree accents are scattered about, notably large designs on the shoulders, over the sleeves.

the edited design has changed the romper/skirt into a brown vest that flares into a similar "skirt" shape at the hips. the edges are trimmed in gold, the frills at the bottom edge are mint, and the center is buttoned up with shiny, round mint buttons. the sleeves now attach to the main vest, but are a darker brown that fades even darker towards the white/gold cuff. the leather straps now sit above pockets which are sewed in with thick mint thread. the top of the cape now wraps over the top of the shoulders, and is pinned at the base of the throat by the Anemo vision and a mint bow. this part of the cape is white with the same fluffy black collar, and the large, gold filigree designs on the shoulders.

end ID]

I figure that leaning into the mint with a "minty mocha" palette works better, though I may be biased because it's one of my favorite palettes for mint colors, haha.

all this is to say... I really didn't have any ideas for shapes at first (no, I didn't even have the insect theme in mind yet!). I knew I wanted to give her more interesting pants, at least, but nothing felt "right", or it felt overdone (like the poofy-bottom pants I love so much). I think I only landed on jodhpur pants because I was trying to reverse my own "bottom-heavy" tendencies, haha

[image ID: the edited image, cropped to the pants. these pants flare out wide with extra, poofy fabric at the outside of the hips, then turn sharply back in towards the knees, tapering down into the skin-tight lower legs. they're the same dark brown as the sleeves, and fade to darker brown towards the ends of the pants. the fly is lined with gold, and buttoned with a couple round, teal buttons. the outer sides of the lower legs are lined with a star-tipped gold line, and buttoned with a few teal buttons. end ID]

yes, I know jodhpurs are riding pants, and I... honestly don't even know if Sucrose rides horses in the first place. I usually try to match the practicality of clothing to a character, but I love the shape so much, I just went on ahead with it. maybe she got inspired by Sumeru rider fashion? (and maybe I'll do an alt outfit for Kaeya with jodhpurs? hmm..)

the insect inspiration hit me when I was brainstorming her cape and realized it could reference crystalfly wings!

[image ID: small sketches of the inside and outside of the cape. the cape is shaped vaguely like insect wings, folded back and connected along the seam between each wing. the inner corner of each wing has a long, thin "tail" that flares out into a crescent-like tip. both sides have the gradient of dark-to-light teal, but the outside is notably darker. dark teal "veins" flare across both sides, including the "tails". the main veins have a swirl shape in the center, much like an Anemo crystalfly. both sides are edged in gold trim, but the outside has white section over shoulder area. end ID]

very fitting, since she uses crystalfly constructs in her attacks (though the tails admittedly evoke more "butterfly" than anything)

the cecilia is supposed to add to this "insect" silhouette, evoking "antennae"

[image ID: a white lily, with the typical 6 large, pointed petals, prominent long pistil, and 6 long, thin stamens. the center is teal fading out to white towards the tips of the petals. the pistil is teal, and the stamens are gold with teal tips. two of the stamens are far longer than normal, curving far above the top edge of the flower. end ID]

I figure this is one of Sucrose' alchemy-mutated specimens, to explain the color and two longer stamens, haha

also, fun fact: I always thought cecilias looked like lilies, so I figured it was just another name for lilies I'd never heard of (or otherwise a similar-looking species). so I google cecilias, and what do I find?? it's not a name for any real-life flower-- Genshin cecilias are just misnamed lilies. bizarre Genshin naming conventions strike again (don't look at the animal or ingredient archive too hard if ur a biologist, u might go insane...)

as for the tail, well. can you blame me?

[image ID: a small doodle of the fox tail, hanging comfortably limp. much like the ears, the base color is a light mint, which fades to darker teal at the tip. end ID]

it makes no sense to me that Sucrose and Yae Miko are the only animal-people in the game that don't have tails to match their ears. throw us furries a goddamn bone for once!!

(the cynical part of me thinks it's because fluffy fox tails block the ass too much from the back, unlike thin cat tails, but I can only speculate...)

anyways, since we don't know Sucrose's species, I just went with a fox-like tail, since her ear shape matches Yae's

[drnpcortex]

"✨If ever curious of my fashion style of my look in lab wear, i changed my choice from tights to jodhpur pants... best thing i ever did on fashion choice, so Airy and spacious for my.. um.. raygun?" "(゜ω゜') ".......... yes my raygun thats it."

"i highly recommend it to any of my other imposters of myself out there."

[slowd1ving]

PENDULUM ✦ . 　⁺ vii.

DANCE FLOOR DOLOR (MAREUX)

"I choose death, not forgiveness, Sulking on the dance floor, Got me in a mood dancing by myself." wc: 10.6k

JOJO'S BIZARRE ADVENTURE MASTERLIST

PENDULUM MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

PREVIOUS PART ・゜NEXT PART

All was not, in fact, well. 

Actually, you’d go on record to say that it was positively tragic . At the very arse-crack of dawn, you were shaken awake by the very floors rumbling beneath your drowsy body – before the door was flung open with enough force to uproot several trees without breaking a sweat. There, emblazoned with a proud tweed jacket and jodhpurs, stood Vincent: arms splayed rigidly and connected to his hips, boots so polished your eyes hurt, and a fresh scowl lining his brow. 

The previous evening had been spent at the smithy the day prior; a blasting furnace had long since made your skin raw and too-sensitive, and you spent the twilight hours keeping Group Four from fighting the poor, overworked blacksmith. But at long last, her hooves were fitted with new horseshoes, while the old ones practically crumbled off in a bleak pile. Similarly, you kept a close eye on her as Vincent demonstrated how to properly tack her up – yet, no matter how much you tried to look past it, the barley-green residue on the metal bit kept making you wince. 

“Today, you’re going to ride and gear her up yourself. A jockey should always know how to groom and tack up a horse – especially in the Steel Ball Run, where grooms won’t be readily available,” he instructed caustically. It was then that you noticed the worn chaps he held in his turned–away hand; they were a dusky, faded sienna colour, and your eyes lit up at the sight of them. Gone were your childhood dreams of cowboys – no, they were coming into reality . “Wear gloves and thick trousers.”

“Sir!” you sat up blearily – still, your eyes watered and were crusted over with the evidence of your swift passing out. Groggily, you dressed; several times, you almost stumbled and fell head-first onto the timbered floors of your room – but you got it done. You eyed your reflection in the internal armoire mirror: your battered cargos were secured with an old belt you found in a drawer (half-covered by the chaps, but that was something to be grateful for, in this alien past) and a wide-brimmed hat covered your face in its shadow – it was tight with the security of a concealed helmet. Safety first . 

In the stiff leather riding-gloves, your fingers itched with a burdensome numbness (and a healthy dose of anticipation). 

With your belly comfortably sated with suspicious fruits and fresh bread, you strode out to Martha’s barnhouse, where Vincent was already waiting for you next to an ancient saddle horse.

“Gloves off, kid,” he ordered. After you had carefully perched them atop your new saddle, he handed you a hoof pick, and you grimaced. At that, he frowned at you. “Do it first to avoid it later.”

“Right,” you muttered, taking it with an ounce of trepidation. In the stables, Group Four was already tied off to an empty stall with a quick-release halter – she nickered quietly upon seeing you, and you couldn’t help but break into a smile. Despite your initial grin, it quickly devolved into you eyeing her hooves in no small amount of fear. Still, you plundered on; facing her hind quarters, you grasped the area just below the fetlock – easily, she let you angle it so you could swiftly dig out the muck in the hoof. 

You held your breath as you carved out the dirt; quite frankly, it did not smell pleasant. 

If you were being honest, it was extremely nerve-wracking more than it was stinky – especially in the danger zone of the back hooves. Yet, despite your frayed nerves and turbulent mind, Group Four didn’t so much as twitch. It was as if she sensed the viscous trickle of fear that clung to you: something which you were immensely thankful for. 

“Dunno why I’m talking to a horse,” you murmured as you picked up a roughly bristled brush and began running it through her coat. Her ears swivelled at the soft noise, but you were too preoccupied focusing on the saddle area to pay much notice. “I’ve had barely any riding experience – but here I am, about to enter a real big fucking race.” 

“Anyways,” you picked up the hoof pick that had dropped, forgotten, to the hay covering the wooden planks. “I’ll be right back with the bridle and saddle.”

As you walked back out to the connecting barn, the heavy tobacco-cigar smell fell upon you; there, still by the saddle horse, Vincent leaned against the wall as he spoke with Martha. By the rungs of the horse, you left the pick and brush. 

“Saddle first, and loop the reins ‘round your shoulder and her neck when you do the bridle,” he reminded you, all the while showing three fingers to remind you of how loose the cinch had to be. As you heaved with the heavy Western-style saddle and thick saddle-pad, Martha burst into laughter at your waddle – a last ditch attempt so that the bridle wouldn’t fall off the crest of the leather. 

“Alright, gramps,” you pointedly ignored the absolute mockery you were experiencing. Between the uproarious cackle bursting from the saleswoman, and the exasperated glower of the innkeeper, it was with a sigh of relief that you reentered the dim stables. 

“You want to know your name?” you continued while slipping the bridle onto a stall peg, then the saddle onto the next stall’s open door. When you turned back to Group Four, her ears had pricked up noticeably, and you fought back a smile. “It’s Group Four.”

As you placed the thick pad on her back, you watched as her ears flicked interestedly – it was almost a question, and a hell of a better reaction than to Lucky . Why ? 

“Well,” you began as the heavy saddle started its burdensome strain on your arms. Yet, somehow, you still managed to slip it on so the stirrups and cinch didn’t hit her side. You surveyed your handiwork proudly, before realising (with no small amount of horror) that you had to reach under her belly to grab the metal. Group Four, in her impatience, snorted loudly; you almost flew back as she startled you. 

“Alright, alright,” you muttered – despite your outward attempt at composure, your heart had yet to settle. “You’re named after a group in the periodic table – which contains transition metals – don’t look at me like that, they’re really cool ! Chemically, they form colourful compounds and are frequently used as catalysts – which you will be in this race.” 

Seemingly satisfied, she shook out her mane while you wrapped up your explanation. 

Were you losing it? Something about having a half-conversation with your mare told you that somebody in the stables was losing the plot – and it probably wasn’t the horse. 

It’s perfectly fine to talk with your horse , you sniffed haughtily. In a spurt of courage, you wrangled your cinch to the other side and began the arduous task of tugging on the leather enough to buckle it. If you really looked at it, the saddle looked a tad more finicky than those you saw on TV in those rich kid movies; instead of being highly polished and having a lighter shaper, this one was duller – but had rich embroidery and embossed leather patterns decorating the brown material. The Western saddle also rose and tapered into a horn at the front – something to help herd cattle, you presumed. 

Huzzah ! Wiping your brow with your jacket, you took a cursory step back to examine your work; it was loose enough to fit in some fingers and not irritate Group Four, while also being tight enough that it wouldn’t fall off in the midst of riding. You left the stirrups high for the minute while slinging the bridle over your shoulder.  

Idly, you thumbed the braided leather-cord reins as you looped them around her neck. With your free hand, you unclasped her halter and slipped the bridle on; even through your jacket, you could feel her warm breath on your arm. Being so close to her mouth made you slightly nervous – regardless of what you felt, though, you surged on. As you slipped the bit into her mouth, her velvet nose brushed against your palm. The sudden spongy-texture against your tattoo stirred Depeche Mode awake.

[‘S going on?]

I’m tacking Group Four up , you replied gleefully. With each cinch of the noseband and crown, with each correct point ticked off, the small victories avalanched until you observed your success with a concerning amount of pride. Depeche Mode sleepily murmured something in response, but you weren’t paying enough attention to catch it. 

“I think that’s done,” you eyed Group Four cautiously, looping the looser reins higher up your shoulder. A final check to make sure the tack wasn’t pinching her anywhere, and you could grab your gloves off where they sat on the horn and slipped them back on; now – now – you felt like a true contender for the race. The Appaloosa blinked at you, in what appeared to be placid confirmation. “Great!”

It was not , in fact, great. When you walked her out of the stables (putting in the greatest amount of effort to make sure she didn’t bulldoze over you with her new-found energy), Vincent wordlessly began shifting all your adjustments by a hole or two; by the end of it, you stood there, rather deflated from your crushed pride. 

“Not bad for someone who’d just watched a demonstration,” he attempted to pacify you once he saw that forlorn shadow wash over your face. Then, briskly, he took the reins off you and led the mare to a mounting block – this is it . 

Once you sank onto the leather, something would finalise. You didn’t know what , exactly, but an intrinsic tie to the future would be carved into the stone – you felt it in your guts, your bones, and everywhere else that instinct lingered. 

If you were seated on that saddle, it would be akin to crossing the Rubicon. 

Beneath the shadows of your hat, your mournful expression cracked – until all that was left was anticipation. It lingered thick on your tongue, and shrouded you with a tangible, crackling energy. You were restless; every neuron was firing at a rapid pace to acclimate you to the new information your body was receiving, and you hadn’t even started yet. 

The jittery sensation had also spread to Group Four. Though her pace was even under the experienced hand of Vincent, her steps still juddered with a verve that mimicked your own vigour – yet, you couldn't be certain whether it stemmed from you, or the reality that someone else was handling her instead of you. 

“Calm down, kid,” he ordered, beckoning you closer with a crooked finger. While his normal expression was already sombre enough, the firm set of his jaw prompted you into thinking this was truly a more serious affair. Fruitlessly, you tried to steady the arrhythmic beat of your desperate heart. “Your mood affects both your performance and your horse.”

“Right,” you swallowed dryly. If you thought it was imposing leading the horse, it was even more imposing when you stepped up to the heavy mounting block. Precariously, you wobbled at the last step – it was only when you grabbed the horn and reins tied loosely to it that you regained your balance. Fuck . What the hell were you supposed to do next? 

“Start with the stirrup closest to you,” Vincent called out from where he stood nearby. Your eyes followed to where the stirrup swung with an alarming looseness that did not feel stable whatsoever. Despite it, your boots found the thick metal rung easily enough; after steeling yourself for a too-short moment, you gathered enough spunk to swing your left leg over the saddle as well. Like a bullet, it immediately shot to find shelter in the dangling stirrup (it may have taken you a few tries, but you finally got your foot shoved in there).

“I did it!” you half-yelled out in exhilaration. Swivelling around, you made eye contact with the innkeeper, then Martha – perhaps it was with a trace of smugness that followed triumphant novices, but who was to blame you? You blinked, and the ground was suddenly a lot further away than it had been just a mere moment ago. 

“Get the reins and hold them so they go between your ring and smallest finger for both hands,” Vincent commanded while he came over to readjust the stirrups. “I trained the classical style – but this is Western-style tack, so you can relax your hold, and steer one handed with the reins looped between those two fingers, then your thumb and index – don’t do this when you’re galloping for your life .”    

Inhale . The rapid thrum of your heart pounding against your ribcage had settled, until it was once more the steady thump you were accustomed to. Exhale . You did as you were told, and if you were being honest, it felt like taking hold of a steering wheel for the first time – like you had control . This was one of the biggest steps to reaching your goal; finally, you were taking that leap across the gaping chasm. 

The sky had split into a rosy smile; azure firmament had brought with it a glaring sun – but try as it might, it didn’t so much as scratch at your eyes through your hat. With the shift of the heavens, hope rustled on the breeze; this was almost it . You could practically taste the start of the Steel Ball Run already.

Vincent, by all means and rights, was a harsh critic and even harsher teacher. From the very beginning, he drilled the foundation into you: what it meant to have a good seat when riding, just how much pressure you should be applying with leg aids, and how to keep steady no matter how fast Group Four sped up. Soon, the difference between a walk and trot, canter and gallop became as distinctive as night and day. Each of the few lessons wrangled you into a melted mass of unsteady muscles and aching ligaments – but you were sure you wouldn’t fall off your horse at the beginning of the fateful race, at least. 

As the minutes turned into hours, and the hours turned into days, you eventually got used to feeling uncomfortable warm and sticky for a good part of the morning; the constant grip of your thighs against the leather saddle trapped copious amounts of sweat, and by the end of it you always smelled like horse and wished for nothing more than the luxury of a shower to sluice away the hard work. Eventually, you became accustomed to walking back to the inn with legs of measly rubber – then standing for the whole evening. In a gesture of goodwill, Vincent had let you off paperwork duty on the days you drilled, but never for your evening job. 

Despite your unfortunate circumstances, customers somewhat liked you. Your sullen, exhausted face didn’t dissuade them from opening up to you in a way they were too intimidated by Vincent to (though that didn’t stop the more courageous – or shameless – of them). And despite your initial exasperation with all that came through those doors, you grew to enjoy the work. 

Then one day, the balance shifted irrevocably. 

. 　⁺ ✦

Dawn had shaken you awake with an innocuous rigour. By dawn, you meant Vincent. Just as every day before it, he thundered up the stairs and threw open your door with enough energy that it made you concerned, quite frankly – where the hell did he get it from? Your muscles ached, your brain was splitting in two and a war had broken out between both sides; even with your plaintive mumbling, he’d just brewed you a particularly strong cup of herbal tea and told you to get on with it.

Circumstance had given you a different teacher that morning. 

You expected it, yet hadn’t prepared for that possibility quite so soon. Mundane routines were something that was common across all time periods; you took immense comfort in keeping with each boring slot, no matter how dull and lengthy it was. Vincent’s teaching had been something familiar , something you could take refuge in and get used to. However, Martha was different. Where Vincent had pushed for a more classical style of riding, Martha insisted on you learning the finer points on Western. 

“It’s fine and all if he wants to show you the finicky styles of racing for show and flashiness,” she had uttered exasperatedly – this clearly was a basis for argument for the two of them. “Western is easier for endurance like this –  but will that stubborn old geezer listen? No, he’s too stuck in his old glory days!”

She threw up her hands as she said it for added emphasis, but you could still hear the affectionate years of knowing him in her annoyed tone. Credit where credit was due; she was true to her word. It was easier to learn Western riding, considering that was the purpose with which the saddle was built. With Vincent, the lessons were focused more on the core of the body  – it was considerably more difficult to trot in the classical style, but the Western gait was really more of a relaxed jog that you could seat yourself in easily.  

Every passing hour brought with it a change in perspective that you found refreshing; there was peace to be granted after spending practical aeons at the lab daily. Being so entrenched outside, where the only issue was a stray wasp or two, was like a balm to your ragged soul. For the first time in years, worry melted away like cobwebs amidst the pour of rain. Of course you missed it – there was no other way about it – but this was a respite among the straining currents that had swept you from your feet daily, until all you could do was collapse into your creaky mattress as soon as you got home. 

So this, too, shall pass . 

You realised something crucial over those gruelling hours: whether it had been with the arduous training of Martha, or serving up drinks and food with Vincent, and even poring over homework with Dolly. Despite the burden you carried on your wearied shoulders, you were unencumbered with the stress that you might’ve otherwise felt. And there was a key reason for that. 

I’m going to miss them all . 

Unintentionally, you’d formed attachments to the people you came to call friends. Irate Vincent, cunning Martha, and chattering Dolly – you’d miss them all when you went back. Years later, would you see their name mentioned in history books? Years later, would you ever come across their descendants? It was disturbing to think about. 

On one of the mornings – just a mere handful of days until the beginning of the race – you saw him for the first time. 

As if he had always been there, he stood next to Martha as if the field was the place that he considered home. The thing that had initially struck you was the salient hat he wore; it covered his wispy, flaxen curls in bold zebra print that drew the eye whenever he walked. High on Group Four, you regarded him – in courteous return, he regarded you. That was the next thing you noticed; his eyes were those of a hawk – sharp, observant, analysing . At that moment, though you had the higher ground, the wariness within was almost primitive; was this how Dr Ferdinand’s specimens felt as she peered down at them with a burning curiosity? Should you flee, or fight ?

Then, the man named Mountain Tim broke into a minute smile, and his imposing presence shrunk into something more manageable. Shreds of trepidation still lingered, but you surveyed him more thoroughly. He looked like a cowboy that had walked straight off a Wild West movie; if you squinted, you could still see the white crackles of film surrounding him. Upon his head was a jauntily perched cowboy hat, slung on his shoulders was the pelt of what you could only presume to be leopard, and he wore a lasso and gun holster on his belt. Proudly emblazoned on his chest was a golden sheriff’s badge – something you only noticed later, despite its lustrous appearance. 

Depeche Mode stirred in interest; yet, you couldn’t pinpoint why . The contemplative pause in thought prompted Group Four to come to a halt at the enclosure fence, until you were directly sat above eye-level of the strange man and Martha. Your shadow, and clearer sight from your own hat, let you gaze down at him without the glare of the sun – upon closer inspection, his eyes were a striking blue that had the merest pinprick of a pupil, and those were honed in straight on you. 

“Barkeep! Meet Mountain Tim,” Martha had interrupted the growing silence with a platitude that woke something in the abyss of short-term memory. Mountain Tim . Mountain Tim. You tested it out with the tongue of the mind, replaying it over and over until it became a mantra for searching for answers. 

[Isn’t he the one who Vincent was talking about a few weeks ago?]

The sudden input from Depeche Mode made your curiosity pique. As a general rule, Depeche Mode wasn’t exactly involved in your day-to-day life; for it to have remembered a snippet from so long ago made you wonder if this stranger was someone significant to your soul’s manifestation. 

“He’s also entering the Steel Ball Run,” she continued amiably, gesturing to the stables. “He’s rented a stall for the remaining few days for his own steed.” 

Steel Ball Run . 

(“ Bunch of bigwigs entering, like Diego Brando and Mountain Tim . No way you’d bag first, in any case��.”)

From the murky bottom of your short-term memory, Vincent's crude voice swam through the currents of brain-fluid. Yes, this was the so-called bigwig of the Steel Ball Run: someone to avoid, someone to fear . No. Here, dressed in rider garb and sitting confidently in the saddle, you were an equal . No longer would you cower in fear of someone’s reputation – this was not your life to play cautiously with. You held his quiet, stoic stare evenly. 

“Pleasure to meet you,” he intoned, though it was a rather pleasant voice nonetheless: mellow and deep. 

“Likewise,” you returned – polite, but curt . Then, you noticed something strange; unlike the usual hissy fit Group Four initiated whenever she was that close to someone she didn’t know, her head was courteously deferred in a bow . You stared for only a moment, before eyeing Mountain Tim in a mildly suspicious manner. He looked nonplussed as usual, though his eyes crinkled good-naturedly. 

“I wish you the best,” you added, but the two of you knew it was an indirect dismissal. Still, as you continued the drill with Martha yelling out different gait switches from the fence, he watched by her side. 

When you finally dismounted, he joined you in the stables as you took off Group Four’s tack; in the stall opposite, he geared up his own horse. It was rather disconcerting, but you kept the silence – in your gut, you knew he wouldn’t try to hurt you. Nonetheless, you kept an eye on his movements: only pausing to grimace at the wheat-green dried spittle on the metal bit. As you closed the stall behind you (with the bridle slung over your shoulder and saddle in your arms, he spoke. 

“You’re that bartender at Vincent’s, aren’t you?” 

You swivelled on your heel; while his tone was conversational enough, you could hear some genuine curiosity that shone through. “Yeah.”

“You served me that rum the other night,” he stated, and it was just that. A statement: nothing more, nothing less. “Vincent’s never had a bartender – and I've been there every year in a row.” 

There . There it was, the underlying, burning curiosity that mirrored your own, scientific fervour you relied on to survive your internship. Was it the fact that you were the exception to a decade of self-imposed rules? Was it the fact that you looked at him as an equal? Was it the fact that you were a novice , about to compete in a competition that would go down in history as the most glorious? It was probably the latter; while there were plenty of foolhardy fledglings that chased the money and nothing more, your eyes didn’t possess the same avarice. 

Maybe he’d talked to Martha, or even Vincent – God knew the two of them were well-acquainted with your notion of going home (not that they knew what exactly it entailed). Maybe he guessed it for himself; those cerulean eyes were astonishingly perceptive, after all. 

Then, you paused. Your mind rewound to the first part of the question: you served me that rum the other night . Had you? Furiously, you wracked your brain for any data, any sort of image that you could recognise, but it was fruitless. You couldn’t place him – amidst the haze and blur, nobody in particular stood out, not even a cowboy that stood out like the sun in a night sky. 

“Don’t recall, sorry,” you furrowed your brow; a careful selection of the former part of his statement, and he’d be forced to ask outright if he really wanted to pick your mind apart for those answers. “The evenings are really hectic.”

“Well, I was wearing other clothes,” he shrugged it off, and resumed brushing his horse. Maybe it hadn’t been curiosity after all. At least, that’s what you thought until he paused once more. “But surely it’s not as hectic as it would’ve been with only Vincent.”

Again, he was politely prodding in an indirect manner that would probably make the aforementioned man snap his disapproval. You, just like the old man, were slowly growing impatient at the evasion; it seemed his callousness had rubbed off onto you. Yet, unlike the old man, you evaded the question in turn – you shouldered the bridle once more and hummed in mild agreement. As you turned to exit the stable doors, he suddenly cleared his throat. 

“I’ll be frank,” he admitted finally. Finally . “Who are you?”

“What’s it to you?” you challenged back, bluntly. Rather than a vicious provocation, there was only a firm redirection in your voice. His question was polite enough, but within it you could see others strung along. Who are you ? Why are you entering the race ? Why did Vincent take you in ? What’s your motive ? If you had been asked the question a month ago, you might’ve quietly acquiesced with a polite laugh to his previous, vague statements. But no. A few weeks of intense training and Vincent’s crude abrasiveness had sanded you down into a laconic person: one who didn’t shy away from his straight-forward nature, and one who certainly wouldn’t entertain silly questions and half-statements. 

“I didn't mean to cause offence,” he held his hands up apologetically. “My curiosity and friendship with Vincent got the better of me – and most people don’t take kindly to coarse questions.” 

“Right,” you canted your head in a picture of waiting . His stoicism was gone – replaced by a sheepish raise of eyebrows and a light grimace. 

“I was worried about Vincent, when I heard he found a new worker,” he began brushing his horse’s mane, but his tone was honest and open. “I thought there must’ve been something going on behind the scenes – threats, bribes, something – so I decided to scope you out.”

You kept your silence in mild surprise. Then, your eyes found the sheriff badge that still shone, even in the dim light – and something clicked. Makes sense . 

“But you were just a rather tired-looking bartender, and when I asked Martha, she told me you were working to get the fee for the race,” he continued, bending to oil the steed’s hooves. 

“That’s a rather extreme assumption,” you replied with raised brows, but really, you were too worn-out to really question him.

“You don’t understand – the old man was hell-bent on never hiring anyone,” he shook his head in good-natured concern. “But looking at you now, the two of you are peas in a pod.”

“I’ll take it as a compliment,” there was an uncertainty in your voice as you responded; this was one of the most unusual conversations you had this week. 

“Do,” he instructed nonchalantly. “You’re a good rider, just like he was. Blunt, just like he is.”

“Thanks?” you laughed – still with those shreds of hesitance, but there was palpable relief in the slump of your shoulders (if you were being truly honest, you appreciated that there was someone looking out for that crude old man). 

“I’m honoured to be competing with you for the Steel Ball Run,” he continued sincerely, and you felt the blood roaring in your ears at the earnest tone. 

[Real charmer.]

You ignored the cynical burr of Depeche Mode’s robotic voice; instead, you focused on the budding friendship between you and the cowboy. 

Today went well . 

It would be another few nights before you saw him again. 

. 　⁺ ✦

Officially, there was no party. Unofficially, Stephen Steel’s entourage had paid for all the taverns in the area to be kept open around two hours after their typical closing time. And if you were really being technical, they were one gathering split into many – the riders for the Steel Ball Run had been trickling into town for the last few weeks, but only now would they combine into one teeming, competitive mass. Everyone who had a sensible head on their shoulders would be scoping out rivals and deciding exactly how well they would fare against another. 

Initially, you felt compelled to slip off your barkeeping clothes for the night, and mingle with the contenders as an equal, much like you did with Mountain Tim. But on second thought, that urge was replaced by the rationalisation that it would be far better to go undercover for this; if you simply served drinks like you always did, you could look at rivals as objectively as you could – without the outwards hostility that came with opponents. You weren’t mistaken; that hostility would no doubt come regardless, but this offered you a unique perspective on the riders that a good majority wouldn’t have. 

Dolly had gone to bed early – there were simply too many people packed in one place for you to effectively keep an eye on her. 

And it was packed : everywhere you looked, everywhere you turned , was a flood of opponents clamouring for a drink. Your glare wasn’t interpreted as hostile – rather, you were just the ill-tempered bartender. As fast as possible, you doled out shots and glasses and scooped up coins to thin out the crowd at the bench. While you didn’t truly believe that whatever drink one chose reflected your personality – or whatever favourite shape, colour, or animal – it was certainly amusing trying to gauge their beverage based on how they interacted with the world. 

The air was teeming with spirit and sweat; even as the sky turned to complete pitch, it was still relatively humid. Your head pounded, but you kept a careful eye on those who came up to wet their mouths with booze. Here, you could do half of gauging whether they could be allies or not in your own goal; the other half, of course, would be when you encountered them once more – be it in the throes of the race or the peace of checkpoints. 

“Bartender!” Mountain Tim’s cheerful greeting roused you from your contemplative stupor. You stifled a yawn and grabbed a tumbler. 

“Hi,” you replied, unenthusiastically. Perceptive as ever, he gave you a sympathetic smile before rattling off a gin and tonic combo. You gave him a once-over when you handed him the drink – true to his word, he really was wearing regular-degular clothes like he’d said, but there was still something that seemed different about him. And true to your previous, astute observation of his own perception, he sat in silence with his drink: no attempts to talk, no attempts to bother you, no nothing . 

And you thanked him for it. Mentally, of course. 

I’m gonna be out like a log when I get to bed . 

Wistfully, you thought about that hard mattress and thin coverlet. Already, your limbs were beginning to relax into a fleshy puddle; your eyes had long since stopped roaming the crowded room for potential allegiances. Instead, your focus turned solely on not falling asleep on your feet. 

[ Focus on scouting allies .]

Depeche Mode’s insistence had your face churn into a heavy scowl that semi-permanently etched itself into your muscles. I’m about to fall asleep on my feet. How the hell am I supposed to focus?

[This is one of your only chances, and you’re squandering it!]

You didn’t answer. Maybe the altercation robbed you of your spatial awareness for a split second, but when you turned back to face the room once more, you were met with bright (practically neon in the dim room) green eyes. 

“Woah there,” you blinked, startled. 

The stranger stood: salient in the ever-churning – ever- changing – crowd. His eyes, bottle-green now that his slatted hat tipped back down and plunged him into shadow, studied you: just like you studied him. In the glow of sconce lighting, his straw-coloured hair shone like spun gold – that evening, he wore it loose so it cascaded down his shoulders and chest. If you had to choose the most striking thing about his ensemble that evening, it would either be his strange belt-buckle (with those green, metal hands pointing straight at his crotch) or the shiny, emerald spheres that were slung by his hips in round holsters. 

Instinctively, you straightened your back; just like Mountain Tim, there was a crackle of energy surrounding him that compelled you to stand like his equal. His lips, coated in green lipstick, were set in a stiff line, and those light eyebrows were drawn together in frustration. Now that your eyes had adjusted, you could see him clearly – those delicate features were offset by the marr of his frown, and the purple shadows reflecting off his shirt. 

“What would you like to drink?” you inquired politely, just as you felt Depeche Mode stirring once more in its intrigue. Interesting .

“The Americas don’t have proper drink, do they?” The sardonic remark rolled off his tongue in a rich, baritoned accent that almost made you forget the comment. He leaned on the polished counter, until he was almost face to face with you – you could clearly see the irritation in his jaded eyes. “Bar after bar I’ve gone to tonight, and every one had watered down liquor and only three kinds.”

“Well,” you replied boredly. How the hell was that your problem? “I can’t help if you don’t tell me what you want to drink, genius.”

He scowled at the careless frivolity with which you addressed his desperate concerns; if you had to guess, he was some wealthy European kid. Would he choose one of those ludicrously priced vintages? Or maybe he’d order the most expensive thing off the menu – not that there was one. But there was nothing he could do about your flippant words; Vincent would’ve been ruder, certainly. 

[He’s a Steel Ball Run jockey. Play nice so you don’t wake with a knife in your back.]

Fine , you conceded miserably. As long as you didn’t have to ally yourself with him, you’d be courteous. 

“Right,” you attempted to sound apologetic, but it came out much too tersely to be considered such. His glare deepened. “I can’t guarantee we can satisfy your wishes, but there is a quite large collection of vintage labels – if sir wishes to know the names.” 

The try at pleasantry wasn’t executed well at all; insincerity dripped from every letter, every syllable . However, he couldn’t do anything about it outside starting a brawl – and if there was anything that should be a general rule, it was to not pick fights with the hand that served him drink. 

“Vintages won’t be necessary,” he forced out – strained – but it seemed like he was also attempting to be courteous. “Does this establishment serve amaretto?”

“I order it for the boss each fortnight,” you cast your eyes to the side as you perused your catalogue of memory; yes, you had served it from the half-full cask just a few days ago. It was particularly popular with those who loudly complained of their indigestion – try as you might to forget it, there were some things that your brain refused to let go of. “It’s pretty popular here.”

“Apologies for assuming otherwise,” he bit out, but you could see a thread of sheepishness amidst all the pride he emitted. “I’m particularly irate today, since my horse received an injury from a felled tree.”

It didn’t quite sound like a full apology, but you took it regardless. 

“No harm done,” you shrugged, and he gave you a thin, clipped smile from those green lips. Frustrated customers were nothing new; you couldn’t bring yourself to care any more than you could about night turning into day, or day to night – it was just the way things were. 

As you turned to fill his glass tumbler with the honey-coloured liquid, you considered his words. Indirectly, he had confirmed your suspicions; just like you, he was a competitor for the race. Although, the place was packed with them; it wasn’t exactly keen reasoning on your part. Sweet almond liqueur fragranced the space for a brief moment – it enveloped you in a brittle bubble of peace – but it vanished just as quickly as a gossamer web in a storm. In your palm, the cold glass was heavy with both exhaustion and the weight of your objectives. 

You slid the glass over the counter, just as he placed the dollars with a resounding thunk on the counter. Studiously, you examined him as he drank – half-sitting, half-standing – by the counter. There were a few empty seats here or there, but you got the impression that he wasn’t the particularly sociable type. Though, there were certainly riders who gave him that side-long glance filled with interest; he certainly wasn’t bad-looking. On the contrary, his face was etched with a classical beauty that you’d find carved into a frieze – though, when he opened his mouth, the gold shine from his teeth was something that set him apart from relics of the past. 

There were many things you could’ve said about him – from the irritated cant of his shoulders, to the way he drank hastily, as if afraid he was running out of time by savouring the taste – but at that moment in time, all you could think about was the end of your shift. Ultimately, you’d meet him once more on the field; whether it be as friend or foe, you wouldn’t know. 

When he placed his empty glass back on the coppery wood, he met your eyes with a gaze that was silently remorseful. Not enough to truly appear contrite, but enough that your impression of him changed. Just a little. In turn, you felt your own dull ache of guilt; with a brief smile and the busy gathering of his glass, there was a truce in the air. Through that momentary gaze, a treaty had been delegated, and peace terms were proposed. Between tired bartender and tired client, amity had been tentatively restored. 

[ Cheerful guy .]

Depeche Mode’s brusque comment as he slunk away from the table startled you out of watching him leave (there was something, something about that russet-coloured, rippling cloak that trailed from behind him that drew the eye, no matter how much you tried to look away). You shook your head out of the foggy haze you’d been put under; really, there was something about these particular customers that wore you out, no matter how well you had slept the previous night. Though, that morning, you had risen with a pounding headache and lingering throes of a nightmare – a sure inauspicious omen. 

It was certain. You could taste something impending; dread pooled in your stomach until it was all that you could feel. It pressed and curled against your flesh like a barrow wight that clung to its unfortunate target until it breathed no longer – and even then, the afterlife was no haven for that soul. 

From that night, there was the third and last encounter that had carved itself messily into the recesses of your grey matter of a brain. 

It happened just as you were beginning to shuffle around the stock – after all, it was close to eleven, and Vincent had given you stern instructions to begin the heavier manoeuvring of casks to the storeroom. There, the air was stale with the sweet, bitter air of a pantry filled with alcohol and dry food; nonetheless, it was a cold respite amidst the damp air of the barroom. You’d spent an afternoon there, a few weeks back, reorganising the inventory and eyeing the disturbingly expired food tucked into the back of a cupboard. 

As you were carrying a particularly heavy barrel of rum to lock back in the fireproof, cement box of a storeroom, it happened. In your exhausted arms, the wooden container teetered and sloshed perilously – but you were determined to not spill a drop. Your eyes, intent on focusing on your surroundings, spotted him as soon as he turned the bend of the corridor; how could you not, in the backwaters of the inn where the back was a ghost town in its own right? 

There was plenty of space for the two of you to pass comfortably by: a brief twist of fate’s string together, and the two of you would never cross paths afterwards. You didn’t know whose fault it was – maybe you were overestimating your exhausted capacity for walking in a straight line, maybe he was a drunk who lacked the virtue of spatial awareness. Regardless of who you pointed the finger at, it happened. He collided with you. You almost dropped the expensive barrel. Time resumed its brevity. 

“Watch it,” you snapped as his shoulder connected with yours. In your flashing peripherals, you briefly registered the richly embroidered turquoise silk brush past the coarse linen of your own shirt. A lordling . You grimaced internally. Had you dropped the barrel, you wouldn’t have to just deal with Vincent’s iron-tongue lashing – you’d also be greeted by the unpleasant sight of a raging rich person as the amber liquor soaked through their velvet slippers, or whatever else they wore. 

But no. As your vision cleared, it became increasingly clear that this wasn’t your average nobleman. No, he wore the garb of a jockey: beige, quality jodhpurs that had not a speck of dirt on them; black boots, that, try as you might, didn’t leave your mind out of envy – for they shone with such brilliance that convinced you they were some mythical relic out of a story book; and that tailored turquoise jacket you’d brushed against – with a second glance, you observed that the embroidered patterns coalesced into larger, geometric diamonds. Another Steel Ball Run competitor , you thought sourly.

You were in a hurry, but something about the cloying expression on his face halted your gait into uncertain steps. In the dim light of the oil lamps, his burnished-gold hair reflected a soft glow that was unfortunately marred by the acerb look furrowing his brow. But just as quickly as the lines appeared on his face, they disappeared: twisting into a sickly little smile that was disgustingly sweet . It was, in fact, a terrible jape of one – there was no sincerity, no feeling behind it, save that awful hollowness and dreadful mocking that was sure to prelude a catastrophe. 

“Take care, lordling,” you uttered hastily, before bolting through the twisted corridors, before he even had a chance to open his mouth. You could feel your heart thrumming within; it fluttered like a desperate, frantic bird trying to claw its way out of its fragile cage – only outpaced by the racing adrenaline that coursed and bled into each cell of your body. Humidity was all but forgotten. Your body had provided an ample chill that spread up your spine and up your arms – your hackles, effectively, had raised. 

Deep in the storeroom, you put the barrel down and leaned against an old, rotting shelf. What the fuck was that ? He had yet to open his mouth, but something inside you told you to get out before he could spit his oily words. It was frightening – it was terrible . He looked as if you were shit clinging to his pristine boots; never had you encountered someone so outwardly hostile . Even with Mountain Tim and that other stranger’s imposing presences, none had been such as this man’s. 

No . You refused to give in to the dread that settled on your skin in a filmy layer of cold sweat, and neither did you acknowledge the bile that pooled on the back of your leaden tongue. He was human, just like you – so why were his eyes so cruel , so full of accumulated bitterness that you couldn’t help but hide from?

God . You were going to keep your head down during the race and pray he wouldn’t recognise you when you inevitably met again. 

And when you did, would you rue the day you set this doom into motion?

. 　⁺ ✦

A mere two days before the beginning of the race, you rose with the doleful cries of the birds that nested in the overhanging ledge by your window: yet another inauspicious omen. Lately, it seemed as though your luck was plummeting for the worst. Flocks of carrion-birds had circled the small town for the past few days; surely, this was a sign that you were destined for ruination from the very beginning. 

Trepidation enclosed you in the sepulchral depths of your mind. It was rather like trying to break out of a stone mausoleum with your bare hands – nothing but a fruitless endeavour. Despite the sinking feeling in your gut, you knew that this onsetting panic wasn’t your fault. Everything rested on your shoulders; it was a heavy burden to bear for someone who was thrown into this cesspit unwillingly. 

Home . 

Between all the threads that webbed you with an anxious, gut-churning feeling, there was the red string of determination that stood apart from the rest. Yes, you’d keep the corpse from the President – whatever that entailed – be it with allies or by yourself. Find a way . 

Just like the dozens of days prior, you dressed with your usual morning garb: wide hat to protect your eyes from the sun, the thick fatigue cargos and chaps to prevent troublesome chafing, and the heeled boots Vincent had found to replace your flat, leather ones. Though, there were two new additions to the ensemble. Three , if you counted the addition of your old possession.

Among them, one stood out amidst all the bundles at your door. On top – wrapped hastily in brown, waxed paper – was a carmine jacket: with jewel-toned embroidery flashing across the chest and sleeves, and enough airiness to allow airflow to your torso (but enough thickness that should you button it, there’d be a noticeable warmth). You slipped it on quietly; there was no need to ask about its origins. All that he did, you couldn’t possibly repay. 

In the capacious pockets, you found both a crinkling note and a swathe of fabric. The material, from what you could make out, seemed to be some sort of bandanna. With the dust that assaulted your lungs each morning, it would be a make-shift respirator to prevent you from coughing enough that you fell off Group Four in the desert winds. But that wasn’t all – it would also help you assume anonymity. You’d be imperceptible; the same in an endless crowd of faceless glory-seekers (and secretly, you wanted to avoid those cruel eyes recognising you yet again). 

Yes, you wouldn’t make more friends; tearing away from the three you had made – four , if you included Mountain Tim among the sorry band – was already painful enough. You’d make allies , and keep up the impersonal bond through your anonymity. No names, no face, no case . 

As you unfolded the crumpled note, the only noise permeating the silence was its quiet crinkle and the mournful song of birds. 

“ Jamie would’ve wanted to compete in a race like this ,” it read. The ringing in your ears added to the symphony, as did the gruff voice of Vincent. “ Wear his legacy with pride, and continue his dream .”

Soundlessly, you slipped it back into the dead man’s pocket. Were you replacing him? Were you a placeholder for Vincent’s lost brother? Deep in your heart – as much as you wanted to believe against it – you felt the prickle of doubt for your friendship with Vincent. No . No , you shook your head in vehement protest. Vincent saw you as your own person – reason overcame the irrational gut-churning in a tumultuous battle. 

Still, on your back you carried a corpse’s hopes – your burden had all but doubled. You tied the fabric onto your face resolutely. 

Lastly, buried beneath all the waxed paper, were a pair of goggles – fashioned out of your thought-to-be-lost visor. Though, vaguely, you remembered handing the bent out-of-shape plastic over to Dolly when she had asked about it – it was a curious material, after all, but virtually useless to you now. Now, they were reworked into a slightly ramshackle pair of goggles that vaguely reminded you of your own lab ones. These, you presumed, were a crude replica of the sand-goggles a lot of the herders wore here, with straps attached to wear securely – but nonetheless, you’d wear them with pride during the race. 

Strung to one of the straps was a little tag. If you hadn’t been holding it so closely, you might’ve missed the folded paper – but you were looking closely, so without further deliberation, you unfurled the note. If you were being honest, the writing was slightly illegible; however, you recognised the crude, clumsy loops of Dolly’s letters. 

“ It was a bit hard to fashion that weird material, but I finally got it done with the help of some boiled water and a candle– ” looking more closely, you could see faint soot streaks around the rims of the goggles. “ –so it wasn’t too much of a problem. Now, your eyes will be protected during the race !”

You felt a stupid grin split your face like a lightning strike. Really, when Dolly asked about the visor, you thought she’d keep it in some box out of curiosity – or maybe display it – but certainly not that she would make them into a gift for you. A useful gift. You tied the straps loosely around your neck, so you’d be able to easily slip them on when the time came. Currently, they looked like some peculiar necklace, but you didn’t particularly care. It was a gift , and you’d treasure them all. 

Any turmoil that still lingered over Vincent’s scrawled words vanished like dew on a burning summer’s day when you came down for breakfast. Dolly, through her mouthful of porridge, commented on how you looked just like a proper competitor (and to whoop their asses). Vincent – beginning the day’s meals by the furnace – told you only to remember to register for the race today. Despite his laconic nature, you were comforted by the ease of routine nonetheless. No mention was made of the note, and you made no effort to remind him of it. Besides, his eyes held no grief, no unwarranted familiarity (save a gruff affection); it was a quiet assurance that you were no replacement. 

With a bag of your coins, you slipped out the backdoor and into the serene sunlight. The wind, just like you’d predicted, filled the billowing fabric of your jacket and swept it behind you in a stream of crimson. That morning, you were no bartender sent on yet another errand by Vincent; you were an imposing figure about to enter the grandest race in all of history. People you exchanged coin and drink with held no recognition in their eyes as you strode past with only your eyes and brow shown from beneath the fabric – and even then, those were shrouded in the shadows of your hat. 

This was it. As soon as you signed your alias onto that entrance form and passed over the fee, you’d cross the Rubicon for good. No take-backs – fate would turn its irrevocable wheel and you’d be bound to complete what you set out to do. 

Reject his victory . 

The clerk in charge of entrants (one of the, at least) was a bumbling, plump little man who seemed ever-neurotic in the face of the eternal line of entrants. Before you were at least a dozen people – who each, no doubt, held dreams of grandeur and fame – but you weren’t there to judge. No, in another life, you might’ve very well been one of the eager participants who sought the honeyed taste of glory. 

“Next!” the clerk bellowed – for such a small man, he sure had a set of pipes. You stepped forward with your moneybag and a hardened gaze. “Name?”

“Mr Brisk and Irate,” you replied nonchalantly. In this race, an alias would make everything less personal – yes, with an alias, you had no true, intimate moniker. 

[And you say I’m bad.]

“That’s your name?” he uttered, peering up at you in a picture of exasperated disbelief. Your eyes met his evenly.

“Sure,” you lied, all too smoothly. Then, you leaned forward so your shadow loomed across his screwed-up face, and your eyes were fixed directly on his greasy black tonsure. “Got a problem with it?”

“Nope!” he squeaked out, scribbling it down hastily. His cap wobbled awkwardly on his brow as his throat bobbed in an anxious swallow. “Horse’s name? We’ll record its nose print and your fingerprint on the starting day.”

“Group Four,” you replied. The piece of paper containing all the necessary information was slid right next to the heavy canvas purse of money. With a cursory glance at the sheet – then the long-winded counting of all the coins stuffed within the bag – he poked his head back up with a nervous little smile. 

“All good,” he yelped. Over the burred, unsanded slab of wooden planks serving as a counter, he passed over a metal pin and a green saddle cloth with a number printed on it. “Here is your commemoration badge and player identification number! Exchange of horses is strictly prohibited under the rules of the race. Thank you for entering!”

Silently, you pinned the bronze badge to your lapel. It was a pretty, rounded little thing: a montage of a horse in the middle of a gallop, on top of the race emblem and tied together with a raised horseshoe in the polished metal. The saddle cloth and copied papers you put in your pocket to look over later – but other than that, you were free to make your way back to the inn. 

Except, you weren’t.

One minute the streets – though crowded – had been relatively peaceful; the next, yells and piercing whistles broke out in the square peddled with other registration kiosks. Only a few feet away was the eye of the storm – the irritated stranger you had just seen yesterday, standing over a man crouched below. Just like yesterday, his teeth flashed a lustrous gold; though now, they spread into a malicious smile. A sizable amount of people had gathered in a circle around the pair, and curiosity prompted you to take a few steps in that direction. The sudden proximity allowed you to better hear the altercation.

“So it was you after all, ladruncolo ,” those golden teeth were gritted in simmering anger. One of his hands was placed on the sphere holster at his hip, while the other gripped the felled man’s arm with a bruising pressure you could feel second-hand. “If I’m twenty dollars off, I won’t be able to enter the race now, will I?” 

“Now,” the blond continued in a mock-oblivious tone and a patronising smile. “What do you do when you steal from someone, ladruncolo ?” 

“ You give it back .” 

The green metal buttons that criss-crossed his shirt chimed as he suddenly let go of the thief; caught off guard, the man collapsed to the dust-covered floor – where his hand opened from its fist to drop out two golden coins. A collective gasp went through the crowd, but you held your breath instead. Then, a collective groan rang out as the thief was grabbed by two security guards; the bloodlust of the crowd – who were all probably expecting a brawl – never failed to sicken you. 

Nonchalantly, he picked up the two fallen coins and placed them on the counter for the clerk to add to his fee. When he looked round, however, those intensely green eyes met yours, and you froze. With the fabric pulled high over your nose, and the added anonymity of your hat, there was no way he recognised you, right ? There was no change in his sclera, no sudden widening in recognition – and you felt your shoulders slump minutely in relief. Instead, his eyes lingered a moment longer – though a mere second later you could hear a yell ring out.

It was the thief, furiously struggling with his hands pressed to his sides by the guards.

“It’s not over, man!” he hollered. “You think you’re so big, over twenty dollars, don’t you? Fight me! Fight me , and we’ll see who’s right!”

“Is that your weapon? That dirty, round thing at your hip?” he continued, provocatively, though the blond just dusted off the saddle by his feet and hoisted it onto his arm. There was an air of boredom about the exasperated set of his eyebrows – as if he knew the conversation was over and was just waiting for the other party to get the memo as well. “Well? Go ahead and do it – kill me with that thing!” 

The crowd was still and silent. Not one person let out a breath – not a single murmur broke the tense quiet that had bubbled up and threatened to spill over. You couldn’t move, not even if you wanted to, but something snapped.  

Abruptly, the thief twisted in the guards’ grasp and reached for one’s holster – triumphantly, he grasped a gun, and the crowd froze in place. 

“You’re dead!” he crowed out – but still, the man in question refused to turn around to face the steel barrel about to blow his brains out. 

Still, the safety was on; with a brief struggle, the guards managed to wrench the weapon from the thief’s impassioned grasp. Though, the taunts didn’t stop – even with the man held down on the heated ground, he continued spewing imprecations. 

“If I felt like it, you’d be dead by now!” he yelled. “You listening, bastard? I’m gonna enter the race, and hinder you throughout – block your horse, cut you off, and make you eat shit! I’m seriously gonna annoy you, from the very bottom of my soul!”

The stranger paused his slow, methodical walk from the kiosks. He spoke without acknowledging, without even turning to face the man on the floor. 

“If you’re done talking, give him the gun back.”

Muttering struck through the crowd – varying degrees of ‘what?’ threaded through the disbelieving, until the writhing mass of bodies turned as one to watch the showdown. Even the guards – inexperienced in matters like this – gave each other confused glances, as if they didn’t know what they were hearing.

“You heard me. I won’t charge the man – in fact, I’ll let this slight go. Give him the gun back,” he spoke with such intense authority that the guard whose gun had been taken slowly – but surely – placed it back on the dusty floor. It lay beside the thief’s bulging eyes, then by his knees as he sat up on them. He stared at the lethal weapon, then back at the stranger who wore a neutral expression on his face. 

“Pick it up,” the stranger commanded once more. Not a single ounce of hesitation traced his voice: no tremble, no unwarranted twitch of facial muscles. He was so certain of himself that the crowd stilled at once. A duel – a duel – was about to take place; you’d never in your wildest dreams imagined that you’d be standing a mere few feet from one. “That’ll be the signal – if you’re truly serious about annoying me.” 

The thief, still kneeling, hesitated with his palm on the ground – but ultimately, he didn’t pick it up. His hands, instead, were held up in surrender and his unsure smile was lined with sweat. 

“Hey,” he stammered out. “It’s just a joke – I’m just a pickpocket, I swear, so don’t look at me with that scary face – everything I said was a bluff, nothing more! Good luck with the race, I mean..”

Silence was broken by the stirring of the crowd as the sheriff barrelled his way past – for a brief moment, the blond looked at his arrival. 

“You two! What’s going on here?”

And in that split second, the thief grabbed the gun and held it up – for the second time that day, the stranger was turned away from his impending death. 

But he was faster. Before you even had time to process the scene in front of you, he threw one of those steel balls straight at the shoulder of the thief. 

The gun bent down as the flesh of his arm rippled : twisting and driving itself into his clavicle. Then, the green sphere rebounded straight to the blond’s waiting hand – it crackled and pulsed with such faint energy that you were later left wondering if you had imagined it. 

A building crescendo of horror erupted as the flesh of the thief’s arm spiralled into trembling, meaty ripples – yet the climax hadn’t even been reached yet. 

“I’m not a nice guy,” those green lips delivered impassively – it was stated as nothing more (nothing less) than fact. “Let go of that gun, and see a doctor.. Before lunch, preferably.”

Once more, he turned away with his saddle in tow. But the thief, who had his pride trodden on enough, raised the gun once more – ready to shoot. 

“You bastard!”

As the thief pulled the trigger, his arm shifted so the barrel was pointed straight to his own forehead. 

He shot. 

The aftermath crashed down on the gathered crowd – yells, screams rang out in the seconds following the bang. But all you could hear was the roaring silence in your ears; transfixed, you gazed at the terrible gun smoke pouring from the barrel, and the poor dead fool, lying in his own blood. 

And all you could see was the stranger's cloak rippling from behind him as he walked away once more. 

Who the hell is he ?

“–just a duel. No laws were broken–”

“–threw that steel ball. Then it accidentally bounced back–”

No . You saw it, clear as day. It was no accident , like the sheriff wanted to believe. That spinning sphere had twisted the uppermost muscles of the man’s arm, until his arm was forced to turn back to him. What terrifying power . And to think you’d be competing with such people and worse ; even if you weren’t gunning for the top prize, they wouldn’t necessarily know that. The earlier trepidation came back in full force, and you could feel the bitter film of vomit rising through your throat. 

As you left the scene, all you could think about was the blood and brain matter seeping out from his head: staining the dust in a sanguine identical to the shade of your jacket. 

. 　⁺ ✦