#with the ache inside to ride the mighty wind and nothing more

[lale-txt]

𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐓 𝐋𝐀𝐔𝐍𝐂𝐇 (𝐎𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐮 𝐱 𝐟!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫) ❦ 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟎𝟒: 𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐥𝐞

♫ Adrienne Lenker - Angels

I don't really like you, I just wanna kiss you I don't know how to love you, but somedays, I miss you Oh I just wanna see you there, sleeping on my floor With the ache inside to ride the mighty wind and nothing more

✰ 𝐜𝐰: discovering more y/n lore in this one. implied child neglect (no detailed description), brief death mention but in a more lighthearted way (if that still squicks you skip the 8th slide of the convo between Makki & y/n) written part between the handwritten collage and SMAU parts.

⭅ back to m.list

Another sold out night. The lively sea of voices is slowly quieting down, familiar and new faces going either home or out dancing for the night. Onigiri Miya attracts all kinds of people, there’s a plate for everyone. He wouldn’t want it any other way. At the end of day, everyone needs to eat, no matter their background or story. And if they all collide in the tiny universe of his shop, even better.

There’s only around a handful people left when Osamu starts his nightly routine of cleaning and preparing for tomorrow. Ever since he opened his own shop, he understands his old captain a little better. Repetition, perseverance, and diligence–it does feel good. Helps him to unwind after a long day of shaping rice balls, mincing ingredients and ringing up orders. Wherever a hand is needed, he is there.

“It’s on the house,” Osamu says smiling, placing two cold bottles of ramune on the counter where Bokuto and Akaashi are sitting, huddled together like two lovebirds.

It’s the same spot where he saw her crying, her hands jittery when she wiped her cheeks, obviously flustered but unable to stop the tears from falling either. He could see how hard she tried to hold them back, the small wobble of her bottom lip, the clenching and unclenching of her fists. How she still took photos of her plate, clearly knowing which angle and lightning was best, practiced. The small gleam of excitement despite everything in her glassy eyes. Her palms pressed together in a silent gesture of appreciation after she finished her meal. Osamu couldn’t help but think that this wasn’t her first time holding her crown up like this, when everything inside of her was cracking. 

He hasn’t stopped thinking about her ever since. 

Not when he ran after her to find her on the empty playground, dimly lit by the light of the vending machine. Not when she hesitantly accepted the brown paper bag he shoved into her still trembling hands. Not when she kind of magically pulled out a box of the tastiest sweet treat he ever had in his entire life, her voice suddenly more calm once she started rambling about the process of making it.

Osamu felt drawn to her in a way he couldn’t fathom in words, like an invisible pull inside of him.

Had he been upset over her bad review? Maybe a little. But whatever hint of annoyance he felt when reading it over his morning tea quickly vanished once he dove deeper into her blog. There was so much love between every line she wrote. She was witty and smart and always a little hungry; for life and the next plate in front of her. He found himself nodding along when she shared about her experience in culinary school and he couldn’t help but feel a sense of deep admiration for her openness about mental health and the cruel sides of working in food service. Osamu knew best how grueling it can be, striving to do better. 

Three whole days. That’s how long it took him to read through her entire blog, more than ten years of her life. He read it over breakfast, in between short breaks at work, leaning against the backdoor while waiting for the daily delivery, at night when he brushed his teeth. Several times he told himself that he should just close the damn tab, that it was just a drunk and petty review and that they’ll never cross paths again.

Here lay the problem though–he wanted to see her again. 

Preferably when she was not upset over something (or worse: him), but honestly any scenario would do. The cap she forgot at his shop is now hanging from his coat rack at home, silently greeting him every night after work. He can’t help but wonder if she’ll really come around again one day to pick it up. Osamu was no dick, just a little petty himself, and he'd send the cap off with her roommate Akaashi if there was no way in hell that she’d ever return to Osaka again. But when she unblocked and followed him on Twitter the other night, that must have been a glimmer of hope, right? Even though she’s been mostly hostile so far in her replies.

But they’d get there. 

Some day.

Probably.

“Samu? Saaamuuuu?” 

Osamu blinks out of his daze and realizes that not only has he been polishing the same glass for five minutes straight now, but Bokuto is also leaning over the counter, shoving a phone under Osamu’s nose for him to see. He throws the kitchen towel over his shoulder and takes it, eyes on the bright screen. 

“Look, look,” Bokuto urges him with a grin while Akaashi next to him smiles a bit more subtle, but knowingly. “Keiji just talked about how they were having a barbeque a few days ago on their rooftop. Y/N prepared a feast for them, see?”

The photo is bright and colorful, a whole arrangement of various small plates assembled on the table, each holding some delicacy. Dips, grilled veggies, pita (which looks like it was handmade), olives, stuffed peppers, a small cheese platter, cut fruit, pastel purple drinks (lavender syrup, Osamu remembers)... but what Osamu ends up zooming in is not the food but her, sitting at the table with the sleeves of her oversized shirt rolled up casually and smiling brighter than the late summer sun–wearing his cap.

No. No, no, no. 

His heart did not just skip a beat, no fucking way. 

Oh, he was in deep. 

“She won’t admit it, but she likes it,” Akaashi says as if he read Osamu’s thoughts. He hands the phone back to him and a small voice in the back of his head is tempted to ask for the photo, just so he can stare at it a little longer (for the food, he lies to himself), but he knows she wouldn’t want that. Osamu is not sure if he wants it, either. It doesn’t feel right. Maybe he can get her an Onigiri Miya shirt as well as a matching apron and snap his own photo one day, and then… 

Fuck.

What was he even thinking?

But the stupid, wide smile on his face just won’t falter.

✽ 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐲 𝐰𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐫…

like i said, this chapter is a love letter to Makki in disguise

y/n would spend all big holidays at the Hanamaki family home, even her own birthday would be celebrated there lovingly

she has gone no contact with her birth family after she graduated from high school

the cooking TV show has been one of the most stressful events in her entire life and she still can't watch clips from it without wanting to die from cringe (she did really great though)

her approach to anything in life is a constant "oh shit oh no oh bad bad bad" and "fuck it we ball" and it amazingly works for her. most of the time.

y/n always leaves some money on the table when she's gone for longer than 24h because she is afraid the food in the fridge might not be enough (it's always enough)

no one of the roommates knows where the Hello Kitty condoms came from but they've been a staple in this household ever since

also a first Osamu POV!! i was waiting to finally write this

Akaashi is PLOTTING isn't he

y/n was very tempted to deep fry the cap but then came to the conclusion that it would be a waste of oil probably

or maybe she's just lying to herself. we'll get more into this later

✰ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓:

@brithedemonspawn @gigiiiiislife @yuminako @notverymarley @krissiekris

@wyrcan @kentocalls @simp-simp-no-mi @uncovered-mad-man @honey-deku

@yukichan67 @dailyakira @nu-suave @zq13 @morgan-lowell

@ellouisa17 @toges-cough-syrup

send me an ask or dm to be added (or removed, no hard feelings ♡)! minors DNI!

[angergrls]

I don't really like you, I just wanna kiss you

I don't know how to love you, but somedays, I miss you

Oh, I just wanna see you there, sleeping on my floor

With the ache inside to ride the mighty wind and nothing more

[lycanlupins]

Chapter 4 - Twin Together, Win Together

i have to put a disclaimer cause this chapter is filthy!! pack your bags y’all, your headed to paris 😉 

It was your final night before going back and starting your final year of Hogwarts. You had planned and mulled over every thought to get revenge on the twins but nothing sat right with you. Why couldn't you just do something? You were growing frustrated in more ways than one. Being with the Weasley's was always a delight until you realized you had pretty much no privacy. Paper thin walls, Fred and George coming and going from your room, it was a constant stream of attention and that meant you couldn't even get yourself off when you wanted to. 

The closest you had gotten was the previous night. You were edging yourself to see just how long you could go without getting interrupted and the thought hit you. What if the boys were the ones touching you? That thought alone almost finished you off then and there and you quickly stopped your movements.

"This is wrong...so wrong..." you bit your lip and closed your eyes. What if Fred and George were your boyfriends? What if they were using you like their little plaything, using every hole on your body, caressing every curve.

You let out a breathy moan, covering your mouth with your free hand. Your eyes rolled back as you used the thoughts of them to get you closer and closer to your orgasm. Then you hear a loud whoosh.

"Y/N? You up?" You heard Fred's voice at a whisper. Fuck. You stopped moving, not wanting to alert them.

"Y/N, come on we're bored." George whined, approaching your bed. Shit, shit shit. You rolled over, pretending you weren't just about to finish yourself off.

"What time is it?" You rubbed your eyes and looked at the both of them. Fuck they were hot at night. Y'know, as friends are.

"Who cares, let’s go out and drink." And thats what you did. Except the only thing you could think of was how good they looked under the misty moonlit night. The way their shirtless torsos looked soft to the touch and their matching flannel pants hugged them in the right areas.

In a drunken stupor you hummed a tune to yourself, knowing the exact implications of the song. The twins looked at you, bottle of fire whiskey between them, tilting their heads.

"What are you on about?" Fred scooted closer. The cinnamon on his breath was so tantalizing, you wanted to taste him and then George afterwards. God, why were you thinking of them that way?

"Nothing, I need to head to bed. My head is killing me..." You shook your head, sobering up in a flash. "I'll see you guys tomorrow night. We can have a toast to our final year."

You knew what you needed to do. You couldn't keep thinking about them and not acting on it, even if for one night. You marched up to their bedroom door, opening it and standing in the middle of the room.

"George, Fred, I need to know something." You were feeling particularly bold. You pulled your wand out, flicking it and shutting the door immediately.

"What's that?" They asked in unison, genuinely confused for once.

"How do you feel about taking me to Paris?" You smirked.

"Paris? What kind of money do you think--"

"Not that kind of trip you idiots." You rolled your eyes, sauntering over to George, straddling his lap as he laid on the bed. You motioned for Fred to walk over which he did, fixated on you.

"You guys and I, tonight by the lake. We see where things go and if they go in our favor...we take a one way trip to Paris." You ghosted your lips against George's, then leaned in to do the same to Fred.

"Y/N..." George whispered, grinding his hips against you.

"Deal. We'll see you at sunset." Fred was clearly more composed than his brother. You got off of George's lap, hearing him groan was a bit rewarding. You took one glance at their pants and giggled, skipping out of the room.

It was a few minutes till sunset, you were out by the large lake and pacing. Where were they, did they forget? Maybe they thought it over and decided against it. You began to panic until you heard two voices in the distance.

"...And we'll take turns." Fred stopped once he was in view.

"Oh look at what the cat dragged in. Early to our little date tonight? Are you that eager to be with us?" He teased, strutting toward you, George following suit.

"You can't blame me for being curious can you? I..." you looked away, not wanting to admit the obvious feelings that you had. At least not yet. "Never mind, we'll just do this once, yeah?"

They looked at each other, giving a look that you hadn't seen before. They turned back to you and George smirked.

"Well come on now Y/N, you were being so bold earlier, don't tell me you've chickened out now." He teased. You took that as a challenge, pulling him down to your level for a kiss. One that was full of passion, it was soft and sweet and reminded you of George's personality. You felt a tap on your shoulder after a few moments, a jealous Fred pouting with his arms crossed.

"What am I to you, chopped liver? Don't I get a kiss love?" He grabbed your chin, kissing you harder than imagined. His kiss was rough, needy, it perfectly matched his hot-headed and chaotic nature. While he distracted you, George made quick work of your bra from under your shirt. You hadn't even felt his hands until he pinched your nipples and chuckled when you jumped.

"Aw, did that feel good princess?" He whispered in your ear, nipping at it. You pulled away from Fred for a second just to nod and he growled.

"Did I say you could stop kissing me? I thought you'd be able to double task better than this baby...tsk tsk. Guess we'll have to show you how hm?" Fred shook his head, giving George a nod. Within moments you were being swept off your feet and scooped up into the arms of George. You held on for dear life as you heard wind rushing by and then silence.

"Don't worry darling, we've cast a silencing charm and locked our door, no need to worry about being too loud. We want to hear that pretty little voice. Well...when your mouth isn't preoccupied." George set you down and you stood in front of them both. They were staring you down, smirks on their faces.

"Strip darling, can't very well get much done with you in your clothes." George eyed you up and down. While you stripped nervously, they pushed their beds together to make a double bed for the occasion.

"Its not much but it'll do for our trip to the Eiffel tower eh?" Fred ushered you toward the bed. You sat at the edge of it, stark naked, looking at their expressions.

"God you look good enough to eat Y/N..." George licked his lips. "Good thing I'm hungry. Freddie, you take care of her while I'm enjoying my dessert yeah?" George positioned you on your back, legs spread wide for him. He gave you one experimental lick, groaning and laughing.

"Bloody hell you taste divine." He went straight to work, leaving you with your mouth open. You couldn't think straight, not with one of them between your legs eating you out like it was his last meal. He seemed to savor every last drop of your essence and while you were thinking about his skilled tongue, his brother was stripping down behind you.

Fred pulled your hair, your face now inches from his cock. God it was thick, there was no way you could take that all in your mouth, or in any hole honestly.

"Shy love? Don't be, you've already gotten this far, we won't hurt you. Open up for me alright, if you need a moment just tap my thigh." For someone so ready to fuck he was being mighty gentle. That eased you into it, sliding his cock into your mouth as far as it would go. You glanced at him, his head thrown back, hand in his hair. It was almost angelic, and you were sure George looked just as good while buried between your thighs.

"Such a good girl...look at how well you're taking my cock. Pretty little thing, just waiting to get ruined aren't you?" Fred dragged a finger along your throat as he slowly thrusted in and out. Your legs began to shake as George sucked on your clit, making obscene noises to get your attention.

"I think she's close, should I give her what she wants?" George pulled away, leaving you with an ache in your lower belly. Fred mulled it over, grabbing your throat with his hand as he began to move faster.

"Give her what she wants, I bet she'd lover to be full of cum, wouldn't she?" Fred smacked your cheek lightly, earning a groan and slight nod from you. George slid two fingers inside of you, stretching you and rubbing your clit with his thumb. You arched your back off the bed but he pushed you right back down.

"No no, you don't get to move baby, not until we're done with you." George growled, pulling his fingers out and licking them clean. He quickly took off his pants and boxers, positioning himself at your entrance.

"No turning back now love, by the end of tonight you'll need help getting around the train station tomorrow." He slid inside of you, burying himself deep until your hips met his. You grabbed the bed sheets, tapping on Fred's thigh. Fred pulled out leaning down to make sure you were alright.

"Oh fuck! Fuck that feels good!" You moaned immediately, the both of them chuckling.

"You want a moment with George love? I know you're probably feeling a lot of things right now." He caressed your face. You nodded and reached up to give him a kiss. Fred sat back, stroking himself to the rhythm of your breathing as George held you close and pounded into you.

You were empty of any thoughts for once, the only thing going through your head was how much you adored these two. How good they made you feel and how they treated you so gently despite how needy they were to be deep inside you. You loved them, you knew you did but you pretended it was purely platonic. Then it hit, he hit. Hit that bundle of nerves inside of you that made your toes curl.

"George! Please, oh please do that again. I'm so close." You could see stars forming at the edges of your vision, the core inside you was winding up tighter and tighter until it snapped and you felt pure bliss. You came, riding out your first orgasm as George buried himself deep inside of you, releasing thick strands of cum that coated your walls. You fell limp for a moment before you heard a laugh from behind. Oh shit. You were left with the rougher of the two to finish off with and you weren't prepared.

"Come here little minx, come ride daddy's lap." He shifted and you crawled to him, sitting straight down on his lap. You missed the full feeling more than you realized and rested your head against his chest.

"Don't worry love, I've got you." He cooed, grabbing your hips gently before he started to drive into you at a relentless pace. After having just come down from one orgasm you could feel this one creeping up much faster, much harder than the last.

"Fred please i-it's..." You threw your head back, not able to get your words out before you felt the pressure almost snap. Fred grabbed a fistful of your hair, forcing you to lock eyes with him.

"You better cum nice and hard for me princess, got it? Make sure you squeeze around my cock, tell me how good I make you feel." You nodded and came as he thrusted one last time and came inside of you. You got up off of him and fell onto the bed, your legs feeling like complete and utter jelly.

"That was..." you sighed and closed your eyes with a smile.

"Amazing? Fantastic? Best you've ever had?" Fred teased. You giggled and felt something warm and wet against your still throbbing cunt. You looked down and smiled at George who was wiping you clean with a warm cloth.

"Couldn't just leave you hanging sweetheart, you can stay the night here if you need. We can all cuddle on the beds." You nodded slowly as you dozed off. He finished cleaning you and picked you up, putting you into one of his shirts.

"She looks like a little angel doesn't she?" Fred smiled down at your sleeping frame, curled up in the middle of the two beds.

"Yeah she does, maybe we'll tell her about how we feel soon." George replied, nudging his brother.

"Maybe, but for now we'll just play along with her little game. Let’s head to bed." They each laid on one side of you, arms draped over you protectively. One of these days you'll tell them, and maybe they'll reciprocate those feelings, you thought. But today is not that day.

Tag List: @dropdeaddeadass @theweasleyslut @darthwheezely

[littlestarofthewest]

Title: Meeting Miss Morgan | Word Count: 4004 | Rating (for entire fic): 18+!!!

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x female OC | Chapter: 03 of 08 |  Link to Masterlist

Since Arthur did such a great job with the Mustang, Mr. Henderson lay into him for a while, and upon finding out that Arthur knew a thing or two about horses, he insisted that Arthur helps Julie whenever he can. They soon find a routine to share the work without stepping on each other's toes, and Julie doesn't mind having Arthur around, hoping to get a few more words out of him than usual.

She's in the stables, once again brushing Jasper, although he might be the cleanest horse in the world. Arthur is walking by, but then he comes back and leans against the wall to watch Julie.

"How come I've never seen you ride him?" he asks, and Julie sighs before ducking under Jasper's neck to get on his other side.

"He doesn't let me ride him. Or anybody for that matter."

"Not at all?" Arthur asks in surprise.

"No," Julie says, back at brushing Jasper's side. "Mr. Henderson bought him really cheap and couldn't believe his luck. Turns out, there's a reason they wanted to get rid of him."

"Yeah, because he's a mean one," Arthur says, looking the horse directly in the eyes as if to have a silent conversation with it.

"He's not mean. He just doesn't like somebody on his back. I think that's understandable."

Arthur nods. "Could be he got mistreated somehow. I'd pick being brushed by a pretty lady over doing some work as well."

Heat rushes to Julie's cheeks at his words, and she's not sure how to respond. Arthur's been saying things like these a few times now. Still, it's never like he's actually flirting with her. Just like with the pencils, Arthur has a natural ability to be kind. Julie isn't used to that, especially not from men.

Mrs. Henderson keeps pestering Julie about a husband because Julie does her best to avoid any suitors. They're often annoying at best and right out creepy at worst. Being in peace around her animals is so much nicer than fending off men who are either longing to get her out of her dress or are just looking for someone to wash their dirty socks.

"I'm all done for the day," Arthur says, interrupting her musings. "You got anything else for me to do?"

"I was about to clean out the stables, but that's hardly a task I'd wish on anybody."

"I don't mind," Arthur says, as always not afraid to get his hands dirty.

He grabs one of the pitchforks and heads to the other end of the stable, beginning his work. Julie quickly finishes up with Jasper, not wanting Arthur to do all the work on his own. She starts from the other end, and a quiet atmosphere takes hold of the stables. There's scratching from the pitchforks on the floor and rustling hay, and once in a while, Arthur's deep voice carries over to Julie when he has a nice word for one of the horses or gently tells them to move over.

Occupied by her thoughts and her work, Julie doesn't notice how they've been moving closer until she almost bumps into Arthur. It's also the first time she hears the noises coming from outside. "What is that?"

"Sounds like there's a storm coming," Arthur says without a care, but then he stops in his tracks when his eyes fall on Julie's face. "Why?"

"The cattle," Julie says with worry, "I gotta bring it in."

"Cattle?" Arthur asks, following after Julie when she rushes to get one of her horses to ride out. "Since when do you have cattle?"

"It's not exactly ours. Mr. Henderson bought it for a business partner and kept it until the man can get his rangers out here and move them," Julie explains. "We'll lose a lot of money if anything happens to them."

Arthur sighs. "Let's bring them in then, and quick. That storm isn't far off."

Julie feels like kissing him when he heads to saddle a horse of his own. Together with a hired hand, she managed to get the herd onto a nearby pasture, but she's not good at herding cattle in the best of times, let alone in a storm.

They go as fast as they can, quickly reaching the animals, and Arthur turns to Julie. "So, how do you wanna do this?"

She hates to admit her cluelessness, but Julie still shrugs her shoulders. "I'm good with horses. I know next to nothing about cattle."

Arthur nods. "We go at them from both sides, bring them together. Then you ride ahead for a bit to show them where to go. I'll try to push them from behind. And we'll better be quick."

He turns his horse, beginning to drive the single animals together while Julie is staring after him with a weird sensation in her stomach. The whole time on the farm, Arthur's been quiet and timid, shy even. Julie has never seen him so forward and in control. 

It's interesting to see such a different side of him, but Julie doesn't get to think about it for long. Thunder is rolling in the distance, a dark sky slowly crawling towards them. Julie gets her horse in motion, doing as Arthur said. 

Soon, they're moving forward. Julie tries to determine the best way to lead the cattle to its destination without problems while Arthur shouts at them from behind, riding from side to side to keep them in check.

They make good progress, but the thunder is getting louder, something crackling in the air. Julie can feel the restlessness from the animals, and every time she dares to look back, it's getting darker around them. After a short while, the rain sets in, getting heavier by the minute. It continually changes direction, forced into Julie's face by the wind until her clothes are drenched. 

Lightning is suddenly splitting the sky, illuminating their surroundings only long enough to make the world seem even darker as soon as it's gone. It's then that Arthur rides up to Julie, his face serious. 

"We won't make it in time," he shouts over the wind and rain. "It's too risky."

"We have to. If we lose these animals, the farm might be done for," Julie shouts back. 

She hates doing that to Arthur, knowing full well that he's right. The Henderson farm runs well for now, but there are no riches and not much to spare. It might survive, but only with significant losses. One of the first ones would be Arthur. 

He shakes his head but rides back to the back of the herd. He's probably shouting at them again, but Julie can't hear him. It's getting pitch black, although it's way too early in the day for that. The rain falls heavy now, pressing down hard on Julie and her horse, and the sharp wind makes her shiver.

They're coming closer to the farm, and right when Julie dares to believe that they can make it, lightning strikes again. The following thunder comes instantly, booming as if a mighty God is using the world as a drum. Julie's horse bucks, making a horrible whining sound, and before Julie has time to react, she's already flying.

The horse is running off in the direction of the farm while Julie crushes into the ground. It's not her first fall from a horse, but that sure doesn't make it better any time it happens. Julie is lucky that the rain turned the earth into mud, cushioning her fall at least a little. 

Julie tries her best to breathe new air into her lungs when Arthur appears out of nowhere. He falls knees first right into the mud next to her, carefully cupping her face. "You alright?"

She reads the words more from his lips than actually hearing them in the chaos around them, so instead of answering, she just nods. Arthur watches her for another moment before reaching under her arm to help her up. Julie does her best to support her own weight, but every bone in her body is aching, and she can't help but lean on Arthur.

Without warning, he picks her up, carrying her through the heavy storm to his own horse. It dances around nervously as Arthur helps Julie up on it, only getting calmer when Arthur is sitting up behind Julie, brushing its neck. He gets it to move behind the herd, and in the upcoming minutes, Julie learns two things.

One is that Arthur must have done this before or spent much time of his life on a horse. He moves it carefully and with precision, making it look like there wasn't a storm at all. Driven by the horse, the cattle keep at a steady pace, heading right for the farm. The animals must sense the nearby shelter, and there's no more need to drive them forward.

The second thing is even more surprising to Julie. All her life, she's been fine on her own, not on the lookout for a man at all. Still, with Arthur's body pressed against hers and his arms surrounding her, she knows she's in big trouble. When the farm comes into view, she almost wishes it wouldn't, wanting to stay right where she is for a little longer.

Arthur doesn't do her that favor. He pushes the horse as fast as he can without spooking it or the cattle. When they arrive at the farm, both Mr. and Mrs. Henderson come running outside to help them. Mr. Henderson opens up the barn, leading the cattle in while Mrs. Henderson heads straight over to Arthur and Julie.

"Thank God, you're okay," she sighs, reaching out for Julie. "We saw your horse running in and didn't know what to think."

Julie wants to reassure her that she's fine, but Arthur returns the favor of telling on him. "She got thrown off, you better take her inside."

He jumps off the horse, and before Julie can object, he grabs her by the waist and lifts her down. A tickling feeling hits Julie, starting from where Arthur touched her and running in waves all over her skin. 

Mrs. Henderson quickly throws an arm around her, steering her to the house. "Let's get you warm, dear. Come on."

Julie knows that there's no chance Mrs. Henderson will let her go, so she moves along, but when they reach the door, she can't help but look back. Arthur got back on the horse, making sure that the herd disappears in the barn, but he's not watching the animals.

His eyes meet Julie's, and heat takes hold of her body, making her remember how it felt to be in his arms. Arthur's gaze strikes her like lightning, setting something aflame deep inside of her. Julie knows that she won't forget this moment as long as she lives.

-------

Despite Mrs. Henderson's best efforts, the night out in the storm took its toll, leaving Julie with a bad cold. She's been feverish for three days, sleeping most of the time. Only once in a while, Mrs. Henderson wakes her up to get some food and water into her before letting her rest again. 

A week later, Mrs. Henderson still insists that Julie stays in bed, although she feels a lot better. There are only two things she can do to pass the time, draw, and look out of the window. 

Julie does the second one as often as she can, hoping to catch a glimpse of Arthur. She never thought she'd be able to miss somebody so much, especially after such a short time of knowing them. Julie got used to Arthur's quiet presence in the stables, his deep, soothing voice, and the soft smiles he often uses more than words.

After about an hour, her constant window gazing pays off. Mr. Henderson and Arthur come out of the stables. Arthur leans against one of the fences, nodding along to what Mr. Henderson is saying. Even from that distance, Julie can tell that he grew out his beard a little, giving her the sudden urge to touch it.

Even worse is the shirt that Arthur bought during their trip into town. It reminds Julie how she just tore open his old one, not thinking about what she was doing. Now she does think about it. Arthur usually keeps the top buttons of his shirt open, and Julie imagines opening up the rest, running her fingers over his muscular chest until he takes her into his strong arms again.

With a sigh, Julie closes her eyes. She's been hauled up in bed for too long, needing a distraction. When she opens her eyes, the two men are gone, and Julie reaches for her journal. To keep sane, she draws, trying to ignore that she's using one of Arthur's pencils and doing her best to only draw horses and not the man who's so good at taming them.

After a while, she takes a nap despite her claims to Mrs. Henderson that she's not tired. She wakes up to a timid knock on the door, wondering why Mrs. Henderson suddenly refrains from just barging in. "Yes?"

"It's Arthur," comes the muffled voice from outside. "Can I come in?"

Julie freezes, becoming acutely aware that she's only wearing a nightgown and hasn't seen a mirror in days. Still, her heart skips a beat at the thought of seeing Arthur, and she can't bring herself to turn him away.

"Yes, sure," she says, her voice weak from excitement.

Arthur opens the door just a crack, taking a glimpse inside. "The Henderson's went to town and asked me to check on you. How are you feeling?"

"I'm good," Julie says. "I would be up, but Mrs. Henderson won't let me."

"She's right, you took quite the fall, and that fever was no joke."

Julie sighs. "I'm fine, Arthur, and if I don't get out of here soon, I lose my mind."

He nods, probably familiar with the urge to be outside. "Let's get your strength up then. Are you hungry?"

"God, yes," Julie grunts, making Arthur chuckle. It's a sound that makes Julie's stomach flutter.

"I'll get you something," he says, his amusement audible in his voice. "Be right back."

It takes a while for Arthur to come back, making Julie wonder if he went hunting her food first. She has an idea what took Arthur so long when he comes inside with a tray. There's a bowl of steaming hot soup, fresh bread, some berries, and a little flower in a small glass jar. Arthur puts it down on Julie's bedside table, taking a step back.

"Haven't made that soup in a while, but I've been told it cures anything," Arthur says, furrowing his brows in thought. "Come to think of it, I hope that's a good thing."

"I'm sure it's just fine," Julie hurries to say, her eyes still hefted to the tray. 

Arthur nods, attempting to leave, but although her heart feels like it might be jumping out of her chest, Julie holds him back. "Can you stay a little?" she asks, trying to think of a good reason why. "I'm really bored out of my mind."

"Sure," Arthur says, his eyes searching the room. He grabs the chair from Julie's desk and puts it next to the bed, sitting down on it as if it's the first time in his life using actual furniture. Wringing his hands, he looks up at Julie. "Not sure I'm good company, though."

"Mrs. Henderson keeps talking about finding me a husband," Julie snorts while reaching for the bread, "anything you say will most certainly be better than that."

"I'm sure she means well."

"She does, I'm just not-" Julie means to say how she doesn't care for a husband, but looking at the man who shares her name already, she can't bring herself to say it. Suddenly, the idea doesn't seem so foreign anymore.

Arthur looks at her with furrowed brows, waiting for her to finish her sentence. Julie clears her throat. "Let's just say that the men in town aren't exactly what women are looking for."

For a moment, Arthur looks like he has a question, but then he just nods, making Julie wish he would talk to her for once. 

"Tell me about the horses," she says when Arthur stays quiet.

Arthur's face lights up, the topic clearly more pleasant to him than husband talk. "The one you rode in the storm, Betty, she's alright. And Jasper is fine. After three days, he stopped trying to bite me, so I call that progress."

Julie laughs. "I'm sorry, I know he's a handful."

"He misses the pretty lady," Arthur says with a shrug, looking like he wants to say more, but then he gets to his feet in a hurry. "I should let you eat."

"Thank you, Arthur."

"Get better soon, Miss Morgan."

Julie sighs wholeheartedly, "Really? You still can't just call me by my name?"

Arthur watches his feet for a moment before looking up, seeming like a schoolboy who's been caught doing something naughty. "Force of habit, I guess," he says, rubbing his neck.

"Try, please," Julie says, giving him a reassuring smile. "I'm sure it'll do wonders for my condition."

Arthur smiles, knowing that she's joking. He heads for the door but turns around once more. "Get well soon, Jules," he says, leaving Julie with a jolt in her stomach.

It's not that nobody calls her that, but Arthur is clearly teasing her by using the nickname, making it sound so different in his voice. After asking him not to be so formal, having him call her by her name is suddenly too familiar. 

Julie stares at the little flower in the bottle. It's nothing Mrs. Henderson keeps around, so Arthur must have fetched it explicitly for this occasion. With a warm feeling in her stomach, Julie tries the soup. It tastes like Arthur. Strong, with nuances that surprise her, and a little bittersweet.

------

"There you are," Arthur says, excitement in his voice that Julie isn't used to.

She's been up and about for three days now, but Arthur hasn't been there since he helped bring the cattle to Mr. Henderson's business partner. Without warning, Arthur takes Julie's hand, bringing back that warm feeling she always gets even when just thinking about Arthur now.

"What are we doing?" she asks, although she'd be happy to go anywhere with Arthur.

"I wanna try something, and you gotta help me," Arthur says vaguely, leading her from the house to the stables, never letting go of her hand.

They head for a paddock right outside the stables, and Julie doesn't quite trust her eyes. It seems that Arthur brought Jasper here, which is already an enormous achievement, but he also managed to saddle him. 

"Arthur, what did you do?"

Arthur doesn't answer. Instead, he winks at Julie and finally gives her hand free to walk over to Jasper. The horse is calm enough, letting Arthur pad it without trouble. Then he swings himself into the saddle. 

Julie's heart stands still. Just like she remembers from her tries with Jasper, he bucks immediately, trying to throw Arthur off. Arthur manages to stay in the saddle for a bit, but then he loses his grip. Julie remembers the Mustang, but Arthur's fall is quite different. He almost lands on his feet before rolling over on the ground and getting up as if he didn't just take a dive from an angry horse. 

Jasper runs a circle around Arthur but calms down quickly, letting Arthur take his rains. Arthur even laughs as he leads Jasper over to Julie. 

"Still not happy with me, are you, boah?" he says before feeding Jasper some sugar cubes.

Julie is looking at the scene as if in a dream, a sudden apprehension taking hold of her. "How many times have you done this?" she asks, unable to keep the horror out of her voice.

Arthur leans against the fence while Jasper tucks at his vest, looking for more treats. "A couple of times."

"Arthur-" Julie says, preparing for a rant about his health, but Arthur holds up his hands, interrupting her.

"I'm fine," he says, running his hand along Jasper's head, "this one's not as mean as he looks. And I'm doing this for a reason. It's your turn now."

"My turn?" Julie gasps. "After what just happened? He doesn't want to be ridden."

"Not by me. I'm sure he'll take you without trouble."

"Arthur, that's crazy."

Arthur turns to Julie and takes her hands, his eyes fixed on hers. "Come on, Jules. I know you're braver than that. He won't throw you, trust me."

This time, Julie can make out Arthur's eye color. It's blue with an almost golden ring in the middle. He's standing so close that Julie can feel the warmth radiating from him, and she has no idea how she could ever not trust him, even if it means she'll have to stay in bed for another week.

"Fine, I'll try it," Julie says, "but you have to get me a lot of soup when I'm out cold again."

"You won't be, I promise." Arthur's happy smile makes Julie's knees go weak, and she's thankful that he helps her to climb over the fence. For a moment, Arthur's hand rests flat on her back, and Julie holds on to Jasper's rains, having to ground herself.

Then Arthur takes a step back, and Julie realizes she just stopped breathing altogether. She takes a few deep breaths before pulling herself up in the saddle. With a tight grip on the rains and her legs clenched together, she waits for Jasper to buck her off.

"Relax, give him some space," Arthur says, and Julie follows his advice. 

She does her best to relax her legs, and when she loosens the rains, Jasper just stands there as if he's always been the sweetest horse in existence.

Arthur laughs. He sounds so genuinely happy that it melts Julie's heart. She gives Jasper a little nudge, and he walks over to Arthur, getting himself another treat.

"That's what I thought," Arthur says, rubbing the horse's neck, "you just wanted for the pretty lady to ride you instead of me, right boah?"

Julie still can't quite believe what's happening. She steers Jasper around, letting him walk in a circle. He follows every command without trouble, almost as if he's desperate to do a good job.

Arthur is leaning back against one of the fences, watching Julie with a smug smile. "Told you."

"But how did you know?" Julie asks, still utterly baffled.

"I got to know him a little when you were sick," Arthur says, sounding as if he's talking about a person and not a horse. "I actually met a few like him in my time. My guess is he's been treated poorly by men, so he prefers a woman's touch. I'm sure he'll be pretty loyal when treated right."

Somehow, Julie's not quite sure if Arthur is only talking about Jasper, or horses for that matter, but she can't think of a way to breach the subject without making Arthur uncomfortable. Instead, she rides up to him and jumps to the ground right in front of Arthur.

"Thank you," she says, trying to show Arthur how grateful she is, not just for Jasper, but for him being a decent person. At that moment, Julie can't help but throw her arms around Arthur and hug him.

For a moment, he tenses up in surprise, but then he puts his arms around Julie, carefully tapping her back. "It's nothing."

Julie pulls back, looking at Arthur. "It's incredible, Arthur. Don't play that down."

He shrugs his shoulders, some color tainting his cheeks. "You should take him out for a ride. He's been hauled up in that stable way too long."

"Only if you come with me," Julie demands, and Arthur nods after a moment.

"Sure, why not."

[mileycyprus-hill]

Mistakes, Chapter 4

It’s finally here, and I know you’re going to want more ‘cause there's soooo much set in store for our young couple.  In the meantime...

Summary: Reader confirms her pregnancy with Arthur, Arthur gets a talking-to from his one of his dads, the gang prepares for the new addition.

Warnings: blood, a graphic dream sequence. 

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, and Chapter 3

Arthur’s eyes nearly bug out of his head. He backs away from you, jaw dropped.

Pregnant?

“What?” 

Knowing that the tears could flood out at any moment if you speak, you simply nod.

Flabbergasted, he asks, “How?” Though he already has an inkling how, but he just has to hear it to confirm.

Your voice wavers, “Remember that night in town? I took you to the saloon and we got drunk?”

Arthur stays silent, dumbfounded. Of course he’s remembers. He remembers all of it despite being wasted that night. Slowly nodding his head, he mumbles,“Yeah...I ‘member.”

“Well.” You raise arms up in exasperation, dropping them to your side, confirming your original statement.

Still shocked, Arthur’s thoughts are going a mile a minute as he stammers, “Are ya...are you sure it’s m—”

“Yes it’s yours!” You interrupt. How could he ask that?

He holds up his hands in defense, taking a step towards you.

You finally break down in tears, dropping your head in your hands. You try to hold back the sobs, not wanting to draw attention from anyone on these filled streets. You feel a warm embrace as Arthur’s arms wrap around you, holding you tight underneath his bulging biceps and rugged forearms. You soak his shirt with tears while crying into his chest, muffling your sobs.

Noticing the onlookers turning their heads to the scene, Arthur attempts to soothe you, “C’mon, let’s go for a walk, he says.

He breaks his embrace but moves his grasp to your shoulders as he holds you up. You desperately want to go back into his arms, to be held and forget about the world. Just for a moment.

You both walk your horses to the outskirts of town. Your face feels hot from your emotional outburst, and your eyes finally dry as there are no tears left in the reserves. Inside, you feel hollow. You silently pray and hope that this is all just a bad dream.

Arthur takes the reins from your hands and leads both horses to a nearby tree. It towers over you with its mighty trunk and canopy of leaves. The fall wind gently blows and the leaves whisper as they brush together. Wrapping your arms around your midsection, you ask the question that’s been rattling your thoughts.

“What am I going to do?”

Arthur drops his head while stroking his mare’s neck, untangling the knots in her copper mane. Resting his forehead on her, he tries to think. He too, is perturbed with questions.

Turning to you he can only answer, “I dunno.”

He reaches for your hand and you do too. The two of you meet in the middle beneath the tree, grasping each other’s hands. Your grip is tight, holding onto him as if you’re close to falling, standing on the edge of a cliff. He looks into your puffy eyes, his own now glassy as he braces himself.

“I’m so sorry.” He quivers. Wrapping his arms around your shoulders, he holds you in a tight squeeze. You hug him tightly around his waist. The two of you place your faces in the crook of each other’s necks, breathing shuddered breaths into warm skin.

“It’s all my fault,” he declares. “ ‘m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.” You deny with a wet rasp, sniffing away your runny nose.

“It is. I should’ve been more careful.”

“We’re both at fault, Arthur. And there’s nothing’ we can do about it now.”

In your embrace, you feel him sway you back and forth delicately. The two of you silently continue to hug, wordlessly consoling each other. For a moment, you feel calm. Breathing in Arthur’s scent, you feel slightly at ease.

A few more moments pass as you stand beneath the tree. The only sounds come from the horses stamping their hooves and shaking their heads. The soft clinks of their metal bits and leather bridles gently coax you back to reality. Loosening your grip on Arthur’s waist, you step back. Looking deep into his eyes, you notice they’re filled with the same sorrow you saw that night.

He’s filled with guilt. Guilt that he’s filled you with his bastard child. Guilt that after this, his chances of returning to Mary will be no more. Guilt that he partook in a selfish act with you that night and now you’re left with the consequences. You shouldn’t bear this burden, he thinks. He wishes he could relieve this weight from your shoulders.

But if he can’t take away the load entirely, he’ll at least carry it with you.

Returning your gaze, he asks, “What d’we tell Dutch and Hosea?” His voice is infused with worry.

Holding his hands in yours, you shrug your shoulders. 

“The truth, I guess.” You look down at your boots, “But...we should wait. Don’t have to tell ‘em just yet.”

He tilts his head and looks to you with a furrow in his brow, “You think that’s a good idea?” He whispers. “Shouldn’t we tell ‘em now?”

To be honest, you’re not sure. You’re afraid of the possible repercussions when you tell them. You know they’ll have to find out eventually, but maybe you can grant the two of you some solace while the rest stay in ignorant bliss. At least for a while.

You shake your head and clear your throat, “No. Not just yet. In case...something happens.”

He tilts his head at you like a confused dog, trying to make out an unrecognizable sound. He asks, “Like what?”

Arms crossed, lightly gripping your elbows, you struggle to say it, “Lots of women have miscarriages. ‘Specially with their first. Maybe we should wait until we know for sure.”

He squints his eyes at you, but slowly relaxes.

“Okay.” he grips your hand and shields it in his. 

You two take your time to calm down from the news by sitting under the tall tree. You sit side-by-side with your backs against the trunk, your head resting on his shoulder while he lays his head on yours. He gently grasps your thigh and rubs his thumb across your knee. The sensation sends a comforting shiver through your body as it still trembles in shock. Leaning against Arthur’s warmth slowly brings down your adrenaline. You both converse on what to do; when to break the news. 

You ask if the gang will accept the baby. Arthur assures you they will.

Will you have enough money to feed it? Clothe it? 

Again, Arthur assures you that you’ll both find a way. 

The midday sun drops to late afternoon, and you both take your cue to mount up. Otherwise, those at camp may start to worry. Spurring your horses to a slow trot, you take your time riding back. You feel numb during the entire trip. An aching sadness and worry fills your chest, like an anchor pulling you down further and further into the abyss Your skin feels cold and your joints ache. So many thoughts gnaw at your mind. So many unsatisfied questions. 

You finally make it back to camp at sunset. Exhausted from the day, you head straight to your tent. Arthur takes it upon himself to unsaddle your horses and give them a rub down. 

Closing the flaps of your tent, you sink down onto your cot in silence. Time stands still as you stare blankly at the ground. studying the dirt between your boots. The longer you sit, the more tears creep to the surface of your eyes. 

Suddenly, a voice whispers your name from outside your tent. 

“(Y/N)?”

It’s John.

Quickly wiping away the tears, you clear your throat and answer, “Come in.”

The crack between the flaps open, letting in what trace of sunlight is left on the horizon. John takes a hesitant step inside and stands in front of you. 

“Everythin’ alright?” he asks, fidgeting with his nails. 

“Yeah--ahem. Everything’s fine...Why do you ask?”

“Well, you’ve been acting weird lately. You won’t talk to me no more...did I do somethin’ (Y/N)?” 

A dry chuckle rumbles out of your chest and you sake your head reassuringly. 

“No, John. You didn’t do anything. I’ve just been--I’ve been out of it for a while. I’m sorry.” You attempt to give an uplifting smile as you look up to him.

Quickly, he steps over and sits next to you on the cot. 

Ever the caring little brother, John is. 

“What is it? You sick or somethin?”

“I guess you could say that,” you reply with another chuckle. 

“What’d’you mean?” He presses. He stares at you with an upturned brow, his young forehead wrinkled with concern. 

You try to shake it off, “Nothin’. Just a cold for somethin’. I’ll be fine.” you wave a hand. 

“Liar,” he retorts.

Goddamn it. he’s good at picking that shit out. 

“It’s nothing, I swear.” You stare back at him, steeling yourself against those puppy dog eyes of his. 

His lips tighten into a thin frown and he refuses to break his gaze.

“Bullshit. What is it?”

Your heart hammers in your chest. There’s no way you could tell him of all people. 

“Tell me...or I’ll go straight to Dutch right now.”

Back straightening at his threat, you hiss, “You wouldn’t.”

He gets up off the cot and moves to open the flaps.

“Wait! Wait! Wait!” you beg, grabbing his forearm closest to you. You nearly dig your nails into his skin, you’re so frantic.

Standing still, John turns his head to you with a rascally smirk. 

He’s got you now.

Now fully facing you, he crosses his arms across his chest, imitating the same confident posture as Dutch.

What a little shit. 

You look up to him like a wounded animal looking at its predator before the final kill: eyes wide with despair, mouth agape with shallow pants passing through your lips, praying for the end. 

“You have to promise me, you won’t tell anyone else,” you answer with a tremble in your throat, “Understand me?”

He silently cocks his head, eyes blinking. 

“Absolutely no one.” you repeat, emphasizing each word.

John shrugs and nods, “Okay.”

Blinking your tears away, you look down at your feet and take a deep shuddered breath.

“I’m pregnant.”

“What!”

You leap from your cot and slap your hand across his mouth, “Shhh! Shut up!”

He smacks your hand away and holds your wrist, whispering, “How?”

Pushing him to the side, you peer through the slit of your tent. No one seems to have noticed the outburst, thank God. You look back at John who’s completely dumbfounded. 

You finally explain, “Arthur and I had sex a while back. After he and Mary broke off their engagement.”

Looking up at John, you thought he was going to drop dead at that moment. He stammers, trying to comprehend it. He tries so hard it looks as if it’s giving him a headache.

“What?” he whispers harshly. 

You groan and drop your head in your hands, rubbing your face. The tears are pushing against the thin veil, like water seeping through the cracked leather of an old canteen. You sit and grab his arm to pull him down next to you. The two of you whisper as you explain to him what happened and he continues to ask questions. 

---------

Meanwhile across camp, Arthur finishes rubbing down the horses. Looking over from the hitching posts, he sees your tent is closed. He darts his head from side to side, looking around to see if anyone’s watching. Giving his horse a slight pat on the neck, he sneakily walks over and cracks the slit of the tent to step inside. 

He’s nearly scared shitless when he sees John in there with you. 

“Jesus!” Arthur jumps and hisses, startling both you and John. “What the hell are you doin’ in here?” Arthur asks. 

“I could ask you the same thing,” John whispers harshly. 

Arthur glares, his jaw clenched, “The hell’s that supposed to mean?”

Suddenly, the tension within the canvas walls grows. You find yourself sitting on your cot, curled within yourself between these two who are standing nearly nose-to-nose. 

John states, “I think you know what I mean...after what you did to her.” He points to you, his voice laced with venom. 

Immediately standing, you step between the two, facing John and shoving at his chest, “John, don’t! You promised!” you hush. 

Arthur leans forward and gently yet vigorously grabs at your shoulder, turning you to him. 

“You told him?!” he nearly yells but still in a low whisper. 

Now distraught, you respond, “He was gonna go to Dutch! What was I supposed to do?”

“Goddammit,” Arthur breathes, raising his head and rubbing his hands across his hair. He grabs at the roots and takes in a deep, irritated sigh. 

John attempts to cut in, but is interrupted by a finger at his chest. 

Arthur warns through clenched teeth, “Don’t. Tell. Anyone...You got that?”

John stares at him in uncomfortable silence before finally heeding his warning, “Fine. But pretty soon, everyone’s gonna find out.” John turns his attention to you, “You can’t hide it forever.”

You’re more than aware of the truth in his statement as you collapse back on the cot. 

Meanwhile, Arthur continues to press into John, “At least for now we’ll have time to figure things out. In the meantime, you keep yer mouth shut.” He refuses to lift his finger away from John’s chest. 

John sighs and nods. He knows better than to disobey Arthur. 

“Now git out.” Arthur orders him.

John looks to you with raised arms, his expression asking you to let him stay. Knowing he only wants to help, you decline him. You point your chin to the entrance of your tent, “Please, John,” asking him gently. “We can talk about it tomorrow.”

He lets out an exasperated sigh and shakes his head, “Fine.”

Once John leaves, Arthur sits with you and stays a while. Holding your hand and stroking it with his thumb, he asks how you’re feeling. 

To which you reply, “I don’t feel anything.” Which is true, concerning you still feel numb from the aftershock. Arthur offers to stay the night with you, and as much as you'd like him to, you decline. Squeezing his hand in yours, you tell him you don’t want Dutch and Hosea to notice something’s up. While he reluctantly agrees, he gives you a swift embrace. You return the hug and sit quietly in each other’s hold for Lord knows how long. Arthur’s warm breath through his nose brushes against your hair and you feel the sand-papery stubble of his chin on top your head. Noticing that darkness has fallen, you remove your head from beneath his chin and move to light your lantern. Arthur still lingers his hands on your back, as if afraid to let you go. Returning your gaze at him, you both sit in silence, afraid to speak. 

Arthur finally coughs, “Uh, g’night (Y/N).” He shifts in his seat, readying to stand. 

“Good night, Arthur.” you reply softly. 

“I’ll see ya tomorrow.” he promises. You simply nod in response and give a little smile. 

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

Unfortunately, Hosea and Dutch already notice something’s up. Hosea’s been watching your tent ever since John walked over. Then Arthur. Then John left and Arthur remained. Hosea peered his eyes at your tent for a long time until Arthur left.

It was well dark now. He watches the glow of your lantern as you light it through the thin canvas. He continues to observe as Arthur finally steps out and looks around, not noticing Hosea watching him from under his hat, leaning against the post of his tent. 

When Arthur reaches his own tent, Hosea pushes himself off the post, lit pipe in hand, and struts over. 

“How’d the trip to town go, Arthur?” Hosea asks.

Arthur jumps and stammers to come up with quick lies, but Hosea cuts to the chase.

“Wanna tell me what’s going on between you and (Y/N)?” He asks bluntly.

Arthur shrugs, “What do you mean?”

“Don’t play dumb, Arthur. Dutch and I see somethin’ going on between you two.” He takes puff off his pipe. “Now spill it.”

Arthur withers under Hosea’s stare and takes a deep sigh, “You wanna...sit a while? It’s kind of a long story.”

“Oh boy.” Hosea mutters.

He sets himself down beside Arthur on his cot, listening attentively to each word. His reactions change with each direction of Arthur’s story.

The sun is long gone and the moon is high when Arthur finishes.

“...and so, we only just found out today. We thought we’d wait before we’d break the news.” Arthur continues defeatedly, “But I guess it’s out now.”

His heart hasn’t stopped racing since Hosea walked over, and it continues when he hesitates to respond.  

“I have to admit, Arthur...I’m disappointed.” Hosea dumps the contents of his pipe and stamps it out on the dry earth.

“More-so in (Y/N) than in you.” Hosea points.

Arthur springs up. “It ain’t her fault.”

Hosea is surprised at Arthur’s quick defense, causing him to tilt his head and give a curious smile.

“I am sorry, Arthur. I really am.” He places a reassuring hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “No one’s ever ready to be a parent...even when they think they are.”

Hosea’s expression changes as his smile falters into a frown at the memory of his cherished lover.

“Lord knows Bessie and I tried.”

Arthur shifts uncomfortably as he tries to think of a way to express his sympathy, but he silences.

Hosea continues with a sigh, “I wondered if I was ready to be father...if I deserved to be one.” He looks over at Arthur, eyes scanning his face, “Do you think you deserve to be a father, Arthur?”

Like a nervous student called upon by the teacher, Arthur’s scrambling to come up with the right answer. He twiddles with his thumbs and fumbles his words. He truly doesn’t know. The life of an outlaw is all he’s known. His own father treated him like dirt, and he can faintly recall the love of his mother. Can he be a good parent to your child? Or will he follow in his father’s footsteps?

Hosea notices the inner confusion Arthur’s wrestling with. His hand still resting on Arthur’s shoulder, he gives it a gentle squeeze before rising off the cot.

“Take care of her, Arthur. She needs you.”

Arthur can only nod as Hosea walks away, back towards his own tent. His figure is shadowed in the dim moonlight. Arthur’s heart is now aching in his chest. The anxiety of parenthood looms over him.

Is he ready for this?

It’s a question that can never be settled, as the deed has already been done.

Hosea’s right, he thinks to himself. No one’s ever truly ready.

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

Hardly anyone got any sleep that night. Arthur, John, Hosea, and least of all you. You tossed and turned on your creaky bed, worrying about what’s to come. Soon enough, your anxiety wore you out and you fell asleep into a tense slumber. The nightmares were constant that night.

You had woken up on a hospital bed with crisp white sheets. The white walls surrounding you were blinding. Looking down at your bloated stomach, you felt an intense pain. You cried out in agony and from the corner of your eye, you see Dr. Birner rush in, followed closely by his wife Christine. Both are dressed in white, just as bright as the walls. You squint your eyes at the intense light they bring into the room. You continue crying at the pain in your lower region.

A hand grasps yours and you turn to see Arthur standing beside you, his brow upturned in fear.

Dr. Birner stands at the end of your bed. Both of your knees are raised and your legs are opened to him. Both Arthur and Christine grasp at each leg and hold you while Dr. Birner orders you to push.

Surprisingly, you only have to push once until you feel the release in your lower region.

You can’t see what comes out of you, but you can see the look of horror on their faces. Christine raises a hand over her mouth and begins to sob. Arthur turns away from the mass held in the doctor’s arms. Leaning forward, you notice black blood pooling by your feet. You look to see your newborn in his arms.

It’s completely lifeless and black. Like it’s been dipped in thick oil. The black substance drips from its body onto the white sheets. It stains the sleeves and apron of Dr. Birner. He looks to you with tears in his eyes, but you...you feel nothing.

Absolutely nothing. No sorrow, no remorse. Just...completely numb, while the room is filled with their wails and sobs.

You reach out to the doctor and slip the baby into your arms. It’s limp body feels light in your hold. The inky substance spreads like roots onto your forearms and up to your shoulders, spreading to your chest. You still feel no emotion as it engulfs you.

You look back down to your lifeless newborn, slippery with black blood.

It opens its mouth in a gasp.

Your own gasp jolts you awake. The early morning sun peeks into your tent. The pain in your stomach returns with the feeling of nausea. Leaning over, you quickly grab a porcelain bowl near your nightstand and vomit. Your abdominal muscles contract as your body forces the acidic bile up your throat.

Your hands continue to tremble after you cough the rest of it out.

Sitting a while, you let your body relax and your mind return to reality. Staring upon the bowl on the grassy floor, you try to comprehend the images of your dream. Your heart sinks at the thought of your lifeless baby. Mindlessly, your hand rubs against your lower stomach, caressing the little bean inside you. You promise to it and yourself that you won’t let anything happen.

“(Y/N)? You up?”

“Arthur?” you ask the voice outside your tent. “Come in.”

Arthur steps in with a steaming bowl of food in hand, handing it to you before sitting down next to you. Noticing the porcelain bowl on the ground, he asks, “You alright?”

Holding the warm bowl of stew in your hands, your mouth salivates at the sight of it. You’re so hungry, you don’t care what it is. As long as you can keep it in your stomach. 

“Had a bad dream,” you answer, grabbing the fork and biting at the food. 

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

Another month goes by and the news has already spread throughout the group. Miss Grimshaw lessens your chores for the sake of your aching joints and Pearson makes sure to give you extra rations. Much to your surprise, everyone’s in a good mood regarding the news. They’ll walk up to you and rub your small bump, asking you if you think it’s a boy or a girl and if you’ve come up with names yet. Your anxiety lessens at the sight of everyone getting ready to welcome the new member. 

Well, almost everyone. 

While Dutch has maintained a neutral demeanor, you can’t help but think he doesn’t welcome the thought of both you and Arthur having a child. You swore you heard him and Hosea quietly arguing in his tent, and Dutch saying you’re both too young to raise a child. You can’t necessarily argue with Dutch there, but you can’t lie and say you don’t feel a little hurt knowing he doesn’t support this. 

You make your scheduled visit to Dr. Birner, with Arthur by your side. The ride to town takes longer than usual, with Arthur reminding you of Miss Grimshaw’s warnings about you riding in your condition. So he makes sure you take it easy by riding his horse instead of yours. He’s aware of the bond you and König have, but your horse still has a bit of that stallion in him and Arthur worries of any potential accidents. 

The check-up goes well and the doctor asks to see you again in another month as you’ll enter your second trimester. Visiting Dr. Birner and his wife Christine gives you hope that things may turn out alright. In fact, you look forward to your next visit; to see the warm smiles from the two of them. 

[lumassen]

Kinda dumb au but pirate Monaco (im thinking Francis' first mate who really like booty ;)) and Mermaid (or siren) Seychelles. Love your writing thanks for reading my ask

Hiya! Thanks so much for your ask, I LOVED writing this little AU! It ended up being a little longer than I wanted it to be, and the end might be a little abrupt, but I really enjoyed writing Monaco (Lucille) as a pirate! Hopefully you like it! :) If anyone else would like me to write them something, drop me an ask!

The waves parted along the bow as The Elusive finally broke into calmer waters. The South Atlantic could be unforgiving and had claimed many a ship in its history, but over the past few days it had been no match for The Elusive.

Magnificent sails cracked in the wind and the sea foamed in the wake of the great ship as it slipped through the water, now making good time and perfectly on course, thanks to its Captain. She was as beautiful as her ship was. There were many ships that sailed the seven seas, but hardly any compared to Captain Lucille and her crew. At first she’d been looked down upon, sneered and spat at, and outright ignored simply because she was a lady. But a skilled swordsman she was, and soon most rival ships around the globe had come to fear her. Dressed in the finest silks and feathers that gold could buy, at first glance one might only see elegance, grace and beauty, but underneath all the decadence was a true pirate, so much so that many swore instead of blood, it was saltwater ran through her veins.

Long, braided hair the colour of barley ran down her back as she stood proudly at the helm and took in a deep breath of the sea air she loved so much. Now that The Elusive was safely out of the storm that had engulfed the South Atlantic in the past hours she could finally relax after bringing her ship and her crew to safety once again. The deck was an inch or so deep in saltwater, clumps of seaweed and driftwood debris strewn everywhere from the 10 foot waves that had crashed up the sides of the ship. The Captain could only hope that too much hadn’t seeped below to the quarters or the hold. She was soaked to the skin as she had stayed at the helm all through the night to ensure that they came out of the storm in one piece. Her wide brimmed ostrich feather hat and velvet breeches the colour of deep wine were no doubt ruined, but such things were replaceable whereas a valued crew was not.

Lucille would bet her life that she had the most formidable crew on the sea and each member of the ships company had proved themselves worthy and pledged loyalty to their Captain in many ways. Her Gunners were her best men, some of whom she had stolen from a rival ship that had abandoned their previous captain just for the chance to serve Lucille after she had plundered them and looted all of their riches in a single attack.

Her Sailing Master was known across land and sea for his extensive skills when it came to route plotting, navigation and co-ordination. She had sailed all the way to England and paid a pretty penny to persuade him to come aboard The Elusive. The day he finally bowed beneath her heeled boot and pledged to serve her was one of her greatest triumphs.

Finally, her First Mate and Quartermaster was someone who she trusted with her life, and that was hard to do if you were a wealthy and strong Captain with such a strong ship as she was where even your crew mates might slit your throat in your sleep. Francis Bonnefoy was the closest person that Lucille had to a family. Dragged up on the streets of coastal Cannes, France as an orphan, Lucille had to fight her way to glory and Francis had been by her side every step of the way. Although he was 8 years older than she was, Lucille and Francis had always been equal.

Francis was cunning and clever, and could always manage to swindle his way out of paying for bread at the bakery so that they could fill their stomachs, and Lucille was brave and had her wits about her, somehow managing to get away with hitching rides on the back of a horse and cart to save their aching feet or swipe some jewels from an unsuspecting rich man’s pocket in a crowd. Francis had taken Lucille under his wing, expecting nothing in return from her apart from her company. She was a pretty girl and as they were growing up as nothing but sewer rats he could have done anything he wanted with her. He could have sold her away as a slave or chambermaid, or forced her to marry him and they could have crawled through society together, but instead Francis had let Lucille lead him, and he followed in her every footstep. The belief he had in her strength had paid off when the young girl grew into a young woman, and one day she tricked a fisherman into giving her his boat in exchange for a night with her. The two of them had stolen away in the night out into the open sea after leaving the fisherman with a good blow to the head out cold in a run-down brothel somewhere.

Some 15 years and a lot of trading, clawing and plundering later, they were now wealthy pirates in charge of the Mediterranean.

“Mon trésor, I can man the helm for a while. Manon has lain out some dry clothes in your chambers for you.” Francis spoke up from behind Lucille, and she looked over her shoulder to meet his gaze.

He looked at her as salt water sprayed up the side of the ship and her hair blew in the sudden gust of wind that the wave brought with it, her eyes shining and her face alive with the thrill of being out on the water at the helm of her ship. Francis had always known that he’d loved Lucille, and just looking at his Captain as she stood before him, the trying sun shining through the breaking storm clouds casting rays of light onto her, he felt that love now more than ever.

Quickly she took one hand from the wheel and removed her sopping wet hat from her head and took her braid out, shaking her hair free.

“But we’re out of the thick of it now, and we’re so close I can smell it. I’ll soon dry in this breeze.” She said with a grin, then turned back to the helm and gripped the wheel with both hands, steering starboard slightly. Francis smiled at the back of her and shook his head, bending down to pick up her discarded hat from where it lay on the desk at her feet, its feathers’ sea soaked beyond repair.  

The Elusive and its crew had set off from the coast of France a few weeks ago in search of an island somewhere in the Indian Ocean that sail master Arthur had overheard some scallies talking about in hushed tones over a pint one evening. He’d sat in the pub for hours and worked out a map, listening as best he could to their talk about how to apparently find it until he’d been shooed out into the night once the pub closed its doors. Whenever they were docked and on shore, Lucille would send Arthur out to scope out as much information as he could about riches and treasures that were there for the taking if you were brave enough. As well as being a skilled sail master, Arthur was resourceful and could force words right out of a person’s mouth, even if he had to hold a dagger to their throat. He was ruthless, sly, and quite frankly strikingly handsome, not having any trouble taking people to bed to entice them to reveal any secrets that they knew.

Judging by the tropical storm that they had passed through, Captain Lucille and her crew weren’t far from their destination. If Arthur was right and the scallies from the pub weren’t talking nonsense, then an undiscovered island of riches and otherworldly wonders were in their wake.

Francis hung Lucilles hat on a hook in the mast pole in an attempt to dry it out in the warm breeze, then tied his blond hair back with a ribbon before peering over the edge of the ship. The waters that lapped against the hull were clear and blue, a mighty comparison to the cold and dark waters of the Atlantic that had stretched around The Elusive as far as its crew’s eyes could see for the past few weeks.

“Land ahoy, Captain!” the watchman called from his station atop the mast.

“Francis! Man the helm!” Lucille shouted, already half way across the deck by the time Francis had turned away from the edge of the ship.

She swung herself up onto the forecastle deck at the very front of the ship in a swift motion, using one of the loose sail ropes to pull herself up and unclasped her telescope from its sheath at her hip. Raising it to her eye, the Captain looked out over the ocean in front of her, and sure enough, there it was. Land, at last. Wonder began to well inside of her just as it always did when she had made another successful voyage, and she never tired at the thrill of the adventure. All they had to do now was land ashore. Her polished leather boots hit the wooden lower deck hard as she jumped down and made her way back over to the helm.

“Bring her in steady Francis; we’re only a league or so from shore.” Lucille said with a grin, and then turned her attention to three of the gunners who had emerged from below deck as a result of the cries of land ahoy, ready and waiting for their Captains orders. They worked on lowering the sails and slowing down The Elusive as they neared the shore, and Lucille took a good swing and hit at the large gong the ship used to signal to any other rival ships of their arrival.

“Captain Lucille, you’d better take a look ahead!” the watchman called again from atop the mask, waving down at Lucille and pointing to the shore ahead of them as it grew nearer. Leaning over the side of the ship, Lucille brought her telescope to her eye once more, her breath hitching in her throat as the lens focused on what she could only imagine the watchman intended for her to look at.

“What is it? What do you see?” Francis asked as he hurried to her side, peering at the shore before them. Lucille didn’t say a word and just slowly passed the telescope to Francis in a stunned silence. It took a moment for him to focus, but Lucille could feel him tense beside her once he’d spotted it.

“Mon dieu, is that really a… siren?” he choked out, hardly believing the words that left his own lips as he lowered the telescope. It was unmistakeably a Siren, lain out on a rock only a few feet from the shore.

Every pirate that had ever sailed the seas knew the legends and myths about Sirens and Merfolk, and every pirate knew that they were dangerous and were probably the last thing you ever saw if you came across one. Lucille’s mouth had gone dry and her voice rasped as she cried out for the crew to lower the anchors and stop their course for shore at once, and she watched as calmly as she could as her men got to work. If the tales and legends were true, then the company of The Elusive were in trouble. As far as Lucille knew, she was the only female Captain that sailed the Mediterranean at least, and possibly the majority of the seven seas, and she and her galley maid Manon were the only women on board. In the legends there was never any mention of Sirens effects on a woman, but that could simply be because Lucille was not meant to be aboard a ship, let alone be its captain according the tradition and society and so women had never been included in the tales.

“Captain, we’re surrounded by them,” the watchman said as he jumped down from the ladder on the mast, his expression full of concern.

Lucille looked to Francis for guidance, even though she had a plan that was forming in the back of her mind.

“I have an idea, and you have to trust me.” She said, looking deep into his eyes. She could see the fear in them despite him holding his head high. Francis shook his head,

“I’ve always trusted you, but now you’ve made me nervous.” He said, his voice hesitant.

Hearing the commotion, most of the crew had come up from below deck, and they all stood around their Captain, too scared to even cast their gaze over the side of the ship should it fall upon a Siren.

“I’m not going to let my ship and my crew sink at the hands of these creatures we all thought to be a myth until now,” she began, tying her hair back into a ponytail and away from her face, “so unless any of you boys have a better idea, I need you to hoist me down in the rowboat.” Lucille finished, trying to remain as absolute as she could when her crew gasped around her and Francis grabbed her arm.

“You can’t be serious. I know that we’re pirates and you’ve fought many enemies for us, but those foes have been human.” Francis pleaded, realising what it was that Lucille planned to do, and the crew nodded and murmured in agreement.

Lucille sighed heavily in exasperation as she shook Francis’s grip from her arm. Her heart was in her mouth, and she was terrified of what creatures lay beneath the waves, but she couldn’t reveal that to her crew. She was their Captain, and she was going to save them.

After much persuasion and the raising of her voice, Arthur and Francis finally began to lower the ropes that held Lucille and the wooden rowboat that she was sat in to the hull of The Elusive. They kept their eyes averted away from the ocean as they did so for fear that they would catch the eye of a Siren in the waters and throw themselves overboard if it was so much as to will them to. Even if Lucille’s plan didn’t work, they were probably going to die out here in the middle of the Indian Ocean anyway, but they would have rather died with their Captain at least, as they were bound to do as her crew.

Francis’ hands were trembling as he held the ropes, and he wanted to do nothing more than to pull his Captain back up on deck, but he couldn’t. He had allowed Lucille to go down to greet the Sirens in an attempt to make peace with them and spare their lives on one condition, which was that if anything seemed to be going wrong she would signal to him and he would dive in after her. To Lucille, it didn’t seem like a good plan or a good rescue attempt at all, because as soon as Francis hit the water he would likely be lured to his death by the sirens anyway, but she couldn’t refuse his request. If she were going to die, she wanted to die with Francis by her side.

Clutching her crossbow to her breast, Captain Lucille tensed as the boat hit the sea and rocked a little in the wake of the waves that crashed back and forth against the hull of her ship. Hastily, she un-hooked the ropes that connected the rowboat to it, then grabbed an ore and pushed away from the shadow of The Elusive before she could have second thoughts. Looking out across the vast waters that now surrounded her as she rowed out, Lucille’s eyes narrowed, searching for any trace of movement from the depths below. Heart still drumming in her chest, she could feel how her pulse quickened at every sound, every call of a gull in the sky above, every creak that the boat made beneath her.

Then, all of a sudden, a Siren emerged out from under the water just inches from the boat, and stared up into Lucille’s face as she scrambled to reach for her crossbow from where she laid it down beside her. Compared to Lucille’s rugged beauty the Siren was otherworldly, and she was transfixed. Its hair was as dark as jet, as were its eyes as they bored into the blue of Lucille’s. Her body felt as though it had turned to stone as she took in the angular features of the Sirens face as it clutched the side of the boat, pulling itself up so that it was now only inches from Lucille’s face. She noticed the darkness of its skin and scales, and the gills that opened and closed on either side of its neck. As it gazed at her, Lucille found that she couldn’t look anywhere else, her muscles refusing to move and her eyes suddenly unable to blink even as a scaled hand reached out to grasp her hair. Perplexed, the Siren ran Lucille’s long hair through webbed fingers, the tip of its tail rising out of the water, curling in curiosity. Although Lucille knew that she was caught under the Siren’s spell, something about this being in front of her didn’t seem like the tales she’d heard of ugly, half human half fish creatures that would sing sweetly whilst pulling you under the waves to your death.

Without warning, it suddenly felt as though an invisible bubble had burst around her, and her body slumped forward as she quickly regained control over her muscles again. Hastily, she looked over her shoulder and back to her ship, waving to Francis and Arthur and her crew who all hung over the sides, signalling that she was okay. Then she felt the boat jolt and clung onto the oars to steady herself. The siren had grabbed hold of the edge of the rowboat and was pulling Lucille toward the shore and out of the deep water.

“What are you doing? Where are you taking me?” Lucille asked, panic rising in her chest a little, but she tried to swallow it back down again, knowing that the Siren probably couldn’t understand her. More of them had appeared now, their heads just breaking the surface of the water as they swam alongside the boat.

“You are not like the others,” One of them said, its voice soft and melodic, “We will not harm you.”

Lucille thought she must have imagined it, but then the Siren who had first approached her that was pulling her in the boat spoke,

“Many have sought our treasure, yet none have ever been worthy of it.” It said, and the boat came to a halt a few metres shy of the shore. Lucille watched as the other Sirens gathered around the darker haired Siren who had last spoken and they all reached out toward it, placing their hands over any part of its skin that wasn’t already covered by another’s until a ring of bright light began to glow around them. Lucille shielded her eyes from its intensity as it grew brighter and brighter, and once it had faded and she opened her eyes again she saw that the Siren now had a pearl necklace in its upturned palms, holding it out towards her.

“We Sirens can be found in all of the seven seas, just like you pirates. But you are not just a pirate, you are like us. To protect yourself and your crew while exploring our seas, wear this necklace. Your crew is made up of men, and most Sirens will not be as understanding as we are, but if you wear this your ship and its crew will be protected from our wrath should you ever stray too close again.”

The pearls were cold and smooth as the Siren pressed the necklace into Lucille’s hands,

“They call me Seychelles, and we are the Sirens of this isle. May we now part as friends, for you are like us.”

Lucille closed her fingers tightly around the necklace as she grasped it as a tear rolled down her cheek. Although she loved her crew, most men of the sea were not like they were. She’d been plundered many times just because other ships and their crews thought her to be weak or an easy target, but it was more at a loss to them as each time she rose again even stronger. She had often considered cutting her hair short and trying to disguise herself as a male but every time fought against herself. At a loss for words, Lucille didn’t have time to speak or say anything to the Sirens before the disappeared back under the waves as quickly as they had appeared, leaving her sat aboard her little rowboat.

She was a woman of the sea, just like the Sirens.

[sesamebagel]

i just want to see you there sleeping on my floor.... with the ache inside to ride the mighty wind and nothing more

[yourdeepestfathoms]

A Lullaby For A Stallion (Cowgirl AU)

It was just before dawn, Sunday morning, a week after the first race, and Joan Meutas was sneaking out of the house. She laughed at herself- if Bessie caught her like this, she’d be likely to think she’d been out all night and was sneaking back in. For once, she actually got a good night’s sleep because she wanted to be energized when she went out on the range by sunrise. Today was all hers, for herself, and she’d chosen to spend it in the fields with her horse.

Her horse.

She grinned as she stepped into the stable area and called in a singsong voice to her partner in crime, who replied with a snort and peeked out of his stall.

“Good morning, pretty boy,” Joan cooed, patting the stallion’s soft nose. “And good morning to you, too, Listener.”

Unlike her brother, the dapple grey filly didn’t react. Instead, she just stood with her head sticking out of her stall, blinking at Joan. Joan blinked back, then shrugged and returned her attention to her horse.

“I hope you’re ready to do some riding today.” Joan said, grabbing one of the halters from the hooks on the wall, “We are professional riders now! So we need to keep up on training!”

Blazer pawed at the ground. He whickered deep in his throat, a contented sound that also managed to sound somehow curious.

“Yes, we’re racers now.” Joan answered to the question she thought he was asking. She raised the halter into the air and held it there. The horse sniffed the air, then stepped forward slowly until he could stretch out his neck and just reach it. He snuffled at it, but since Joan had taken the precaution of rubbing it against her body so it would have a familiar smell on it, the horse just snorted and shook his head, sending his mane flying.

Joan raised a hand, but didn’t try to touch him. Blazer’s ears twitched, pricked to the front, a quick twist back towards the wall, then to the front again. He nuzzled Joan’s hand, shifting his head around so that Joan’s fingers were on what had turned out to be a favorite spot for a rub. Joan obliged, and Blazer dropped his eyelids and almost dozed for a moment.

Joan could barely breathe, but she forced the air in and out, in and out. Delight bubbled up from somewhere deep inside, but she kept it pushed down. She had to remain calm.

Left hand rubbing behind Blazer’s ear, she ran her right, still holding the rope, down the horse’s neck and along his back. She murmured soft, soothing words, nothing that would have made sense to anyone listening, but a language they both understood. She ran her hand back up to Blazer’s head, and prepared to slip the rope over his nose. Blazer threw his head up and stepped back, then forward, through the open gate with a huff.

In a heartbeat, without really thinking, Joan dropped the rope and grabbed hold of the thick mane. Blazer tensed, and Joan jumped. The horse leapt forward, and Joan went with him, sliding belly down over the withers, then she got one leg over and pulled herself upright. It was a darn-fool move, and Joan knew it, but the stallion was moving full out now, and there was no way to get down. Nor did she want to.

Blazer and Joan burst from the stables.

The gallop was smooth, with springy power from his hindquarters that Joan easily adjusted to, even bareback (god her thighs and tailbone were going to ache later, though). They were headed to the cow pasture, and Joan felt as well as heard the clarion call of a mighty stallion. The cows lifted their heads first and began to move, calves bleated their anger at the sudden interruption of their meal but trotted alongside, and the bull started circling, looking for whatever threat had gotten this stallion riled.

Taking hold of his mane, Joan guided Blazer to swerve towards the nearest heifer. The blonde bovine looked up at them curiously, lowed, then padded forward.

The stallion circled the group, running faster than Joan would have believed. She leaned forward, keeping her balance with ease, her legs an iron band around Blazer’s girth. She could feel the powerful muscles bunching and releasing, the heat and sweat leaching through her pants, searing her skin.

The cow herd was galloping, yet Blazer ran faster. He twisted to the right, to the left, his body never straight. Joan felt like she was riding a wild, plunging river, a torrent that tossed her, battered her, until she hardly knew where she was.

They were headed for an opening in the rocks that led to a canyon, but a calf missed the entrance and dashed to the left. Seeing this as a good chance to practice more of his maneuverability, Joan had Blazer take off after it, which nearly unseated her in the process, but she had her hands locked with fistfuls of mane and was able to pull herself back. When they reached the calf, Blazer slid to a stop on his haunches and Joan was banged against his neck, then nearly slid to the ground. Before she could situate herself, Blazer was in motion again, his jaws nipping at the calf’s heels and driving the youngster back towards the herd. The calf slipped, then got her feet under her and raced toward her mother, and Blazer turned again to the back of the herd. Joan hung on with the sure knowledge that if she fell onto the rocks at this speed, she’d never survive. Head whirling, nausea twisting her stomach, she grabbed hold of more mane.

Blazer pushed past the herd to take the lead, and plunged down the banks of a small stream. Water splashed in all directions, blessed coolness soaking them and seeming to take the fire from Blazer’s eyes. He slowed to a canter, then a jog. Exhausted, Joan lost what was left of her balance and fell off.

—————

She came out of darkness to the squeal of cattle and the discovery that she was wet. The sound of hooves thundered by and dust choked her as she tried to drag herself to her feet. She ached all over and she knew she’d feel worse tomorrow, but, oh, God, it had been worth it. She looked around and saw that she’d landed in the stream which, fortunately for her, wasn’t very deep. Cows were milling around, restlessly tossing their heads, snorting, stamping, stirring up dust to the point she couldn’t see more than a few feet. She whistled low and long and heard Blazer whinny in answer, but the horse didn’t come to him.

Then, she realized she could hear the creak of saddles and the swish of ropes in the air. She looked around wildly and found there were four horsemen surrounding the little herd, one of them, a big man on a buckskin, getting ready to cast a rope toward Blazer. Without thinking, she waded out of the stream and stomped over to him.

“Hey!” Joan called out. “That’s my horse!”

The man jerked, and his lariat fell short. Joan notices that it’s Thomas. Culpeper and two men Joan didn’t recognize were at his sides.

“He belongs to whoever catches him,” Thomas said, and started to build his loop again.

“You saw me race with him a week ago!! He’s mine!”

One of the other men laughed. “I don’t see no rope on him. Hey Thomas, this kid thinks she’s got a rope on that horse.”

“I’m telling you, I’ve been working with him for over a six months now, and he’s mine.”

Thomas kneed his horse- the majestic black hole that was SheBeast- around to face her. “You been workin’ this horse for two weeks, he should be in a corral by now with a saddle on him. I think you’re lying.”

“I’m not lying, I just choose a better way of breaking a horse than you use.”

Thomas rode up to her, then stepped down off his horse. “You’re that snot-nosed, little runt who beat Culpeper, aren’t you?”

Joan stood her ground. “And if I am?”

Thomas walked slowly around her, and Joan turned to keep him in sight.

“Seems to me you forgot how things are done out here. Seems to me you don’t remember how a horse belongs to the man who catches him. Hear that? A mean. Little girls like you aren’t meant to ride.”

“I’ve been training him every day, down at Silver Bass Farm. That’s where he’s been living, he and his sister, and he belongs to me.”

Thomas took his time and gazed around the canyon. “Well, we ain’t on Silver Bass now, girl, and you don’t got a brand on him, so I say that makes him fair game. Since I’m the one with the rope, I’ll be the one takin’ him home.”

Joan stepped forward until there was no more than a foot between them and said through gritted teeth, “No. He’s mine.”

Suddenly she felt a loop drop over her head. She tried to raise her arms, but it tightened around her chest, and then she was yanked off her feet. Even with the wind knocked out of her, she knew she had to get the coil off. It loosened for just for a moment, and she grabbed it and got one arm out. A second yank on the rope spun her off-balance and she fell to one knee but managed to get it off the rest of the way.

A shadow fell over her and she looked up to see Thomas standing over her.

“Give it up, kid, while you’re ahead.”

“No,” She gasped.

Thomas grabbed her shirt and dragged her to her feet. “Give it up and go home!”

Joan just glared at him. “No.”

Thomas’ fist came out of nowhere, and Joan felt like a rock hit her on the side of the face. Dizzy, she would have fallen if not for Thomas’ grip on her. She swiped at her mouth, felt wetness on her hand.

“He’s mine,” She said, and sank a fist in the big man’s gut.

Thomas took her to the ground when he fell. Joan landed hard, but tried to roll away. Thomas still had a fist twined in her shirt, though, and the fabric tore as she broke away. She scrambled to her feet and saw Thomas getting up. She launched herself at him, landing a right and a left in his stomach, but then Thomas broke through her guard and shot one through to her belly that laid her flat on her back. Gasping for air, she saw Blazer rising on his hind legs, two ropes around his neck, held between two of Thomas’ riders.

Then she caught a swift glimpse of a boot, tried to jerk away, and her head exploded.

———————

Joan.

She felt a touch on her shoulder.

Joan, wake up, sweetheart.

The voice was soft, insistent. She felt a familiar palm rest on her forehead, then slip down to cup her sore cheek. Her breath came out a quiet moan.

“That’s it, honey. Time to come back to us.”

She didn’t want to wake up. She ached everywhere and her head was pounding, but it was too late now to slip back into the darkness. She raised a hand to press against her eyes, but Bessie- she knew her by her touch as much as by her voice- pressed it back down.

“Leave that alone for now. Can you look at me?”

The light was blinding until a shadow moved over her. She pried her eyes open to see Bessie’s face hovering over her, blotting the fluorescent lights from view.

“Is she gonna be okay?” She heard Maggie ask.

“Joan?”

She tried to swallow, but her throat was parched. Her eyes closed themselves against her will- she was so tired.

“Give me the cup, Maggie then go get some painkillers. I don’t think Joan is going to feeling too well for awhile.”

She felt cool glass at her lips, then water touched them. She opened her mouth, wincing against the soreness, but the water felt so good, cooling her throat, that she didn’t mind the ache.

“That’s it,” Bessie murmured. “Just a sip more.”

She opened her eyes again and this time saw his Maggie’s worried face next to Bessie’s.

“‘m okay,” She croaked.

“That’s as may be,” Said Bessie with a touch of asperity.

Joan looked at her, saw a faint thread of anger touch her expression before it went back to worry. She struggled to sit up, gasping at her stiff, painful muscles.

“What happened?” She asked, head spinning.

“You must’ve taken a tumble off that horse. Catherine said she found you unconscious in the fields and brought you back here, but she ran off on Whispers before she could really explain.“ Bessie’s touch was gentle as she helped Joan into a sitting position, even if her voice was starting to rise. “I warned you about working with a stallion, that they were dangerous, especially that one, and yet you went off on your own.”

She was working herself up into a fine fit, not that Joan really blamed her.

“And here you are, bucked off and knocked out and who knows what all else wrong with you!”

“No—” She swayed, grabbed onto Bessie’s arm. “Not Blazer’s fault.”

Bessie steadied her. “I know, a good horsewoman doesn’t blame the horse for acting true to his nature. But, darling, you should have waited until we had him into a corral before you tried to ride him.”

“Didn’t plan it- just happened,” She muttered. “Should’ve gotten him home somehow. Shouldn’t have left him on the range...” She groaned. “Oh, Bessie, what am I gonna do?”

“You’re going to sit right there or lie down and spend the next couple days in bed until I’m convinced you’re well.”

Joan looked up, aghast. “I can’t, Bessie- I gotta find him. Gotta find him and get him back.”

“Back?” Bessie thundered. “You’re not to go near that horse again. I won’t hear of it. He nearly killed you, kicking you in the ribs and the head, and you want to try again?”

Joan shook her head furiously. The world was beginning to fade out and she had trouble putting her thoughts together.

“You don’t understand,” She said, working herself up. “I gotta— gotta find him– gotta get him back—” Her stomach cramped and she balled up around it with a small cry.

“Just rest.” Bessie gathered her into her arms, calm again in the face of her young jockey’s distress. “We can talk it over later.”

Joan tried once more to tell Bessie what had really happened, but the pain in her heart and all of her body aches and bruises finally caught up to her, and she gave in to the darkness.

———————

Joan missed church that evening. That was fine with her, as her murderous mood was completely incompatible with any kind of spiritual communion. She figured God would understand, and she could say whatever prayers she wanted from her bed as well as in a pew. Bessie had taken Maria and Maggie only after Joan repeatedly told her that she’d be fine- nothing was broken after all. She assured Bessie that she intended to spend the rest of the day sleeping or, at the most, reading; that she wouldn’t try to get dressed and go to the house (her room was actually in the barn loft, separated from everyone else) until they were home again; and finally, that she had the animals to yell at her if she even tried to get out of bed. She really didn’t need the others to hang around waiting on her.

She had breathed a sigh of relief when they finally left. Maria and Maggie had pestered her unmercifully, Maggie in wide-eyed wonder at Maria’s description of Aragon showing up with her unconscious body, both of them wanting more details than her headache could stand. Bessie was concerned for her health, of course, but Joan could see the upcoming lecture in her eyes. She really was too tired to explain it all right now- she’d suffered beatings before and not been so debilitated, but the ride on Blazer had worn her out first.

She remembered the ride with mingled pleasure and pain. The stallion was magnificent. He was fast, powerful, smart, and it seemed he could run forever. He was quick on his feet, too, considering how big he was.

But these thoughts just led Joan back to a brooding depression. Bessie thought she ought to leave well enough alone- there were other horses she could have. She should just forget Blazer.

How could Bessie say that? What was her problem with Blazer? He was Joan’s partner! If it were her horse, Speakeasy, wouldn’t she want to get her back?

What can I do? Was the refrain that went around and around in Joan’s mind. She simply could not leave the stallion in Thomas’ hands.

She turned onto her side and bunched her pillow so it didn’t press against her sore jaw. And what was her horse suffering even now while she lay here? Bessie was experienced in the ways of the world, a wise woman who’d learned many lessons the hard way- they all knew this, all knew she was troubled and had hidden pain of her own, but did her best to repress it. She advised Joan, after she had woken up an hour earlier, to move on, to find another horse rather than go track Blazer down and be brutalized once again. It would be the best thing to do.

But Joan didn’t want the “best thing”.

She wanted her horse.

She wrenched the covers off and pushed herself up to sit on the edge of the bed. Her muscles protested and her head swam, but she forced herself not to give in to her weakness. She had to get well, and do it fast. As wise as Bessie’s advice might be, it was wrong. She couldn’t leave the horse in Thomas’ hands. Even if she had to let Blazer go, it would be better than letting him be broken while she sat up here in her room nursing her bruises. She had a moment’s hesitation over her promises to Bessie. Hadn’t she just been thinking that she was willing to be guided by the woman’s wisdom? She knew, though, that this was the right thing to do.

Bessie would just have to get over it.

She was stiff and sore- oh, was she sore!- but she could get around. She could live with his aching muscles, but she dearly wished they’d loosen up.

Joan hauled herself up and staggered down the stairs of the barn loft. Quietly, as if she thought the animals would rat her out, she crept over to the horse area and peeked into Listener’s stall. The filly’s ears were flicking back and forth and she bounded towards the door when the girl appeared.

“Come on, girl,” Joan whispered, “We gotta go get your brother.”

Listener snorted and Joan opened the gate. She couldn’t bother with a saddle right now, it would waste precious time, so she leapt onto Listener’s back without one. Her thighs and groin cried in pain, the rigidity of the mare’s spine digging into her vagina like a saw, but she ignored it.

Listener took off down the road once off of the Silver Bass land. Her hooves clacked loudly on the asphalt as she sprinted down to King’s Hill Farm where Thomas lived. As they approached, Joan heard the furious squeal of a horse. She directed Listener to run right through the front gate and skidded to a halt at the rails of a training corral.

It wasn’t Blazer.

It was SheBeast.

Her head was snubbed to the top of a fence post by a heavy bridle, back weighed by a roping saddle with both girths fastened tight under her belly, one back leg tied up to the girths. As Joan watched, horrified, the horse lost her balance and fell, held only by the bridle. Her front hooves raked at the post and the rails, her eyes rolled white in their sockets, and bloody froth spattered from her mouth.

“That’ll teach you!” Cried Thomas, whip in hand. He headed for the horse, but Joan was off Listener, over the fence, and on him before he got two steps in. She didn’t even bother to try talking to him, just knocked him flat and started hitting. The jaw first, to try to knock him out. She got in two blows before Thomas rolled out from under her, but the man was dazed. He took a swing at Joan, but missed, and Joan drove in again with a hard left to the belly followed by another right to the jaw. This time when Thomas went down, he didn’t get up.

Joan turned her back on him and faced the men who stood on the other side of the corral. Nobody moved to help under her fierce glare. She wiped at the corner of her mouth where it had split open and said, “Get her out of here.”

“But miss,” Said someone she didn’t know, “that’s his horse. He’s got a right to break it how he sees fit.”

The rage built up inside. Joan desperately wanted to save the Beast, but she had to know where Blazer was first.

“Where’s my horse?” Joan snarled, whirling around to face Thomas, who was starting to get up.

“I didn’t take your fucking horse!” Thomas spat, “It ran off before we could get it restrained!”

Joan grit her teeth and stomped back to Listener. As she did so, she heard Thomas growl, “You’ll pay for this, little girl. I’m going to make you bleed.”

Tears stung Joan’s eyes as she rode Listener home. Her Blaze was out in the wild somewhere, alone and probably so scared. He could be anywhere.

As Silver Bass came into view, Joan had to suppress a groan when she saw Bessie, Maria, and Maggie, along with Aragon and her jockeys out in front of the house. She was only gone for half an hour- how did Bessie already manage to gather a search party for her?

“Joan Morgan Meutas!” Bessie roared as Joan rode up to the house.

She was in for it now.

“I told you to stay in bed! I told you to rest and not go near another horse! I told you to take it easy, and what do you do? You bareback the sister of the stallion who mauled you!”

Joan knew Bessie had no ill intent with her words, she just got like this when she was worried, but her grief was turning to anger by the second. She sniffled and took a shaky breath as she slid off of Listener’s back, nearly collapsing because of her wounds and the fresh pain in her thighs.

“I had to.” She whispered.

“You ‘had to’?” Bessie said.

“HE TOOK MY HORSE!”

The cry came out of nowhere. Even Joan was startled, but the shock went away when the words continued to pour out of her mouth.

“Thomas- I was- I was riding Blazer and laid down to take a nap and when I woke up Thomas was there and he said because I didn’t have a halter on Blazer, that he could take him. He hurt me! He knocked me out, not Blazer! A-and now-” Her bottom lip started to quiver as a small sob escaped her, “And now he’s gone. He’s out there somewhere a-and I don’t know where he is and I- I want him back.” Her voice broke on that final word and she collapsed to her knees, weeping.

Surprisingly, it was Aragon who went down to her side first, then Maria. Without thinking, Joan clung to Aragon, as Maria set a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“I want my Blaze back,” Joan sobbed into Aragon’s chest. She felt the woman rub her back slowly.

“We’ll find him, sweetheart.” Aragon assured her.

“That bastard,” Cleves spat. “Horse stealing. What a low for Thomas.”

“Not beyond him, though. Or Henry.” Anne added with just as much anger as the other jockey.

“I miss him.” Joan wept, gripping tightly to the back of Aragon’s shirt. “What if- what if he doesn’t come back?”

“Shh,” Aragon hushed her, smoothing out her hair, “Don’t think like that, darling. We’ll find him.”

“He means the world to me, Miss Aragon,” Joan whispered, trembling in the horse trainer’s arms. “He and Listener. They-” Her voice lowers, taking on deeper and darker undertones when she murmurs, “they saved me.”

Before that could be explored, however, a commotion broke out in the nearby cattle pasture. The cows were lowing wildly and, against the backdrop of the colorful nearly fully set sun, an equine shape could be seen leaping over the fence before continuing to charge around madly.

“Blazer!!” Joan shrieked, jumping to her feet. She took off without a second thought and found that the black-speckled stallion was, in fact, her Blaze.

The horse jerked his head around and his eyes were alight with pain and fear. When Joan got closer, he tried to rise up and kick at her, but the girl quickly stopped.

“Hey, big guy, remember me?” Joan whispered, holding her hands out where Blazer could see them, “We’ve been friends a long time. I’ve never hurt you, and I’m gonna fix you up in no time.”

Blazer just rolled his eyes at her and neighed wildly.

Joan moved closer to the horse’s haunches, bunched and sweaty. The flaming chestnut coat was muted to black with wet, even in the cool twilight November air. She could smell the tang, caught up in the dust that swirled around them.

Blazer was pacing back and forth, then began jerking his head at Joan, driving her backwards towards the house. His long back legs kept stamping- the hooves were deadly.

Joan didn’t believe that Blazer would deliberately try to hurt her, but she knew the horse wasn’t really aware of exactly who was around him.

Maybe...

She started to sing the same lullaby she’d soothed the horse with before. She kept her voice soft on the haunting melody:

Hush-a-bye

Don’t you cry

Go to sleepy, little baby

Blazer shifted restlessly, snorting and flaring his nostrils in agitation. The horses near the house made noises in response, but Joan ignored them.

When you wake

You shall have

All the pretty little horses...

Tears streamed down Joan’s face as she gently cupped Blazer’s big, warm cheeks. She looked up into his smoldering hazel eyes and he stared back at her.

Blacks and bays,

Dapples and greys,

All the pretty little horses...

Blazer dipped his head low and pressed it into Joan’s chest, letting his eyes droop shut. Joan is frozen for a moment before sobbing and hugging tightly to her horse, burying her face in his mane. Even when her knees gave out and she fell to the ground, Blazer craned his neck down further to stay in her familiar grasp.

“I thought I lost you,” Joan hiccuped, “Oh, Blazer...I missed you so much...”

Blazer huffs against her chest, almost like he was saying he missed her, too.

After eight hours, the girl and her Blaze were reunited.

———————

Bessie walked over to Joan, who was watching Blazer munch happily on oats and alfalfa, just standing with her for a moment.

“What did you mean when you said he and Listener saved you?”

Surprised, Joan looked over at Bessie.

“Oh,” She said shyly. “There was a rattlesnake in here. Nearly bit me, but then Blazer started neighing and Listener completely pummeled it.”

Bessie nodded and looked back at the stallion.

“I’m sorry for yelling at you.” She said, “And I’m sorry for how I treated him. I was just worried. He’s a crazy horse, but I trust you. You seem to know what you’re doing.”

Joan smiles slightly, but didn’t say anything.

Bessie hesitated, then reached over to wrap an arm around Joan. The girl rests her head on her shoulder.

“Thank you for letting me stay here.”

“It’s no problem, lovely.” Bessie told her. She kissed the top of Joan’s head and then pulled away. “Get some rest soon, okay? I left a heating pad and some painkillers up in your room for you.”

“Thank you, Bessie.”

Bessie smiled then walked out of the barn. However, that smile disappears once her back is turned to Joan.

Rattlesnakes didn’t live in England.

[waytoomanyinterests]

Christmas calendar day 8

Prompt: Sleigh ride

Fandom: Atla

Zuko glances at Katara, not at all liking this idea.

“Katara, are you sure about this?” Toph voices his thoughts and he quickly nods in agreement.

“Of course I am, we did this all the time when we were younger and me and Aang did it not so long ago” Katara shoos away their worries, a familiar glint in her eyes.

A glint that said there was no getting out of this.

Zuko heaves a sigh before taking out the fish Katara had thrusted into his hands earlier. The rest of the Gaang follows suit and soon they’re flocked by otter penguins, all eager to get fish.

Despite himself he chuckles at their excitement, petting a few of the heads nudging his legs.

His eyes catches sight of a specific otter penguin however; it’s in the back of the flock but is desperately trying to gain more ground towards the humans. Zuko can feel his heart ache with remembrance of his own attempts to move further into the center; in his case, his father.

He makes a split decision and gently forces his way through the otter penguins.

He will not be like his father.

He pushes the otter penguins aside as kindly as he can, soon reaching the one he had set his eyes on. The expression on its face can only be described as surprise and Zuko smiles softly.

“Hey, Zuko here! Um, want some fish?” he asks awkwardly, but still keeps the smile on his face as he offers the fish to the otter penguin.

Happy noises escape from the otter penguin as it gobbles the fish right up, and Zukos smile turns just a little brighter.

“What now Katara?” 

Katara looks up from her otter penguin and is greeted by the sight of the mighty Fire Lord absentmindedly petting one. She smirks at the sight but doesn’t comment on it.

“Now you do this” Katara replies, and to demonstrate she turns back to her choice of otter penguin. She makes sure she has its full attention before tapping the ground, the otter penguin obediently laying down on its stomach.

“After that, it’s just to enjoy the ride” she says and shrugs before gently lowering herself onto the otter penguins back. As if shot from a canon the otter penguin takes off, the only indication of where they are being the loud whoops and laughs coming from Katara.

Zuko grimaces.

He’s going to die today, he just knows it.

“Well what do you say, should we give it a chance?” he asks the patient otter penguin whom merely blinks up as him.

“Here goes nothing” the Fire Lord mumbles, registering in the back of his mind that it’s only him and Toph left. 

Aang and Sokka probably raced after Katara, eager to show off.

Zuko shakes his head, deciding to check up on Toph before taking off and so he moves closer to the eartbender with the otter penguin dutifully following him.

“You good, Toph?” he asks casually, knowing she won’t appreciate help.

“Just peachy” she mutters, staring blindly at the distance.

“Okay, but remember to tap the ground in order to lay the otter penguin down. And to hold on tight, because they take off like a wildfire spreading in a dry forest” Zuko snorts and then scoots a bit further away from Toph to let her figure this out on her own.

Which she does, and soon she’s off with terrified shrieks.

Zuko shakes his head before deciding to get going as well, and he turns to the otter penguin whom is still standing by his side.

He catches its attention and then taps the ground. The otter penguin makes an affirmative noise and lays down on its belly, waiting for Zuko to get on. And after a few calming breaths Zuko lowers himself onto the back of the otter penguin, gripping the fur tightly.

And all of a sudden they’re off.

Zuko almost squeals at the speed but manages to hold it in - he is not afraid, he’s completely fine.

So he just grips tighter onto the otter penguin and tries to not be a bother. But the otter penguins happy noises and the distant sound of his friends laughter makes him more relaxed, and he starts to enjoy the ride.

Feeling bold he leans forward and whispers; “think we can catch up to them?”

The answer is the increasing speed of which the otter penguin slides forward with, and Zukos hood fall off his head due to the winds.

He lets out a laugh, finding out how fun it really is and soon he can spot his friends.

“C’mon, let’s get them!” he shouts and otter penguin happily complies.

He passes Toph - whom does not seem to enjoy this one bit if her screams are something to go by -, then Sokka - Zuko will forever treasure the surprised look on his friends face - and soon he’s neck to neck with Katara and Aang.

“Glad you could join us!” Katara shouts teasingly and Zuko grins.

“Did you ever doubt me?”

While the two are busy bickering, Aang forms a plan to ensure his victory.

Checking to make sure they aren’t looking at him, he pats his otter penguins back to prepare it and then quickly puts his hands in a X-position in front of him. Just as quickly he throws them down and brings them behind him in one move. Air shoots out and Aang along with his otter penguin surges forward, right past Katara and Zuko.

And so, with Aangs laughter and Zuko and Kataras indignant shouts the race continues forward.

Later, when they’re all huddling inside Hakodas (and Sokkas and Kataras) hut they agree it was a great idea and that they had fun.

Well, aside from Toph.

[thatsmybluefondue]

4. Squirrel Pancake for Dinner

I felt bad for hitchhikers, which meant I felt bad for myself.

I had been traveling for two days, only sleeping for a few hours at a time on the side of the long, unending road, and was exhausted. Bones creaked and muscles ached; my arms swung limp by my sides, and the most my legs could do was drag my feet over the dirt. Running may have been a good form of exercise, but too much without rest was, well, bad.

Ever since I had seen my first car at early morning light, a rumbly sunshine yellow truck, my hopes had been lifted that civilization was near. So when I saw that truck, what did I do? I raised my thumb and waited, of course. But then the truck had roared on passed me, leaving my dumb thumb in the air and my jaw dropped to the ground. I had mumbled—okay, maybe shouted quite loudly—some ear-burning profanities about the truck, the driver, and the driver’s dog when that happened, but then I continued on, fuming and muttering (yelling) some more curses.

A few hours later, another car had come along the dirt path. It was so old I couldn’t tell what type of car it was, but I didn’t really mind because it was going slow and surely would stop to pick up a poor, dirty, weak teenage boy. Right? Wrong. I lifted my straight thumb, wishing I had gotten the genes for the hitchhikers’ thumb from my mom, high up in the air; reaching out, I nearly stumbled into the road to make sure I got the driver’s attention. Then the car was right beside me, decelerating; the driver, a middle-aged, red-haired man with a scraggly beard, was staring at me and my raised thumb. And then the guy zoomed off as fast as his puttering vehicle would allow.

I cursed some more. Did I look like a serial killer or something? Come on! “Idiot,” I spat, trudging on. “They’re all idiots!”

Later, probably around three or so in the afternoon, another car came rolling by. I had recently come upon some thick trees (because this road was nothing if unconventional, it seemed) that surrounded the lone road, so I was hidden—which wasn’t a good thing. Until the shiny new convertible was right next to me, I hadn’t realized it was there, and by then it was too late. It zoomed off, and I was once again enforced to use my rapidly weakening muscles.

I didn’t even have the willpower to shout obscenities at the convertible and all its travelers. Maybe I should have, though, because the hood was down. But then again, the wind could be louder than a thunderous storm. (At least that was my excuse, and not the fact that I may or may not have pouted for a full minute before realizing I could call for help.)

At the moment, the evening sky was turning dark as the sun sank below the horizon. I hadn’t spotted, heard, smelled, sensed, or even felt the vibrations of a car since the convertible, and the hope that had been building inside of me when I saw the old sunshine truck was diminishing. No towns were around for miles in any direction, which was something I had not anticipated; not even a gas station was within the next hour of walking. It was all very odd, but not the strangest thing I had ever experienced.

Sore, I promptly dropped down in the dry, crunchy grass. “Oh well,” I whispered to myself. “A few hours of sleep couldn’t hurt. Never did hurt anybody, did it?” Chuckling at myself like the delusional person I was, I snuggled in the grass, thankful it didn’t have a wet hay smell. “Sweet, sweet sleep, come to me,” I croaked, feeling my eyelids sink like the sun.

Just when my body had relaxed, something dropped on my head. It didn’t hurt, but it definitely was not a leaf that had fallen. Annoyed, I peeked through half-lidded eyes and saw a brown object right in front of me. Crossing my eyes to focus on it, I concluded that it was an acorn. How an acorn had fallen on me, I had no idea, since before I swore the trees weren’t oak trees, but I was tired and the it had kept me from getting my beauty sleep.

Using the last of my arm strength to keep me propped up, I groaned, glaring at the stupid acorn. Then I flicked it, watching it skitter off into the dirt road. Why there was still a dirt road and not a paved one was also unknown to me, but the dust scattered from the acorn puffed up before being swirled around by the wind to my nose. “A-CHOO!” I sneezed and was propelled backward by the force. “Stupid acorn,” I muttered to myself.

Then a squeaking squirrel leapt down from a tree and dashed to the acorn, and I couldn’t believe my luck.  Was I ever going to get some decent sleep? I groaned again and lay down on my stomach, but kept my eyes trained on the squirrel, which was now gnawing at the acorn. The squirrel ate, eyeing me warily; I watched. Slowly, silence filled my ears, and my eyelids began to droop.

And then a car came zooming by, running over the squirrel and passing me by in the process. I shot up to my feet, screaming in frustration. “Oh, come on!” I yelled in exasperation, throwing my hands up in the air incredulously. “Come back, idiot! Come back here!” When the only thing that happened was the car’s tail lights flickering—for no reason at all, considering no one else was around—I stomped into the road, in the middle of a dust cloud, next to the deceased squirrel. “At least come back for the squirrel you just ran over!”

Nothing. The car’s lights disappeared, and I was left in the dark with only the moon, stars, and a dead squirrel and its half-eaten meal.

Did drivers not notice teenage boys sleeping on the sides of roads? What about the squirrels that they mercilessly run over? What about the kid on the side of the road?

I screamed, yanking at my hair, probably looking like a madman. But I didn’t care—I was sore and hungry and thirsty and tired of everything. I just wanted a break, and was a ride in some random person’s car too much to ask for? I didn’t think it was.

Anger built up inside of me, burning a hole in my chest, turning my vision red, ringing in my ears. I needed something to hit. Or something to kick. Whirling around, I searched for the squashed squirrel, planning on taking my anger out on it. I know—you’re gonna kick a bloody squirrel? Gross!—but I was furious with the world and getting my shoes all bloody seemed like a small price to pay for ridding myself of the swirling emotions inside of me. Only, when I turned around, there was something… wrong with the squirrel, and it wasn’t the fact that it was a squirrel pancake.

The squirrel’s body was disappearing, like it was a piece of cloth and a thread was being pulled on it, making it thinner and thinner until it was gone. I watched as the white string snaked out, floating off into the forest of trees beside me. I watched as, little by little, the squirrel dissolved into that shimmering white strand of Life that flew by and vanished into the darkness.

My body tensed. Something taking away Life? That sounded too familiar to me.

Gathering my supplies into my backpack, I readied my weary body for the sprint of a lifetime. There was no way I was going to be caught because I was too tired. Nope. I would run ’til the end of time; I didn’t know why I would, but I knew I would. Maybe it was self-preservation. On an extreme scale.  

There was the thump of a mighty stomp, then a sinister chuckle. I shivered, because this was not the Death I had grown accustomed to; this was the Death that had taken Charles, the one before I went and ditched it. What happened? I asked myself. Why the sudden change?

I didn’t have time to answer my own questions, because right before me was Death. “Hello, my boy.” It stepped out of the darkness, even though it was darker than night itself. The shadows that made up its body swirled violently, like they were waiting to reach out and grab me.

I gulped in return, keeping my gaze downcast. Through the darkness, I could barely make out Death’s outline, but I could and that was enough. It was thinner, leaner—the same way I saw it the first time I came face-to-face with Death. This was not the muscled Death I was used to, but something told me Death #2 wasn’t gone for good. I’d see it again.

If only I could see Death’s face, see if its eyes were as insane looking as it had acted… Don’t look into its eyes, I told myself. Think of the cat.

“A bit quiet tonight, are you? Hm?” Death shifted, stepped closer to me; I couldn’t force myself to step back, to run away because my Life depended on it.

I nodded mutely, gingerly clenching my fingers. Move! Run! I shouted internally, frantic; I stayed rooted to the spot.

Death gracefully—yes, gracefully; I know, mind blowing—stepped around me, and I felt its eyes burning into me like murderous lasers. “You have made me very, very mad the past year. Did you know that?” It didn’t wait for me to answer. “And I don’t like that, not one bit,” whispered Death. “So, to end my days of anger, I must end you.”

Then Death roared—a sound so deafening it echoed off of nothing. It threw its head back, body convulsing and growing. Teeth elongated, pointing out of its pitch black mouth like they were daggers made of obsidian. Its nails grew into claws, nearly as sharp as its teeth. A ripping sound rang through my ears as Death swelled one last time.

Finally, I stumbled back, but I couldn’t look away from the horrifying image before me. This was the Death that had killed thousands of people, and even some innocent barn animals, the one that had gone insane. This was the Death that had been chasing me for a year—since last February—all over the freaking country and then some.

And the only thing I could think of? Well, there’s Death #2.

It was a good thing my body didn’t need my brain to start running. Adrenaline raced through me, pounding and surging like waves on a beach. My heart rate accelerated, as if my blood-pumping buddy was trying to explode from my chest. The air I sucked into my lungs was cold and harsh, drying the back of my throat and filling my lungs so much it hurt. But all pains vanished as my thoughts focused on one thing and one thing only—run.  

I had to run. Run and run and run. Nothing else. Death could not be stopped, and I couldn’t hide because no one could hide from Death. So I had to run.

I ran, not paying attention to the way my bones creaked or how my backpack thumped on my back or that the footsteps behind me were not receding. I just ran. I didn’t look back, only forward. I didn’t check my pulse to make sure my heart didn’t suddenly give out. I didn’t make sure I was getting enough oxygen to sustain my muscles. Nothing else mattered, because nothing else could save me but running, nothing except—

I almost stumbled from the sudden realization. Had I not talked to Life the other day? Had Life not saved my life a year ago? But then I remembered that Life was a bit… out there. The conversation we had had didn’t exactly cheer me up; more like it freaked me out to astronomical levels. A good scaring was better than a torturous death, though, right?

I mentally clasped my hands together in prayer. Okay, Life, please do me a favor and save my butt.  That was all I could think of, because I was still mainly focused on running. All I could hope was that Life would get over the bluntness of it all and save me.

But nothing happened. I was on my own.

I ran on—for minutes, hours, I would never know. It became me, my pounding feet, my pumping arms, my sharp intakes of breath, the mantra of run in my head, and the lumbering shadows close behind me.

Somehow, the first four had to save me.

Too bad it didn’t seem likely.

Death sped up—or maybe I slowed down—and suddenly it was hovering over my back, looming threateningly close, nearly stepping on the backs of my heels. “Got you,” it said.

At the edge of my vision, I saw a dark, clawed hand reach out for me, and I swerved to the right to escape. The claws clicked together, empty. I tried to speed up, to lose Death, but to no avail; Death merely made a few larger steps and—ta da! We were back to square one, where Death was reaching out for me and I was too physically exhausted to do anything but delay my imminent doom.  

I ducked, diving to the left. Death roared in anger as it missed again, sending chills up my spine. Death really wanted me dead. Couldn’t imagine why. “Stay still!” it said, making for another swipe.

I barely had enough energy left to breathe, much less send a snarky comment back to Death, but I hoped that it could see how much I hated it in my eyes—because, really? Could a guy not catch a break? I stumbled to the side at the last second, feeling Death’s hands whoosh by my ear.

Either Death had really bad aim or it was messing with me—I couldn’t figure out which one it was. Both were disturbing.

Running along, bumbling like an idiot as I escaped Death’s many erratic attempts, I noticed the first signs of the rising sun in the distance. How long had I been running? Or, better yet, how long did I have left? I couldn’t keep this up much longer. With each passing second, I grew weaker while Death only grew more determined.

As if to prove my thoughts, there was a tight squeeze around my neck as Death wrapped its shadowy fingers around it. “Now I have you,” it crowed.

My hands shot up immediately, trying in vain to yank the hand away so that I could breathe. “Let go!” I wanted to scream, but nothing came out; the vise-like grip was too strong. There was a chuckle, an evil—sinister, malicious, heinous, malevolent, nefarious, and any other word that is a synonym to evil—thing that sent all of the hairs on the back of my neck on end. And then I was being dragged closer to Death, my feet bumping on the dirt road.

I thrashed wildly, dug my half-bitten nails into Death’s hand, let out an inaudible scream. Nothing worked. Actually, it seemed as if I was being pulled even harsher the more I fought. I was flipped around, my limbs flailing, to face Death. My eyes met Death’s chest, but as I rose higher and higher, held up by my neck and one armpit, I was slowly met by other sights. Its neck. Its chin. Its cruelly smiling lips. Its nose.  

I forced my eyes shut as I was lifted higher—I did not need to meet Death’s eyes. Being turned into ash was not my favorite pastime, thank you very much. Really, though, I didn’t think it would’ve mattered—my vision was blurring, black spots dancing before my eyes.

My eyes shut tightly, I felt my feet stop touching the ground, and without seeing I knew I was face-to-face with Death. Looking into Death’s eyes was not an option; never was, never would be. Just from the sight of the fat tabby cat I would’ve hated turning into ash that was sucked up by Death, and add to that the burning image of Charles— I forced myself to stop there, because Charles was a touchy subject, and every time I remembered him I thought of how I should have been able to do something instead of turn into some sort of ghost the closer I got to Death.

(This, ladies and gentlemen, is when a cartoon light bulb blinks above a character’s head.)      

Before my brain shut down from lack of oxygen, I swung my right arm, mostly using momentum to get it to Death’s body. The blow was weak, but it left my arm inside of Death’s stomach, a trembling, gaseous limb trapped in shadows. I lurched my left shoulder forward, forcing my arm into an arch that hit Death’s collarbone; my body shook some more, and then I felt my arm slice into the shadowy figure.

Death stumbled, confused. It made this growling noise from deep in its throat, but it didn’t sound defensive or even wary; simply bewildered. This was not exactly the desired response, but I figured if I played my cards right, I would get the same results. I ripped my arms out and hit it again, adding my feet into the beating. With each movement of my muscles, I felt my chest constrict, searching for the nonexistent air in my lungs. Still, I kept swinging, kicking, squirming like I wasn’t about to die from something other than being swallowed as ash by Death.

Then, maybe my luck decided to become good for once—well, as good as it could get in a life or death situation—and I smacked Death’s face. It growled and stumbled back, grip loosening. I hacked and coughed and bile rose up my throat, but then I sucked in the little bit of air I was allowed and kicked at its shin. Again, the death grip (no pun intended) loosened. Blow after blow came flying by, stronger each time, and the claws clasped around my windpipe weakened. My body shook like I was a wind-up toy, teeth chattering, as I became ghostly; if I could see, I would probably be transparent and gray.

I lifted my knee and blindly aimed my foot at Death’s chest; then I kicked, my foot sinking into its skin like it was made of Jell-O. My whole body shuddered, as if electricity was sparking through me, and my neck slipped from Death’s hand. Landing on my back, sending dirt and dust up in a mushroom of puff around me, I felt my chest tighten, trying to push the air out of my lungs, but there was none. And then, after a moment of shock, a moment I could have been using to help myself, I breathed.

I didn’t think I had ever been this happy for air in my entire life.

My face flushed as my blood rushed to my brain and then to the rest of my body. My head, before woozy, suddenly focused; my muscles could move and flex. Every breath dried the back of my throat, cold and filled with grit because I was choking on my breaths, but none of that mattered because I was breathing. Did I mention breathing felt good—amazing, actually? It did. It really did. I opened my eyes, feeling the black dots disperse. I probably would have smiled, no matter how sore I was, but then I saw Death’s feet by my face and reality sank in.

I just got to breathe and now I was about to die. My luck sucked.

I rolled to my side, ready to scramble to my feet and run like hell was nipping at my heels, but then Death leaned forward, claws extended. Flipping onto my back again, I felt the sharp knives slice past my ear. Run, idiot! I thought, trying to get my feet beneath me, and that was when I realized my foot was still stuck in Death’s chest.

Cue flurry of cuss words, although I didn’t think any would express how desperate I was.

Feeling crazed, I kicked with my leg, pulled, moved side to side. Nothing. Wrapping my hands around my thigh, I yanked. Nothing. My leg was stuck, super-glued to the inside of Death’s chest, exactly where the heart would normally be. I crawled backwards with my hands and left leg, often stopping and ducking to avoid the many attacks Death aimed at me.

But it was all in vain, because I was trapped in Death, my body shimmering and pulling apart at the seams.

As if to prove my point, that horrible sucking sound began, low at first, but slowly growing louder. My hair whipped around my face, strands floating up in the air. My body convulsed, starting at the tip of my head and traveling straight down, splitting my body in half. I watched helplessly as my fingertips began disappearing, dissolving into threads of white dust that snaked their way into the black hole circling above me.

Then Death’s hand came flying down, claws gleaming wickedly, the path perfect and true. The goal: my heart. It was inches away—maybe centimeters—and I watched, petrified, as it came closer and closer… closer… closer…

Something colder than dry ice, burning like the brightest of stars, slashed through my shirt, punctured my skin.

And then a rock came flying, rocketing by like a bullet, nailing Death’s hand and pushing it away from me.

[stlamb]

when i was only twelve years old, my parents went a-walking i hate those wicked words they'd say when they started talking he was headed for the open road, she turned and slammed the door learning love ain't easy, child, when all you see is war pulling all the fences down and pushing on the levees this water's getting high again and these hands are getting heavy and we are all just hypocrites lying for a shore with the ache inside to ride the mighty wind and nothing more she came and shook me tenderly one night when i was drinking the alcohol was quick as sand and took me down a-sinking the sinking took me praying and i fell upon the floor i said i'm waiting for my time to go, please tell it to me, lord and i'm calling on angels now i want them to set me free i hope that they're real though sometimes it feels like nobody's listening and the moon and the sun and the stars shine bright and high and i can't help but wonder the way that the world goes by but i hope that they're real and i hope they can hear me cry i'm not sure if they're real, but i'll wait for them till i die

[lyra-dragonsoul-blog]

Scroll 12: The Battle

The day was warm, the sun beating down on the group of adventurers. Lyra found herself wanting for the cool of fall. Though she knew humans, and other races were more affected by the sun than she.  

The horses, for example as they took off from town, were quickly becoming more tired, and thirsty. Lyra's heart went out to the animals, the poor creatures that carried them faithfully from place to place. She gave hers a pat, knowing in the grand scheme of things it wouldn't do much to help. It at least made her feel a little bit better.  

The elf leaned out, looking towards their destination. She wasn't quite sure where that was, but she had hopes that it would be a while. The time out of the town was releasing much tension she didn't even realize she had.  

Lyra broke formation, getting her horse to gallop again. She left her family behind her, and while she could not see their faces, they were full of worry. They did the same, now trying to catch up to the runaway elf girl.  

Lyra was betting on their being water coming up, something that the horses could use as well as the rest of them. She laughed as the wind rushed around her, picking up her dark locks, making them billow out around her.  

The horse seemed to be enjoying it too, letting out a loud whinny before doubling down on its speed. Lyra laughed, she gripped the reigns, then a shadow appeared above her.  

She looked up, her heart pounding when she saw the brilliant, shining blue scales. Lyra blinked, and then realized the horse had not been having fun, the horse was running scared.  

"Go!" she screamed, her own heart racing as she lowered herself to the horse, trying to cut down resistance. There was no way the horse would outrun a dragon.  

Lyra pulled hard on the reigns, forcing the horse to a stop. She felt the claws of the dragon brush her hair as it overreached, missing her and the horse.  

Lyra pulled again, the horse rearing as it turned, and took off back down the road. It was hard to keep it on the trail, more so when the dragon was able to get itself turn around. Lyra turned back watching it gain on them again. It roared, letting out a flurry of electricity.  

Horse and elf were struck, both tumbling down to the ground, through dirt and grass. Lyra's armor covered much of the damage, though aches immediately started popping up. She stood, as fast as she could manage.  

Blood fell from a cut on her cheek, bruising forming around it. She heard the horse starting to stand itself, letting out a pained neigh. Lyra looked back, her blue eyes full of concern. Burns covered much of the horse, in a beautiful webbing.  

Lyra felt her body tense, her jaw clench. She took the sword from her back, bringing it to her side. The horse limped, the day's events too much for it at the moment. She could get her healed, she was sure. As soon as this thing was dead.  

Her anger surged through her, though she kept it under control. She was to fight with a clear mind. Everything else would come later.  

As the creature approached, she took a deep breath. She headed for it, hoping to take its attention from the injured horse. She winced, pain searing through her leg.  

The dragon seemed to fall for it, swooping down at her, letting out another roar.  

Great-sword in hand, she brought it up, jumping as she did so, swinging the blade in an arc. She slammed the blade into the leg of the creature, delivering a deep cut. The dragon turned, landing in front of her.  

It's scales glittered blue, it's head was huge, even for being so young. Massive wings folded. It was then, with it standing right in front of her she saw the large metal collar setting around its neck, a chain falling the length of its neck to its chest.  

Lyra looked at it, it backed up, taking in the chain. The anger faded almost as quickly as it came.  

"What happened?" she asked, almost a whisper.  

The dragon, for its reply, said nothing, simply reaching out with a claw. It was young, and now, Lyra believe more afraid than anything. She knew little about dragons, but this one had not had a good time of things.  

She could hear the hum of electricity as it came closer, the sound seeming to emanate from inside of it. It roared at her, and as it came in to bite her, she made a quick turn, slicing at the metal collar.  

The sound echoed, metal and metal meeting. The dragon reared back, brown eyes reflecting fear, and uncertainty.  

"You will not take me!" He roared.  

"I don't want to!" Lyra answered, the dragon turned swiftly, and Lyra felt the thick tail slam into her side, sending her off her feet and onto the ground.  

"Lyra!" Zadicus' voice carried over the small distance they had yet to cover.  

"Stop!" She screamed, pushing herself halfway up, her arms supporting her torso as she tried to get her father's attention. "He's escaped from somewhere, he's just scared!" she tried to get them to understand, but rather that making it easy, the blue dragon looked to her.  

Lyra scrambled to her feet as it reached out, claws almost shining in the sunlight. She yelped as the claws ripped into her, blood flowing.  

Injured, but not giving up, she went for the neck again, hitting the collar. She saw it crack as her brothers and father approached.  

"I'm not going to take you anywhere!" Lyra promised.

The dragon reared back, a shower of electricity flowing again. She tried to run from the cone, but it covered too much distance. Lyra let out a scream, her body caught in the electrical force.  

When it finally stopped, she held her blade still, now panting. She rushed forward, her sword still in hand. With a mighty blow, she decimated the collar, just as the dragon lifted a clawed hand batting the young elf like she was nothing into her father and brothers.  

The collar fell away, and the dragon roared again. Lyra went to stand, but fell back into her father's arms. Her vision was unfocused. She knew she had freed it. She had to have.  

That was the thing with evil creatures, though. A favor did not equal a favor, especially one done without conversation. The dragon was angry, and this group was perfect to take that out on.  

Zadicus, and Tarron stood at the ready, Almon dumping a thick, sweet smelling liquid down Lyra's throat. She swallowed, and Almon joined his family on the front lines.  

War erupted in that moment.  

Their family against a dragon, young though it was. Tooth, claw, great ax, glaive, and halberd met in a battle of revenge. Lyra, stood, slowly getting to her feet. The injuries were gone, but soreness remained. It would soon fade too, but she didn't have the time to waste.  

As she rushed in to help her family, another roar sounded.  

The group looked to the sky, watching the glittering golden shape fall from the sky in a straight line. Lyra's family dove to the side, making room for the huge creature that now stood in front of them.  

Thick whisker like tendrils seemed to move on their own as the golden dragon stood between the blue and her family.  

"It had a collar on! He doesn't belong here, I... I think he's just lashing out."  

The gold dragon looked to Lyra, though never let the blue out of its sight. It seemed to be sizing her up. She had thought it had come to help, but if not, it was going to be a battle much tougher than she had thought.  

"You worry for this creature?" a female voice came from the dragon. It was soft, dignified, like a queen, "This creature that has caused you harm? That you have been sent to kill?"  

"He's angry. I would be too if I was taken from my home. He's lashing out!"  

"Lyra!" Zadicus shouted at his daughter, making her look away from the gold dragon. "Do not defend that creature. It would have killed you! It's a chromatic dragon. Evil," he looked to the gold dragon, "correct?"  

"More often than not. I've not met a chromatic that hasn't been an evil of some sort." the gold dragon turned from them. "Stay safe, elves." she said, just as the blue dragon lunged.  

Zadicus covered Lyra, pulling her into him, and shielding her with his body as the fight started, trying to get her to move. Tarron grabbed the two of them, leading them from the fight between the dragons.  

Lyra pulled away, breaking free from her father. She ran to her horse, trying to lead the injured mare from the battle. As fast as Lyra could manage with the horse, they started fleeing the battle. She kept looking back at the tangle of bodies, watching them roll, fight, and attack one another.  

As they got to a safer place, still close to the battle, she started going over the mare, making sure she was going to be alright, even if there would be no riding her for a while.  

With making sure she was alright, Lyra turned her attention to the dragons. Blue and gold flashed together, one giant on top, then the other. Part of her felt sorry for the blue dragon. He hadn't wanted to be there. He was defending himself from a threat he didn't need to.  

Zadicus came over to her, looking down at her. "Are you okay?" he asked, still watching the dragons.  

"I want to help." she said.  

"No, we stay back. They aren't giving us a chance to get in there. This is their fight now."  

Lyra looked away, disappointed. "How many others were taken?" she asked herself more than anyone else.  

"That's not for use to worry about."  

"What if someone evil has them?"  

Lyra jumped when the gold dragon slammed the blue into the ground, teeth digging into its neck. The blue dragon fell limp in her mouth. She dropped him on the ground, looking back over to the group that still stood there.  

The dragon walked over to them, looking down at them before sighing. "You feel sorry for that creature?"

"He might have been evil. And then I wouldn't, but he had a collar around his neck. He didn't want to be here."  

"You're right. You also freed him from that chain. He is no idiot. When you did that he knew you were trying to free him from the collar. Instead of thanking you, or backing off, he continued his assault. Do not feel bad for him."

"Thank you." Lyra said, "For saving me."  

"It was what it was. I'm just glad I was here on time. Go home. Tell your people the dragon is dead."  

"Thank you."  

"I don't suppose the dragon had a horde." Almon asked, earning stares of disbelief from his family.  

The dragon laughed. "I do not believe so."  

Lyra walked past them all, leaning down to the head of the dead dragon, and laying her hand on its snout. "I am sorry for whatever you suffered.” She kissed its nose, then looked to her father. "We should bury him."  

"We need proof of the kill to bring back." Tarron said, ignoring his sister's request.  

Carefully, the gold dragon plucked teeth from the dragon, handing them over. "Take this as your proof." she said, then handed one to Lyra. "Here, to remember him by, since you are still torn by his death. I will bury him as you requested."  

"Thank you." she said, before looking down at the tooth. It was big, that was for sure. She didn't know what she was going to do with it, but right now it was more important that she had it.  

"Go home. Heal, and be safe."  

With that, the golden dragon took flight, grabbing the body of the blue dragon and disappearing into the sky.  

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Like Father, Like Son

Part 3 of 4

Find the previous two installments here: Revelations, Discovery 

“MUM!”

In less than a blink of an eye, she was gone. I sprinted the rest of the way to the stone she had touched, the screaming intensified then stopped. The wind had been knocked out of me and I found myself laying on the ground looking up at the orange streaks of dawn.

I groaned and rolled to my side, shakily trying to stand.

“Mum?” I croaked, the roaring in my ears seemed to echo off the stones, drowning my attempt to call out to her.

“Mum!” I tried again. Again nothing but the screaming roar reverberating from the stones. I scrambled to my feet and took off at a run down the hill towards the car, except it wasn’t there. The car was missing, as was any visible sign of a road. Trees grew in sparse patches across the grass of the rolling hills toward the water.

“Mum?” I whispered realizing with a sickening realization, she wasn’t there.

“Christ,” I groaned dragging my hands down my face. “What to do now? Think Brian, think! Where would she have gone?”

The momentary sunshine quickly disappeared behind clouds of gray and white, a storm was brewing. My pacing turned into a single direction run to a small cobbled, dilapidated cottage situated at the base of the hill. I made it inside the shelter of the cottage just as fat raindrops solidified and turned into snow. The air held a wet chill that seemed to seep into every crevice of the room, even the heavy wool of the clothing didn’t seem to be enough to stop a violent shudder from enveloping me.

I searched the room for any source that could be used to create a fire and saw a broken stool crumpled into a corner. Sighing in relief, I scrambled to the roughly hewn fireplace and sent up a prayer in thanks that mum took the time to teach me how to start a fire without modern conveniences. ‘A necessary skill,’ she’d always remarked.

“Where have you gone, mum? We don’t even know where Jamie went, let alone if he was still alive in the time we’ve arrived.”

Staring into the fire a sudden epiphany hit me like a sledgehammer. “Lallybroch.”

I didn’t know how many days ride or walk it would be to get to Inverness, let alone Broch Tuarach, but I wasn’t going to get there freezing in a hovel. Looking through the cracks in the stone, I watched as the snow fell then melted as soon as it touched the ground. I may just have a chance of making it down to the village before nightfall. But how to pay for what I need? My pockets were empty, but I patted them down anyway, as well as the cloak. A small jingling noise came from a hidden inner pocket of the cloak.

“Mum, you think of everything,” I said to the crackling fire as a poured small battered coins from a black leather pouch and a small roll of paper fell on top them.

Brian,

I understand if you decided not to follow me immediately, but if you do find yourself going back, these will be of use to you. I’m sorry I couldn’t procure you more, but if we find your father and our family, we shouldn’t need to worry overmuch about funds.

I hope you decide to find us, my darling boy.

All my love,

Mum

My eyes burned with tears that were threatening to form. Why couldn’t she have waited just a few seconds longer for me to catch up to her?

The walk to Inverness was longer than I anticipated. Dark had fallen and if at all possible, it got colder thanks to the persistent wind. I hobbled into the first establishment I saw, hoping I could find something warm, a place to sleep, and a horse to make this journey easier.

A frail-looking hand shot out and grabbed my wrist, squeezing tighter than I believed possible, “Ain’t ye a wanted man?”

I shook my head. “No, I’m not.”

“Sassenach filth!” The man spat, “Be gone from here!”

“I’m not English if that’s what you mean, I’m from Am--the colonies.”

“Yer as good as ‘em. Crooky won’t serve ye, so be gone!” He threw my arm back hard enough that I stumbled into the door frame.

“Gibbons! What are ye doin’ to my customers?” A menacing man yelled from behind a bar.

“He’s a Sassenach, an’ claims to be from the colonies.” Gibbons spat at my feet, glaring. “It’d be better if he was that bastard of a wanted man. At least then he’d be worth a pretty penny.”

“A sassenach! Is tha’ so? Do ye have coin, lad?”

“Yes,” I said with surprising confidence. “Do you know where I can find something to eat, maybe a place to rest, and procure a horse? I will not be staying long, just ‘til morning.”

“Och, aye. I can help ye wi’ all of these, but it’s no going to come lightly.”

I pulled out a few of the Stirling pieces and handed them over. “Will this due?”

The barman’s eyes widened. “Aye, lad, tha’ll do nicely. What’s yer name, I didna catch it before.”

“Fraser.”

The man’s eyebrows disappeared beneath shaggy dark hair. “Fraser ye say? O’ Lovat?”

I nodded tersely.

“Yer a ways from Beauly.”

“I’m not headed to Beauly. My family isn’t too far off from here, Broch Tuarach?”

“Ach, yer wi’ the Fraser-Murray clan then. Good folk there.” He said, slapping a tankard down before turning around to snag a bowl of something from a passing barmaid. “Drink, eat. It’s no an easy ride in this weather to Broch Tuarach.”

I coughed at the sting of the whiskey, stronger and more bitter than I was accustomed. The warm burn met my stomach as the rich taste of meat broth met my lips. I wouldn’t be shocked if I fell asleep at the bar for all to see, nor did I care. My legs ached from the walk, my fingers felt as though they were frozen into a curl, and my head pounded from the whirlwind of events from today. Tomorrow would only increase the pain and unease.

The following morning, my head still pounded, but my body didn’t ache from the cold, yet.

“Here ye are lad.” Crook, said holding out a wrapped parcel and the reigns to a gorgeous brown mare. “Sorry I canna give ye my best stallion, but Butternut will get ye where ye need to go. She’s strong and hearty. This weather will no deter her.”

“Thank you, sir. For the hospitality and the horse.”

He let out a bark of a laugh, “Dinna thank me lad! Ye paid for the hospitality as ye say. I’m gaining a mighty better price than ye are wi’ my grub and horse.”

I shook my head and smiled back at the jovial man as I mounted the mare. “Thank you all the same.”

“Lad?”

I turned in question.

“If ye see a Gwenalin Crook, tell her Archie sends his love. Can ye do that for me?”

“Of course,” I said puzzled, he nodded then slapped the hindquarters of Butternut and we were off.

As the days wore on, I was struck by the landscape before me. The mountains and the sky, such contrasts to each other were something from the imagination. The size and beauty could not be contained with meager words or thoughts. I felt as though I had stepped into the epics of Tolkien, White, or even Lewis. I could fully understand the magical beliefs and wariness of these people, and the stories that the land inspired.

I was so lost in thought that I missed the sound of hoofbeats and a man’s call until he was right upon me.

“Can I assist ye?” The man, who couldn’t have been much older than I, said as he stared quizzically at me.

“Oh! Yes, do you know if I’m close to the place called Lallybroch or Broch Tuarach?”

The man’s face lit up in a laugh, “Aye, but what business do ye have there?”

“I’m looking for someone and I believe she may have come here.”

“Do I ken ye? Ye look familiar,” He said not acknowledging my statement.

“No, we have never met. Brian Fraser,” I said holding out a hand. The man’s face went pale.

“Brian Fraser has been dead longer than I’ve been born. So who are ye really?”

My eyes went wide this time, of course, he wouldn’t know about me but his knowledge of my grandfather meant he must be family as well. “Are you by chance Young Jamie Murray?”

He went rigid in his saddle. “Aye, and answer me now, who are ye?”

“I’m your cousin, Brian James Lambert Beauchamp Fraser.” I said reaching out my hand, “James Fraser is my father.”

Young Jamie’s mouth fell open as he grasped my hand in a handshake. “Damned if he isn’t! That’s why I thought I knew ye! Christ, ye have the look of him. I’m surprised ye weren’t stopped by the redcoats on your journey here!”

I laughed, “I was accused of being a wanted man at a tavern in Inverness.”

Young Jamie let out a bellow. “That doesna surprise me in the least. Come on, Mam isna going to believe this.”

We rode in companionable silence to the estate, and I gasped in awe. The house, no longer dilapidated and condemned, was full of life and movement.

“Come on,” Young Jamie said, nodding toward the stables. “Ye can leave yer horse there, but I’m sure ye’ll be wanting to ride again soon. Ye said ye were looking for someone, but no one but trouble has been through these doors in a while.”

“What--?”

He cut me off with the shake of his head. “Ye’ll see soon enough. I canna wait to see how this unfolds.”

He leads me through the house to a study where a woman, hair dark and streaked with gray sat beside a man with a wooden leg, pouring over papers on the desk before them.

“Mam? Da?” Jamie said. They turned, eyes wide, and mouth agape, as though they were looking at a ghost.

[jugandbettsdetectiveagency]

I have this mighty need to see my headcanon realized of Juggie in a Serpent jacket riding a bike with Betty in hot pants behind him and I need Betty to be doing naughty things to him while he's trying hard not to crash into something or stop and take her right there - please, please, please with cherries on top, just thinking about it is making me combust, I'm sure your writing will destroy me (in a good way)

First of all this is not a safe way to ride a motorcycle, kids. They were wearing helmets in the first draft of this but this is fiction and there’s nothing sexy about a helmet, especially one that obstructs mouths. So yeah, willing suspension of disbelief and all that. Oh, also the move that Betty pulls here is inspired by a scene in Grease 2 which, while a terrible movie, is pretty great. And shout out to the gals on the Bughead group chat for pointing out that there was a lack of, um, reciprocation from Betty in the fics that they’d read - Juggie deserves a little attention too so that’s what you’re getting.Warning: Bughead smut is literally all that awaits you below. Slight au I guess because everything is good with Serpent!Juggie.

“Don’t you think that’s a little impractical to be wearing on the back of a motorcycle?” Jughead smirked, leaning against the bike as he watched Betty emerge from behind her front door. She smiled sweetly, mischief flitting across her green eyes before he could catch it, grey low-tops bounding down the Cooper’s porch steps.

Her hair fell about her face in free, golden waves, shoulders covered in a dark denim jacket, and loose fitting white shirt underneath. But what he couldn’t tear his eyes away from was the flowing, crimson skirt billowing around her thighs as she moved - more specifically the length of it, or lack thereof.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, widening her eyes in false innocence as she reached him, fingers coming up to play with the zipper on his Serpent’s jacket. His hands crept down her sides, pulling her closer by the backs of her smooth, tanned thighs as the pads of his fingers came to rest there, drifting over the skin with light, teasing brushes. She shivered in his embrace, biting her lower lip in anticipation. Jughead followed the dusty blush that made it’s way over her cheeks, down her neck, across her chest, with eager eyes, fingers digging tighter into her skin. “It seems just right to me.”

It seemed that he’d gotten playful Betty today; a welcome gift, he thought as he leant forwards to capture her lips in a languid kiss. The laziness of the movement matched the pace of their summer days, spent wrapped around one another without rush or obligation as they explored the town that had become something entirely new over the past few months. Their skin was permanently warm and flushed with the high sun, eyes glazed and distant as they got high on the taste of each other’s lips, on a new found freedom.

Betty’s fingers roamed over Jughead’s back, nails clutching at the snake embroidered across his broad shoulder blades. It would never be entirely welcome, but it had become familiar. Betty couldn’t deny the shift she’d seen in her boyfriend’s demeanour - the purposeful way he walked, the lightness in his shoulders, the bags beneath his eyes lessening in their depth over time. He felt protected for the first time in years, and try as she might she couldn’t bring herself to resent it.

“Your mom is gonna see us,” Jughead murmured against her lips as he pulled back an inch, running his tongue teasingly across her swollen mouth. A sigh escaped her, eyelids fluttering open to stare at his amused features.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” she shrugged, completely unconcerned with anything other than the feeling of his hands inching higher. She locked her arms around his neck, to steady herself if nothing more. “Where are we going today?” she asked, forehead coming to rest against his, dark curls tickling her cheek.

“It’s a surprise.” He smiled at her eye roll.

“You always say that,” she chastised, pushing out her lower lip in an adorable pout. He couldn’t resist pulling it between his teeth, breathing in her gasp.

“Maybe I enjoy surprising you,” he replied as Betty blushed, body rolling into his. “Come on.” He stood, catching her as she stumbled back a few unsteady steps, pressing his lips together to suppress a laugh. She narrowed her eyes at him, knowing that he relished the reactions her body had because of his touch. But she’d learnt that two could most definitely play at that game.

Jughead held out his hand to her from where he already sat, perched on the edge of the seat. She took it, eyes locking purposefully with his as she strode closer before swinging her leg over the vehicle. Her arms wound round his waist, fisting in the light material of his t-shirt, bare knees clenching on either side of his hips. Betty shuffled forwards, making sure there was not an inch of space between his back and her front. Jughead raised an eyebrow even though she wouldn’t see, tilting his head over his shoulder minutely.

“Comfortable, Betts?” he asked, amused by her antics. She squirmed once more, chest pushing purposefully between his shoulders.

“Good to go,” she replied casually. He grinned, shaking his head briefly before revving the engine and speeding down the street.

The uncertainty of the bike had terrified Betty at first, knuckles turning as white as her face as she clung to Jughead for dear life during their journeys. But it had been weeks, months even, since they’d begun these private excursions, and Betty now felt nothing but freedom as the wind whipped across her exposed skin.

She peered round them excitedly as they headed towards the town’s border, signs of suburban life becoming more and more distant as they flew past. The land flattened out, filling with flowers instead of picket fences as they raced closer to their destination. She knew how much Jughead loved to ride, that it gave him control like nothing else he’d experienced. The vehicle responded to his every touch, to every small tilt and dip of his body - he played it like a master. As much as Betty liked to see Jughead in control, she also liked to see him relinquish it.

The open road made her feel as if they were the only two left in the world as she flattened her palms against his stomach, hair whipping behind her. She bit her lip coyly as she felt the muscles there flex beneath her wandering fingertips, drawing small circles over the fabric. She could feel his voice vibrate through his body as he no doubt called her name in question, but she couldn’t hear him over the whirring of the engine and the wind in her ears. The sensation went straight to fuel the growing warmth between her thighs, making her tilt her hips in an effort to find some friction against the rough denim of his jeans.

Her hands crept lower, flushed cheeks hidden against his shoulder, pushing the material out of the way to drag her nails over the ridges of his abdomen, so much more pronounced than anyone but her knew. Her fingers danced across the lean expanse before moving to brush down the sparse trail of dark hair disappearing below the waistband of his jeans. A shudder coursed through his body, Betty grinning as she stretched to look over his shoulder, relishing in the way he was white-knuckling the handlebars. He was clinging to composure, every slip feeding her desire to push him further to towards the edge. The tips of her fingers dipped below his belt, their path swerving slightly with the movement, before she withdrew her hand, resting in on the inside of his thigh instead.

Her leg came up, wrapping it over his lap and letting her heel push against the inside seam of his pants. Jughead could feel her heart pounding in a frenzied rhythm against his back, out of time with his own but just as forceful. He was certain he could feel every drop of blood flowing through his veins, flooding southwards, as she delicately massaged his inner thigh, nails catching on the seam now and then, sneaking higher and higher with every motion, still too far from where he needed her. He was hard before he’d even had time to blink, the lack of cover around them sending appreciative tingles throughout his entire body as she dared to take them further. He shifted, trying to relieve some of the pressure between his legs. His movements caused her legs to tighten round him, hips rolling forwards as a rush of wetness soaked her panties. Jughead felt her hum around a moan, the feeling only causing his member to strain uncomfortably against the suffocating zipper of his pants.

She brushed the bulge, finally, with the briefest of touches. Jughead couldn’t stop his hips from bucking into her hand, aching for something to release the tension. The bike wobbled precariously as the heel of her palm was suddenly giving him everything he needed. He blinked, trying to get his eyes to refocus on the tarmac stretching before them. He was completely at her mercy, coil tightening in the pit of his stomach as she worked her hands across his lap. Jughead could feel the desperation rising, wanting to push closer, pull away, remove the the thick layers of fabric between his skin and hers, all at once. His legs were quivering in anticipation, teeth digging into his lower lip as he tried to focus on everything but her persistent fingers, dragging him towards release.

Jughead started as he felt her head ducking beneath his outstretched arm, lifting it in confusion. Betty gripped his shoulder, anchoring herself to him as she pushed her weight around until she was firmly planted on his lap. She locked her ankles at the small of his back, her dark, lust blown pupils meeting his and finding nothing but want etched there. His reactions had made her bold, forgetting the speed at which the ground was racing past them. She was driven only by the ache pulsating between her dampened thighs, her wanton desire to feel the hardness between Jughead’s legs pressing into her core taking full control of her body.

Betty ducked her head to his neck, brushing along the tight tendons there with her nose before peppering kisses across the smooth skin. She felt the bike swerve once more as she grazed her teeth against his pulse point, licking over the spot with her soft tongue before latching her mouth onto the skin and sucking. She smiled against him as she felt his hard-on twitch beneath her, hips grinding down in automatic response. The groan rolling up his throat vibrated against her lips as she continued her sweet torture, circling relentlessly, picking up speed with every passing second.

Jughead hit a dip in the road, sending Betty bouncing against his lap. He felt her moan against him, hot breath fanning over the saliva she’d left along with another mark, a purple bruise for him to run his fingers over in absent memory in the rare moments she wasn’t with him. The action had her thrusting wildly, unable to control the rocking of her hips through the adrenaline. Jughead caught sight of a turn up ahead, making the quick decision to swerve off course before the inevitable spring snapped and he released a sticky mess in his boxers that would make the rest of the day far less pleasant than this.

“Jug, what-” Betty pulled away from him to glance round at the sudden change in direction. They were on a secluded side road, nothing but dirt tracks and the shade of nearby trees.

“That wasn’t fair, Betts,” he growled, as he parked, kicking up the stand and planting his feet firmly on the floor. She shivered at the gravel in his voice, eyes dark as he gripped her thighs, pulling her against him. She let out a soft mewl, loud in the relative silence surrounding them. “It was stupid, dangerous even,” he murmured into the elegant slope of her neck as she tilted her head to expose more of her skin to him.

“I appear to be getting a taste for danger,” she whined, back hitting the handlebars as Jughead anchored her firmly, one arm winding round her waist. She watched, enthralled as his hand slipped up her thigh, disappearing beneath the wrinkled fabric. Her breath hitched as his thumb came into contact with the lace of her panties. He dropped his forehead to her collarbone, strangled grunt escaping his lips.

“God, you’re so wet,” he groaned, fingers pushing the obstructing fabric to the side so he could slip inside of her silken heat. His neglected erection gave a pitiful throb as her walls clenched around the digits, a string of hushed profanities spilling from her lips as he thrust them slowly. He smiled into her neck - he’d been utterly taken aback by the filth that had come from her mouth as they starting exploring the physical side of their relationship more, but that hadn’t stopped it from adding to his ever growing arousal.

“Faster, Juggie,” she breathed, using his shoulders as leverage to propel herself closer, crying out unhindered as his thumb came up to circle her swollen bundle of nerves. She was dripping down his fingers, head thrown back and full lips parted, as she completely let go. He clenched his stomach muscles, enamoured by the sight before him, one that he knew would come back to haunt his dirtiest of dreams for many nights to come. His teeth found the hardened peak of her nipple through the thin fabric of her shirt and closed round it gently. She tensed, thighs quivering, walls clenching, as she came, his name falling from her mouth around a gasp, hand clutching at his wrist.

Betty pulled his persistent hand out of her underwear when the aftershocks became too much, raising his fingers to her plump lips and encasing them in her hot mouth, sucking gently around a moan. Jughead swore he could see stars. His free hand clutched at her hip as she swirled her tongue around his fingers, pulling every last taste of herself from his skin.

“Betty… if you don’t touch me right now I swear-” he threatened, breaking off as she released his fingers with a wet pop.

“What, Jug? What will you swear?” she asked menacingly, still breathless. Just like that she was gone, cold air rushing to the places her warm body had once occupied.

“Hey!” he began to complain before he felt her demanding hands pull at his shirt, lifting him from his seat only to shove him back against the side. She pressed herself flat against him, leaving a bruising kiss against his lips before moving to whisper in his ear.

“Good things come to those who wait,” she rasped, voice still hoarse from her moans. Jughead’s hips bucked of their own accord, chasing her body as her palms smoothed up the length of his thighs. His eyes flicked across her face, every nerve ending on high alert for her next move. His heart nearly gave out as she dropped to her knees, hands clutching at the soft leather behind him as she unbuckled his belt, pulling his pants and boxers down in quick succession.

Jughead hissed his member sprung free, cold air hitting the heated flesh. Betty ran her hands against the grain of his leg hair, coming up to rest her palms on his protruding hip bones. She leant in, kissing close to his base, her breath causing him to jump at the delicate contact. His whole body was screaming at him to move as he fought all his instincts, desperate to stay still and let Betty keep control.

Gentle fingers circled the base of his dick, pink tongue coming out to wet her lips in anticipation as a sticky liquid beaded at the head. She darted forwards, swiping it away with the tip of her tongue. Jughead choked on air, eyes rolling back into his head, fingers digging into the sponge of the seat so hard he thought he might pierce through. Before he could catch his next breath her full mouth had wrapped around him, sliding down his shaft with ease. His hand shot out, reflexively weaving into her hair, sunlight turning it into a golden waterfall.

Betty hummed as she sucked in her cheeks, pulling back with a delicious slowness. Jughead’s knees felt weak, resting his full weight against the bike as it tipped beneath the strain. He couldn’t feel anything other than the scorching heat around his dick, the tight wetness as she took him back in again and again. Her tongue flattened out, running along the thick vein on the underside. There were too many sensations to focus on at once - the vibrations of her sinful moans, the way she swirled her tongue around the groove under his swollen head, her small hands twisting down the length, the sudden constricting of her throat as his hips thrust upwards against his will.

Betty clutched at his sides, nails leaving tiny indents in his overheated skin. She picked up her speed, Jughead’s hand aiding her in finding a rhythm.

“Fuck, Betts. You have to… I’m gonna…” he forced out between clenched teeth, tugging on her hair in warning. One of her hands slipped to cup his ass, digging into the soft flesh there, holding him against her face. The other dipped lower, palm cradling his balls as they tightened into his body, Jughead fighting his impending release. She sucked in once more, and he felt the barest graze of her teeth against his shaft and that was it.

His mouth dropped open in a silent shout, fingers digging tighter into her hair as he pulsed into her mouth, Betty pulling back slightly to catch it all. He looked down, past his heaving chest, as she let him go with an audible pop, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand, lips lifted in a menacing smirk. She leant into him, the brush of her skirt making his overly sensitive dick twitch weakly, placing her throat by his ear as she swallowed with an audible gulp. Jughead groaned, flush on his cheeks deepening to match the scarlet of her skirt. Betty looked at him, letting free an innocent giggle that was completely out of place on her dark, swollen lips, hair mussed from his desperate hands, completing her look of sinful dishevelment.

“Surprise,” she whispered, tucking her lower lip beneath her teeth. Jughead let out an exhausted laugh, casting his eyes skywards as him mind tried to catch up with the events of the afternoon.

“Definitely letting you plan all the surprises from now on,” he mumbled, forehead resting against hers. She grinned, pressing her mouth to his, laughing at the way he scrunched up his nose as he tasted himself on her lips.

“Sounds good to me.”

[dcbicki]

"Some Kind of Trouble", Part I

Based on a Western AU gifset I created, the smutty Jon/Sansa fic nobody ever knew they wanted until I forced it upon them. Two-parter.

Since her parents’ death nine years earlier, Sansa’s only cure for her loneliness has been the infrequent visits from the illusive yet charming Jon, who stops by once a year to check up on her. But is no longer a child of ten, and instead a woman grown who finds herself unable to refuse his harmless stay or deny her own dangerous urges, to devastatingly delicious consequences.

With a hand clutching at the top of her worn corset, Sansa sighs deeply.

It’s an old garment, one she’d found safely hidden inside the case her mother had left tucked beneath the matrimonial bed.

The box was dusty and the lock stiff, but she’d washed over the surface with a dry cloth and hammered away at the valise’s clasp with an old brick until it had given in.

The nice clothes she’d worn as a little miss wouldn’t fit her anymore; the skirts too short, showing off her ankles and the bottom of her calfs, reminding Sansa of something those promiscuous women in town wore, and the sleeves of her dresses too tight, seams straining for freedom when she’d slipped an arm though.

She was grown now, all bruised long legs and scratched long arms with an elegant long neck topping her shoulders.

Her bony knees are black and blue, battered from kneeling in the farm’s muddy dirt all day. The mud covers old tree roots that’ll never grow again, and she’d landed face first in the muck on more than one occasion.

It hurt, having to riffle through pig shit and dirtied wet soil and pretend her limbs weren’t aching.

But she needed to make ends meet, for her sake and her sake alone.

She was her own sole provider, not reliant on anybody. She couldn’t wait for some man to come and lend her a hand; not that one ever would.

Nobody knows of her whereabouts, she is sure of it.

For surely if they did, if they knew she sometimes went without a single drop of water and sometimes starved herself until exhaustion overtook her, they would have made themselves known by now.

She has one acquaintance, and he is so strangely illusive that she sometimes thinks him to be false, a conjuring of sorts, a gift from her imagination to cure her loneliness.

She has one acquaintance, and he is so terribly strange and so illusively charming that she finds herself having to pray for his return, for his presence.

They’re comforting to her; those infrequent days when he appears across the way and rides over to her. He dashes, and he’s dashing, and she is half-tempted to beg him to whisk her away.

But she never does.

She never asks for help, but he is just kind enough to take over work on the farm for the day so she can rest.

She never asks him to stay, but he lingers around all day until they’ve eaten their supper and she has drifted off to sleep.

She never wonders where he has been when he is by her side, only wonders where he is when he isn’t beside her.

She never thinks to question him, or his attentions. She never has.

He visits her once a year, plucks the vegetables she is growing from the dirty grass, handles the cattle and makes sure everything is in order before take off again.

It hurts her, when she wakes and he is gone.

It isn’t that she misses him, though. How could she? Missing him would suggest that she has some knowledge into who he is, or what he does, that she has some reason to be attached to him. She has none.

He is little more than a man who has visited her nine times over nine years and left her wondering.

She has one acquaintance, and his whereabouts escape her completely.

She is due a visit, she knows. The sun is setting, dimming behind green mountain tops, and there’s a chill to the air she recognises immediately.

It sends shivers up her arms, and she smoothes her hands up and down her forearms to shelter herself from the breeze. It’s a fine gust of wind, one she knows to be a sign of the upcoming winter.

Copper hair flowing in the wind, Sansa grinds her teeth in regret at having left it down. It will knot, and it will take her a great deal of time to untangle.

She has mastered the art of it over the years, though. Twist the brush and tug at the ends. Mother always did it for her, but she has had to take over most of her mother’s tasks. There is no one else to do it for her, so she must wash and dress and brush herself.

She wears her mother’s clothes as they are the only ones to fit, and she makes newer dresses from old curtains and sheets of cloth she finds stored away in cupboards where the doors hang loose.

Her favourite is perhaps a green dress she had sewn herself with a used bed sheet she washed twice over and stained for good measure.

It appears new and, as she grasps the material of her skirt, she finds it softer than it once had been. It’s miraculous, really; how she can find and make things of beauty despite a lifetime of solitude.

The early winter air makes the edges of her skirts dance along the tops of her laced boots in the dirt, and Sansa swallows a breath in exasperation.

She is due a visit, and the sun is setting.

Perhaps something has happened and her one lone acquaintance can no longer reach her. Perhaps he has died. Or rather, he was never alive to die in the first place.

He would have been here by morning, surely, Sansa gathers.

He comes in the morning, indeed, when the light is rising and she is stood on her crumbling porch with a hand sheltering her eyes from the blistering sun.

He arrives in the morning, when the sun has risen and she is left awestruck on her crumbling porch at his appearance.

His hair is curlier than the year before, and his beard longer. He is older than her, this she knows; but by how much escapes her completely. A couple of years, maybe several, a handful.

He is worn-down and somber, always darker than the year before, and she is yet to see a true smile grace his face.

“You’ve visited me every year since I was ten.” She remembers telling him this when she was but fourteen, all growing pains and curling hairs.

She says it again now, only this time she is much less of a curious girl with an adolescent infatuation, and much more of a woman who has been left alone far too long.

“So I have.”

He nods, and he is gruff, and she wants nothing more than to slap him. And so she does, with her palm again his face and her fingertips scraping along his scruffy mess of a beard.

“You’re late.” By a day, she wants to add for good measure.

“I was held up.”

He tells her earnestly, and then holds his hands for good measure. Thick slices of rope wrapped around his wrists. The skin of his bones rubbed raw where he has tugged and yanked at the restraints.

“Tied up, rather.”

“Was it a whore?”

It isn’t any of her business, she knows. What he does, who he lies with. She sees him once a year, and that is all she allowed to have of him. Perhaps the whores are treated to more time, granted some extra days with this man she calls her saviour.

He isn’t a true saviour, though, not really. If he were, she would not still be stuck in this pit of despair, tending to crops and animals she never desired to care for.

“Would it matter if it was?”

“Yes.” It doesn’t. She knows it doesn’t. He isn’t hers, and he can whore around if he so desires.

“Why would it matter?” He blinks, and she can tell his eyes are darker than their usual brown; they’re almost puce, almost dangerous.

With a lick of her lips, Sansa simply offers a shrug. She folds her chilled arms over her chest, spins on her heel until she is walking back inside her farmhouse.

He follows her, and she lets him. He settles his things down by the doorway, at the bottom of the small stairwell, but as he always does.

Always. That’s a funny word. She only sees him once a year.

He has watched her grow, admired the way she has changed over the years.

He unpacks his gun from its holster, sliding it from his belt, and he pulls on the scarf around his neck. The wild red rag loosens easily, and he tosses it down on top of his pistol carelessly.

He taught her how to shoot two years ago, she muses, staring down at the abandoned weapon. She may have to use it on him if he crosses her again.

“It wasn’t.”

“Wasn’t a whore?” She perks an eyebrow, thinly fakes a smile. It’s veiled and he knows it. “That ain’t any of my business.”

“You pretend it is.”

She spins at that, ignoring his suggested pretence. “It isn’t my concern who you fuck.”

“Little ladies shouldn’t say such things.”

“This lady ain’t little no more, Jon. Didn’t you notice?” She knows his name, and that is all.

He follows after her again, letting her lead the way into the room she calls the dining area, watching as she presses both palms against the table’s creaking wooden surface, “I like to pretend I ain’t.”

“Does that make it easier for you?” She begin, dares with the sharpest of glares, “To pretend I’m still a lil’ missy? Did ya not picture me when you fucked the whore who tied you up, or down?”

“I didn’t fuck no whore, so no.”

“How come you were all roped up then?”

“Bandits.”

“Here I was thinking you were one yourself.” She admits, slides one hand along the table as she straightens out her skirt with her free hand. It’s warmer inside; the dusting cool air at bay.

“And just why would ya think that?” He makes a move to step closer, but she doesn’t flinch.

He has known her since she was ten years old. He is harmless to her. “Because you’re all rough an’ strong an’ you only ever come ‘round once a year. Sounds mighty strange to me.”

“I’m no outlaw, Sansa.” He rarely speaks her name in true, and when he does, she almost caves.

“Then who are you?”

“Someone who’s been watchin’ over you for years.”

“I’m gon’ pretend you didn’t just say that.”

“You find me strange then, huh? Perverse?”

“I don’t find you perverse. If I did, I’d have picked up ya’ pistol and shot you already.”

She curves the table, steps into his space without a sound. It’s peaceful there, with his warm breath sheltering her from the breeze seeping in through the cracked shutters.

“What’d you do if I told you a man was here? With me?”

“With you in what way?”

She bats her lashes, purses her lips with a slight smirk. “The way you want to be.” She nods, taps one finger against his shirted chest. He’s bare between the ripped sides of his shirt and she holds her breath when his fist curls around her gentle hand.

“And which way is that?”

“As a man has a woman.”

“Seems to me I could'a had you any number of times. Seen as I’m the only one who knows you’re here an’ all.”

“Nah.” She grinds her teeth, feels her jaw ache at the friction as she pries her wrist from his grasp. “You want me willing. Hell, that’s probably why you keep comin’ back. Waiting for the day I decide to spread my legs.”

“If that’s the case, then spread your legs.”

“You shouldn’t say such things to lil’ ladies.”

“Thought you were no lil’ lady anymore.” He reasons, lowers himself until one hand is grasping her thigh and she is flush against him. “If I came here for your cunt, then you wouldn’t be arguing with me.”

“Because ya’d be perverse about it?”

“No.” He shakes his head, the mop of dark brown hair sweeping across his forehead. He’s sweaty and his knuckles are raw, watching them curl as his fingers dance along toward the inside of her thigh. “You’d be taking that awful thing off without me even mentioning it.”

Jon swipes a finger from his free hand at her chest, tugs at the front of her corset. The dried blood on his hand smudges against the fabric and Sansa holds her breath, watching the loose rope around his wrist roll downward as he lowers his touch to her waist.

“Little ladies don’t undress in front of strange men.”

“But women do.”

“Is that what ya’d like? For me to be a woman, and you to be the man who has me?”

“Wouldn’t ya rather be the woman who has the man? Or would you prefer to be treated like a whore down in town instead? I heard they have an opening.”

“That depends on the man treating me as such.”

She doesn’t visit the town very often, only when certain items are needed and unattainable elsewhere. There aren’t many folk left there, though, only the sheriff and some of his men, some elderly residents, and the brothel’s wailing women.

She has heard them in the past, either moaning in what Sansa can only gather is pleasure or screaming in what she assumes in absolute terror.

“You don’t wanna know what that darn brothel does to people, Sansa. No matter if the man is whipping you for pain or play.”

“Whipping?” She almost gasps, almost shrieks. “Sounds rather brutal for a whorehouse.”

“Ain’t nothing for a whorehouse, a lil’ whipping.”

“With belts?”

He has let go of her entirely, has removed all touch from her body. Her leg is dropped, his hand in his back pocket.

“Hmm, if he’s decent.”

“If a belt is decent, what could be worse?”

“There are levels, dear Sansa.” He pats her head once, twice, much like he once did when she was twelve and successfully milked a cow after copying him. “Hands, belts, heavy sticks of splintered wood, or so I’ve heard at least.”

“I can’t imagine anyone enjoying such a thing.”

It’s her turn to follow him now, when he stalks into her kitchen and picks up a half empty bottle of milk from the counter. The cap is off and he drinks it down in only a couple of gulps.

“That’s because you never tried.”

“I thought ya weren’t perverse.”

“I wasn’t offering.”

“Oh.” Sansa ducks her head, realises their short-lived charade has reached an end. “Have you used… your hands, before?”

“Matter of fact, I have. Belts, too. Used those on outlaws though.” He tells her pointedly, bringing them back to their earlier conversation. He lifts up a wrist and shakes his fist, “He didn’t last long.”

Admitting he killed a man should’ve been a bigger deal, Sansa notes. But it wasn’t, and she doesn’t even bat an eye at the mention. Times are hard, times are rough.

“Would you use your hands on me?”

“Would I spank ya, you mean?” He sounds surprised, as though he didn’t see that question coming despite their suggestive words. “If you deserved it.”

“How would I deserve it?”

“I don’t know, Sansa. You’d have to commit a crime.” He doesn’t want to hurt her, punish her.

He has been charged with her protection, much to his dismay. How can he watch her from afar and visit her so little when she is his purpose?

“Shoot someone?”

Jon only nods, “Depends what ya think deserves corporal punishment. I won’t sentence ya to anything.”

“Have I grown a lot, Jon? Am I a woman now?”

It’s off-subject and he is thrown.

He will know, she reasons; whether she is truly a woman or nothing but a girl still learning.

“You’re a woman. Much to my displeasure.”

It was easier to protect her when she was a child and he an adolescent. It was easier to ignore her changing body when she was still an adolescent and he a man on the precipice of adulthood. It was easier when he didn’t notice the swell of her breasts or her long legs she hid beneath her skirts. It was easier when she wasn’t determined to destroy him and his promise alike.

“To your displeasure? Am I not pleasurable to look at?”

Her hands smooth down her side, fingertips dancing along the bottom of her corseted chest. Heaven help him.

“You are, Sansa.” The empty milk bottle is placed in the rusty sink and he makes a note to himself to clean it later. “You are pleasurable to look at.”

“Then why are ya avoiding looking at me?”

She has caught him out, and Jon shifts his gaze from her dress to her face. She is flushed, lightly, and her ivory cheeks are rosy from the broken wind outside.

“Because I’m a man and you’re a woman now, and this is harder than I thought it’d be.”

“Looking at me? Or pretending I’m still a little lady?”

“Pretending I don’t see the changes in you. It’s wrong, wrong of me to look at you this way.”

“It’s only wrong if I’m a child still and I ain’t no more.”

She nears him, grabs his hand and places it on her hip.

Just as before, just as she has wanted since he arrived on her porch. “It’s only wrong if I ain’t asking you to do it.”

“Are ya asking me to do it?”

“I’ve been silently pleadin’ with you since ya got here.”

“But you haven’t asked.”

“No, I ain’t. I guess that was shameful of me.”

Her blue eyes shine grey, and she licks her lips in anticipation of something she does not recognise. There is warmth between her legs and the fire spreads as she closes in on him, chest pressed against his, fingers curling around his half-bound wrist.

Sansa tugs on the rope, silently praying for him to stay past the night that has yet to arrive.

“Such a shame you could almost deem it criminal.”

“It wasn’t a crime, Sansa.”

“I deeply regret my mistake and would like to suffer the consequences of my actions.” She ignores his remark, soldiers on with squared shoulders and her gaze set on his lips. “Would you, honourable citizen, be willing to carry out the punishment for such a crime?”

“Sansa.”

It was easier when she was a child, ignorant to the world around her and the past times of adults. It was easier only moments ago when she had yet to encourage him to break his resolve.

“I find corporal punishment to be the only suitable option here. I shall learn from my errors.” She swallows, and he watches the swell in her throat. “Will you take me standing or over your knee, good sir?”

He pulls at the waist of her skirt before she can tempt him any further, and gently lowers her down with a hand at the base of her spine.

Her ribs bruise against the hardness of his kneecaps when he drags out a chair and sits himself down on it. She is bent over his lap, willing yet innocently foolish.

“Comfortable?”

Sansa nods, but it proves futile because he’s already pulling up her skirts to her waist and bunching up the material in his free hand. It pools around her stomach, scrunched between the both of them, and his free hand settles itself on her backside.

His palm taps but once over the muscle of her bottom before he stops, pouts lips she is still desperate to touch, “This won’t do.” He pulls on the band of her bloomers then, tugging the unmentionables down to the backs of her knees.

The white cloth is soft around her legs and Sansa has half a mind to stop him for moment so she can undo her boots. The toes dance along the creaky floorboards as the chair shifts, and his hand finds her ass again. He traces her skin, moves roughly calloused fingers along her flesh so smoothly she almost forgets this is a form of punishment. It’s supposed to be, at least.

He isn’t punishing her, though, and she knows this; it was her plea, after all.

“Again?”

“Yes, sir.” She hides a grin behind her hands, running them up his thighs until she covers her face, ducks her head low to hang against him. The second blows smacks, whips against her skin like a harsh winter wind in the nightime. Admitedly, she quite likes it, and she soon finds herself wiggling her backside to spur him on when the third smack fails to charter any true reaction.

The fourth hits, and she gasps, teeth digging into the ball of her tight fist beside his thigh. She wants to claw at him, to mark him as he is marking her. Instead, she chooses to moan in encouragement when his hand strokes her bottom instead of spanking it.

There is a heat pooling between her legs, she can feel it, and the sensation is quasi foreign to her. Yes, she has had it happen in the past. When she has felt truly alone and found herself thinking of his face while bathing. When she has let her hand slip just a little too far up her shift in the middle of a restless night.

“Again.”