#◟ ⋆ hunter west › threads !

[ambitionslost]

@ttheagcd asked: "Your face looks so cute when you cum."

Hunter's heart felt like it was going to beat out of his chest. And as much as he wanted to get up and leave ten minutes ago, he found himself burrowing his head into Alex's chest at Alex's words. "You shouldn't be saying things like that, you know." He finally whispered, moving his head to look at the other male, fingers softly tracing circles into Alex's chest. Hunter could absolutely say the same thing about Alex, however, he refused to and instead found himself playfully pouting. "Here I thought my face was cute all of the time."

[ambitionslost]

Hunter’s breath hitched as Ezekiel’s lips grazed his jaw, a jolt of heat coursing through him that momentarily drowned out the surrounding noise. The intensity in Ezekiel’s gaze made him feel exposed, yet exhilarated, like a moth drawn to a flame he both craved and feared. He could feel the weight of Ezekiel’s words settling over him, charging the air with an electricity that made his skin tingle.

The teasing bravado he’d worn like armor began to melt away, replaced by something deeper and more raw. “Oh, you definitely have my attention,” Hunter replied, his voice low, almost a whisper, as he fought to maintain his composure. “But I can’t help but wonder if you can handle me.” There was a playful challenge in his tone, a dare that matched the glint in his eye.

As Ezekiel pulled back slightly, Hunter felt the loss of warmth, a spark of longing igniting in its place. He was caught in the moment, the world around them fading into a blur as he leaned closer, closing the distance just enough to test the waters. “You think you’re up for the challenge?” he asked, his words laced with a mix of confidence and curiosity.

With a playful smirk, Hunter brought a hand up to Ezekiel’s neck, fingertips brushing against the stubble there, feeling the heat radiate from him. “I mean, you’ve set the stage pretty well,” he continued, his voice dropping into a sultry tone. “But I need to know—are you ready to back up that confidence?”

He let the question hang in the air, a tantalizing dare, before leaning in, capturing Ezekiel’s lips with his own, a rush of heat igniting between them. This wasn’t just dancing anymore; it was a promise of what was to come, a blending of boldness and vulnerability that sent adrenaline coursing through him. When he finally pulled away, breathless and teasingly mischievous, Hunter looked into Ezekiel’s eyes, a playful spark igniting in his own. “So, what’s next?”

Ezekiel's lips curved into a slow, deliberate smile as he let Hunter’s words sink in, savoring the challenge. His hands, still resting on Hunter’s waist, flexed slightly, fingers pressing just enough to send a message—one that didn’t require words. His gaze was unwavering, intense, as if he could see right through the teasing bravado and into something deeper.

"Captivating doesn't even begin to cover it," Ezekiel murmured, his voice low and rough, the space between them charged with a simmering heat that made the crowded room feel worlds away. "You have no idea what you're doing to me, do you?" The question lingered, half rhetorical, because Ezekiel knew Hunter felt it too—the pull, the fire, the unspoken desire that hung between them like the air had been thickened by it.

At Hunter’s playful dare to show rather than tell, Ezekiel's smirk deepened. His breath ghosted against Hunter’s ear once more, this time lingering, teasing just as much as Hunter’s words had. "You want me to show you, huh?" he said, his voice a quiet rumble that sent a shiver through the air. His fingers tightened ever so slightly, bringing Hunter just a fraction closer. "I can do that."

Ezekiel tilted his head, gaze never leaving Hunter’s, and for a moment, he just breathed him in, letting the tension simmer just a bit longer. "You’re right, actions do speak louder," he whispered, his lips brushing the edge of Hunter's jaw, teasing, just shy of a real touch, before pulling back slightly, letting the space between them hum with anticipation. "Hard to think straight?" Ezekiel’s smirk was almost predatory now, his voice laced with that dangerous confidence. "Good. I’m not here to make things easy." His thumb brushed against Hunter’s side, a small, deliberate motion that he hoped sent a jolt of electricity through the already buzzing air between them.

Then, with a smooth, deliberate movement, Ezekiel closed the space between them, lips brushing against Hunter’s, not a question, but an answer. A silent declaration that the dance was over. When he finally pulled back, just enough to speak, his voice was laced with a quiet certainty. "Now," Ezekiel said, his breath mingling with Hunter’s, "are we still just dancing?" His eyes held the weight of the moment, daring Hunter to take the next step.

[tightjeansjavi]

Hi!! Love your writing!! Can you write a cowboy fetish joel miller with boot riding 🥺🥺

Hi nonnie! Thank you for sending this in! It scratched my brain just ✨right✨ and I hope it does the same for you! I couldn’t just do some boot ridin’ without some plot ;) enjoy 🤠

Dinner & Diatribes

~word count: 3.7k~

Pairing | Cowboy/bounty hunter! Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: you’re the kind of love that Joel Miller has been dreaming of all his life

Warnings: smut,fluff, angst, cowboy in shining armor vibes, unprotected piv, boot ridin! dick slingin, mutual masturbation, voyeurism, implied age gap, dom/sub vibes, sir/mister kink, implied abuse (not by Joel) Joel is a bounty hunter during the Wild West, reader is a runaway bride wanted for murdering three men, filthy language, pining, protective! Joel, assumed unrequited love, swearing, AU that might not 100% be historically accurate but I tried! reader has no physical descriptions such a skin tone or body type, readers nickname is Chickadee, +18 minors dni! Let me know if I missed anything!

Joel Miller knows that keeping a bounty for himself ain’t the way to go about things..he knows that there’s consequences for his actions, an imminent problem would surely arise if he didn’t bring you back to the town you fled from. Wanted for the murders of three men. A wild untamable thing on the run is how the sheriff described you to Joel. And the most important detail of all; I don’t care if you bring her back alive, or in pieces.

And then Joel found you, tracked your trails for miles and miles through the barren rough terrain of the Wild West. You didn’t even put up a fight when you heard the distinct sound of thundering hooves drawing nearer and nearer. You were exhausted, dehydrated, and on the verge of collapsing to the dusty earth while vultures circled ahead.

This didn’t mean you gave up entirely when Joel Miller had you circled, cornered and lasso at the ready. That’s when he took notice of your state, your attire. A once glittering wedding dress now hanging on by threads of shredded fabric. The bottom tooled fabric was now a dirty sand color, blending in with the dirt. Remnants of your eye makeup cracked and stained beneath your eyes and cheekbones that were once painted in a pretty pigment.

He watched from the saddle of his horse as you sank down to your knees, awaiting your inevitable fate to be delivered. “Have you come to turn me in, Mister?”

His head cocked to the side, eyes studying your vulnerable form intently. You couldn’t see his face as it was obstructed from your view with a tied bandana, but even from where you sat on your knees, you could see that his eyes were a deep shade of brown, dark and mysterious.

He dismounted his horse swiftly, silently, boots tearing up dusty patches of earth with each heavy step he took. The spurs on the back of his boots chimed through the air as he stopped in front of you. His broad frame casted a shadow over your kneeling form. His hands were encased in worn leather, and he smelled of tobacco smoke, saddle soap, and musk.

He crouched down, hat tipping forward while one leather clad hand reached for your jaw, thumb brushing across your skin as he tilted it upwards, forcing you to look into his eyes. He saw your grime and dried blood stained face up close. Your eyes flickered nervously as he turned your head to the side.

“Ain’t you gonna get on with it and turn me in? What’re you draggin’ this out for, huh? You caught me, mister. Go and collect your fuckin’ reward.” You spat defiantly into the dirt, a glob of salvia landing on the toe of his boot.

His grip tightened around your chin, jaw ticking sharp like a knife, eyes narrowing in on your face and the subtle wobble of your severely cracked and dry lower lip.

“What happened to you?” He finally spoke. His voice reminded you of fire crackling, ominous thunder and heavy rain. Thick, gravelly, deeper than the Grand Canyon itself.

“What’s it matter if I tell ya, huh? You gonna take pity on me or somethin’ mister?”

He was silent again, appearing deep in thought as he continued to study your face, searching through the grime and dirt for any clues..then, he saw it; The eyes of someone that suffered abuse. His grip around your chin softened

“Stand up.” He commanded.

You struggled to your feet, confusion etched in your features, the obvious sway in your step before two strong hands grabbed your shoulders to steady you.

“We’ll have to move fast.”

“What’re you—” You were still confused, head spinning from his words and malnourishment.

“I don’t turn in folks that killed outta self defense, Chickadee. And certainly not a woman that killed her abusers.” He gave you a curt, tight nod. “Better you than I cause I woulda tied those sons a bitches up and dragged them through the fuckin’ desert.” He rasped.

“You’re..not turnin’ me in?”

“No. Ain’t morally right for me t’do so.” He said softly.

And that’s how you ended up riding through the countryside with Joel Miller to protect you. You’d patch up his shiners, his wounds, keep his belly full with hearty stews that kept him strong and alert. You’d clean his gun, shine his leather till you could see your reflection in the fabric. And in return, he protected you. He never asked for any sexual favors, or for your hand. He viewed you as his equal, his partner.

It hurt sometimes, to flirt with the man you owed your life to and for him to brush your attempts off everytime. As if you were a pesky horsefly, or insignificant gnat. Yet, you couldn’t help it. Joel was handsome, ruggedly so and you’d often find yourself fantasizing about kissing him, feeling his fingers touch you in places you craved to be touched in. To feel his caress on your skin, the bite of his leather, the scrape of his scruffy beard. The stretch of his cock inside of your wet cunt.

You were driving yourself mad with want for a man that didn’t want you back, or so you assumed that was to be the case.

That couldn’t have been further from the truth.

Joel Miller was on the edge to finally just give in when he caught you one night with your skirts hiked above your thighs with your boot clad feet firmly planted in the dirt. Under the pale glow of the moonlight above, and the glittery shining stars, he could see your hand between your thighs, touching yourself and moaning his name.

It felt wrong to watch you, to invade your privacy and your modesty. But he’d be damned if he’d go another night without feeling the hug of your pussy around his aching cock. Or to feel the taste of your kissable lips on his tongue. Damned. Damned. Damned. Fuck, he couldn’t survive another second without knowing what it was like to be loved by you.

For years he had pushed you away despite knowing the pain it caused both you and him. A man could only last so long pretending to not love a woman that he’d throw his life down for in a heartbeat. That’s the kinda love Joel Miller had been dreaming of all his life.

Your head snapped at the sound of a twig snapping behind you as your hand stilled between your thighs. Your heartbeat rattled wildly in your rib cage at the fear and excitement of being caught.

Oh, please. Please let tonight be the night.

“Don’t stop on my account, Chickadee.” He drawled deeply before stepping closer to where you sat.

The heat rushed to your cheeks like a wildfire spreading, your stomach clenched inwards as you began to touch yourself once more, eyes staying locked on his own.

When he was close enough, you used his shins for support as you rubbed your swollen clit in tight, fast circles.

“No.” He shook his head. “Slower. Take your time, darlin.’ There ain’t no rush. Let me see you.” He rasped, before slowly sinking into the dirt behind you. His strong thighs corralled your own almost possessively as his hands gently grasped the hem of your skirts, pulling them up higher. You felt the brush of his beard against your cheek when his chin came to rest along your shoulder. “Nice and slow for me.”

“I’m—sorry, Joel.” You whispered ashamedly through the cool darkness of the desert night. You slowed your fingers, dragging them through the building slick that pooled between the seam of your cunt.

“Sorry for what, Chickadee? Sorry for touchin’ yourself? For moanin’ my name? Why would you be sorry for that?..” His deep tone sent sparks flying through your body as you leaned back into his strong chest.

“Because—you don’t want me, and this is wrong for me to do. To touch myself and moan a man’s name that doesn’t desire me the way I desire him.” A whimper was clawing up your throat, begging to be released, but you wouldn’t allow it.

He dropped the fabric of your skirts briefly only to dip his hand between your thighs and place his massive palm over the top of your hand, guiding your fingers over your clit once more. “This man desires you plenty, Chickadee. I was only tryin’ to protect your modesty..and our hearts.” He whispered against your ear, lips ghosting across your exposed skin. “Been wantin’ to love you all these years we’ve spent together.” He admitted. “I’m a terrible, rotten man for keepin’ you starved this long..” he trailed off, pressing open mouthed kisses at the spot where your jaw met your neck. “M’sorry.”

Those were the last words you ever expected a fucking bounty hunter to whisper..let alone to you?

A shuddered breath slipped past your parted lips, just for him. Your head lolled to the side, granting him easier access as your lashes fluttered shut. “I’ve felt like..such a fool, Joel. A dirty little fool for a bounty hunter.” You took your lower lip between your teeth, biting down harshly and drawing blood to the surface. You let him take full control of your hand, letting him guide and manipulate your fingers to play with yourself just right.

“Shh..I know now, Chickadee. M’sorry, truly. But I’m here now, ain’t I? M’here. Here forever if you’ll have me. I understand if I've bruised and neglected your heart far too many times..I can accept your rejection if it is coming.”

You could detect the edge of sadness in his tone, the acceptance already settling into his bones and heart.

“Joel, please kiss me.” You nearly begged him, dying to finally know what his lips would feel like on your own.

“Why didn’t ya just say that sooner, Chickadee.” He chuckled. “I wish ya woulda just grabbed me by the breeches years ago and knocked some sense into my thick skull. Woulda taken your ache away a long time ago, darlin.’” He said in a hushed whisper. “But I know you were afraid..can’t blame ya for that. Not really. ‘Specially since I ain’t the nicest of men to come by.”

He was taking too long, and you were an impatient woman.

“Joel.” You huffed, fighting the urge to curse him out before you decided to take matters into your own hands, finally. Tomorrow was never promised, not when you and Joel were constantly on the run.

He kept rambling on until he felt the soft touch of your fingertips brushing against the patches in his scruffy beard and the magnetic pull drawing him in closer, closer till he could taste your mingled breath on his lips.

Here in the middle of the desert, with nothing but the moon and stars as a source of light, you finally knew what it was like to kiss Joel Miller. You learned his lips quickly, liking that they were both soft and a bit chapped. As you licked slowly into one another’s mouths you could taste the faint remnants of tobacco on his tongue. It was a bruising kiss, one that both ignited the fire deep within you, and sent a delicious tingle curving down your spine.

So, this is what the girls back home were all talking about. Being kissed by a real man.

And then you found yourself straddling him in the dirt, saying fuck all to your modesty because you had never wanted a man more than you did now. And you wished that your mother could see you now. To see what her perfect little daughter had turned into.

Fuck you, mother. Fuck you for forcing me to marry that monster.

Joel brought you back down to earth with both his lips and his words tattooed on your skin. He caged you with his body, acting as a shield from the chilly night ear that sent goosebumps rising.

He worked your blouse open, growing more frustrated by the minute when the clasps wouldn’t automatically give. He was desperate to feel more of you, all of you because he knew then that you were his, and he was yours. And if you’d end up being the death of him, so be it. At least he could go out being loved rather than unloved.

“You gonna fuck me now, mister? Gonna take what belongs to you, Joel?” You mumbled against his lips in a chasing kiss, growing more desperate as the seconds ticked by.

“Gonna do more than that, Chickadee.” He rasped. This was a promise, and a man such as Joel always kept his promises.

The howl of a Coyote far off in the distant sent uneasy nerves rolling through you, because the realization hit you then that you and Joel were out in the fucking wilderness, and you suddenly felt bare and exposed.

“Jus’ a coyote, doll. He’s singin’ to the moon. We’re safe here, I promise. Ain’t ever gonna let somethin’ happen to you again, Chickadee.” His strong calloused, yet gentle hands came to cup for your face. His deep brown eyes met yours through the pale glow of the moonlight casted over your faces. “I swear on my life, you will always be safe with me.”

and while the lone coyote sang his song to the moon, Joel Miller had you singing your own song, just for his ears too.

After that night spent together, you never had a night where you slept alone. Joel was always there. Holding you, kissing you, fucking you into a blissful state.

He still feared for your safety, and you feared for his. This would never change, but you refused to live in fear for the rest of your life.

It was a boiling hot day under the blazing desert sun. You and Joel were moving west towards California. Hearing about the gold rush there sounded like as good of an opportunity as any. Not even just for the gold, but the prospects of a new life. Joel had dreams of owning a ranch, sheep specifically and living out his days with you by his side.

“Come join me for a swim, cowboy.” You were sitting side by side under the one single tree along the river's edge. Your two horses were drinking their fill after traveling for days in these conditions.

Your cowboy had his arms crossed behind his head, biceps bulging under the thin fabric of his shirt. His hat was tipped down over his head. You only witnessed Joel being fully relaxed on a few occasions where he would let his guard down for just mere minutes.

“Mmm. That’s alright, doll. Y’go on and enjoy yourself.” He said with a lazy sigh.

“Just a quick one together? Please?” You reached over and gently lifted the brim of his hat just enough so you could see his closed eyes.”

“Chickadee..” he said in a low warning tone, peeking one eye open to look up at you before he shut it once more.

“You’re no fun.” You huffed while releasing your gentle grip on his hat.

“M’plenty fun, doll. I gotta keep watch, anyway. Can’t do that if I’m stark naked in the river with ya. What if someone tries to sneak up? Won’t have my gun at arms reach.” He sighed.

“I know, Joel.”

Maybe when we get to California..he won’t have to worry about all of that.

He sat up turning his body to face you before his palm came to rest upon your cheek in a gentle caress. His thumb brushed across your lower lip, tugging it down gently before he leaned in and kissed you sweetly. “Now go on and cool off, Chickadee.”

You kissed him back with the same amount of sweetness before you pulled away and gave his nose a light boop. His face scrunched inwards before he reached around and gave your ass a light and playful swat that sent you giggling as you rose to your feet.

You shot him a seductive wink before you raced down to the river's edge, kicking up a cloud of dirt with your boots.

Joel watched from afar with a hooded gaze as you stripped down from your skirts and blouse followed by your unlaced boots. He couldn’t help but chuckle to himself when your one boot wouldn’t give right away and you nearly tripped before finally getting it off. He kept watch as you dove into the crystal clear waters and reameraged moments later.

He reached into his pack, pulling out an apple and pocket knife while you splashed around like a kid on Christmas. He cut off a small slice before biting it off on the edge of the knife, chewing thoughtfully as he leaned back against the sturdy tree.

When we get to California..I’m going to marry her.

He didn’t want to end your fun so soon..but it was time to get moving again. He brought his thumb and forefinger into his mouth, whistling to let you know that it was time to pack up.

You had been floating peacefully on your back with your eyes closed when you heard his whistle that immediately tore you from your daydream state.

He was just about to stand up from where he was resting against the tree when you emerged from the river. You reminded him of a goddess. Bare, beautiful, skin sprinkled in water droplets that were kissed by the sun. You looked unreal, and he was the luckiest man alive.

“C’mon, Chickadee. We gotta head out.” He called for you when you were within earshot.

“I’m coming!” You bent down to gather up your clothes before the idea struck you. “Can I dry off first, please?”

He let out a grumbled sigh before he ultimately nodded his head in agreement. A few more minutes couldn’t hurt..

“Jus’ till ya dry off, doll.”

With your clothes and boots gathered up in your bare arms, you approached him casually, setting everything down on your nearby saddle while he watched you with piqued curiosity.

“I was thinking about you out there..laying on my back and feeling the warmth of the sun on my skin..” you trailed off.

“Is that so? Hmm..what were you thinkin’ about, Chickadee?” His eyes slowly trailed down your bare body. From the swell of your breasts, down your tummy and thighs and what lay between them.

“Want to take a guess, cowboy?” You asked teasingly.

His brow raised as a grin tugged along the corner of his lips. A game is what you were playing, and he was the willing participant.

“Based on your tone, I’m gonna guess it’s got somethin’ to do with..my cock?” He wiggled his eyebrows in a suggestive manner while his hand casually came to rest between his own thighs. Oh, he was playing alright.

“Mmm..perhaps I was thinkin’ of ridin’ your cock right under the shade of this tree..but that would be too obvious, Joel.” Your eyes drifted down to where his hand was before the traveled down the expanse of his strong thighs and ending at the toe of his leather boots.

He caught onto your drift almost immediately and you saw his pupils begin to darken. “Y’wanna ride my boot? Is’that it? Well, ain’t you a filthy thing, Chickadee. You wanna get ‘em all shined up for me? Drag that sweet cunt of yours over them?”

His eyes stayed locked on yours in a challenging stare while he palmed himself through his pants to relieve the growing tension.

“I do, sir. I really, really, really want to ride your boot.” You could feel the heat rise to your cheeks because never in your wildest dreams did you expect to take part in debauchery such as this.

“On your knees then, girl. Kiss ‘em for me.” He fell right into character with a flip of a switch.

You found yourself lowering onto your knees without a care in the world about the dirt while you bent down over his boots, pressing a kiss to the leather, dragging your tongue down the stitched seam.

“That’s it, doll. Get ‘em nice and shined up for me.” He said while popping the button on his pants open and pulling his cock free from the confines.

“You gonna touch yourself while I ride your boot, mister?” You were sitting upright again before you crawled closer, letting your hands rest along his thighs as you positioned yourself right above his left boot. The imprint of your kiss had already begun to dry from the scorching heat.

“Yeah, doll. I’m gonna fist my cock while you ride my boot like the dirty Chickadee that you are.” He spat into his palm before he wrapped his fist around the base of his cock just as you lowered yourself over the expanse of his boot, taking your lip between your teeth when you dragged your clit right across the smooth leather.

“Fuuck me. Ain’t that a sight. Look at you, fuckin’ filthy girl. S’feel good, Chickadee?”

You rolled your hips forward slowly at the rate that he was pumping his fist. A soft whimper slipped past your lips while your eyes stayed locked on his.

“Feels so good, mister. So—so good.” You moaned freely with each steady roll of your hips, chasing that high. Nothing would ever compare to Joel’s cock. You knew this, he knew this, and you also were aware that this little game would only last so long.

And then he watched you lose yourself completely on his boot with each roll and grind of your hips against the dampened leather. Crying out his name, nails digging into his covered thighs, head thrown back, tears nearly flooding your eyes.

He had the same sense of urgency and realization that nothing would ever compare to the warm hug of your pussy around his cock. That’s when the game ended as his strong arms came to lift you into his lap by your thighs. His lips met yours in a bruising kiss filled with intermingled moans and teeth clashing together when he finally slipped into your warmth.

California could wait a little longer, he wanted to savor this moment for as long as it lasted because now he had the love that he had been dreaming of all his life. Right here in his arms, cock buried to the hilt under the shade of this very tree. Right here with his Chickadee.

That’s the kinda love I’ve been dreaming of

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[domesticgoddess22]

wish upon a cowboy

prologue

pairing: raider!joel miller x fem!reader

Summary: A rugged raider takes you under his wing after hunters leave you for dead. The two of you form a team and you quickly grow attached to him–mumbling, grumbling, protective Joel Miller. When you divulge your wishes to experience life before the outbreak, Joel decides to make them come true. All of them.

warnings: age gap (early 20s/mid 40s), praise kink, breeding kink, daddy kink, unplanned pregnancy, unprotected piv, canon-typical violence, light choking, dom!Joel, angst word count: 22k+ in progress (prologue 1.8k) rating: 18+ explicit MDNI masterlist here

Late September in Texas was more like summer than it was fall. It’s a whopping 90 degrees outside, or so you guess since a thermometer wasn’t on your list of important things to haul around. You just have an inkling that it’s a sunburn passed 89 with the way the Austin sun scorches your skin. 

You’re gradually making your way across the farmlands out west, one cornfield and run-down farmhouse at a time. All of this walking is making your feet get all blistered and bruised and it was beginning to sour your mood. 

Joel notices.

“‘S wrong?” Joel grumbles over his shoulder. 

“Feet are killin’ me. Can we stop or are we gonna hit every farmhouse in Texas first?”

He mumbles something under his breath before coming to an abrupt stop. You slam into his backpack and he swings around, giving you his full attention. 

“Five minutes,” he says, a deep voice scraping the ground. His face is glistening with sweat and his shirt is half unbuttoned so you can see the tufts of hair poking out from his chest. “Then we need to get movin’.”

It makes sense why he’s in a hurry. Neither of you have much food to last more than a day or two, so Joel was very keen on frequent scavenging, grabbing medicine you might need for later, and sustenance.

“Always in such a rush,” you tease, finding a spot to sit on the dirt road. There’s a subtle smirk on your face that’s quickly wiped away when you rub the soles of your feet, careful not to touch your open sores. You hiss at the odd mixture of relief and pain as you knead into your skin.

Joel chews his cheek in thought and then digs through the front pocket of his pack. He leans down so he’s eye level with you, resting his left hand on his knee as he hands you an aged bottle of Neosporin. “Here. Put this on.” 

You notice how his brown eyes shine gold with the way the sun is angled on his face. The salt and pepper threads of his beard are more defined up close. He’s probably in his mid-late forties. You wish you knew, but he never told you anything about himself. Said it was better that way. 

“Thanks.” 

There’s really so much more you want to know about the man you’ve been shacking up with for the last few weeks. You guys didn't even have a label for what you two were to each other–a team? Partners? You didn’t dare entertain anything beyond that, but a label would guarantee that your relationship was something more permanent and you wouldn’t end up alone in this fucked up world. Again.

You hated that about yourself too–your need to latch on to anyone who showed you a sliver of kindness. Sure, Dad always said that building a network of people you can rely on is a survival instinct. There’s some truth to that nowadays. You knew you wouldn’t make it far without someone strong and sturdy like Joel.

Unfortunately, you’re starting to think this little attachment of yours isn't just about survival.

“Guess you’re not so bad after all?” you say, kicking away your inner thoughts and dotting your sores with nearly dried out cream.

“Ain’t all that bad, huh? What about when I saved your life, kid?” There’s a playful lilt to his tone that you pick up on. He’s normally grumbly and annoyed with you, so it’s as loud as a blaring horn if he’s showing you emotion other than grumpiness.

“Hmmm, I guess I can give you credit for that one.” 

He’s still looking at you, a smirk creeping up on his lips as his shoulders jerk in laughter. You remember meeting Joel like it was yesterday. He found you, a month and some change ago, rotting on the side of the road with a bullet planted in your thigh. Pain dug its nasty claws into the wound, twisting it so it spread down to your knees and up to your groin. Death was coming for you, but you clung to life like you were hanging onto the edge of a cliff, sweaty fingers slipping one by one.

“Ain’t lookin’ good for you, darlin’.” 

“Fuckin’ hunters,” you said, grinding your teeth. You’d curse them with your last breath if you had to. 

“Yeah…” 

“You gonna put my lights out? Put me outta my misery?” Sweat stuck to your upper lip and the world looked all fuzzy and white.

There was a quietness as he stared at you, turning your words over a few times behind his dark brown eyes. And then he said, “Naw, kid. I ain’t gonna do that.”

The only thing that kept you tied to this earth was standing right in front of you now, flannel shirt, rugged exterior, a charming Southern accent, and a smolder that lit a flame in your heart.

It’s possible you caught feelings for him simply because he saved your life. Stopped your bleeding, took you to a doc friend of his and had your bullet removed, and he checked in on you on the daily with a simple how you feelin’, darlin’? Ya need anythin’? And when you asked him to stay with you while you slept one night to keep the night terrors at bay, he did. Even though he didn’t know you, and had no obligation to you, he stayed by your side.

Always loyal, reliable–albeit a little grumpy–Joel. 

You healed up in about a week and a half. Then Joel said he was heading west and asked if you wanted to tag along and you said yes, a little too eagerly at that.

Maybe he was lonely and liked having you around. Didn’t look like he had anyone else. You were a talker afterall, always had something to say to fill the dead space. He’d never say much back, he’d just mumble something here or there and you were convinced that you were just talking to the fields at one point.

Now here you are, sores on your feet from traveling twenty miles with him as he hands you Neosporin. Maybe he did care about you in more than a partner sense. It was a false spark of hope that little crush wasn��t all just a fantasy in your head about an older guy who didn’t seem to reciprocate your feelings whatsoever. 

“Looks like there might be a cornershop down the road there, think you can make it to one last stop before we call it for the night?” Joel drawls, standing back up from his crouching position, groaning as his knees pop from the postural shift.

You cock a brow. “Are you gonna make it?”

“Don’t worry about me, darlin’. I’ll be fine.” 

“Uhuh.”

After a few minutes of rest, you and Joel head down to the old corner shop. If you were lucky, maybe you’d find peanut butter or something to curb your cravings. Joel’s palette for scavenged goods was a little more complex: coffee, whiskey, and canned meats. 

The two of you had a system of operation already. Joel would scout the inside, make sure there weren’t any infected in there, and then when the coast was clear he’d wave you in. It was better this way since you weren’t a pro at dealing with infected just yet.

Through the dusty, broken glass shards of the window, you watch Joel pace up and down the aisles with a steady grip on his shotgun. Shoulders tense, brows furrowed, eyes focused. Hunting.

A few moments later, he waves you in.

You find a box of cereal and granola bars in the breakfast aisle. A smirk peels across your face when you find a 14 oz jar of instant coffee. There was a small sense of accomplishment that bubbled within you whenever you found any of his favorite items.

“Can I interest you in Nescafe?” You pronounce the word like Nescoffee, wiggling your brows and feeling proud that you found something he likes. 

“It’s cafe,”  he lectures and you roll your eyes.

“You’re supposed to say thank you!” you hiss. 

“Mmm,” he hums, stepping towards you, his boots thudding on the old, cracked concrete. “Wasn’t even the good stuff back then, but hell, it feels like it's worth an arm ‘n a leg now.”

“Hmmm. I wouldn’t know the difference.” 

It was true, you were five when it all went down, far too young to remember much from the old world, which felt like a blessing at times since that meant you can't miss what you never really had. 

“‘S probably for the best.”

“Sometimes. But other times I think I would have loved to see the world–all this,” you sweep your hand across the shop, “filled with lights. And life. I wanna taste a fresh cup of coffee from a cafe, wanna eat pie at a diner, learn how to drive a car so I can pass my driver’s test, go to school, work. Go on a date.”

You sigh wistfully. “And then maybe get married, have kids…” there’s an image of before that you’ve pieced in your mind based on stories you’ve read, pictures you’ve come across, and what little memory your five year old self retained. “But… none of that can happen now.”

“Damn, you really thought a lotta ‘bout life from before. They ain’t keepin’ you busy back in the QZ.”

“You got to do all that. Even though it’s gone now, at least you had the chance to feel what it was like to really live.”

A flicker of recognition shines in Joel’s eyes, something you could only assume was memories of his past that he was now forced to reflect on. 

“I’m curious to know how old you are now. Did ya get to do all those things?” You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, gaze flitting up to Joel. He shifts his focus to the faded Nescafe label, feeling the old sticker with the pad of his thumb. 

The glimmer of nostalgia–of warm memories–recedes as Joel’s eyes go dark. 

You suck your teeth and then smile sarcastically. “I’m gonna guess you’re old enough to be my daddy.” Teasing Joel was becoming a pastime of yours, and you couldn’t help but flirt a little.

He stiffens for a minute, mouth still permanently sculpted into a frown as he tucks the instant coffee into his backpack. “You gonna look for som’ we can eat or ya just gonna stand there lookin’ pretty?” he growls, and you swear you see his eyes flit to your breasts before stomping away.

You purse your lips together, eyes fixed on his broad shoulders before he disappears behind one of the shelves. You snatch a few cans of tuna and peas, muttering grumpy old man under your breath while you do.

“Think I saw a place down the road where we can stay for the night,” the low timbre of his voice echoes from across the shop. 

Your cheeks burn. You loved sleeping near Joel every night. Made you feel protected–safe.

A small, desperate voice in your head silently wishes you’d be sleeping in his arms this time and not across a campfire.

Maybe this time you’ll finally get to feel the heat of his skin against yours.

~~~

Thank you for reading the prologue! I have about 6 chapters out on Ao3 right now for this story.

[artficlly]

a dish served cold (mini series - final part)

Wild West Marvel AU

outlaw!bucky x reader

after the murder of your pa, you go on a journey to find justice. fate brings you to crimson junction for a reason, and that reason is bucky barnes. 

Warnings: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, guns, violence, kidnapping, kissing, groping ig, angst, bit of fluff, mentions of murder/death, sexual tension, death of parent, verbal fighting/argument, outlaw bucky, protective bucky, betrayal, animal death, animal skinning, mention of bounty hunters, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 5.5k

Taglist: @cakesandtom

A/N: the final part!! the journey is over. thank you all for reading along, this mini-series was so fun yet challenging to write. i mentioned in the first part but this series was the first thing i wrote after a years hiatus. at the end of the chapter i'll talk a little bit more about my plans etc for my writing. sorry for any typos - not proof read.

main masterlist | series masterlist

The kiss starts softly, a hesitant exploration as your lips meet. The touch is tentative, each of you testing the waters, but quickly, the dam of your mutual restraint breaks. His mouth is warm and insistent, moving against yours with a hunger that matches your own. The initial gentleness gives way to a needy, passionate desire.

You respond eagerly, your hands threading through his hair, feeling the softness of his dark locks between your fingers. You pull him closer, needing to eliminate the space between you. The world around you fades away until there is nothing but the two of you, tangled together in the grass, the sky above painted with the last hues of twilight.

His tongue teases yours, the sensation sending shivers down your spine. His hands trail down your sides, coming to rest on your hips. You arch into him, moaning into his mouth, desperate to feel more of his touch, to drown in his scent.

Bucky rolls over, his movements are fluid and urgent, pinning you beneath him. The weight of his body pressing you into the soft earth. His hands roam your torso, exploring the curves of your waist and the swell of your breasts. A hand slips under your blouse while another slides beneath your skirts, digits tracing upward along your thigh. You shudder beneath him, your nails scratching into his clothed back. You hook a leg around his hips as he settles between your thighs.

You want him, desperately, painfully. His fingers continue their ascent, brushing against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, drawing a gasp from your lips.

Your hands clutch at him, nails digging deeper into his shoulders as you pull him closer, needing to feel him against you, above you, inside you. His mouth moves from your lips to your jaw, then to your neck, leaving a trail of kisses. You tilt your head back, eyes fluttering shut as he groans against your skin.

You were blinded by pleasure until that moment. As the sound leaves his lips you suddenly become acutely aware of your position. There is a small thought. An itch at the back of your skull, one growing louder and larger than the pleasure reverberating through your body. It gnaws at you—an insistent whisper.

His breath is hot against your neck, the low growl of his voice sends shivers down your spine as he murmurs your name—

Reality crashes in like a tidal wave. He killed your father. The man you crave, the man who is now touching you so intimately, so masterfully… took away the person you loved most. Your breath hitches, a tremor running through you as your mind battles against your body’s desires.

"Stop," you whisper, the word barely escaping your lips.

The outlaw doesn’t hear you at first, too distracted by his lust. His fingers ghost over your mound through your undergarments now, and your body reacts to the small amount of friction. You clench around nothing, but the momentary high is short-lived. You can’t do this. You can’t give in to lust, to sin. Not with him. Not after what he did.

Your heart pounds wildly in your chest, the weight of your grief and anger pressing down on you. The heat between your thighs is nothing compared to the burning pain in your heart. Memories of your father flash before your eyes—his laugh, his protective embrace, the life you once had. All taken by the man now laying atop you.

Your body tenses, and the weight of him suddenly becomes unbearable. Panic rises in your throat, your breath coming in short, desperate pants. The fire in your veins turns to ice.

Your palms find his shoulders as you shove at him hard, your voice rising in desperation.

“Stop!” you shout, the word tearing from your throat with a force that surprises even you.

Bucky immediately pulls back, rolling off of you and lying beside you in the grass. He looks at you with a mixture of regret and concern, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. You scramble away from him, curling into a ball, wrapping your arms tightly around yourself as if to shield against the storm of emotions crashing over you.

“I can’t,” you choke out. “I can’t after what you did to him.”

Bucky remains silent, his gaze fixed on the darkening sky. His lips move, but the words are barely audible—more a whisper to himself than a response to you. “I didn’t kill him.”

You blink, his words not making sense at first. The meaning eludes you, tangled in a haze of shock and confusion. It’s like trying to grasp smoke—the truth slipping through your fingers.

“What?” you ask, your voice trembling. “What did you say?”

He turns his head slightly, his eyes searching for yours in the dim light. His lips are swollen, glossy from your saliva. “I didn’t—I didn’t kill him,” he repeats, his voice a low, pained mutter.

The words slowly register, the pieces clicking into place with a jarring realisation. Anger surges up, hot and blinding, as the implications of his confession hit you.

“What?” you demand again, more forcefully this time. “What did you just say?”

“I didn’t shoot him. It was—” He cuts himself off with a sigh. “It was complicated, alright?”

“Why are you lyin’?” You demand. 

“I ain’t, sweetheart.” He says softly, his tone pleading.

“I don’t believe you.” You snap, eyes narrowed. “My Ma saw you. She told me that you were responsible. She pointed out your poster.”

“Forget I said anythin’—” Bucky mutters, turning his head away.

“So you were lyin’? And you really expected me to believe—did you think I would take pity on you—” 

“Stop—”

“This is a new low truly, Barnes—”

“Enough—”

“You make me—”

“Enough!” He bellows, frustration and pain etched across his face. His shout startles you into silence, and you freeze in disbelief. He has sat up now, his hulking body dwarfing yours in the close proximity. “If you would let me speak, I can explain.”

You raise your hands in defeat, shaking your head at him. “Go on then.”

“No. We never – I never wanted to shoot anyone. Me and my boys, we always had a rule. No children, no women, no innocents. Only law, bounty hunters, ‘n all that. We never killed for sport, no matter what they try to get you to believe. But that job… that train job. It went bad. Law turned up too early, and we panicked.”

He pauses, the weight of his words hanging in the air. “I was tryna get a wedding ring off some lady, bad business I know. She was wailin’ and hollerin’ and my boys were tellin’ me to hurry up. Your Pa, well he stepped up. All heroic like, tried to grab the gun ‘n -–” Bucky trails off. 

“You shot him.” Your voice is flat, devoid of emotion.

Bucky frowned hard, then spoke up in a near whisper. “No. He just… dropped dead in front of me.”

Silence falls between you, heavy and suffocating. Your heart pounds in your chest, your mind struggling to process his words. 

“Some lawman had jumped onto the train, in the chaos mistaken him for one of us. Shot him in the back of the head while he was arguin’ with me, playin’ hero.”

You were silent. Dead silent. You feared you could not even feel your own pulse, as if you had dropped dead on the spot. You felt the blood drain from your face, your mind sweeping back to memories, conversations that you had with your Ma. 

She had never said Bucky had shot your Pa. Only that he was responsible. 

A series of emotions flashed through you, grief, rage… you felt as if you were moments away from emptying your stomach as the dread rose through your body, leaving you numb. 

“Your Ma must’ve blamed me for it, gettin’ him tangled up in that mess.” He paused as he saw you sweep your head around to look at him once more. “I ain’t askin’ for forgiveness. I just–” 

“Why would she…” Your tongue, although heavy, finally begins to work once more, paralysing shock still leaving your body rigid. 

“I don’t know.”

There is a long pause between the two of you. 

“Why didn’t you say something sooner? Why did you play along?”

“Do you really think you would’ve believed me?”

You shake your head, dumbfounded. “No. I don’t believe you, even now.” You say, although even you are unsure if you mean what you say.

“It felt cruel to correct you after all you did, n’ after all the shit we’ve been through. It might’ve been the wrong time, wrong place situation darlin’ but I am still partly responsible for what happened.”

You don’t know how, but tears begin to spill across your cheeks. A ragged sob leaves your chest as you hug your middle. Maybe it was the exhaustion or hunger. Maybe days of walking across a desert, days of being under the captivity of cruel men. 

In that moment, all you wanted to do was hug your Pa. Breathe in the scent of ash and leather, feel his callused hands brush through your hair. You missed the way he would hum to himself in the forge, how he and you Ma would laugh and dance in the kitchen. You missed your home, baking with your Ma, walking to church, and laughing with your friends. 

It had all been torn away from you so quickly. Sudden and violent. And the man you blamed wasn’t even guilty. You had come all this way… for nothing.  

“Oh, sweetheart. I’m sorry.” You barely register Bucky’s words. You hadn’t even noticed his attention turn back to you. He was closer now, having moved closer until he sat in front of you. 

His hand raises up, rough skin wiping away the tears still streaking down your face. You lean into his touch, lids heavy. How desperately these past days you had just wanted someone to hold you. 

You tilt your head, Bucky’s hand cupping your cheek. You look up at him through wet lashes. His eyes are darker than usual, which you quickly realise is due to his pupils being blown. His lips part as he gazes down upon your bruised face, his finger tracing across your split lip. 

He brushes strands of hair from your face, and you freeze up. You feel your entire body tense in a wave before you stiffly pull away. Your gaze hardens, tears running dry as you compose yourself. 

Bucky looks somewhat stunned by your sudden change in demeanour. After he beat he follows your lead, his own expression hardening as he withdraws. The sweet moment is dust on the wind, a tense atmosphere descending in seconds. 

“This doesn’t change anythin’. If my Ma thinks you’re responsible, then I will bring her justice.” You say, words chosen carefully as you navigate the tight feeling in your chest. Dread, you realised. With each word you spoke you felt dread creeping up your throat.

“I wouldn’t expect anythin’ less.” Bucky replies. He doesn’t seem disappointed or upset. Rather, he seems somewhat proud.

You look down at his unbound hands. He still hadn’t tried to attack you, nor escape. 

He seems to have accepted his fate. 

—-

You made a point of skinning the rabbit with expert precision. 

From a young age, your Ma made a point of teaching you all sorts of skills. She had wanted you to be delicate, educated, and kind, but also a bit rough around the edges. Capable. You often recalled the time, as a child, when your Ma took you into the yard, handed you an axe, and ordered you to slaughter one of your hens for supper. You had cried at the time, but you had eventually swung that axe down as not not get a beating. 

How strange it was that you had cried over a simple chicken. How would you have reacted in the past to the thought of killing a man? You wondered if Bucky had cried the first time he killed, if he had thrown up his guts and sat in paralytic shock for hours as you had. 

You look over at him to find he had a rather queasy look on his face as he watched you work. 

Your thumbs strain as you push the rabbit’s knee points through the thin layer of fur, stripping it with a pulling motion down its little legs. Without a knife, you had to make do. The final product wouldn’t be perfectly stripped, but it would be close enough. You tug the rest of the skin downward, and it slides off in a sleeve, leaving the raw, pink flesh exposed.

As you prepare it over the fire, your mind drifts. There was a sort of homesickness that nestled in your chest, a sickening fimilarlity of going through the motions of cooking a meal. It’s hard not to think of home, of your Ma and Pa, and how life was before all this. You had never known a day without food or a comfortable bed.

Despite knowing that some of your survival is due to sheer luck, you can’t deny Bucky’s role in keeping you alive. Without his help, how much longer would you have starved? True, you’re in this desert because of him, but you’re also not dead because of him. He had killed your Pa—or hadn’t; it’s all so confusing now after his confession. If you didn’t know him, if he were a total stranger, would you assume him a killer? Yes, there was a darkness to him, something in his eye akin to a wild animal that was caged. But there was also a sadness. A mystery yet to be solved. 

Why would a man willingly choose a life of crime? Or had he been given no choice at all? All the actions he had shown you, the way he presented himself—he didn’t seem like a man who enjoyed cruelty. 

When the rabbit is finally cooked through, the aroma nearly drives you mad with hunger. In some half-starved madness, you leave Bucky untied, allowing him to enjoy a meal unbound for the first time in days. It’s an unspoken thank you for his guidance earlier, a small gesture of trust.

The two of you eat in silence, too ravenous to bother with civility. The rabbit, although unseasoned and a bit tough, almost brings you to tears. You never thought you would feel so emotional about having warm food in your belly.

It was nearly thirty minutes later that he finally broke the silence that had plagued you, his eyes downcast while you stared into the flickering fire. “Where’d ya learn to skin a rabbit like that?”

You consider his words, deciding if you could be bothered with dignifying the outlaw with a response.

“My Ma. That’s all she ever talked about, cookin’ n’ cleanin’. Womans work. Used to bore me to tears, I would hide out in the forge with my Pa until she came n’ found me, dragged me back to the house by my ear.” A part of you wished for the simplicity of house chores to be your only worry.

“I take it ya don’t get along with yer Ma much?” Bucky asks as you fidget with your skirts. 

“We got along fine enough. She just raised me like she was raised—to be a wife.” You reply with a sigh. You were never raised to be out here, to become a murderer in some damn desert with a wanted criminal. “I feel like we’ve had this conversation before, Barnes.”

“It’s just nice, thinkin’ about a normal life like that.”

Your brows arch as you look at him over the flames. “Why, you never had chores?”

“Never had parents,” he replies.

You suck in a sharp breath. “Oh—”

“‘Least not ones I can remember. I grew up on the streets, fighting for scraps of food, robbin’ and pickpocketin’ to survive. Sometimes the church would give us hard tack ‘n broth, nasty shit  that was. When I got older, that was when I moved out west, got tangled up with bad men n’ bad business.” His hand waves in the air as he speaks. He doesn’t seem affected by his own sad tale.

You frown. You can’t imagine a life like that. A life of uncertainty, a life where you never knew those who were supposed to care for you the most. How different your life would have been without your mother's nagging and your father's steady hands to provide income. You almost felt embarrassed or foolish for complaining.

You must have been lost in silent, deep thought for awhile, because Bucky speaks up once more. “What does yer Ma think about you wonderin’ around in the desert playin’ bounty hunter?” He asks and you falter. 

You hadn’t told your Ma. She thought you were out husband hunting in some respectable city back east. Out of all of the thought you’d put into your journey, you’d never really stopped to consider how your Ma would react to all of this. You hoped she would be proud, that maybe she would feel peace knowing that the man who was responsible for her husband’s death would swing—but would she ever look at you the same? 

“She doesn’t know.”

“Jesus, darlin’. Ya wondered out here without tellin’ nobody?”

You frown hard at the ground and decide it is best to ignore his question. 

Would you tell her all that you had done to survive? The sins you had committed? The lies you had woven to keep yourself safe? The people you hurt, the blood that stained your hands? Could you look into her eyes and confess that you had become the very monster you had set out to destroy? The person she had raised, the child she had nurtured, was now a stranger? Would she even recognise you or see only the shadow of what you used to be?

Each memory, each act of desperation… The faces of those you had deceived, the cries of those you had harmed—all in the name of staying alive. You had told yourself it was necessary, that there was no other way, but did necessity excuse the darkness that had taken root in your soul? Could good intentions justify evil actions?

“Do you think good people can do evil things?” 

You hear Bucky shift in place. “Yes.”

You look up at him, truly look at him. The firelight warms his dark hair, casting a soft glow over his features. His blue eyes hold a gentleness you hadn't noticed before, and his eyebrows draw into a concerned frown. You inspect every inch of him: his chiselled jawline, defined cheekbones, and now that he’s clear of dirt, the gash across his temple where you struck him. His stubble is slowly growing into a short beard

Your eyes travel down his neck, past his Adam’s apple that bobs as he nervously swallows.

“I thought finding you would give me more of a reason to hate you.” You admit, hands wringing together. “But I have found it is the opposite.”

Bucky’s eyebrows lift in surprise as you sigh. 

“You don’t know me. You have never truly known me. Yet each time, each version of myself that I present, you have shown me kindness. You have protected me from the men I expected you to be. And I can’t help but think back on all those apparent criminals I have watched hang, the ones the law bring in. Some of them are bad men, men who have killed, robbed, worse. But some are just people. Some were just mothers tryin’ to feed their children, fathers tryin’ to keep their families afloat. Children who are on the streets, pickpocketin’ for their next meal…”

You trail off, voice wobbling. “It makes me… it makes me sick.”

“It ain’t black and white, sweetheart,” Bucky says softly. “A good man can be bad as equally as a bad man can be good. I find that both breeds are as desperate as each other. They’d do terrible things to survive.”” 

You believe him. You’ve known bad men—bad men who paraded themselves as gentlemen, men whom society praised. Men who took what they pleased and killed anyone who got in their way, yet were rewarded.

“Why did you do it?” You ask.

Bucky is quiet, as if contemplating.

“Why did you rob that train?” you repeat, your voice firmer.

“Because I was desperate,” he finally speaks. “‘Cause I had nothin’ and nobody. ‘Cept for my boys, of course, but we all grew up the same. Thievin’ is all we know, darlin’. It’s all I know.”

You believed him.

You believe him because, despite everything, you can’t shake the feeling that he’s stolen your heart too.

��

The rising dread remained.

You couldn’t place it as fear. You weren’t feeling exposed or in danger; rather, it felt as if you were doing something deeply wrong. The feeling nagged at you all through the following day.

Bucky trailed behind you on foot, hands bound. You were more forgiving than you had been previously, halting your horse whenever he stumbled so he could regain his footing. You’d stop regularly to drink from the river. Your stolen horse was growing weary; the prairie grass was not substantial enough to fill her belly, and the heat continued to beat down mercilessly.

A thin layer of sweat coated your body, and you imagined your skin had grown red and irritated from the constant sun. Bucky was certainly used to this lifestyle, but you noticed the peeling skin across his forehead, nose, and lips had grown worse.

Your thoughts often lingered back to moments you had shared, the things the two of you had spoken of. The conflict of good and bad men had long plagued your mind, and the idea of there being something in between, something not wholly one or the other… well, your church-going, God-fearing grandmama would roll in her grave at the idea. You had been raised to believe that good people went to heaven, while the bad were pulled straight to hell. You wondered where Bucky would go—limbo? Neither bad nor good? Did that mean all the men you could think of—the ones who showed you kindness and the ones who showed you evil—would end up there too? Was life not more complex than simply good or evil?

Your gaze swept back to Bucky. You pictured him as he had been at that river, hair wet and dripping down his defined back and chiselled chest. Your eyes had followed the droplets as they trickled down lower, lower. You’d think of his lips against yours, his hot breath along your skin, his fingers trailing up your thigh—

You snap your head back around, focusing ahead. The sun stung your eyes, but you pressed on.

It was only as the silhouette of a small town came into view that you nearly let out a small sob.

It seemed to be a travelers’ town, a place to rest and pick up supplies while braving this endless desert. You were sure you could somehow wrangle up some supplies with the little cash you had—you could also use some of your acting skills you had picked up along your journey to make yourself more persuasive.

As the two of you drew closer, you expected to feel relief, joy even. But instead, that rising dread reared its ugly head, pushing down on your chest. Maybe it was the heat, but it suddenly felt as if you could scarcely breathe, the gasps you took in not substantial enough to fill your lungs.

When you went into the general store, would you see the posters? Would Barnes’ face be decorated across their walls, a sneering criminal with a price tag? Would you see the face of the man you hated, the one you loathed for so long that you took matters into your own hands?

As sick as it made you feel, as ridiculous as it felt to admit…

Maybe you didn’t want Bucky to swing.

The thought hit you hard, like a church bell chiming. Your entire body reverberated from the shock. Your hands moved before you had time to think, tugging on the reins as you pulled your horse to a halt. The town wasn’t far away; you could see the bustle of people on the streets, waggons moving in and out.

It took a moment for the sun to thaw your frozen stature. You swing your leg over, boots hitting the dry earth, and march over to Bucky.

“What are you doin’?” He questions, his voice a mix of confusion and suspicion. You don’t answer, your focus is solely on his bound wrists.

His mouth opens to protest, his body tensing as if he were bracing for an attack. His eyes widened, watching your every move.

Your hands, steady yet trembling slightly, grasped his wrists. You felt the rough texture of the rope against your fingers as you began to unwind it, each loop coming undone with a deliberate tug. The outlaw remained still, his breathing shallow. The rope fell away, freeing his wrists. Before you could change your mind, you threw the length away, the fibers thudding against the nearby earth, disappearing into the tall grass.

“You’re free,” you demand, motioning outward with a sweeping gesture. He stared at you, confusion etching deep lines into his face, his brows knitting together. “Go.”

“Go where?” Bucky retorts.

“Anywhere. I don’t know. Just take the damn horse, get out of here before someone in the town recognises you.” You insist. 

“What are you gonna do?” His voice is low, tinged with a concern that catches you off guard.

“What does it matter?” Your voice raises.

“You’re expecting me to strand you out in some junction town, penniless? Women have become whores for much more, sweetheart.” Bucky counters, his tone a mix of disbelief and something softer, almost protective.

“Why do you care?” You shout, and the outlaw pauses in disbelief. Your chest rises and falls, anger and exhaustion leaving you on the cusp of tears. 

“‘Cause it’s my fault you’re here, in this mess.” The outlaw clarifies, his voice heavy with guilt. You flinched as he raised his hand, his movement slow and deliberate. You held your breath as his fingers slowly reached towards your face, moving with the caution one might use with a spooked animal. His fingertips ghost over your temple, where a scab had begun to form over the split in your skin, down past your bruised cheek. You suck in a sharp breath as his fingers reach lower, passing over your split lip, then down further to your bruised neck. 

Your breathing comes to a halt.

In that moment, the outlaw wasn’t the hardened criminal you had feared and hated. He was just a man, broken and remorseful, seeking redemption in the most unlikely of places. And you, despite everything, found yourself caught in the web of his sorrow, unable to turn away.

“I’m a bad man, darlin’. And I’m tired. No matter where I run, I will always be a wanted man. I will always be hunted. Maybe it’s best I let you get your vengance, let you move on with your life.” 

Your ribcage felt too small for your body, each word squeezing tighter and tighter, like a vice around your chest. The sensation was suffocating, the pain flaring up and spreading through your lungs, making it hard to draw a full breath.

Heartache. 

Why did you feel each of his words tearing you apart?

“I think I hated the idea of you.” You burst out, your tongue feeling thick. “I hated what I thought you were. But now I realise... that it was never real.” The outlaw remained silent as you threw your hands up in the air in frustration. “Even now, faced with freedom, all you worry about is me! Why? Why are you making this so difficult? It’s infuriating.”

You turned away, staring back towards the town, seeking solace in its silhouette.

“I’m sorry I can’t be the man you want me to be.” The outlaw speaks quietly behind you. You looked over your shoulder in disbelief. He stood tall, stoic as always, but you could see through it. You could see how his shoulders curled in, as if ashamed. His eyes had always been so icy, stark, and blue, in contrast to the red earth that surrounded you. But now, those eyes seemed softer as they looked down at you, the crow's feet between his brows relaxing.

“I need you to go, Bucky.” You say slowly, quietly. 

Bucky opens his mouth to argue, but you stalk forward, pressing your pointer finger to his chest.

“Do it. For me. As a thank you, for this journey. As terrible as it was.”

The outlaw considered your words, then wordlessly smiled. The smirk was small, just a quirk of the corner of his mouth. He nodded slowly, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed.

“Will it make you happy?”

“Yes.”

“Alright, darlin’. That’s all I needed to hear.”

You let out a deep breath, walking back a few paces. A sense of relief flooded your veins, and you could finally breathe again. The curling sense of dread still remained—anxiety wracked your brain. What would this mean for you? Would letting him go be a mistake? How would you and your mother survive? You brush it aside for the moment, instead relishing your quiet moment of relief as the outlaw stands next to the horse.

You watch as he pulls your rifle—your father’s rifle—from the saddle. With a grunt, he tosses it across to you. The metal glints in the sun as it arcs through the air towards you. You catch it, staring down at the wooden grain, the familiar weight grounding you.

The outlaw doesn’t explain, instead silently grinning to himself as he unties the saddlebags and tosses them at your feet. They were mostly empty, with only a few coins and a handful of clothing left. Bucky goes to swing into the saddle. You stare at the rifle, then swivel your head to look back at him. Before you could resist it, you bark out a quick “Wait!”

Bucky frowns, his eyes turning to you. He nearly loses his balance trying to pull his foot from the stirrup as you march towards him. Only as he steadies himself do you come to a halt, neck craning as you look up at him.  

Despite your better judgement, you reach for him, gripping the front of his shirt with a fist. His eyes flicker across your face, as if unsure where to rest. His eyes grew dark, his pupils overtaking the icy blue as you lean closer.

“Be safe.” You utter, near whispering. 

The outlaw doesn’t seem interested in words. You’re unsure if he even processed the words you spoke, as his expression has turned hungry. You had seen that expression upon him before–- desire—and for once you did not feel conflict. It drew you in further. 

Your lips part involuntarily as you sense the warmth of his breath against your skin, anticipation hanging heavy in the air. Without warning, he closes the distance between you, his lips meeting yours with an intensity that steals your breath away. His hands find your waist, fingers pressing into your sides as he pulls you firmly against him.

Responding instinctively, your own hands leave his chest and travel up, threading through his hair. The touch is electric, sending shivers down your spine as you surrender to the fervour of the moment. His lips move against yours hungrily, a silent plea.

In that moment, he consumes your very being—desperate, needy, and panting with desire. It dawns on you how long this dance of attraction has been silently playing out between you, how long the two of you have been drawn together despite all else. 

Only as the kiss slowed, his tongue slow and gentle against yours did you pull apart. Your mind was whirling, a thousand thoughts, questions, and uncertainties. You would not have time to explore them or to understand this string of fate knotted around both of you. 

When you finally pull back, breathless and overwhelmed, you rest your forehead against his, feeling the rise and fall of his chest match your own. You close your eyes for the briefest moments, feeling your breath mingle with his before you pull away completely.

“You need to go, Bucky.”

Bucky did not speak, instead nodding, and you could see the conflict written across his face. Grief for something that had just begun, but also excitement for what was to come. His tongue darted out, licking his lips as he walked backwards a few paces, as if relishing the taste of you. 

Only as he swung into the saddle did he speak, pulling the horse up alongside you. 

“When will I see you again?” He questions. 

You grin, shaking your head. 

“Get outta here, cowboy.”

---

hello!! tysm so much for reading this crazy little series of mine. if you enjoy western aus, i have two one-shots: me & the devil (outlaw!bucky x saloongirl!reader) and king of pentacles (outlaw!bucky x fortuneteller!reader - includes smut). i also have some other au series, so check out my masterlist!!

i have a feeling people will ask so yes, there will be a sequel! i have it mostly plotted but haven't started writing. it will focus on reader and bucky reuniting and teaming up with sam to free steve from jail.

i mentioned this in another post but i am going back to studying full-time (as if the first degree wasn't bad enough lol). new writing might be a bit slower to update but i'm hoping to do a similar process of pre-writing and then releasing weekly.

if you enjoyed this series please let me know!! i'm always happy to have a chat, so if you have any questions or feedback lmk. lots of love <333

[ambitionslost]

Hunter's heart raced as he held Marina close, his breath catching slightly at the gentle touch of her fingers on his wrist. The world around them seemed to fade away, leaving only this moment, this connection between them.

"You think so?" Marina's question hung in the air, her voice carrying a hint of vulnerability that tugged at his heart. Hunter swallowed hard, trying to steady his voice. "I know so," he murmured, his gaze locked on hers. The circles she was drawing on his wrist were becoming increasingly distracting, making it hard for him to focus on his words. "You're... you're incredible, Marina. Strong, talented, kind..." He trailed off, momentarily lost in the sensation of her touch. Hunter's free hand moved to tuck a strand of her blonde hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering there. "Sometimes I wonder if you know how amazing you really are," he continued, his voice low and earnest. The steady rhythm of her fingers on his pulse point seemed to ground him, anchoring him in this moment. It was a stark contrast to the chaos that usually swirled in his mind. With Marina, he felt a calmness he hadn't experienced in a long time.

"Marina," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. His hand moved to cup her cheek, thumb gently stroking her skin. "I... I'd go anywhere with you." The words came out before he could second-guess them, raw and honest. A part of him wanted to pull back, to protect himself from the intensity of what he was feeling. But looking into Marina's blue eyes, he found himself unable to retreat.

Hunter leaned in, resting his forehead against hers. His other hand moved to the small of her back, drawing her closer. "You make me feel like maybe... maybe I can be better. Like I'm not beyond redemption," he admitted softly, his voice barely above a whisper. For a moment, he allowed himself to be fully present in this moment with Marina, pushing aside the shadows that usually clouded his mind. In her arms, he felt a peace he hadn't experienced in a long time, a glimmer of hope for what could be.

"Everything I said... I meant it. All of it," Hunter affirmed, his voice gaining strength even as his heart raced beneath her touch. He leaned in slightly, drawn to her warmth, her presence. In that moment, with Marina's gentle touch on his wrist and her blue eyes gazing up at him, Hunter felt a glimmer of hope - a feeling he had almost forgotten.

Marina felt his heart beating like a drum against her ear. It was such a lovely sound. She kept her arms wrapped around him, gently stroking at his back in a comforting way, whether she was trying to comfort herself or him? She couldn't truthfully be sure. His hand moved to her hair, her breath came out as a soft sigh as his hand moved to stroke her blonde hair. It was so gentle, and comforting, it was such a perfect way to describe Hunter, and how she felt about him. He was warm, and gentle, and comforting. Marina felt safe with him in a way that was not the most common for her.

She let out an almost nervous laugh as she quickly swipes a tear from her ear. "You think so?" The petite blonde felt his breath against her ear as he whispered softly against her skin. A shiver ran up her spine. To know how someone saw you, and how someone you cared about thought of you. When all those things were voiced to her in this way, well it was lovely.

Marina pulled back to meet his gaze. Her heart was racing as she heard him. His confession was everything she wanted to hear. Her blue eyes shifted to scan his face. She could not have been happier, to hear him. She leaned into his touch as he held her cheek. Her hand slipped up to his wrist, drawing small circled on his pulse point. "I want you to come with me," she admitted in a soft voice. A lump formed in her throat. She needed to be as vulnerable with him as he had been with her. "You're everything to me too," she said softly, lifting her eyes to meet the woman.

[quidell-fics]

A/N: this sneak peek for the next chapter might change slightly as this is not edited. Also, writing fight scenes is hard! (Haha)

Maybe… he should just run.

The thought flickered like a rogue spark in dry brush, quick and wild. But it wasn’t like I could voice it now. Not with him locked in that predator’s orbit, his steps slow, precise, eyes sharp as flint. I could only watch from within the stone, breath tight in my minds chest as Monkey Boy completed his circle around the shadow.

That was when it moved.

No warning. No flourish. Just raw, brutal instinct. The shadow lunged, its right arm a slab of darkness cutting down with the weight of a falling mountain.

Monkey Boy spun left—not away, but in. He twisted at the waist, his momentum sharp as a blade’s edge, slipping just past the swing. His dodge wasn’t clean—it never was. It was raw, reactive, dangerous, but it worked. In the space of a single breath, he shifted from target to hunter.

His staff came up when he was at the shadows side. Fast. Relentless.

A sharp, clean arc cut the air, the force of it carrying all his strength behind it. The end of the staff soared like a scythe made of raw strength and iron—

And cleaved straight through the shadow.

For one breathless moment, stillness hung in the air. The kind that happens right before something worse happens.

Monkey Boy’s eyes went wide. Not with triumph. Not with shock. With realization.

The darkness unraveled at the point of impact, its form fraying like thread snapped from a loom—only to pull itself back together in an instant. Fluid. Effortless. The shadow reformed as if it had never been struck, the same arm that should’ve been destroyed now lashing out like a whip.

Monkey Boy barely managed to throw himself back as it swatted at him, the air behind it hissing with the speed of its swing. The sound hit like a crack of thunder right beside his ear, sharp and violent.

I could see it now—the shape of this fight.

It wasn’t going to be won with brute force.

Not when the enemy could wear death like a second skin and slip free of it whenever it pleased.

[synthwavecryptid]

I’m half awake rn but thinkin about vampire Dutch and his ragtag little wolf pack, living for years in infamy with this image of being untouchable. That he’s the boogeyman, half a ghost with never a scratch on him, and it’s impossible to go after him directly.

Traditional vampire deterrent methods don’t work, and local law and hunters alike keep saying ‘go after his sons, go after his daughters’, like culling his flock will weaken him by proxy. And it would, it should, but his adopted children are strong in their own right and always come home in the end.

But somehow, somewhere, a victim or a bystander was lucky enough to survive, to remember that there’s a flaw in van der Linde’s armor. And they’ll tell their children, and their children’s children, that if they meet the devil himself they must instead aim their knife at the wolf in his shadow.

And someday, when one of those grandchildren or great grandchildren says, “No, leave them- shoot the white one, the white one”, when a silver capped bullet finds a home in a furred flank and their untouchable demon howls in harmony like it struck him instead, they’ll realize they’ve plucked the true heart chords of their monster.

They’ll know that van der Linde’s anchor has a name, that his life mate and life source is mortal, and though their bond is as strong and deep and old as the sea, that red string of fate that ties them is as fragile as any thread and can be cut just as easily.

If one wants to hurt Dutch van der Linde, to have a chance at catching and killing him like El-Ahrairah in the warrens of the west, they must first take out Hosea Matthews, the wolf who carries his immortal soul.

[ambitionslost]

Hunter couldn’t help but chuckle at Piper’s words, appreciating her knack for finding humor even in stressful situations. “I can’t imagine how nerve-wracking it must be for her,” he replied, leaning against the wall with an air of casual confidence. “Building confidence takes time, but with your guidance, I’m sure Aubrey will surprise you. Just think of it as a mini ballet boot camp—intense but rewarding.” He flashed her a grin, grateful for the lighthearted banter that momentarily distracted them from the challenges ahead.

“Ice gliding might not cut it for ballet, but I’m willing to give it a shot if it means getting a peek at your world,” he continued, his tone playful. “And I appreciate you keeping me in the loop. It sounds like you’re doing a lot of heavy lifting right now, and I’m here if you need an extra set of hands—or just someone to vent to.” Hunter’s sincerity shone through as he regarded her, knowing how much pressure she was under. “Whatever you decide, I have no doubt it’ll be the right call.”

Piper couldn't help the slight smirk still resting on her lips. Hunter had always had the ability to put her in a better mood even if she didn't want to be in one. "The understudy is the sick one, and her understudy is petrified." she explained, with the hint of a chuckle. "I suppose we could take some time and build her confidence, but that's almost harder than finding someone new entirely." she added with a slight shrug.

Running a ballet company came with its own set of challenges, some more difficult than dancing in a company had been. This time her smirk returned in full force. "Ice gliding does not a dancer make." she teased playfully, though her smirk grew to show him it was all in good fun. "I appreciate that." she answered sincerely before pursing her lips in thought fir a brief moment. "I think I'll get everyone together and see what their thoughts are; if its best to put the time into Aubrey; if she thinks she can do it; or if we should audition."

[ambitionslost]

@bcmuscd asked: Are you ever going to kiss me? | Hunter x Royal

Hunter blinked in surprise, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he looked down at Royal. "I was waiting for the right moment," he teased, his voice soft but edged with a playful challenge. He stepped closer, their proximity charged with unspoken tension. His gaze flicked briefly to her lips before meeting her eyes again. "But if you're asking so nicely…" he murmured, leaning in just enough to close the gap, daring her to make the final move.

[aliveandfullofjoy]

Yet again, it’s time to indulge in one of my favorite new year traditions: my ten favorite new-to-me films of 2024!

Every one of these movies got under my skin in one way or another and made this difficult year that much brighter. If you like, consider this a strong endorsement for each of them.

Same rules as always: no movies from this past year (2024) or the year prior (2023). Every other year is fair game.

01. Close-Up (dir. Abbas Kiarostami, 1990; Iran; 98 min.)

"Tell him The Cyclist is a part of me."

Every now and then, you watch a film for the first time that knocks you sideways, that reminds you of the power and beauty in cinema, that lives up to every expectation you had for it, that works its way into your bloodstream to take up permanent residence as a part of you.

That was my experience finally watching Abbas Kiarostami's Close-Up. While retaining his empathetic gaze, Kiarostami uses a real-life incident to crack open the very ideas of performance, escapism, identity, truth, and storytelling. Is it a love letter to cinema or a condemnation of its ability to distance people from reality? Is it both?

That this film exists at all is a miracle. Hossain Sabzian's performance (as himself) is miraculous in itself, too. There is simply nothing like Close-Up, and I am so grateful to have experienced it. I can't wait to revisit it for years to come.

Currently streaming on the Criterion Channel.

02. Paris, Texas (dir. Wim Wenders, 1984; West Germany/France; 147 min.)

"I wanted to see him so bad I didn't even dare imagine him anymore."

I mean this in the best way possible: Paris, Texas was not what I expected it to be at all. For years, I've heard it spoken of with reverence, and I've seen shots from it, and I generally knew the premise, but I didn't expect a film that was as nakedly emotional as this. Paris, Texas ripped my heart out over and over and over again, and I was grateful for it every time.

Everything about it is superb: Robby Müller's cinematography, creating poetry out of the neon-soaked desert; Ry Cooder's haunting guitar; Sam Shepard's enormously moving screenplay; Wenders' patient and precise direction. And then there are the performances! I waxed poetic about Harry Dean Stanton's performance yesterday in this post, but in short: it's a landmark performance. Nearly equally impressive, and with less screentime, is Nastassja Kinski, the key to the film's mystery.

This is an exquisite piece of work. What begins as an almost unbearably lonely film grows into one of bittersweet reconciliation, of healing. I'll be thinking about Travis and Hunter walking together on opposite sides of the street for a long, long time.

Currently streaming on the Criterion Channel and HBO Max.

03. Barton Fink (dir. Joel Coen and Ethan Coen, 1991; USA; 116 mins.)

"I tried to show you something beautiful."

I know I'm late to the party here (isn't that what these lists are all about?), but my God, what a major work. Barton Fink is every bit as dense and as literate as No Country for Old Men and as gripping and darkly hilarious as Fargo. John Turturro's performance is the perfect anchor, a twitchy live-wire with dueling inferiority and superiority complexes falling headfirst into a nightmare. He's matched (haunted?) perfectly by John Goodman, giving one of his best performances, using his folksy charm and twinkling eyes to terrifying effect. 

Again, though, the film is primarily an incredible achievement because of the Coens. Between their writing and directing, Barton Fink pulls at so many threads and juggles a number of conflicting tones to create a singularly hellish vision of Hollywood and an entertainment industry caught between World War II and the rise of McCarthyism. It's a marvel. I can't wait to watch it again and again.

Currently streaming on the Criterion Channel.

04. Hoop Dreams (dir. Steve James, 1994; USA; 171 min.)

"That's why when somebody say, 'When you get to the NBA, don't forget about me,' and that stuff. Well, I should've said to them, 'If I don't make it, don't you forget about me.'"

Hoop Dreams is every bit as monumental as its reputation suggests, both a masterpiece of non-fiction filmmaking and the blueprint for the next thirty years of documentaries. The editing work alone here is unbelievable, with the film starting life as a 30-minute PBS short and growing into a three-hour-long epic.

The triumph of Hoop Dreams is a reminder that documentary filmmaking is an act of sculpture. Director Steve James collected 250 hours of footage over five years of shooting, which he and his Oscar-nominated team of editors, Frederick Marx and William Haugse, whittled down to a single, thrilling experience. The film is long, but not without reason. By the end, you feel like you've lived William Gates' and Arthur Agee's high school years with them.

Currently streaming on the Criterion Channel and HBO Max.

05. Out of Sight (dir. Steven Soderbergh, 1998; USA; 123 min.)

"It's like seeing someone for the first time, like you can be passing on the street, and you look at each other for a few seconds, and there's this kind of a recognition like you both know something. Next moment the person's gone, and it's too late to do anything about it. And you always remember it because it was there, and you let it go, and you think to yourself, 'What if I had stopped? What if I had said something?' What if, what if... it may only happen a few times in your life." "Or once." "Or once."

Call it a crime thriller, call it a neo-noir, call it a rom-com, call it whatever you like: Out of Sight is all of them, and it's extraordinarily good at being all of them at the same time. Every aspect of the film is perfectly realized: Steven Soderbergh's impeccable command over tone and genre; Scott Frank's charming, intelligent, complicated screenplay; the unstoppable movie star charisma of George Clooney and Jennifer Lopez. Everything that makes Clooney such a compelling actor is on full display here, and I'm not sure he's ever been better. Same goes for Lopez: she hasn't gotten nearly the respect she deserves for being such a remarkable screen presence, even in movies that don't deserve her, but she's luminous in this. 

And, my God, Anne V. Coates' editing -- the brilliant story structure feels like it might fall apart at the seams if she hadn't held it together. Between a legend in the editing room and a legend in the making in the director's chair, Out of Sight seems to come together effortlessly. It's as graceful and entertaining a film as you'll ever see. I loved everything about it.

Currently available to rent on demand.

06. Punch-Drunk Love (dir. Paul Thomas Anderson, 2002; USA; 95 min.)

"It really looks like Hawaii here."

This one really is magical, huh? Between the cinematography (Robert Elswit, a legend) and the music (Jon Brion, a legend) to the beautifully funny script by director Paul Thomas Anderson, just about every individual aspect of the film sings. This is true, too, for the performances -- Emily Watson is always so lovely, and Luis Guzmán should probably be in every PTA film ever made, but especially Adam Sandler (who, Uncut Gems be damned, has never, ever been better), and Philip Seymour Hoffman, who makes a three-course meal out of minimal screen time.

I feel like I've seen or catastrophized the worst possible version of a movie like this so many times -- an off-kilter indie love story between two #weirdos, the kind of thing that aimed to replicate this film or Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind -- but the experience of actually seeing Punch-Drunk Love knocked me out. It's just so funny and romantic and sad and sweet and winning. It's a thing of real beauty.

Currently available to rent on demand.

07. Female Trouble (dir. John Waters, 1974; USA; 97 min.)

"This is so exciting! Just think of all the little horror stories that go on in other people's lives!"

What a terrific vehicle for Divine. What a brilliant continuation of the Dreamlanders' work. I certainly appreciated Pink Flamingos, even if it made me genuinely sick, and I understand why it's still seen as Waters' masterpiece, but to me, Female Trouble almost feels like a more complete, more precise, and more vicious variation of the earlier film. As a hit job on the sensibilities of good taste, its aim is deadly.

The film's look and sound is more polished and impressive than in Pink Flamingos, too, particularly Van Smith's astonishing costumes, Vincent Peranio's production design, and the horribly catchy theme song. The whole film feels like a fever dream, and it would be very easy to imagine this as a straight-up horror movie if there wasn't such a relentlessly funny rebellious spirit to it. Even still, the final act is genuinely disturbing. "Who wants to die for art?"

It's horrible. It's wonderful. It's kind of a masterpiece in its own sick way.

Currently streaming on the Criterion Channel.

08. Memories of Murder (dir. Bong Joon-ho, 2003; South Korea; 131 min.)

"What did he look like?" "Well... kind of plain." "In what way?" "Just... ordinary."

At the risk of saying something extremely obvious, Bong Joon-ho is a really great director, huh? Purely looking at how he manages to make Memories of Murder -- one bleak, bleak, bleak film -- both extremely funny and extremely upsetting and, in multiple sequences, genuinely frightening, it's clear that Bong is a generational talent. 

The cast is stacked (of course) -- Song Kang-ho holds the whole thing together beautifully, lending the final shot its gravitas, but he's flanked by the likes of Kim Sang-kyung, Kim Roi-ha, Byun Hee-bong, and, most memorably, the chilling Park Hae-il.

It's just kind of a knockout on all levels, from that gorgeous golden hour cinematography at the beginning giving way to the muted grays of the procedural to the way Bong milks an overwhelming sense of dread out of something as mundane as a rainstorm.

Currently available to rent on demand.

09. The Long Goodbye (dir. Robert Altman, 1973; USA; 112 min.)

"It's okay with me."

A neo-noir crime thriller with the vibes of a 70s hangout movie, The Long Goodbye is everything you could ever want from a Robert Altman/Philip Marlowe movie: grimy, rambling, uncomfortable, and very funny in its own bone-dry way. The soundtrack consisting of just one song? Inspired.

Elliott Gould is the perfect center for the film, giving a wonderfully relaxed, effortlessly cool performance. Altman's naturalistic conversation style mixes beautifully with the genre's stylized dialogue (and every other character tells Gould how cute he is, and you know what? It's true!). Also, it's got one of the great movie cats.

I'm positive I missed some of the inner workings of it, but it washed over me like a wave at the beach, and I loved every bit of it.

Currently available to rent on demand.

10. Crooklyn (dir. Spike Lee, 1994; USA; 114 min.)

"Ladybug, you turned out pretty good considering you were raised in a house full of ashy, rusty-butt boys."

Maybe it's just how inundated we currently are with this subgenre -- Esteemed Filmmaker Reflects On Their Childhood, à la Belfast and The Fabelmans and Roma -- but I can't help but feel like Crooklyn would become something of an awards darling in 2024. Like the best of the subgenre's newer films, Spike Lee's look back isn't really about him. He's definitely there (or at least a spectacled Knicks-loving stand-in is), but Crooklyn is primarily about growing up from the perspective of his sister Joie -- or rather, her stand-in Troy.

It's also more generally about the dynamics of the family and, by extension, their neighborhood. In both regards -- as a portrait of Black girlhood in the early '70s and as a memory piece of a family on the precipice of a major turning point -- the film is a triumph. The cast is tremendous, from the parents played by Alfre Woodard and Delroy Lindo, to the miraculously well-cast group of kids. Their chemistry together is magical (and my God, they are all so cute -- the scene of them singing along to the Partridge Family is instantly iconic to me).

There are so many well-observed slice-of-life moments in the film: all of the scenes of the family spending time together, RuPaul(!) in the bodega, Aunt Song (a very good Frances Foster) singing Christian songs while Troy stares at her. And, because it's a Spike Lee joint, Crooklyn is a stylistic and technical achievement. It has one of the most audacious aspect ratio changes I've ever seen (and honestly, I'm not sure if it's successful, but I admire the swing!), plus one of the funniest uses of the floating dolly shot in any of Lee's movies.

A supremely lovely film.

Currently available to rent on demand.

Other films I loved (in alphabetical order): After Hours (dir. Martin Scorsese, 1985); Aguirre, the Wrath of God (dir. Werner Herzog, 1972); An Autumn Afternoon (dir. Yasujirō Ozu, 1962); The Bad News Bears (dir. Michael Ritchie, 1976); Baseball (dir. Ken Burns, 1994); Big Trouble in Little China (dir. John Carpenter, 1986); Blue Velvet (dir. David Lynch, 1986); Burn After Reading (dir. Joel Coen and Ethan Coen, 2008); The Cassandra Cat (dir. Vojtěch Jasný, 1963); Eyes Wide Shut (dir. Stanley Kubrick, 1999); Green Porno (dir. Isabella Rossellini, 2008); Heaven Can Wait (dir. Warren Beatty and Buck Henry, 1978); High Hopes (dir. Mike Leigh, 1988); History is Made at Night (dir. Frank Borzage, 1937); The Hunt for Red October (dir. John McTiernan, 1990); I've Heard the Mermaids Singing (dir. Patricia Rozema, 1987); The Insider (dir. Michael Mann, 1999); It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World (dir. Stanley Kramer, 1963); Joy Street (dir. Suzan Pitt, 1995); La Haine (dir. Mathieu Kassovitz, 1995); La Roue (dir. Abel Gance, 1923); Leave Her to Heaven (dir. John M. Stahl, 1945); Love Letter (dir. Kinuyo Tanaka, 1953); Marnie (dir. Alfred Hitchcock, 1964); The Match Factory Girl (dir. Aki Kaurismäki, 1990); Miller's Crossing (dir. Joel Coen and Ethan Coen, 1990); Morning for the Osone Family (dir. Keisuke Kinoshita, 1946); Oslo, August 31st (dir. Joachim Trier, 2011); Querelle (dir. Rainer Werner Fassbinder, 1982); Robert Frost: A Lover's Quarrel with the World (dir. Shirley Clarke, 1963); RoboCop (dir. Paul Verhoeven, 1987); The Salesman (dir. Asghar Farhadi, 2016); Seconds (dir. John Frankenheimer, 1966); The Shop on Main Street (dir. Ján Kadár and Elmar Klos, 1965); Simon of the Desert (dir. Luis Buñuel, 1965); Spellbound (dir. Alfred Hitchcock, 1945); The Thing (dir. John Carpenter, 1982); Tokyo Godfathers (dir. Satoshi Kon, 2003); Tokyo Olympiad (dir. Kon Ichikawa, 1965); Twister (dir. Jan de Bont, 1996); The Unknown (dir. Tod Browning, 1927); Walking (dir. Ryan Larkin, 1968); When a Woman Ascends the Stairs (dir. Mikio Naruse, 1960); Wooden Crosses (dir. Raymond Bernard, 1932)

And finally, some miscellaneous viewing stats:

First movie watched in 2024: The Cassandra Cat (dir. Vojtěch Jasný, 1963)

First movie seen in theaters in 2024: I Know Where I'm Going! (dir. Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger, 1945)

Final movie watched in 2024: Asteroid City (dir. Wes Anderson, 2023)

Final movie seen in theaters in 2024: Interstellar (dir. Christopher Nolan, 2014)

Least favorite movie: Viva Zapata! (dir. Elia Kazan, 1952)

Oldest movie: How a Mosquito Operates (dir. Winsor McCay, 1912)

Longest movie: La Roue (dir. Abel Gance, 1923 - 413 min.)

Shortest movie: Stellar (dir. Stan Brakhage, 1993 - 2 min.)

Month with the most viewings: February (54)

Month with the fewest viewings: October and November (7 each)

First movie from 2024 seen: Drive-Away Dolls (dir. Ethan Coen)

Total movies seen in theaters: 30 (including shorts)

Total movies: 246

[amelias-zelda-calamity-quintet]

Mark of a Hero's Arcs Reference List

This is a reference post for my fic series, Mark of a Hero, and its arcs for spoiler reference. Hopefully it helps folks if they see me talking about a certain section of the books, this is how it's broken down and how I'm determining how to mark spoilers. For calculations, the intro arcs don't count as a full arc.

Current Releasing: Book 2 - Intro Arc

Current Writing: Book 4 - Arc 1

No Longer Marked Spoilers Through: The Horned Goddess's Temple Arc

Book 1 - Hyrule

Hyrule is at peace, or so the Royal Family would have its people believe. Something is afoot in the kingdom, and someone needs to do something about it. Least likely would be Marksmen Link Sayre- a mercenary and monster hunter doing his best to get by. Until a job goes wrong, and he gets roped into the secret plans of Hyrule's princess. Now Link must play the part of the Hero to dive deeper into the mystery, and maybe stumble into a legend of his own.

Introduction Arc - The Legend to Overworld Chapter 10 - It's A Secret to Everyone

Farore's Temple Arc - Overworld Chapter 11 - Final Affairs to Overworld Chapter 18 - The Lady's Reward

Nayru's Temple Arc - Overworld Chapter 19 - Shifting Focus to Overworld Chapter 31 - Check In

Din's Temple Arc - Overworld Chapter 32 - Threads - Overworld Chapter 44 - Firestorm

Hylia's Temple Arc - Overworld Chapter 45 - Letter of the Law - Dungeon Chapter 9 - Sealed

The Horned Goddess's Temple Arc - Overworld Chapter 54 - Uprooted - Overworld Chapter 66 - May the Road Be Ever Winding

Book 2 - Farona

A new champion draws the Master Sword, and the legend begins anew. But the door beneath the Temple of Time remains sealed, lest the Hero can open it once more. Link Sayre, Saddiqah El Amin, and Ambrose head west to Hyrule's forested neighbor, Farona, to seek out the first of the Sealing Stones. But perhaps their quest is not as secret as they'd like to believe.

Introduction Arc - Overworld Chapter 67 - Alward & Upward - ??? (Releasing chapters are here)

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Mark of a Hero (Updates on Tuesdays & Fridays, 2 of 9)

Hyrule is at peace, or so the Royal Family would have its people believe. Something is afoot in the kingdom, and someone needs to do something about it. Least likely would be Marksmen Link Sayre- a mercenary and monster hunter doing his best to get by. Until a job goes wrong, and he gets roped into the secret plans of Hyrule's princess. Now Link must play the part of the Hero to dive deeper into the mystery, and maybe stumble into a legend of his own.

[ambitionslost]

Hunter chuckled at her admission, shaking his head slightly. “I guess that’s what happens when you throw the doors open, even just for a preview. You get curious folks like me wandering in.” His hands returned to his pockets, but the grin on his face remained as he watched her fumble with stray locks of hair. There was something endearing about her nervous energy, the kind that reminded him of someone taking on the world, even if they weren’t quite sure how to do it.

When she puffed her chest out in pride, Hunter nodded, clearly impressed. “Well, you’ve got guts, I’ll give you that. Most people would never dream of leaving the security of a place like New York for a gamble like this.” He let his gaze drift back to the artwork, feeling the atmosphere shift as he absorbed her explanation. “A change of scenery, huh? I get that. Sometimes you just need to hit the reset button. And doing it through art? I respect that even more. It’s like you’re painting a new chapter for yourself.”

With a glance back at her, Hunter’s expression softened. “I think it’ll pan out. There’s something about this place that feels different, in a good way. Besides, you seem like the type who won’t let it fail. Just… try not to take yourself out with a concussion before you get to the grand opening, yeah?” His teasing tone returned, lightening the mood, though his words carried a note of genuine encouragement.

@ambitionslost | continued from [ x ]

being caught by the person she'd just rammed her body into was both helpful, and extremely embarrassing. once again stable on her feet, royal tucked some stray brown locks behind her ear. with pinkened cheeks, brown hues glanced upwards. "i wasn't really expecting anyone to be walking around right now," she admitted. despite the gallery being open for a preview, royal just didn't expect many people to be that interested.

royal cleared her throat when hunter took a step back. "i am," she stated proudly, chest puffing out slightly as her back straightened. "thank you." she did her best to give every painting the respect it deserved ── the galleries collection as diverse as the people who painted them.

a small chuckle left her at his question. "you read the pamphlet, didn't you?" it was the only way he'd know she was from new york. she had told her roommate not to making them, but she suppose they'd been right about it. she'd have to remember to thank them later when she got home. "uh, no, i don't mind. it's really not that complicated. i needed a change of scenery, and i've always enjoyed walking around art museums and galleries. i thought i'd give it a shot myself." it was lame, for sure, but it was a reality now. one she wasn't sure would pan out.

[pompomqt]

Journey to the West Chapter 14

Oh man I've really been looking forward to this chapter, one of my favorite dynamic duo's is together at last! So let's get into this chapter of Journey to the West with @journeythroughjourneytothewest shall we?

So it turns out that the person who was calling out to them last time was none other than Sun Wukong, who is still trapped under five phases mountain. So Tripitaka and the hunter go down the mountain to take a look and have a little chat. We finally get to see Sun Wukong again, as he tells Tripitaka that if he gets him out he will protect him on his journey west. And poor Sun Wukong has been there for so long he has all sorts of plant life growing all over him which the Hunter helps him get some of it off, which was nice of him.

Anyways so Sun Wukong explains to Tripitaka that Guanyin converted him to Buddhism in order to aid the scripture pilgrim, and all Tripitaka has to do to free him is lift the tag that Bhudda placed and that he'll handle the rest. So Tripitaka goes up the mountain again until they reach the seal, and he prays to Bhudda that if Sun Wukong is only deceiving him, to not allow him to lift the seal. However Tripitaka lifts the seal no problem, and the tag is immediately blown out of his hands as a voice claiming to be the prison guard of the great sage says they are returning the seal to the Bhudda. So after that Sun Wukong is all like "Please stand back now. Little further... don't know what this thing will do~" And then proceeds to break the mountain and zip over to Tripitaka's location.

So Monkey loads up Tripitaka's luggage and we learn that since he was the BanHorsePlague in Heaven, he has authority over horses, and that they are now terrified of him. So that's fun. So like Guanyin Tripitaka tries to give Sun Wukong a religious name, but he already has one, so Tripitaka gives him a nickname instead. So now Sun Wukong has the nickname 'Pilgrim Sun'.

So seeing that Tripitaka is now in good hands, the hunter takes his leave of them, and with the hunter gone, we get to learn that horses aren't the only animals terrified of Sun Wukong. For a tiger soon approaches, which of course terrifies Tripitaka but delights Sun Wukong, who gleefully says that the tiger is just here to provide him some clothes. So while the tiger is to paralyized with fear from Sun Wukong to move, Sun Wukong wacks it with his staff, and proceeds to skin it. Man, tigers have it just as rough as dragons in this book... This both terrifies and impresses Tripitaka, and he proceeds to fall off his horse for the first- but certainly not the last time.

Once Sun Wukong is finished fashioning a temporary outfit out of the tiger skin the two carry on with their journey, having some casual conversation along the way. Where Sun Wukong explains how awesome both he and his staff are. Aww it's nice to see these two getting along so well. So they find a find a house to rest at, and Sun Wukong proceeds to bang on the door, and completely freaks out the owner of the house with his frightening appearance, but calms down once Tripitaka and his beautiful face explains that monkey is his disciple. They should probably have Tripitaka be the one to knock on doors from now on...

Anyways so the old man eventually agrees to let them stay with him, and we learn that Sun Wukong actually knows this family, apparently they gathered firewood around where he was imprisoned sometimes. And it turns out the Tripitaka also has a connection to this family, since they share the same surname "Chen". After that lovely conversation Sun Wukong requests a bath for both him and Tripitaka and also some needle and thread so he can finish making his tiger pants. He also steals Tripitaka's shirt while he's at it, which Tripitaka let's him keep.

The next morning the duo head out again after one last meal. So the two continue to travel together for a while, and seem to be getting along just fine. But all of that comes to an end when they are attacked by six bandits. Tripitaka is once again paralyzed by fear and falls off his horse again, but Monkey isn't fazed, he picks Tripitaka off the ground and tells him not to worry, that these fine gentlemen are just here to give them some clothes and travel allowance. And Tripitaka is just like "Uh, I think you misheard them, they are robbing us!" But Monkey's all like "Just watch our stuff, I'll handle this." Despite Monkey's reassurances though, Tripitaka is still worried about him, he's just a little guy after all. But he will soon find out that he was concerned for the wrong person.

So Monkey confronts the bandits who claim to be the 'King's of the Highway', but Monkey who is an actual King, is unimpressed. Regardless he still tries to make a deal with them, if they share their loot with him they'll let him live. This enrages the bandits, so they all attack at once... to absolutely zero effect. After letting the bandits have their fun wailing on him for a while, it's Monkey turn. So he takes out his staff and proceeds to beat all the bandits to death, before stripping them of their clothes and valuables and returning to Tripitaka.

However despite Monkey's expectations Tripitaka isn't pleased that Monkey murdered them all. And the two proceed to have a huge argument, with Tripitaka saying all life is valuable, and that even the city wouldn't have sentenced them to death if they had been tried. And that if Monkey had killed them where there were witnesses then Tripitaka would get in trouble to. While Monkey says that if he hadn't killed them they would have killed Tripitaka, and that he had killed a whole bunch of people back when he was the king of Flower Fruit Mountain anyways. Which Tripitaka points out that his lack of self control is why he was punished under a mountain for five hundred years in the first place.

After Tripitaka says that if he still insists on practicing violence that he can't be a Buddhist or travel west, Monkey quits the journey right there and then and zooms off. Since he has no way of contacting Monkey or bringing him back, Tripitaka resigns to continue the journey alone, but just as he starts walking again he comes across an old lady holding a silk garment and a floral cap.

So Tripitaka explains his situation and how Sun Wukong ran off, so the old lady gives him the shirt and cap, and teaches him the 'Tight-Fillet Spell' and tells him to give Sun Wukong the cap and shirt when he returns and recite the spell if he refuses to obey him. And with that the old lady reveals herself to have been Guanyin, and heads off East to try and catch up to Monkey.

Speaking of Monkey, having left Tripitaka he decided to drop by an old friends place before returning home and is currently having tea with the Dragon King. And Monkey is complaining to him about how Tripitaka scolded him, but after telling a short story the Dragon King persuades him to give the mission another chance. So Monkey takes off again, heading back to Tripitaka where he crosses paths with Guanyin, and tells her he is going back to Tripitaka.

So Monkey finds Tripitaka sitting dejectedly on the side of the road. So Monkey explains that he went to have tea with the Dragon King, which Tripitaka finds a little hard to believe that he managed to travel so far and back in less than an hour. Monkey however explains about his cloud somersault, and offers to get Tripitaka some food. Which Tripitaka declines saying he still has some food left. So Monkey goes to get some food from the bag when he finds the silk shirt and floral cap that Guanyin had given him. Tripitaka lies and says he wore them in his childhood and that they will allow him to recite scriptures wihtout having to learn them and perform rituals without having to practice them. Sun Wukong asks to put them on, and Tripitaka says if they fit he can keep them. Once Monkey puts on the garments, Tripitaka decides to give this 'Fillet Tightening spell' a shot, and begins to recite it.

Monkey begins rolling on the ground in agony as Tripitaka recites the spell several times, eventually Tripitaka stops once Monkey starts gripping the cap since he is afraid he'll break it. And Monkey finds that a thing metal band has welded itself to his head, and that he can't get it off no matter what he tries. When Monkey takes out his staff to try and pry it off, Tripitaka starts reciting the spell again. Eventually Tripitaka feels sorry for him and stops the spell. Monkey then accuses Tripitaka of putting a spell on him, which Tripitaka denies saying he was just reciting the 'Tight-Fillet Sutra". So Monkey demands he recite it again to see what happens, and immediately regrets it when his head starts hurting again.

So Tripitaka asks if Monkey will listen to him now, and stop acting unruly, and Monkey says he will. However as soon as Tripitaka has his back turned Monkey takes out his staff and tries to murder Tripitaka with it. Causing Tripitaka to once again begin reciting the spell until Monkey cries uncle and says he's learned his lesson. So Monkey asks who taught him that spell, and when Tripitaka explains about the old woman, Monkey immediately draws the conclusion that it was Guanyin. Monkey wants to find Guanyin and confront her, but Tripitaka points out that she also knows the Tight Fillet Spell since she was the one who taught it to him so that confrontation is unlikely to go well for him.

So with all that settled, Monkey says he'll follow Tripitaka west, as long as Tripitaka doesn't treat that spell as a plaything to torment him with. So with that settled the two once again head out on their Journey West.

Current Sun Wukong Stats: Names/Titles: Monkey, The Stone Monkey, The Handsome Monkey King, Sun Wukong (Monkey awakened to the void), Bimawen (Banhorseplague), The Great Sage Equal To Heaven and Pilgrim Sun. Immortality: 5 Weapon: The Compliant Golden Hooped Rod Abilities: 72 Transformations, Cloud-Somersault, Ability to transform his individual hairs, super strength, Ability to Summon Wind, Water restriction charm, and the ability to change into a huge war form, ability to duplicate his staff, ability to immobilize others, the ability to put others to sleep, and the Fiery eyes, Diamond Pupils and intimidating horses. Demon Kill Count: 1+ Unknown Number of Minions Human Kill Count: 6 God's Defeated: 19 + Unknown number Defeats: 2 Crime List: Robbery, Murder, Mass Murder, Arson, Theft, Coercion, Threatening a Government Official, Resisting Arrest, Assault, Forgery, Employee Theft, False Imprisonment, Impersonating a Government Official, Treason and attempted murder. Cry Count: 3 Mountains Trapped Under: 1

Current Tang Sanzang stats: Names/Titles: River Float, Xuanzang, Tang Sanzang, Tripitaka Abilities: Curing Blindness, making branches point a certain direction (allegedly), reciting sutras. Cry Count: 10 Tight Fillet Spell Uses: 4 Paralyzed by fear: 4 Bandit Problems: 2 Kidnapped by demons: 1 Falling Off Horses: 2

Previous - Masterpost - Next

[trickricksblog08]

Holy 🐄💫 This THREAD!!

CNN's @abbydphillip: "There's no evidence Joe Biden was involved in Hunter's business deals."

@mattgaetz: "Are you actually trying to say Joe Biden wasn't involved in Hunter's business deals?"

16 times Vice President Joe Biden met with Hunter's business partners below...👇

🚨Vice President Joe Biden meeting Hunter Biden's foreign business partners.

November 2010: Joe Biden had a sit-down meeting with Eric Schwerin - the president of Hunter's private equity firm - in the West Wing.

November 2011: Joe Biden met with Chris Heinz — a co-founder of Hunter’s private equity firm — in the West Wing.

March 2012: Joe Biden met with Andres Pastrana Arango — the former president of Colombia who Hunter was doing business with — at his personal residence.

December 2013: Hunter flew with Joe Biden aboard Air Force Two to China, where he introduced him to Jonathan Li, a Chinese businessman.

February 2014: Joe Biden had lunch with Hunter and two of Hunter’s Mexican business partners and was pictured giving them a tour of the White House.

June 2014: Joe Biden met Manuel Estrella — Hunter’s Latin American business associate. After the meeting, Estrella emailed Hunter: “Hunter, I just met your father! So exciting!” Hunter replied: “I'm glad it all finally came together.”

August 2014: Pictures show Joe Biden golfing with his son, Hunter, and Devon Archer while they were both serving on the Burisma board.

April 2015: Joe Biden attended a dinner in Washington, D.C., with Hunter’s business partners from Russia, Ukraine, and Kazakhstan.

[tildeathiwillwrite]

Writemas Day 3: The Tale of the Fallen Reaper

<- Previous | Masterpost | Next ->

Prompts: Burning

Fandom: Original Work

Words: 900

Tag List: (message me to be added or removed) @fourwingedsnake @whumperofworlds @pigeonwhumps @mr-orion @scaewolf

@the-ellia-west @agirlandherquill

CW: death mention, murder mention

Thea found a secluded corner of the library, her latest finds stacked up next to her as she settled onto the floor. For a long moment, she stared at the books, threads of despair curling around her. What if she was chasing a red herring? Going after the faint light in the darkness, only to find herself more and more lost.

The only lead she had was the barest scrap of memory from her childhood, from a story her mother read to her out of a book of myths. One that spoke about invisible creatures who hunted in the silence. Kore had confirmed the story's existence, remembering the same tale. But their mother had borrowed the book from the library, and none of them could remember the title or author.

Hence why Thea was in the library when she should have been helping Kore arrange Caelum's funeral.

Just the thought of Caelum brought tears to her eyes, the faint burning sensation behind her nose. Thea bit the inside of her cheek and picked up the first book on the stack. Over the past three days, she had poured over nearly every book with even the faintest possibility of containing the elusive story. With each passing day, she grew more and more restless.

Thea finished skimming through the first book in a matter of minutes. It was a longer tale, one about a journey home, with many adventures along the way. None of them had anything to do with invisible hunters, so it was useless to her. Thea set it aside and picked up the second book.

This one was no better. A small collection of stories all about curses and true love. Thea handled it a bit rougher than she should have when she slammed it on top of the first, her mood worsening by the second.

She reached for the next one---wait. The third book in the stack next to her was not the same book she had taken from the shelf. That one had a green cover, with the fancier golden lettering. This book was different, still green, but a lighter shade, with plain black lettering on the cover.

Frowning, Thea glanced about the floor, as if it had slid off the stack somewhere. Had someone taken it without her noticing?

She looked down at the book again. Children's Myths and Fairytales, Volume II, by M. Halcyon. It certainly appeared to belong within her rhetoric. Perhaps she had simply misremembered the books she had taken? Not entirely out of the question, sleep had eluded her lately.

Sighing, Thea flipped open the cover and glanced over the table of contents. The Raven and the Fox. The Spires of the Fairy Queen. The Rabbit and the Trap. The Tale of the Fallen Reaper.

Thea frowned at the last story listed. Reaper? Fallen?

...could this be the one I need?

She didn't want to get her hopes up. For all she knew, the story had nothing to do with the one her mother had told her and her sister when they were children. But from the title alone, her heart leaped with excitement, and she quickly flipped through the book until she found the page where the story began.

Everyone knows about the existence of reapers. Or, how they used to exist, many years ago, before you or I were born.

Even when they were well-known, reapers didn't act often. They only came after the worst of the worst, after those who did horrible things and still walked free. They would emerge when their target least expected it, and unnatural, utter silence followed wherever they went. A rare occurrence, when the reapers struck.

And that was how it was supposed to be. Rare. But one day, one of them wondered why they must abide by the morals of humans to determine who to hunt. For reapers are not human. In fact, they cannot be seen by humans without the help of certain tools, and only interact when they carry out their duties.

"What difference is there," he asked himself, "between one human killing another out of anger, and another killing out of defense? Are not both killers? What, then, of other such crimes? What of liars and cheaters? Why is the line for a reaper where it is?

He did not ask the others of his kind these questions, because he knew he wouldn't like their answers. This reaper tested their ways cautiously, for he did not know how his peers would perceive him should he be caught breaking their rules. A person who kills just because she can, then a person who killed in the midst of fury. Then one who killed out of duty. Then one out of defense.

As he waded deeper and deeper into the waters of rebellion, the reaper found he enjoyed disobedience far more than obedience. He did not understand the nature of humans, and how he had, in his rebellion, become just like them.

The other reapers discovered his disobedience. And they were not happy. They ousted him from their ranks, stripping him of his power, and exiled him from their hidden lands, forcing him to wander the human world as punishment for what he had done.

That is the price of evil. This reaper was not punished because he questioned the rules, but because he freely broke them regardless, and caused sorrow and tragedy in the process. The end.

Thea stared at the page for a long moment. She had found it. This was the story her mother had read to her and Kore all those years ago.

...now what?