#◟ ⋆ 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.

[tswwwit]

Cipher's Personal Portable Portal

'How they meet' won the poll!

So just to make things fully contextualized, as far as they're gonna be - here's the full first chunk of this stupidly long fic I'm writing.

I hope you enjoy!

Standing in the wreckage of the burnt-out building, Dipper wishes he didn’t know who did it.

Anyone else would have left some trace sign. A scrape of blood, a hint of burnt hair. A friggin’ decent eyewitness report, even.

But here, like last time, and the time before that, and the time before that - there's absolutely zero traces. No video footage, nobody around at the time of the crime. Not even footprints.

Dipper kicks one of the remaining supports, sending a puff of charcoal up from the impact. 

If he knew the bastard’s name, he’d curse it all to hell.

With a sigh of exhaustion, Dipper sits on a chunk of scorched foundation. He pulls his shoe off to tip the ashes out of it; there’s enough that the resulting cloud leaves him coughing. 

Around him, the scoured west wing of the museum is silent, still, and empty. A grey-black skeleton of its former self, filled with dust and charcoal.

This arson is yet another one in a very, very long line of crimes. They’re not just ‘unrelated incidents’, or ‘bizarre coincidences’. Dipper’s not ‘being paranoid’ or ‘coming up with some pretty weird conspiracy theories’. 

There’s only one person who could manage this. The same guy who turned a bank upside down - literally -  and the same one who impaled a mob boss on an oversized silly straw and gave tails to half of a household last week.

It’s all connected.

Each crime is marked with the same style, mostly by how remarkably weird they are. Along with a thread of magic, distinct in its composition. One so distinctive that it's almost a flavor. Though admittedly, without certain magical analysis, it’s pretty hard to detect. 

And if other freelance magicians would take the time and look at Dipper’s notes, maybe one of them would help find this asshole.

Dipper stalks through the burned building, fists balled in his pockets. He stumbles over a fallen support column, and nearly trips before he makes a hopping retreat back. 

Though the culprit has been at his game - whatever ‘game’ that is - for a good half a year now, this is the most destructive ‘incident’ so far. Nobody was hurt, since it happened in the middle of the night. The one relief from a terrible crime, that only objects were obliterated in the process - 

But the ashes speak for themselves.

Here, there’s nothing left.

He breathes in slowly. Then regrets the attempt at calming himself as he coughs again.

Whatever the culprit’s initial motive was, it hasn’t lasted. He’s grown not only in ambition, but also in his abilities. Things are escalating at a rate Dipper doesn’t like to think about.

Someone has to get to the bottom of this. Before it’s too late. Dipper’s got his number, metaphorically speaking, so. Well, might as well be him. 

And when he proves that all of this chaos was created by the same person - 

Well. A little boost to his meager reputation couldn’t hurt. Maybe a few medals and accolades. There isn’t a trophy for best monster hunter, but he can imagine standing on a podium and -

Dipper waves that thought off, swearing under his breath. Stupid. He has better things to focus on.

He’s the only freelancer on the case. Definitely the only one taking this seriously, the only one who thinks it’s the same person to begin with -  and even he’s starting to have some doubts about ever finding the bastard. 

Six months of tracking this guy down, and what does he have to show for it? A ramshackle compilation of incidents, a vague feeling of magic, and a description that could fit any bottle-blond actor with bad fashion sense. Scraps. He might as well pin them up and connect them with red string for all the good it does him.

Another kick sends Dipper hopping back, clutching his foot with a swear. He winces at the hole in the tip, he nearly punctured his foot on a nail.

Just his luck. Wrong place, wrong time, always just barely avoiding disaster. Dipper shows up whenever there’s an event, he’s got the means to follow the guy - but he’s always just a little too late.

Even worse, lately the guy’s been picking places… not at random, exactly. More like he causes trouble wherever it’d be the most annoying to follow.

The culprit must know someone is on his trail. But he’s not making it impossible to keep up, or even majorly difficult for a determined pursuer. Just really, really irritating, like making moves at three in the morning, or pausing just long enough for someone to catch up, then heading right back where he came from. At one point Dipper had to trudge through a literal swamp, only to find that bastard had sauntered in by baking himself a neat little trail right through the damn thing. There wasn’t even footprints to follow.

It’s a repeated point in Dipper’s notes. Whoever this is, they’re a total, absolute dick.

With a sigh, Dipper runs his fingers through the ash on the museum’s floor. Not a single thing is left beyond the shattered glass of some display cases, and the charred remains of the building. Even the enchanted metal tools have been melted into slag. 

The day before yesterday, he could tell something was up. Building energy, something that felt like it was made by the culprit. Something with the twinge of a powerful curse, coiled and being wound up like a spring. 

Dipper spent that evening convincing - okay, maybe also bribing, thank you Stan for the idea - the museum to let him borrow materials. The day after that, he spent all night, morning, and most of the afternoon running around slapping up anti-curse emblems. The entire south of the city warded, in a fine careful net of spellcraft. The work was exhausting. Both in running around, and in the amount of magic he’d needed to use.

But it was worth it. That evening, in the quiet and very uncursed city, all the emblems activated. Dipper would have sworn he sensed someone in the distance, cursing his own name. That night he went to bed with a smug sense of satisfaction, floating on a cloud of triumph.

Which is probably why the bastard burned down the museum next.

With another sigh, Dipper tucks his notebook back into his knapsack. He’s gleaned all he’s going to for today; in the fading evening light, searching more is pointless.

So much for all the magical artifacts. Most of those had come in really useful in messing with the guy. 

…How the hell did the culprit know where they came from, though? He’d need a near encyclopedic knowledge of artifacts to know which ones Dipper used, then track them back to their origin. 

Or maybe he just searched on the internet. It’s hard to tell.

Dipper just wishes there were more clues. But just like every other incident, the guy up and freakin’ vanished.

No human can disappear like that without some very irresponsible use of power. That hope is one Dipper’s hanging his hat on. After six months? He has to be reaching his limits. He’ll burn himself out before he can manage too many more incidents. Maybe Dipper will find him by stumbling on his withered, dissolving corpse.

Whoever this is is pretty strong, but no power is infinite. He can’t hide forever.

It can’t be too much longer. Won’t be. Dipper has a plan, he’s gotten really close, and - He’s good at his job, damn it. He knows he is. 

Taking a deep, slow breath, Dipper lets it out. Patience is the name of the game here. He’s just gotta keep moving.

One day, he’s going to catch up with that bastard. He’ll see the guy in the flesh. Then he’ll grab that stupid dick before he can escape, again, and wipe that presumably smug look off his probably ugly face.

Turning around one last time, Dipper surveys the destruction, stuffs his hands in his pockets - and pauses. 

A speck of light glints in the pile of ash. The last bit of evening sun, shining off a metallic surface.

Alert with surprise, Dipper scrambles over to the pile. Kneeling down, he brushes the dust carefully aside, careful not to disturb anything fragile that might shatter if handled wrong. 

One thing did survive. Thank fuck, it’s not an absolute total loss. Just, uh… Ninety-nine percent of it.

He scuffles through the still-warm ashes, cupping his palms underneath the lump and lifting it from its bed. The motion sends white puff rising up as ash slips away from the artifact.

A small black, squarish thing rests on the pile, a bit larger than both his palms put together. The material is faintly warm from residual heat, insulated by the ash it laid in - and there’s not a mark on it. Not even a scratch. 

Dipper turns the artifact over in his hands with a frown. The shining black surface reveals no obvious buttons or secrets. Just a kind of phone-ish shape, though more square and squat. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say a guest dropped it on the rush to escape. 

The fact that it’s still intact though. Nearly glowing with magic, a tremulous feeling under his palms - this is not dropped by some clumsy tourist. Not even Ford could put this together.

 Wiping at the object with his sleeve, Dipper manages to clean off most of the smooth surface. On one of the sides, dust clings to the thinnest of engravings. The very faint outline of an equilateral triangle. No runes or other magical scribing, just… a shape.

Dipper thinks back but - no, he doesn’t remember seeing this in the collection. A quick check online reveals…

Basically nothing. There are - were - a bunch of stone and metal slabs in the archives, all described so poorly as to be useless. Some are even bunched up in groups. ‘Magical slab 1-24’ and ‘Metal artifact 1-78’, no description involved.

Not surprising. Probably dug up in some mass excavation site, transported here, then never really looked at again. The bulk nature of the shipment means it was overlooked, its magical properties never discovered.

After today, he’s just glad that even one item escaped this onslaught. 

The other artifacts must not have had much to them. But some magical property in this artifact’s making must have saved it from the blaze. Fireproofing, perhaps? Against weird fire? That’s unusual. Maybe even unique.

As the only survivor, it really needs investigating. 

Dipper glances over his shoulder, then around. With everyone evacuated, it’s quiet in the rubble. Nobody here would notice if, say… a clue wandered off.

The artifact slips easily into his pocket. The shape conveniently looks just like a phone, even if the shape’s a bit off. Not something that would attract any attention.

Whistling nonchalantly, ducking out of the way of local law enforcement and any onlookers - Dipper makes his escape. 

Another day of pursuit. Another scene of disaster, the culprit there and gone in the blink of an eye. 

He’ll be up to something new, next. Never the same thing twice, never in the same place. 

Dipper will follow in his evil tracks, of course. But for tonight - his fate is another crappy hotel room. 

He ditches his backpack by the door, slumping against the wall and its chipped paint. He could start going through his notes, and the pictures of the arson. Put in more work, find further connections - 

But it’s been a long day, and he’s tired. He might be magical, but he’s only got so much to work with. A reasonable night’s sleep, if he can manage, will make the task loom less horribly over his tired brain.

With a sigh, he drops back on the mattress. There’s some bounce to it, springs squeaking like they’re full of mice. Hell, maybe they are. The type of room he can afford isn’t exactly decadent.

That, though, should be temporary. Dipper’s career is only just starting; freelancers in the ‘solving magical problems’ scene don’t get great rates. Especially as a beginner. Definitely without a partner; it makes him look super young. Like he’s just starting out, fresh-faced and not having any inroads.

Because this field is really stupid, and doesn’t pay attention to results. Dipper’s been fine on his own for years, and he’s done really cool things without that ‘networking’ crap. 

All by himself. Totally cool with that, because Dipper’s a cool guy, sometimes. If Mabel hypes him up enough on one of their phone calls, he almost believes it too.

Though it would be nice to have some backup, it’s hard to find someone who really gets the job. Or does it in the way that Dipper goes about it. The number of people who are willing to take long treks in hyper-magical territory to search for an obscure clue, or set up really complicated traps for  dangerous monsters, or talk over high-level magical theory while sitting in the rain all night just to get one body-snatcher are…

Well, besides Ford, who recently retired, there aren’t any. Only Dipper himself.

One day, things are going to change for him. All his effort will pay off. If he keeps solving mysteries, and fighting monsters, he’ll forge a reputation as someone who always gets the job done. No matter how hard it is, he can handle it. The work is picking up, too. The last six months have shown the biggest series of magical incidents in decades. 

And he’s gonna be the one to get to the bottom of it.

Dipper Pines, the guy who proved it’s all connected. He’ll have it laid out in facts and math, all the evidence. They’re all gonna see that he was totally right.

Once he finally gets this guy, everything’s going to start looking up. 

The sheets rustle as Dipper settles back, holding the artifact up over himself. He stares into the black surface, and a slightly distorted reflection narrows its eyes back at him. 

A good mystery always intrigues him. This one should take his mind off the other, irritating one for a while.

The only remaining object from the fire is clean and smooth. A mysterious creation, of unknown purpose. Clearly riddled with magic, too; Dipper feels it running just under the surface like a rapid current. It gives the artifact a weight that has nothing to do with mass. 

Power.

Did the criminal see this artifact, still intact after all the other magical objects were gone? Did he try to destroy it too, and fail? Or simply not notice he’d missed one out of thousands?

Whatever it is, it’s got a lot more going on than meets the eye.

Dipper casts a quick identifier, which comes back with nothing. He’s not surprised. That’s the first thing anyone would try. If it was that simple, he’d already have the full description off the site. 

With a shrug, he traces another set of runes, his own version, adding a little more oomph behind it - 

And the magic leaps back instantly, with the bizarre sensation of a bouncy ball hitting concrete.

“Huh,” Dipper says, thoughtfully. He sits up, hunching over the slab in his hands. “Now that’s new.”

A more subtle approach, then. Tracing the lines of energy with the barest brush of magic upon magic reveals something deeply complex. Thin layers twist together deep under the surface, building an entire circulatory system. Dipper has to put it down for a moment, suddenly worried that it is organic. 

When a cautious prod doesn’t get a response, he relaxes. Not fleshy, just complicated. Which also proves he was right earlier - the artifact’s just as powerful as he’d thought. The spellcraft is unlike anything he’s ever seen. 

Dipper rubs his hands together, starting to smile. 

Even if he doesn’t find the guy he’s after, figuring this out could be a heck of a win.

Several attempts later, he’s beginning to get why this bastard brick got tossed in with all the other junk. 

Nothing here is working. It simply deflects. Standard spells poing off of it like rubber, while giving his magical senses an odd, back-of-the brain afterimage of a circle with a slash through it; a firm ‘nah’. 

Dipper nearly chucks the thing across the room in frustration, before shutting his eyes and taking several, calming breaths. 

Okay, weird thing, weird enchantment. The ordinary stuff won’t work. The magical logic is… twisted in a way that leaves it incompatible with most everything. He’ll have to find a different approach. 

“What are you?” Dipper says, low and frustrated. He gives the artifact a shake, as if he can knock the secrets out like a rock from a shoe. “What secrets are you hiding in there?” 

No response, not that he expected one. With a wry smile, he taps the sleek surface with a finger, twice. “C’mon, man. Talk to me.” 

Huge yellow letters flash onto the black surface. 

HEY

Dipper throws the artifact, a bit awkwardly since he’s lying on his back. It sails in the air in a high thin arc, landing with a thump between his legs. He scoots rapidly backward, sheets pulling up behind him. 

The artifact lies where it landed, an unmoving brick.  There’s magic in the air now, but no sense of any spell building, ready to unleash power to blow his face off. The latent spellcraft of the artifact has just been activated.

More text displays on the surface, bare except for the glowing letters. 

To the jerk that’s swiped my private stuff: You got some nerve! I expect this back by interdimensional mail in a week, or trust me - there will be consequences.

Dipper waits a full minute before he lets go of the headboard. Tentatively, he kneels near the…

 Is this a phone? 

Clearly it’s a communication device of some sort, with the freaking text messages. A phone is the obvious equivalent, only - he thought it looked far older than that, something way before mobile phones. Possible ancient. Is that a coincidence, maybe, or is it secretly modern?

Dipper taps the ‘screen’, just below the glowing words. To his surprise, there’s actually a keyboard, what the hell. This thing keeps getting weirder.

Since it hasn’t already thrown a horrible curse at him, or burst into flames - it’s reasonably safe to assume that it’s simply ‘on’. Not ‘explosive’. 

With hands that are definitely not shaking, he picks it up, and types,

Who is this? 

His own text pops up in blue. A strange contrast to the yellow, but he’s guessing it’s for convenience - there’s no bubbles to tell who’s said what otherwise.

A few seconds of nervous waiting later, there’s a response. 

Oh hey, you answered! Well, human - You’re talking to the one and only Bill Cipher, Dream Demon, all-powerful master of the Mindscape! I’d say it’s nice to meet ya but you’re not supposed to have a direct line to me!

Dipper raises an eyebrow. 

Now that’s one hell of an introduction. It might even have been interesting, if it didn’t smell of complete bullshit. 

Complicated spellwork, sure. Incomprehensible architecture? Maybe. Dipper can admit it; he’s never seen anything with a web of spells on it this complex, in such small of a package.

But the idea that Dipper just stumbled onto a demonic artifact of all things. One that wasn’t instantly detected, recorded, then ritually destroyed is…

Someone’s fucking with him. 

Dipper rolls his eyes as he types back,

Really? Demon? You can’t expect me to believe that. 

What, you calling me a liar? ‘Cause I am, but not about this! I got better things to mislead mortals about. This is my property, not something for your grubby mortal mitts.

Dipper snorts. Guess this person’s sticking with the bit. Obviously whoever created this would want it back - but too bad. Whether they’re delusional, stupid, or just a flat-out liar, they’re really good at enchanting. It’d be a waste not to study their work. 

He lies back on the bed as he replies.

Sure, have fun roleplaying, or whatever, it doesn’t make a difference. Finders keepers, losers weepers.

ARE YOU CALLING ME A LOSER. MORTAL.

Hmm, I’m detecting a certain amount of ‘crying about it’, so. Yeah. Suck it, loser.

Smirking, Dipper settles back - then his half-smile drops, as he holds the ‘phone’ a little further away from himself. 

Though the blue fire building up in the screen looks like a bad sticker effect, the artifact’s also getting a alarmingly warm. It vibrates in his hands - then suddenly stops, cooling down. 

Ha! Alright, alright, I admit - you got some balls.

Maybe you’ll change your tune once you REALLY know what you’re dealing with! Might wanna check the connection, if you’re even capable of it! Mortal magic doesn’t reach across dimensions!

With a grimace, Dipper taps his fingers on the phone. It’s slightly cooler now, but still worryingly reactive to… whatever happened on the other end. 

Damn. Whoever this is, they’re not only really really good at enchanting, they’re also pretty confident that tracking them down won’t spoil their game. The confidence exuding from this ‘Bill’s’ words feels genuine.

Honestly, though, the suggestion is a good one. Dipper should have tried to trace the call the second he knew someone else was on the line. 

Maybe ‘Bill’ thinks he won’t manage to find him. Joke’s on him, though; Dipper’s amazing at finding stuff. He’s the best tracker of magical anything in years. Maybe decades. With a solid, stable connection right in front of him? Hell, he could do this one in his sleep. 

Time to call the bluff.

He casts the tracing spell, though it takes longer than usual. A few gestures and muttered ritual aren’t gonna cut it; he has to improvise around the strange construction of the enchantment. Even trailing along the magic seems harder than usual, like it resists mixing with his own, and it takes him a few attempts to match the signal. 

Once he finds the right way to tune it… the lead snaps along the already-existing connection, and zips away to find its source.

The line extends out from the shabby hotel room, a plucked string in Dipper’s senses. It twists around the phone, rising slowly. Invisibly passing through the walls and the - 

Ceiling? Dipper looks up on instinct, even though nothing is visible.

From there it swirls around in the air like a silly straw on steroids, and then - out, very far, in a way that isn’t up or down or left or right, just  

Away.

Dipper has to cut off the tracing spell before vertigo has him reeling. The swirling sense of standing on top of a skyscraper is followed by a flip in his stomach. That he’s using a device he barely understands that reaches out into something even more incomprehensible.

He drops the phone-artifact, trying to clear his head by shaking it rapidly. 

That’s not nearby. Not on this planet. Possibly, genuinely, not even in this dimension. 

Shit. Bill wasn’t bluffing.

Dipper wipes sweating palms on the sheets. To pick up the phone again takes an effort, willing himself to grasp it in unsteady hands.

A demon. 

All the monsters he’s fought, curses he’s broken, years of work tucked into his belt, and he’s never seen one of those. 

Demons are dangerous, evil, and very, very powerful. Consorting with them is by all accounts a terrible idea. He should never have picked this up. He should hang up, and throw the damn artifact out the window, hoping that nobody else makes as dumb a mistake as he just did. 

On the screen, there’s a long long scroll of yellow letters, filling the entire surface. ‘HA HA HA HA’ over and over and over again. 

Before he can think better of it, Dipper starts a response. He’s halfway through a sentence - what the fuck, that’s not funny- before he pauses.

Terrible evil monster. Stupid powerful. Probably Bill sensed the tracing of the connection, like he did with Dipper’s other testing. Bill wanted the result startle him. Because he thinks it’s funny.

Dipper grits his teeth, and glares at the screen. 

Actually, screw this guy. Dipper’s keeping the stupid phone. If for no other reason than spite. This ‘Bill’ guy seems pretty full of himself, like he’s totally above some human. He’s in for a bad time, then, because Dipper’s not going to let one little surprise scare him off.

Besides.  The average guy would get into horrible, even deadly trouble, whereas Dipper… sort of knows what he’s doing.  No, he is good at his job. Finding secrets, solving mysteries, thwarting evil jerks who think they’re oh-so-hilarious, the whole shebang. He does it all.

Taking another breath, hissing through clenched teeth - Dipper lets it out. Losing his temper isn’t going to help deal with an extradimensional being. He has to be careful.

He thinks for a long moment before he responds. 

Okay. Let’s say I believe you. Maybe. Then you should know I didn’t steal your… whatever this is. I found it lying around, and I just. Got kind of curious. 

HA HA HA! Of course you were! Careful with that impulse, kid, it kills more than just cats!

A jerk who definitely thinks he’s hilarious. Dipper rolls his eyes, then, rather pettily, decides to ignore that statement. 

More pressing questions take the lead. Like what the fuck he’s holding right now, and if there are any other nasty tricks in store. A little bit of him, bubbling under the surface, wonders what being a demon is like. What they get up to, common habits. Ways they could be tracked down and, y’know, defeated, maybe. 

Theoretically, he’s got a line to a bunch of innocent, totally not-thwarting-related information that could be super useful to someone trying to, maybe, be a super cool monster-fighter.

Dipper backspaces a bunch over some poorly thought out questions. First things first. Like what the hell he’s holding right now.

So. What is this?

Good question! The gadget you’re poking at with your sweaty meat-paws is paired to the one I have here at my place. A little one-on-one communication assistant, if you will. Once you started groping around with your magic, it wasn’t hard to tell someone had picked it up!

Dipper raises an eyebrow. Though he already has an idea… a little confirmation never hurts. 

Like, you got a notification? Or literally felt?

The latter! Kinda like smell, but by touching things with your eyeballs. And with all your prodding around you might as well have been stinking up the place! Your spells aren’t real subtle!

Hey, they’re subtle! Having weird extra senses is just cheating.

Sucks to be human, then! In that you suck at everything! What’s a LOSER like you gonna do about it?

Dipper nearly throws the stupid artifact again - but he holds back, gripping it tight. Instead he sits up, leaning down and hauling his backpack up from the side of the bed. 

Maybe Bill thinks he can’t do anything. That he’s some ignorant nobody, who doesn’t have any real skills or talent or doesn’t have any friends - but he’s got that wrong. Dipper’s not a loser. Bill’s not getting away with that bullshit.

One quick unzip and a bit of rifling around later, he finds what he was looking for. Carefully, Dipper bounces the heft of a flashlight battery in his hand. Shutting his eyes, he focuses on crafting a quick working.

Magic is all about energy, and its direction. Focusing power, conveying it from one place to another. Pushing anything across dimensions would take impossible amounts of energy, stuff Dipper doesn’t have. If it weren’t for a very convenient connection, already in his hand.

Dipper has nothing on hand to actually exorcise the guy - he’s not sure that’s even possible when Bill’s where he should be - but retribution is in order.

More text lines appear on the artifact. He ignores them. Changing this up to work with the demon device is a challenge, but after figuring out how to alter the tracking spell changing this one up isn’t hard. He adjusts the flow of magic this way, into the tangle of not-veins in the device that way, finishes the chant-

Then touches his tongue to the battery.

The jolt passes through him painlessly, following the spell. It zips along his nerves, down into his hand and from there - into the artifact itself. 

Where it should, theoretically end up right at that bastard.

Dipper tosses the battery back into his backpack. Picking up the ‘phone’, hunching over to stare at the screen. 

That worked. He felt the energy move… unless he got the math wrong. Or a detail of his spell. Or maybe demons are immune to electricity, and he just did something totally pointless. 

God. It might even prove Bill right, and wouldn’t that be the worst - 

The next line of text comes in. 

What the hell? A joy buzzer? That’s some real petty prank stuff! You seriously pulled that bullshit? And across dimensions?

A tense pause. Dipper taps the phone, checking for it heating up again - but another line pops up after a few seconds.

Y’know what, kid? I think I might actually like you! You’re FEISTY.

Dipper nearly does a double-take. 

But no, that - what? Aren’t demons supposed to be vengeful? He was half-sure he’d have to chuck the phone out the window before it exploded in his hands. 

In fact, you’re in luck! ‘Cause I’m pretty bored, and I can totally show you how to improve that jinx of yours! If you can keep up with a little theory, that is.

Because that’s not suspicious or anything. Conversation with a demon can only lead to ruin and disaster. He should absolutely, definitely stop this right in its tracks.

Still, Dipper shrugs, and types, 

Try me.

[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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[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.

[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.

[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

[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.

[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.

[hel-the-growl]

Cultural Annotations on New Gods: Yang Jian -Part 1-

This is the companion piece to my long-ass thread about the same topic on twitter.

Light Chaser really outdid themselves with the visuals and research this time, and with Yang Jian out in NA theaters, it's totally worth seeing on the big screen.

There were so many historical references packed into this movie, I thought I'd do a deep dive into the characters, motifs and lore associated with Investiture of the Gods scene by scene.

Background

Yang Jian is the second instalment of the New Gods series of animated films (after Nezha Reborn), that are loosely based on the 16th-century Chinese novel Investiture of the Gods (IOTG). IOTG shares some canon with other Chinese classics like Journey to the West, Classic of Mountains and Seas, Lotus Lantern etc. so there may be crossovers.

The character Yang Jian, better known as the god Erlang, is a figure widely regarded as heaven's greatest warrior deity. He is recognized for having a third truth-seeing eye, and in IOTG, helped bring about the fall of the Shang Dynasty in 1046 BC.

The movie however, takes place during the Wei, Jin and Northern and Southern dynasties circa 5th century AD, some 1500 years after events of IOTG. We first meet Yang Jian as a rather lethargic but free-spirited individual, 12 years after losing his powers during a great disaster involving the three realms, scraping by as a bounty hunter.

A rough timeline

c. 1075-1066 BC: Yang Jian is born

c. 1060-1050 BC: Yang Jian cleaves Peach Mountain

1046 BC: Battle of Muye (Conclusion of Investiture of the Gods)

c. 9 BC-23 AD: Erlang defeats Sun Wukong (Journey to the West, Chapter 7 - Havoc in Heaven)

c. 405 AD: Disaster of the Three Realms; Yang Chan is trapped under Mount Hua

c. 417 AD: New Gods: Yang Jian

c. 1920s - c. 1930s: Nezha Reborn

Breakdown

Yang Jian’s crew all have backstories. In Journey to the West, Kang Anyu (康安裕) and Yao Gonglin (姚公麟) are two of Erlang’s six brothers of Plum Mountain, both supreme government officials in charge of military affairs. Maybe we’ll get to find out about the other four’s whereabouts in later instalments?

Xiaotian is Erlang’s dog sidekick who helps him subdue evil spirits and never leaves his side. The movie’s version of Xiaotian seems to be inspired by ancient paintings depicting her as a white hound.

The wanted bulletin printer seems to be inspired by a Hu Shi Ren You (虎噬人卣), a tiger-shaped Ancient Chinese wine vessel.

In Chinese mythology, Penglai is a legendary island for immortals. It has been reimagined to be the equivalent of the CBD of the divine realm.

The dice used in the casino are 18-sided Xing Jiu Ling (行酒令) from the Han Dynasty. It has the numbers 1 to 16, along with the characters for "wine" and "arrogance" engraved in gold and silver. The rat is the first animal of the Chinese Zodiac.

Shunfeng’er (顺风耳), who now goes by Old Gao and works at the casino, was usually accompanied by Qianliyan (千里眼). They are two temple guards whose names translate to “all-hearing” and “all-seeing” that could hear and see things from thousands of miles away.

Light Chaser is serious about its monkey business. The way casino monkey grabbed Yang Jian’s tally with his foot, the big ape miming and even in Nezha Reborn where the little monkey imitated Yunxiang.

Fun fact: The monkey is voiced by Yang Tianxiang, the same actor who voiced Li Yunxiang (Nezha) in Nezha Reborn.

Refresher - Primordial Spirit, known in Chinese as yuanshen (元神), is is a concept in Daoism defined to be a level of existence surpassing that of physical existence. In the New Gods universe, they manifest as giant glowing avatars.

New Gods also has a recurring theme of lost Astras - In Nezha Reborn, Wukong’s staff is nowhere to be found and Yunxiang has only recovered Nezha’s Sky Ribbon so far. Among Erlang’s many Astras, three are mentioned in the movie.

Yang Jian’s headdress is designed to resemble his signature trident, the "three-pointed, double-edged lance". Hence when casino monkey asked him where his weapon was, he clinked the headdress.

This weapon was later shown in a flashback:

Another one of his Astras is a golden bow with silver bullets. According to the director, it was melted into his harmonica (although this was probably retconned as in the teaser for the sequel, it was his mother who gave it to him as a child). The harmonica not only has the powers of his bow, but is also the ignition key for his ship.

The third weapon featured is his mountain-cleaving axe (开山斧). It is the axe he used to split Peach Mountain in half to save Yaoji. He is shown wielding the same axe in the opening montage 1500 years earlier and it is currently wedged inside the Lotus Peak of Mount Hua from the events of 12 years ago. Needless to say it is a powerful Astra with earth-shattering capabilities.

The Four Diablo Brothers - Mo Lihong, Mo Liqing, Mo Lihai, and Mo Lishou - were initially antagonists in IOTG, having launched an attack on the Western Foothills. This led to the introduction of Yang Jian, who helped defeat the brothers.

By the conclusion of the novel, they were enshrined as the Four Heavenly Kings - Vaiśravaṇa, king of yakṣas (多闻天王; Duowen Tianwang), Virūḍhaka, king of kumbhāṇḍas (增长天王; Zengzhang Tianwang), Dhṛtarāṣṭra, king of gandharvas (持国天王; Chiguo Tianwang) and Virūpākṣa, king of nāgas (广目天王; Guangmu Tianwang). In the movie, only Mo Liqing was addressed by his title when Shen Gongbao met him inside the lighthouse.

There's a PSA on the noticeboard with a picture of Nezha pissing. It reads "no urinating or defecating here." This might be a piss (pun intended) at the 2019 animation Ne Zha from a rival studio, and its hilarious promo. The shade 💀

Further supporting my theory that White Snake and New Gods are from the same universe, Precious Jade from White Snake is recruiting!!! And medicine boy plugging his illegal business lol.

Jinxia Cave (金霞洞), lit. Gold Sunset Cave is Yuding’s HQ. It is located on Jade Spring Mountain in the Divine realm.

The little disciple playing the flute is a tribute to the 1963 ink animation “The Bamboo Flute” (牧笛) produced by Shanghai Animation Film Studio.

Yuding is one of the many disciples of Yuanshi Tianzun, one of the highest deities of Daoism known as the Primeval Lord of Heaven. Yuding is ranked 10th among the “12 golden disciples”, and among his peers are Jiang Ziya (the main character of IOTG who led the battle against Shang), Taiyi Zhenren (Nezha’s master) and Shen Gongbao etc. They are all practitioners of Chan Daoism, also known as Kunlun Sect, founded by Laozi and Yuanshi Tianzun.

In the tale of the Magic Lotus Lantern, Chenxiang was the son of Yang Chan AKA Goddess San Shengmu AKA the holy mother of Mount Hua AKA Erlang’s sister, and a mortal scholar named Liu Yanchang. This parallels the Yang siblings’ own origin story as the children of a goddess and a mortal.

Chenxiang literally means Agarwood. It is a revered wood valued for its use in incense and traditionally burned during meditation.

The place on Jade Spring Mountain where Yuding sealed the sect brother’s Dharmakaya (the embodiment of the truth itself, a transcendence of the physical and spiritual bodies) is based on the travertine pools in and around Jiuzhaigou, Sichuan. Notably, a scene from Journey to the West, a story associated with Erlang, was once filmed at one of the waterfalls here. I’ve been here and yes, it looks exactly like this irl.

Part 2｜Part 3｜Part 4

[rockislandadultreads]

Read-Alike Friday: Killers of the Flower Moon by David Grann

Killers of the Flower Moon by David Grann

In the 1920s, the richest people per capita in the world were members of the Osage Indian Nation in Oklahoma. After oil was discovered beneath their land, the Osage rode in chauffeured automobiles, built mansions, and sent their children to study in Europe.

Then, one by one, they began to be killed off. One Osage woman, Mollie Burkhart, watched as her family was murdered. Her older sister was shot. Her mother was then slowly poisoned. And it was just the beginning, as more Osage began to die under mysterious circumstances.

In this last remnant of the Wild West—where oilmen like J. P. Getty made their fortunes and where desperadoes such as Al Spencer, “the Phantom Terror,” roamed – virtually anyone who dared to investigate the killings were themselves murdered. As the death toll surpassed more than twenty-four Osage, the newly created F.B.I. took up the case, in what became one of the organization’s first major homicide investigations. But the bureau was then notoriously corrupt and initially bungled the case. Eventually the young director, J. Edgar Hoover, turned to a former Texas Ranger named Tom White to try to unravel the mystery. White put together an undercover team, including one of the only Native American agents in the bureau. They infiltrated the region, struggling to adopt the latest modern techniques of detection. Together with the Osage they began to expose one of the most sinister conspiracies in American history.

Covered with Night by Nicole Eustace

The Pulitzer Prize-winning history that transforms a single event in 1722 into an unparalleled portrait of early America.

In the winter of 1722, on the eve of a major conference between the Five Nations of the Haudenosaunee (also known as the Iroquois) and Anglo-American colonists, a pair of colonial fur traders brutally assaulted a Seneca hunter near Conestoga, Pennsylvania. Though virtually forgotten today, the crime ignited a contest between Native American forms of justice―rooted in community, forgiveness, and reparations―and the colonial ideology of harsh reprisal that called for the accused killers to be executed if found guilty.

In Covered with Night, historian Nicole Eustace reconstructs the attack and its aftermath, introducing a group of unforgettable individuals―from the slain man’s resilient widow to an Indigenous diplomat known as “Captain Civility” to the scheming governor of Pennsylvania―as she narrates a remarkable series of criminal investigations and cross-cultural negotiations. Taking its title from a Haudenosaunee metaphor for mourning, Covered with Night ultimately urges us to consider Indigenous approaches to grief and condolence, rupture and repair, as we seek new avenues of justice in our own era.

Return to Uluru by Mark McKenna

A killing. A hidden history. A story that goes to the heart of the nation.

When Mark McKenna set out to write a history of the centre of Australia, he had no idea what he would discover. One event in 1934 – the shooting at Uluru of Aboriginal man Yokununna by white policeman Bill McKinnon, and subsequent Commonwealth inquiry – stood out as a mirror of racial politics in the Northern Territory at the time.

But then, through speaking with the families of both killer and victim, McKenna unearthed new evidence that transformed the historical record and the meaning of the event for today. As he explains, ‘Every thread of the story connected to the present in surprising ways.’ In a sequence of powerful revelations, McKenna explores what truth-telling and reconciliation look like in practice.

Return to Uluru brings a cold case to life. It speaks directly to the Black Lives Matter movement, but is completely Australian. Recalling Chloe Hooper’s The Tall Man, it is superbly written, moving, and full of astonishing, unexpected twists. Ultimately it is a story of recognition and return, which goes to the very heart of the country. At the centre of it all is Uluru, the sacred site where paths fatefully converged.

Yellow Bird by Sierra Crane Murdoch

When Lissa Yellow Bird was released from prison in 2009, she found her home, the Fort Berthold Indian Reservation in North Dakota, transformed by the Bakken oil boom. In her absence, the landscape had been altered beyond recognition, her tribal government swayed by corporate interests, and her community burdened by a surge in violence and addiction. Three years later, when Lissa learned that a young white oil worker, Kristopher "KC" Clarke, had disappeared from his reservation worksite, she became particularly concerned. No one knew where Clarke had gone, and few people were actively looking for him.

Yellow Bird traces Lissa's steps as she obsessively hunts for clues to Clarke's disappearance. She navigates two worlds - that of her own tribe, changed by its newfound wealth, and that of the non-Native oilmen, down on their luck, who have come to find work on the heels of the economic recession. Her pursuit of Clarke is also a pursuit of redemption, as Lissa atones for her own crimes and reckons with generations of trauma.

[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.

[eraserisms]

Mobile Verses

Note: The numbers are there as a means for me to keep track of threads. Some will be out of order as I might add verses after having already started my numbering system. This numbering system is more so for myself vs my partners, but I'll explain it anyway.

For an example, you will notice when we write together things are tagged as; Your URL | Your Characters Name & Shota Aizawa 04|01 . The first number represents where in the timeline/verse the thread is (In this example, it's Pre-Liberation war) and the second number indicates how many threads we've had in that timeline/verse. So in this case it would be the first thread we've started/done.

Canon

Pretty straight forward; any interactions during his canon will go here.

Undetermined (00) Childhood (01) High School Days (02) Early Hero Career (03) Pre Liberation War (04) Post Liberation War (05)

Divergent

Any interactions that involve altering Shota’s canon story while still semi-following MHA’s plot will be added here

Villain Vs I- Bad to the Bone (06); Under Construction Villain Vs II- Fallen from Grace (14); Under Construction Twin (11); Shota has a twin brother or sister.This verse is primarily for duplicates. It will be up to plotting / my partner to determine who is the ‘original /canon’ Shota. Also plotting will involve establishing a background/relationship dynamic. Long Lost Child (12); Shota discovers that he has fathered a child that he doesn’t know about and they come to cross paths. This could be by accident or because the child has sought out Shota.

Alternate Universes

X-Men Verse (07); Much like Shota’s canon, he is a teacher at U.A. which is a private high school designed to train young superheroes. With Japan being ahead socially as far as mutants go, Shota has been sent to Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters to work with the students there. Shota is invited to Xavier’s school as a means to help students and to possibly establish more hero programs in the West.

A Song of Ice and Fire (08)

Under Construction

Fantasy Verse (09)

Under Construction

Pediatric Doctor (10)

Shota is a doctor at U.A. hospital where he works a pediatric unit. In general, this verse can be expanded beyond Shota working at U.A. as far as the timeline goes; threads can start when Shota is in med-school up until he starts working at U.A. Alternatively, Shota can open his own practice as opposed to working at a hospital.

Into the Multiverse (13)

Shota has come to the realization that there are other Shota Aizawa-s out in the universe. This verse also applies to characters that Shota comes across who are alternatives of said character if/when it applies.

Vampire AU Vs I (15)

Shota is a very old vampire; Under Construction

Vampire AU Vs II (16)

Once a hunter, and now he has become the hunted; Under Construction

[five-rivers]

Cryptid Crawl! 8

“You can’t blame me for this,” said Danny.  “Literally, you can’t blame me for our plan working too well.”  There was a high-pitched whine from his end of the Fenton Phones, and a small explosion.

Jazz pinched the bridge of her nose.  “I know, I know, I’m not trying to play the blame game, but you need to get back here.  You’re the only one who can handle the ghosts.”

“I’m not–” Danny broke off, briefly.  “I’m not going to be able to take care of the ghosts.  I promised them that they could have cake if they stayed away from the hunters.  They did, and Ember helped even more.  I can’t go back on that promise now!”

“Okay, but the hunters are coming here.  What are we going to do about the ghosts then?  Even if we convince them they’re all in costume, they’re too good as costumes!  It would be too cool!”

“I think you’re still overestimating the coolness of costumes,” said Tucker.  “It’s an easy mistake to make, I know I–”

“Miss Fenton?  Jasmine?  Oh, there you are,” said Mr. Lancer, sounding relieved.  “No one had seen you since you went to talk to the ghosts, and– What’s wrong?”

Jazz scrubbed her hands over her face and stepped out of the little cubby the end of the row of lockers formed with the oddly-bent corner of the wall.  “We got the two shows to give up, but they’re coming here instead, for, I don’t know, cake as a consolation prize.  I don’t– I don’t know what to do about the ghosts.  They’ll be here in less than fifteen minutes.  I don’t know what to do.”

“Oh,” said Mr. Lancer.  “Twelfth Night, we’re in it now.”

.

AMITY OF AMITY PARK: A Friendly Helping Hand

Ghost Activity Map, Forums, Local Business Directory, Advice Blog

Forums -> Community Alerts -> Paranormal Investigators -> Community Cake Day

Thread: EMERGENCY

12th Knight (OP): The paranormal investigators are coming to the Community Cake Day.  The ghosts are at Community Cake Day.  What do we do?”

Cynosure: I can’t believe you’re posting on the forums while this is going on.

12th Knight: I am a desperate man.  

JACK FENTON: THEY’RE AT THE CAKE DAY?  DOn’T WORRY WE”LL savE YUl!!@@#

JACK FENTON: AND EaT ACKE!

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Mr. Lancer looked up from his phone.  “In retrospect, I feel as if I should have known better than to ask advice from the internet.”

“Jazz,” said Danny, “why did Dad pull out his phone, shout cake, and start running away?”

Jazz would not hold her breath until she fainted.  She wasn’t even sure that was a thing people could do. 

“Okay,” said Sam, “ignoring that disturbing comment and why Jazz didn’t answer, I–  Tucker, what are you doing?”

“He got in again!  How did he get in again?”

“Jazz, are they going to cake day?  Why are they going to cake day?  They cannot be at cake day!”

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Tubahater: Could you maybe disguise the ghosts??

The Smart Twin:  As what?  With what?  There’s no way they’re going to look like anything but ghosts.

CasperQueen: There’s always the drama stuff, I guess, assuming it wasn’t all destroyed when a certain someone fell into it, like a loser.

Lovestheshow: oooh yeah, I love that trope

Lovestheshow: the one where a character dresses up like a crappy version of themselves 

Lovestheshow: yes please tell me you’re going to do it!

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“Oh, heck,” said Tucker, “Nost actually has a point.  How is it that the guy who thinks the whole thing is an ARG has a point?”

At this, Jazz pulled out her own phone.  “Does he have a point?” she asked.  

“Anyone want to fill me in?” asked Danny.  “Kind of busy flying.”

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West of West: Unfortunately, I know for a fact that people are stupid and blind enough to fall for this.

Point25Back: aren’t you supposed to be whipping butter nerd?

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“Why are all my students on their phones when they’re supposed to be baking?” asked Lancer.

“You’re on your phone,” pointed out Jazz.  

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West of West: Aren’t you supposed to be banned

Nobineryginger: oh ye dude i get you theres all sorts of great tropes like that my faves the one where everyone is dressed the same at a party and so when the baddies try to find the heroes they gotta unmask everyone but its all just normal people its like a switcheroo so sweet

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“I can’t believe it, they do have a point,” said Jazz, out loud.

“Please, can someone fill me in?  At least on what I can do?  I’m still trying to distract, but– Ah!  I can disengage whenever you want me!”

“Keep distracting them for now, but be ready to, uh,” she looked up at Mr. Lancer, “be yourself but not be yourself again, and to say that you’re a different yourself than the yourself they met.”

“I hate that I understood that,” said Danny.  

“Okay,” said Jazz, “we need the drama class.”

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[Video starts, showing a crowd of people of various ages in a school cafeteria.  Most of the people are either children or middle aged.  There are several people sitting at the front of the room.  Static obscures many of their features, but they all appear to be glowing and have odd skin tones.  The video is shaky.

WOMAN #1: Damn, I should have gotten a better camera, this one is spazzing out.  But the phone one is bad, too…

The angle of the camera changes slightly, and shows a low-angle profile of a woman.

WOMAN #2: Bought it out of town?

WOMAN #1: Yeah, why?

WOMAN #2: Takes a while for them to get used to the ectoplasm.  Give it a week and it’ll be fine.

WOMAN #1: That doesn’t help much now.  I wanted to film Ashley breaking a world record.

WOMAN #2: I’m sure someone else is filming, too.  You could ask around, later.

A door in the corner of the cafeteria opens, and the camera turns towards them.  A group of teenagers comes out.  One of them, a girl with long red hair and a large amount of flour on her shirt, is carrying a megaphone.  

TEENAGER: Hello, Amity Park!  I know you’re looking forward to cake, but we have an additional surprise for you all.  This is now a costume party!  The drama class will be bringing you your costumes shortly.  Thank you for cooperating and making this Community Cake Day a success.

The teenager lowers the microphone, and joins the other teenagers, who have started swarming the glowing people.

WOMAN #2: When was the last time you checked the forums?

Video ends.]

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Danny dropped through the ceiling into the bathroom and transformed.  He pulled back on the fake hazmat and grimaced as he noticed a tear.  Maybe he could– Could he do a partial?  He’d never done a partial like that before on purpose–

“There you are!” shouted Jazz.  

“Oh gosh,” said Danny.  “This is the boy’s ba–”

“That doesn’t matter!  Come on!”

“But there’s a tear–”

Jazz shrieked in frustration and shoved a fake Danny Phantom top at him.  The gloves and belt were sewn on, and it looked very crooked.  

“Where did this even come from?” he whispered.  “Did you make this?”

“No, there were about fifty of them backstage of the theater, but no one fit this one.  It’s too small.”

Danny, who had gotten it on over his head with no effort, glared at her, but then the rest of her words sank in.  “Fifty?  Why does the drama class have fifty of these?”

“I don’t want to know, do you?  If it makes you feel better, it was right next to the surplus Ember stuff.”

It did not make Danny feel better.  

Even so, he let Jazz continue to herd him into the cafeteria and then sit him between Lunch Lady (dusted in flour and looking very pleased with herself) and Kitty, which was really unfair, he thought.  At least it wasn’t between Spectra and Skulker.  

“Jazz,” said Danny, eyeing the cafeteria.  “Do you want to tell me the plan, now?”

“I would also like to know the plan,” said Kitty, who was currently wearing cat ears and badly done facepaint.

“You’re all just people dressing up as ghosts,” said Jazz, “like mascots.  Because it will get you free cake.  Danny, you’re not the same person they ran into earlier, got it?  You’re someone different.”

Danny definitely needed a few quiet minutes to process all this, but it almost, sort of, kind of, made sense.  “We’re making them think everyone is a fake.  Just more fake ghosts.  Not even original fake ghosts.”

“Yeah,” said Jazz.

“But– But what about Mom and Dad?  You know what they’re like.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Jazz.  

“I’m worrying about it.”

“Don’t.”

“I’m worrying about it, too, actually,” said Sam, who sounded very out of breath.  “Any of you guys seen Val and Dani yet?”

“No,” said Danny.  They must still be at the hospital.

“Listen,” said Jazz, “someone else will take care of it.  You just sit here and eat cake.”

“Isn’t that what Marie Antoinette said?” asked Danny.  

Jazz made a face.  “You really do only know the one historical quote, don’t you?”

“Heh, she’s got you there,” said Kitty.  

“And you do need to eat more,” said Lunch Lady, pinching his cheek.

“Fine,” said Danny, “but don’t blame me when things go wrong with whatever you’re planning!”