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fuckyeahdindjarin · 2 years

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II ║ Buckskin

Jack Daniels x f!reader

{ << Part 1: Palomino | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Part 3: Dapple Grey >> }

Rating: E (18+ only)

Summary: It's an eventful first day on the trail, to say the least.

Warnings: Flirting, yearning, insecurities, sexual tension, gratuitous descriptions of the male body, sexual innuendoes, inappropriate thoughts of a saddle horn (I'm sorry), masturbation (m and f), language, mention of food, mention of breakup, no use of Y/N

Word count: 6.8k

Notes: All of you have literally blown me away with your thirst (affectionate) for cowboy Jack, thank you for encouraging me to be as self-indulgent as I want with this fic 🥰 I hope this was worth the wait, I had a blast writing this part! Picks up immediately after Part 1.

Buckskin: A colour that resembles tanned deerskin. A buckskin horse has a tan or gold coloured coat with black points - mane, tail, and lower legs.

Day 1

‘I hear you were meant to come with someone.’

You arch an eyebrow and quip drily. ‘No secrets on this ranch, huh?’

Jack gives you an apologetic tip of the hat. ‘Sorry, you’ve met Champ - he’s not exactly discreet. We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.’

Your fears that you would run out of conversation within the first hour of the day proved unfounded. Jack is an attentive guide, his experience and knowledge of the area obvious as he leads you deeper into the mountains. He tells you about the local geography, points out native trees and flora to you when he notices your gaze lingering in interest, and entertains your questions about the ranch and the people in it.

The morning passes as quickly as the temperature rises, and soon you both shed your jackets, stopping briefly so Jack can affix the loose items to one of Bourbon’s saddle bags. He rolls up the sleeves of his plaid shirt before hopping back into the saddle.

You try not to stare at the way his forearms flex with the movement.

You want to live in the moment and all that crap, but you soon succumb to the temptation and pull out your phone to take panoramic videos of the stupendous vistas. Sweeping from left to right, the camera takes in grassy knolls, patches of wildflowers in full bloom, clear skies and the ever-looming presence of the Bighorn Mountains.

It’s not your fault that Jack just happens to be in the tail end of all your videos. He even turns his head just in time in one of them, granting you a perfect shot of his profile.

If anything, he’s in the way of the views. How dare he.

The timing works out according to Jack’s plans. Just as the heat starts becoming overbearing, a formidable line of trees comes into view after you crest the steepest incline of your journey so far.

The old pine forest envelops you in a balmy coolness, and you sigh at the earthy scent of leaves and bark as Scotch continues sure-footedly on the soft woodland path. Filtered through the treetops, the midday sun loses its harshness, instead throwing dappled beams under the horses’ hooves.

You’re a city girl at heart, but if you’re not careful, you can really get used to this.

After a no-frills lunch - a hearty baguette sandwich stuffed to the brim with ham, cheese and leafy greens, and an apple to finish - you want to press on, but Jack insists on a half-hour break so that you can stretch out your knees and hips, knowing that you would pay for it the next day if you didn’t.

The afternoon leg of the ride has just resumed when Jack brings up the subject.

You realise you’ve fallen quiet a tad too long to be considered comfortable, so you compensate by flashing him a reassuring smile. ‘No, no, it’s fine. My ex-boyfriend and I booked this trip together. It was supposed to be a little getaway for my birthday.’

‘I’m sorry.’

You shake your head. ‘Don’t be. To be honest, it would’ve been boring with him here. He would’ve whinged about the horses smelling and we definitely couldn’t have gone any faster than a trot. He doesn’t ride.’

Jack chuckles. ‘Sounds like a keeper, whatever possessed you to leave him?’

‘I wish I did - he left me.’

‘Pardon my language, but he sounds like a fuckin' idiot.’

Your laugh rings in the quiet of the woods, and he looks pleased at your reaction, his warm eyes resting on you easily. Since it’s only fair that he should share something with you too, you ask conversationally, ‘What about you, cowboy? Do you have some sad sob story that brought you to the Statesman?’

You should’ve guessed, by the way his lips purse, and the smallest dip in his smile. But what comes out of his mouth in a quiet rasp still stuns you.

‘My wife - she died eight and a half years ago.’

The blood literally drains out of your face. Of course - you wouldn’t be you if you didn’t put your big foot into your bigger mouth in front of someone you’re about to spend the next seven days with.

‘I’m sorry, darlin’, I didn’t mean to unsettle you -’

‘Oh god,’ you blurt out, brows knitted together in distress and stumbling over your words. ‘Why are you apologising to me? I’m a complete idiot. I’m so sorry, that was so insensitive of me -’

‘Darlin’ -’

‘I shouldn’t have phrased it that way, I didn’t mean to upset you -’

‘Darlin’, just let me -’

‘- I swear I didn’t mean it, Jack, please forgive me -’

Firm fingers close around your right wrist, and when he calls your name, your eyes snap to his, jolted out of your ramble. A gentle thumb brushes your pulse point and he smiles at you. ‘You run your mouth at a gallop, don’t you?’

‘I’m sorry,’ you answer in a small voice.

‘There's nothin' to apologise for. You didn’t know, and the joke would’ve landed with anyone else,’ he comforts you.

He lets go of you slowly, as if not to spook you, and you duck your head. ‘I’m still so sorry, Jack.’

His knee bumps into yours, startling you, and your stirrup irons clink sweetly when they touch. You didn’t realise he’s pulled in so close into you. It’s oddly intimate, riding this close to someone else - close enough to trade secrets.

‘Please, darlin’, don’t be. Eight and a half years is a very long time ago. I’ve been dating casually for the last few, actually,’ he confides in you with a sheepish smile, which goes a long way to set you at ease. ‘But it’s hard to meet people when there are about five single women who live in a three-hour radius from the ranch.’

‘No Tinder around here?’

His brow furrows below his hat. ‘Tinder - what?’

‘Tinder. The online dating app?’ you repeat. At his shrug, you tease, ‘Not big on technology, are we?’

Winding the reins around the saddle horn, he holds up one finger at you in a silent wait a second, while fishing for something in one of his shirt pockets, which he presents to you with a ta-da.

‘Um, Jack… what’s that?’

‘I’ve been told that it’s an iPhone,’ he replies, turning the last word slowly on his tongue, as if it sits uncomfortably. At your incredulous look, he asks, ‘What’s wrong with it?’

You take it from him, looking it over with a snicker. ‘It’s literally held together by scotch tape. Did you pick it up from the side of the road after it fell out of someone else’s car?’

His fingers brush yours when he takes it back, sticking his nose up imperiously. ‘I don’t need a smartphone, or Tinder. I do things the old-fashioned way.’

You bite your lip, amused. ‘Oh? And what might that be?’

Jack winks at you. ‘I pick up women at a bar - the closest one is two hours’ drive away.’

‘Two hours?’

‘If I don’t pick up anyone, I have to sleep in my car since it’s too far to drive back. It’s a surprisingly effective incentive.’

You study him closely, but you don’t know him well enough to judge if he’s joking or not. ‘You cannot be serious, cowboy.’

‘Gotta keep those time-honoured traditions alive, darlin’,’ he replies, happy keeping you guessing.

‘That’s ridiculous. I’ll teach you how to use Tinder, it’ll be fun!’ you insist. ‘It will also save you a ton of gas money.’

‘How? There’s no signal in the mountains.’

‘What about at the Halfway House?’

He begrudgingly admits, ‘Fine, there is wifi there. And you’re the guest, so technically, I can’t say no to you.’

You don’t hear the ‘you’re the guest’ and ‘technically’ though. Your heart is pounding at this cowboy telling you that he can’t say no to you.

Before you’ve recovered, he asks, ‘What about you? Are you ready to get back into the saddle, so to speak?’

You let your eyes linger over him, and your lips twitch. ‘Yeah - I’m beginning to think that I am.’

In the summer, the Statesman leads pack trips into the mountains every week. Jack and Tequila look after the guests on alternate, usually with a backup rider or two, depending on the size of the groups. While the routes are not set in stone, they set up makeshift campsites at certain spots every summer to make logistics easier, which are dismantled in the fall when tourist season winds down.

Jack glances at his watch as the lakeside camp comes into view. Perfect. There’s still a couple of hours until dinnertime.

This particular camp has a stone fire pit and a pile of already chopped logs kept dry under a tarp. Wooden posts have been hammered into the ground for holding saddles and tack. A bale of hay for the horses has been strung up in a net, hanging from a nearby tree, which was delivered earlier in the day by Tequila.

Your knees protest when your feet hit the ground, and you wince at the tightness in the joints. It doesn’t escape Jack’s notice, and he asks, ‘You alright, darlin’?’

You wave away his concerns. ‘Just a bit stiff, that’s all.’

‘You’ll need to do a lot of stretching tonight, or you’ll really feel it tomorrow.’

You’re distracted, unbuckling Scotch’s girth as you reply offhandedly, ‘Yes, sir.’

Jack’s head whips towards you so quickly he nearly pulls his neck. You’re not paying him any heed though - you’re balancing on your tiptoes to grab the saddle with both hands, your shirt riding up, baring the small of your back. You gently drag the saddle and the sweaty pad underneath off Scotch.

The thud with which the saddle lands on the wooden post shakes Jack out of his thoughts. He clears his throat and busies himself with untacking Whiskey.

‘I was thinking we could have a swim before dinner,’ he suggests, pointing behind him. ‘There’s a lake just beyond the trees, I think we could all do with a cool down and then a shower, including the horses.’

‘They like water?’ you ask, surprised.

Jack joins you on the opposite side of the post with Whiskey’s tack. ‘These three are basically fish, but with more legs and hair.’

You hang Scotch’s bridle on the edge of the post, one hand on your hip, and lament, ‘I didn’t bring a swimsuit, though.’

He really shouldn’t have, but the words come out without going through his brain. ‘Don’t you wear underwear, darlin’?’

You give him a look that has the tips of his ears turning red under his hat. ‘Wouldn’t you like to know, cowboy.’

Jack gapes at you, the rug pulled from underneath his boots too quickly to wrap his head around it. You let him flounder for just a few moments before you put him out of his misery, breaking into a chortle. ‘I’m messing with you - of course I do!’

Jack shakes his head, letting out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding. With a chuckle, he watches you walk away to help with unloading Bourbon.

It looks like he will have to keep his wits about him this week.

The grass is long and soft under your bare feet, finally allowed to breathe after more than seven hours in the saddle today. The short walk to the lake is already doing you good, you can feel your back and hip muscles stretching and loosening.

You giggle when the horses spot the lake, and with excited neighs, they start at a canter to race each other to the water, leaving you and Jack behind.

‘They’re ridiculous,’ you say fondly, glancing at Jack, who’s also taken off his boots.

‘They know the good life,’ he quips.

You stop by the edge of the lake, under the shade of a tree with low branches. Jack hangs his towel on one of them, and you follow suit, then your hands waver over the hem of your shirt, fingers curling into your palms. You don’t remember the last time anyone saw you in your underwear other than your ex. Even though you’ve shaved and exfoliated in the comfort of your lodge last night, and you’re actually wearing a matching set of underwear - just in case, you told yourself - you hesitate.

Thankfully, Jack doesn’t seem to pick up on your awkwardness. In fact, he’s not looking your way at all - he’s watching as the horses splash in the shallows.

The hat comes off first. You haven’t seen him without it yet, he was wearing it even at dinner last night. A large hand rakes through the roots of his hair, leaving a dishevelled, sweaty mess in its wake. His dark hair is cropped short, but from the way the stray wisps coil against his forehead, you can tell that it would grow long into thick curls if allowed to do so.

His plaid shirt is next, the small buttons undone in quick succession under his nimble fingers, until it hangs open and loose over a firm chest and soft stomach. With a smooth roll of his shoulders, the sweat-stained shirt falls to the ground and your jaw drops.

You know you’re staring disrespectfully, but mother of god you’d have to fling yourself, fully clothed, into the water to stop yourself, and that would be a tad dramatic - even for you.

He’s tanned all over, his forearms darker, presumably as he usually rides with his sleeves rolled up. His frame is broad - so broad you’d barely be able to wrap your arms around him if you tried. You can see the sweat dotting his skin, salty beads sliding down the contours of his back. The subtle firmness of his body speaks to the physical nature of his job, long hours in the saddle, riding and wrangling over days and years.

You’re suddenly painfully aware of eyes on you. Snapping your mouth shut, you can only bear to briefly glance at Jack with an apologetic half-smile.

Busted.

He winks at you, his big hands hovering over the ridiculous flask-shaped belt buckle you haven’t yet had the chance to quiz him about. The lines of his arms have no business being so defined. Is it just you or is he flexing under your scrutiny?

Finally, he rasps, ‘You’re makin’ me blush, darlin’.’

‘Sorry,’ you squeak, feeling your cheeks burn as you spin around to give him some privacy.

Jack grins to himself, standing taller from the way you’re looking at him. He makes short work of his jeans and heads to the lake in his boxers, leaving you to disrobe. ‘I’ll see you in the water when you’re ready then.’

Diving in, Jack swims into the middle of the lake with easy strokes, sighing deeply as the cold water brings down his body temperature. Breaking the surface, he runs his fingers through his hair to push it back from his face, and takes stock of Bourbon and Whiskey on the other side of the lake, while Scotch rolls on the grassy bank, scratching his back.

He picks up on a quiet ripple of the water behind him, and he wades around at the small yelp you let out. You’re swimming in his direction, a beam lighting up your face. ‘It’s so cold - it feels amazing!’

Jack smiles back, paddling on the spot. ‘It’s the only lake on our route, so you better enjoy it, darlin’.’

You take your time, drifting through the water in a lazy breaststroke, which allows you to admire the views as you swim. The surface of the lake is a perfect mirror of the late afternoon sky, surrounded by lush grass that Scotch and Whiskey are now grazing on. You’re not a particularly strong swimmer, and you become winded after a few laps around the perimeter. Spotting Jack taking a break, you join him.

The slopes of his strong shoulders bob above the waterline, his wet hair slicked back, and he smiles at you. ‘Tired?’

You huff a laugh. ‘Let’s put it this way. The last time I went to the gym, Tinder hadn’t been invented yet.’

‘I couldn’t tell at all. You’ve done well, darlin’,’ he compliments you.

His praise goes straight to your head like champagne on an empty stomach, and you hope it doesn’t show. You shrug nonchalantly and jest, ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, cowboy. The real test is whether I can get up tomorrow.’

Kicking your legs, you propel yourself upwards, your eyes slipping close as you come to float weightlessly on your back, soothing the ache in your muscles. The sun is warm on your skin, and you leisurely glide your arms and feet through the water to stay adrift. Your ears submerged, it drowns out the noises of the mountains - the birdsong, the rustle of trees, the horses. You listen to your own breathing and the trickle of moving water.

It’s strangely still. Has Jack swum off?

You tilt your face to the right, the water cool on your cheek, and open your eyes to find him looking straight at you.

‘What?’ you ask, somewhat self-consciously.

His gaze skims not so subtly across your floating form, before returning to your face. He shrugs casually, ‘Nothing, you just look very - comfortable.’

The way the word rolls off his tongue sends a shiver down your spine.

Not that he’s interested in you. You have to be real with yourself - he can’t be. He’s way out of your league, and then by some distance. A man who looks like that doesn’t go for girls like you. He’s just been flirting with you because that’s what cowboys do. It’s part of the dude ranch experience, how they get customers coming back - you know how it is.

You swallow thickly, and you don’t miss the way it catches his stare. The tension that had flared up during the hat fitting yesterday rears its head again. Your lips part in anticipation as he drifts closer to you -

- when something heavy knocks hard into your left leg, throwing you off balance and sending you plummeting into the water.

‘Oh my god what was that?’ you screech, flailing about in panic, rubbing water from your eyes.

Jack almost looks amused at your reaction. ‘Don’t worry, darlin’, it was probably just a fish.’

You watch the lake for signs of life, but you cannot see beyond the dark surface. ‘Probably a fish? What do you mean by probably?’

Even the horses are watching the commotion. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Bourbon standing on the edge of the lake, water dripping from his mouth as you disturbed him mid-drink, ears pricked forward in curiosity.

You feel another powerful underwater current of disturbance near your feet as you paddle, and in genuine fear, you scream and splash clumsily in Jack’s direction until you’ve clambered onto him, your legs curling around his waist instinctively. He sinks briefly from the sudden weight of you before he regains his composure, treading water to keep you both above the water, hands gripping your hips to steady you.

‘Whoa, easy there, darlin’ - you ok?’

‘How did the fish get into the lake?’

Jack’s mouth opens and shuts, and opens again in absolute bewilderment. ‘I beg your pardon?’

You ask louder. ‘How did the fish get into the lake?’

Jack is torn. Are you really asking him about fish when you’re crowded up against him, all wet and slippery curves? Your nails digging into the meat of his shoulders, your breasts - barely contained in a lacy black bra - so soft on his chest?

You seem completely oblivious to your physical proximity to him, pressing on, ‘Did it walk into the lake from the nearest river? Did it fly? How could there be fish in a lake that is completely surrounded by dry land? And that felt bigger than a fish. If it’s not a fish, what is it? It’s preposterous -’

Reaching up, Jack slips one hand behind your head, fingers burrowing into your hair, thumb brushing your cheek to get your attention. ‘Darlin’!’

You stop abruptly, blinking at him as your alarm recedes, chest rising and falling rapidly.

‘It was just a fish, I promise,’ he breaks the silence with a reassuring smile. ‘They don’t bite.’

Oh god. You’ve been ranting about fish - out of all things - like a stark raving lunatic.

You wince, realisation dawning on you that you've basically sunk your claws into his broad shoulders. You slowly release your grip, and despite his best attempt to hide it, you catch the small flinch that flickers across his face.

‘I’m so sorry, you must think I’m insane,’ you say finally, biting your bottom lip in embarrassment.

Jack grinds his teeth as his stare drops to your mouth, when you suddenly slip in his grasp. His hands catch you by the upper thighs to keep you above the water, his cock fucking twitching as one of your small hands grabs the back of his neck on reflex to right yourself, the other landing on his chest. Your noses knock together, and he prays that you don’t feel his heart beating out of his rib cage under your palm.

His words come out in such a husky slur that they’re barely intelligible. ‘You know I don’t think that, darlin’.’

He feels your fingers curl into the nape of his neck, your eyes unguarded as you watch him in surprise. ‘Oh?’

Jesus Christ. You have no poker face whatsoever. He’s not proud of it but that fucking turns him on. There’s something so open and untouched about your honesty, which he doesn’t deserve -

‘Jack?’

He clears his throat, Adam’s apple bobbing. ‘Yes, darlin’?’

‘Can you get me out of the water? Please?’

He smiles - and he hopes you don’t see the strain in it. ‘Alright, hang on tight, now.’

It’s not easy to swim with his arms full of you, one hand on your middle to secure you in place so he doesn’t give away his throbbing erection. But by some miracle, he makes it, and when the water is waist-high, he releases you carefully to ensure you don’t brush against his front. He swallows dryly as you wade towards the bank, your bare skin emerging from the lake, inch by inch.

Crossing your arms, you give him a small smile. ‘I hope I didn't completely freak you out, cowboy.’

If only you knew how far from the truth that is.

Jack tries his best to keep his focus on your face, resisting the urge to follow the droplets of water sliding down your body when you shift your weight from one leg to another, the lovely swell of your hip popping.

He needs to calm the fuck down.

So he tries to winks at you, though it probably comes across as a grimace. ‘Don’t worry your pretty head about it, darlin’. I’ll just - do some swimming and I’ll be right back.’

You turn to leave, one last look tossed over your shoulder, and he has to snap himself out of it, plunging back into the water so he doesn’t watch you go like some deviant.

He swims lengths, from one end of the lake to the other, for Christ knows how long until his mind clears and the strain in his boxers eases. Judging by the position of the sun, he should fill up the portable shower for you and head back to camp so you can clean up while he makes a start with dinner.

Scrubbing himself dry with his towel, Jack grabs the portable shower - essentially a bag with a handle so it can be hung from a tree, fitted with a detachable shower head - and dunks it into the water until it’s full. His clothes in one hand, the shower bag in his other, he whistles for the horses to follow him, walking back to camp with his towel slung low on his waist.

When it comes into view, he calls out, ‘Alright, darlin’, it’s shower time -’

He looks up and his words die on his tongue.

You haven’t bothered changing into clean clothes - the shirt you were wearing is now tied around your waist like a sarong, and he can see your soaked bra through the white tank top you were wearing underneath the shirt during the day. You’re standing at the wooden post hovering over Scotch’s saddle, gently running a washcloth over the seat to clean the sweat and grime from the leather -

And your other hand is wrapped firmly around the base of the saddle horn.

His cock fucking lurches at the sight.

You choose that moment to meet his eyes and ask, ‘Did you have a good swim?’

He has to physically dislodge his tongue, stuck to the roof of his mouth, to answer you, ‘It was fine. You want to take a shower now, or -?’

‘Yes sure, once I finish cleaning the saddle.’

Dropping his clothes in a pile on the ground, he reminds you, ‘I told you, darlin’, you really don’t have to -’

You cut him off with a smile. ‘And I told you - I want to.’

He swallows at the word want. ‘You’re the most impervious guest I’ve had the pleasure of meeting, ma’am.’

You shoot him a cheeky grin, and it only makes him harder.

He usually doesn’t bother with the portable shower in the mountains, preferring a quick scrub in the river instead, but he needs an excuse to get away from you right now. Scratching the back of his neck, he stammers, ‘I’m - uh - I’m going to take a shower first then, if you don’t mind.’

The look of surprise you send his way has him hesitating. ‘Oh, but Ginger said that you -’

‘What?’ he prompts when you stop abruptly.

You shake your head and turn back to your task at hand. ‘Never mind. Enjoy, cowboy.’

If only you knew.

He grabs a bar of soap from a saddle bag and practically sprints out of the campsite and into the forest, deep enough that he can no longer see or hear you and the horses. Finding a private spot surrounded by bushes, he hangs up the portable shower and secures the shower head by slotting it into a fork of a branch, then he turns the valve to get the water flowing.

Towel and boxers hitting the ground, his hard cock springs free, and he steps underneath the weak water stream, finally wrapping his hand around himself with a low gasp.

It’s been too fucking long.

Lathering the soap between his rough palms, he starts working his fist over his cock, the other hand flat on the rough tree bark, steadying himself as he hunches over, gritting his teeth to stop from groaning aloud. He can’t remember the last time he even bothered seeking out pleasure - alone or with anyone else.

It was supposed to be another week on the job. A rowdy trip with old regulars and typical Kingsman hijinks. Heavy drinking, all-night poker games and painful hangovers. Safe, predictable.

It wasn’t supposed to be you, with your wicked sense of humour and soft curves and just a bit of hurt lurking under the surface of your easy smile. The way you look at him - he’s forgotten how his blood could thrum under his skin and roar in his ears.

It doesn’t take long - embarrassing really - before he feels his balls draw up and his whole body pull taut in tension. He thinks of your small hand wrapped around the leather saddle horn when he lets go, a deep moan in his chest, cum spurting thick and fast over his fingers, panting as he watches it drip slowly down his wrist and forearm.

He runs his other hand down his face. Fuck. It’s going to be a long week.

The portable shower is a surprisingly nice way to end the day. By the time you’ve shampooed and washed off the smell of horses and leather from your skin, the sun has dipped and the evening chill is creeping in. You rub your hair dry as best as you can without the creature comforts of a hairdryer, shimmy into cozy sweatpants and a hoodie, then make your way back to camp.

The sky is turning violet, the sparse clouds glowing pink on the underside. The horses are tucking into their supper, and you check if they’ve dried their coats in the sun, in case they need a towelling down. Satisfied that they don’t, you bid them good night and carry on towards the warmth of the fire pit.

At the sound of your footsteps, Jack looks up, the golden flames softening his features. He’s sitting on a log, a chopping board balanced on his lap as he cuts up mushrooms. A frying pan sits on a grill over the pit, the smell of caramelising onion sweet in the air.

‘I hope you like omelette,’ he says.

‘Perfect,’ you sigh when you take a seat on the log that he left out for you, your feet needing the rest. ‘Anything I can help with?’

Jack gives you a playful scowl, leaning forward to scrape the mushrooms into the frying pan. ‘Now, what did I say about guests helping with things?’

‘That you like it?’ you poke fun with a shrug.

‘Such insolence,’ he teases, stirring the vegetables with a wooden spoon. ‘If you must, you can help slice and butter the bread, we’ll toast it in the pan later.’

The quiet lull between you is comfortable, punctuated by the snap of burning logs and the sizzle of the pan. You cut the baguette in neat diagonals and try not to overthink it, but you can’t help being conscious of the fact that you’re basically wearing pyjamas, with not a stitch of makeup on, in the presence of someone as handsome as this cowboy. You cast your eyes over him briefly. He looks comfortable in a fresh pair of jeans and a sweater, his hair still wet from his shower.

He catches you staring - how many times has it been today? - and he smiles at you like he doesn’t see anything wrong with you.

The omelette is deliciously cooked, barely wobbly in the middle, seasoned just right and topped with fresh parsley. The toasted bread, which Jack tops with tomatoes and basil, fills the hole in your belly left by the day’s long ride.

Over the course of the dinner, the sky loses all colour. The darkness consumes everything but the immediate circle of the pit, warded off by the flickering fire. Save for the dizzying starscape that looks like it’s been carelessly splattered onto black canvas by a silver-dipped paintbrush, all is cloaked in the cover of night, even the horses are just distant sounds in the dim.

You try to take the dirty plates and cutlery, but Jack jumps onto his feet and physically restrains you by pushing you down into your seat. You don’t have to look to know his big palms easily span your entire shoulders, his fingers grazing your collarbone as he chides, ‘Don’t you dare, darlin’. But if you don’t mind, you could lay out the bedding while I wash up.’

Keen to move about at least a little bit after the big dinner, you find the plushly padded sleeping bags in a neat pile, and after a moment’s consideration, you roll out one on each side of the pit. There are also two camping pillows already inflated, and an extra blanket each. You roll the log you were sitting on right up against your sleeping bag as a backrest - you can use the support. You’re making a nest for yourself when Jack comes back and lays out the clean plates to dry.

He chuckles at the comfortable sight you make. ‘You look ready for bed. Or would you like a nightcap?’

You grin. ‘Nightcap sounds good.’

‘You like whiskey?’

‘Only if it’s Statesman brewed,’ you wink.

‘Flattery will get you everywhere, darlin’,’ he laughs and grabs the whiskey from a saddle bag. The cork pops with a velvety echo, and Jack makes a face of satisfaction at the sound. ‘I don’t have glasses, do you mind if we share the bottle?’

You shake your head and pat the space next to you on your sleeping bag. He takes a seat on the other end, a respectable distance between you, legs bent at the knees. He hands you the bottle. ‘Ladies first.’

You don’t know a lot about whiskey, but this one goes down smoothly and pools warmly in your full belly. Relaxation seeps into your bones as the alcohol works its way through your system. You pass it to Jack as you sag against the log.

‘So, how would you rate your first day?’ asks Jack casually, taking a sip.

‘What, like, out of ten?’ you quip.

‘If you like,’ he chuckles.

‘Don’t let it get to your head, cowboy - but it’s pretty close to ten.’

Jack blows a low whistle. ‘I’m afraid it’s all downhill from here, darlin’. I exhausted all my tricks today.’

You laugh, which echoes loudly in the stillness of the night, when he gives the bottle to you again. ‘You know, it’s so quiet out here I can hear it. It’s not an absence of sound, I can actually hear it.’

‘Hard to come by in the city, huh?’

Tilting your face upwards, you marvel at how big the sky is here. ‘You don’t really see stars in the city either.’

‘Do you know your constellations?’

‘Can’t say I do.’

He takes the bottle when you offer it to him. ‘There’s a telescope at the Halfway House, we can really get into it there.’

You peer at him. ‘You’re just a nerd under that dashing cowboy exterior, aren’t you?’

‘Can’t say I’ve been called a nerd before,’ he chuckles, then sends a roguish grin your way. ‘So you think I’m dashing?’

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. ‘Don’t fish for compliments, cowboy. It’s unbecoming.’

‘I think you’re drunk, darlin’. I should stop you now.’

You grab the bottle by the neck and take a swig. ‘Shut up, I’m not.’

‘You don’t want to be hungover tomorrow. We’ll be riding through some of the best views of the trip,’ warns Jack. ‘Did you bring a proper camera, or are you an Instagram kinda girl?’

You cock your head to one side. ‘You’ve heard of Instagram? I’m impressed.’

‘I don’t use it, but I take photos for the Statesman Instagram account. Tequila does the uploading and hashtags.’ He makes a face at the last word, like it tastes funny.

‘How? The camera lens on your phone is cracked!’

‘I use a real camera,’ he retorts in jest.

‘Fancy,’ you tease. ‘Can I look through your photos?’

He shrugs a bit reluctantly. ‘They’re nothin' special.’

You nudge him in the side with your elbow. ‘C’mon cowboy, don’t be shy.’

Peering at you from under his dark lashes, he gives you a lopsided smile. ‘As I said, can’t say no to you, darlin’.’

The heat that flashes across your face has nothing to do with the fire or the whiskey.

Rummaging through one of the saddle bags, Jack pulls out a bulky digital SLR camera and hands it to you before sitting down again, this time closer to you, shoulder to shoulder. You can almost taste the whiskey on his exhale as he watches you switch on the camera and start flipping through the photos on the small screen.

As if to manage your expectations, he says almost bashfully, ‘It’s just a secondhand camera I bought off a guest a few years back. Never took lessons or anything, it’s mostly point and shoot.’

His insecurity is endearing. You give him a pat on the knee and a playful smirk. ‘My bark is worse than my bite. I’ll be gentle with you, cowboy.’

Jack watches over your shoulder, scooting in as you go deeper into the archives, his arm on the log behind you so that you feel his chest against your back. When you stop to take a closer look at a photo, he chimes in to tell you something about the shot, fingers brushing aside yours to zoom in, pointing out details not immediately obvious. The well-composed pictures are mostly of scenery and guests, and you can tell that he has a particular knack for shooting in tricky lighting. Your breath catches at a shot of Whiskey, a magnificent sunset in the backdrop.

You turn towards him. He’s so close that you can see every soft line on his face. ‘I actually work in the creative field, and I’m sorry to break it to you, cowboy - your stuff is really good.’

‘You don’t have to say that,’ he huffs, clearly embarrassed, bringing the bottle to his lips.

You wink. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not flattering you or anything. I’m sure your ego doesn’t need any more stroking.’

He chokes suddenly, his body knocking into you, amber drops of whiskey trickling down his chin before he swipes at it with the back of his hand. His eyes are dark, pinning you with a look you can’t quite decipher. His words come out in the deepest, smokiest baritone. ‘I wouldn’t say no if you offered to stroke it, darlin’.’

There it is again. The pendulum that’s been swinging between the two of you since the moment this cowboy knocked on your door. It runs you off your feet one moment and then him the next, neither of you finding solid ground with each other. The back-and-forth has you grasping for straws one minute and him thrown off balance the next.

It shouldn’t excite you this much.

You grab the bottle from him, not caring that your fingers scrape deliberately over his, making him shiver. You take a big gulp, eyes watering at the burn of the alcohol, but you need the liquid courage to deliver your next shot. ‘Are you talking about your ego or something else, Jack?’

You feel rather than see the shudder that runs through him at the sound of his name on your lips. The way his knuckles turn white on his knees, his nostrils flare before taking a sharp intake of air has you holding your breath. His reaction thrills and confounds you at the same time. He can’t possibly want you - can he?

He keeps his gaze on you as he licks his bottom lip and plucks both the bottle and camera from your hands. You jump when he brushes the crook of his index finger under your chin, and you can’t read his suddenly shuttered expression. ‘Get some sleep, darlin’. Tomorrow will be a long day.’

You don’t say another word as you watch him go.

Of course you can’t sleep. You’re thinking about Jack’s body pressed up against yours in the water. The skim of his fingertips when you pass the bottle to and fro. His breath hitting your cheek while he leans in close to point out something on the camera.

Tossing and turning, you don’t know how much time has passed, but Jack eventually makes it back to his sleeping bag, just yards from you. You listen to him getting in quietly, fabrics shifting as he settles, until everything falls still.

You twist around to look behind you. The embers are burning low, barely throwing enough light to see beyond his back, slowly rising and falling. He seems to be sleeping.

You can risk it, right? You’ll be quick. You’ve been wanting release for hours, even before the tipsy, fireside exchange. It’s been months since you’ve even wanted this at all… probably the first time after the breakup.

The whiskey in you makes you reckless.

You slide your hand under the elastic band of your sweatpants and into your panties. You’re already slippery and sensitive, and your mouth parts in a wordless whimper as you trace a finger through your folds. Jack’s all the way on the other side of the fire, but now that you’ve known the weight of him against your side and the scent of whiskey on his lips, it doesn’t matter.

Dipping one finger into your pussy, you smear your clit with your own arousal and rub yourself with two fingers. There’s no time for finesse, it’s messy and desperate. You haven’t touched yourself for even a minute before you cum, back arched and the blanket twisted in your grasp as the tension in your body snaps. The release leaves you both satisfied and not, the whole thing over too quickly for the endorphins to reach your head.

Panting into the crook of your elbow over your lips, you just hope you’ve been quiet enough.

But you haven’t.

As you fall silent, Jack lies wide awake, cock heavy and aching between his legs. He digs his nails into his palms and steels himself for a long, sleepless night.

More notes: I haven't quite decided yet, but I'm thinking of doing one part on each day of the trip, which means there will be at least 6 more parts coming. I haven't sketched out anything beyond the 3rd and 4th parts though, so we'll see! I hope you enjoyed this chapter, comments and reblogs would be very much appreciated as always! I'm always up for a good screeching about cowboy Jack 🥰

Horsey notes (optional reading): It's important to take care of tack, especially leather tack, which can be very expensive, especially if they're custom fit. Tack that isn't cleaned and conditioned properly can easily crack and break. Leather saddles and bridles should be sponge cleaned to remove sweat and dirt, and then saddle soap should be applied to moisturise the leather. I still remember the most dreaded test for me in Pony Club exams was taking the bridle apart for cleaning, then having to reassemble it!

#jack daniels x you #jack daniels fanfic #jack daniels x reader #jack whiskey daniels #jack daniels #jack daniels x fem!reader #jack daniels x f!reader #kingsman golden circle #kingsman fanfiction

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moodymisty · 10 months

Note

Hi! I really love you work! I just finished Tree in Bloom on AO3, it’s so cute, I can’t wait to see where the relationship between strife and the human takes them! I was reading though your fics about taking the horsemen’s horses for a joy ride and was wondering if you could do something similar for Strife and Mayhem where we/the human takes mayhem on a little joy ride? Thank you!! 💖

Author’s note: Are we connected? lol but no joke, I’ve had this idea for a bit since someone on Ao3 was also interested in this idea, but I never went full ham on it since I had some other projects take precedence. But hey, here it is! Time to steal Strife’s ride too.

Also I'm glad you like tree in bloom so far! Your comment will fuel me for the next week while i finish blocking out the next chapter. I have a pretty decent idea on where to take it, but I won't say I'm not flying by the seat of my pants lol

Relationships: Strife/Fem!Reader

Warnings: None, unless you consider horseback riding and brief mentions of weaponry worth warning about

“Don’t wander off too far~”

You can’t help but sarcastically mimic the Horsemen, as you kick around small rocks and pebbles that are unfortunate enough to come into the path of your worn old boots.

You wouldn't have had to wander off, if this whole day hadn't been so tediously fucking boring.

The Makers are some of the only beings alive who can even attempt to fiddle with Nephilim weaponry, and even then, they still have trouble. Lots of it, apparently; As what sounds on paper like a quick fix, had turned into an all day affair.

It’s a lost art, sadly. But Alya and Valus are willing to try, which is more than enough considering the circumstances. Even if Strife tries to maintain an attitude of eternal nonchalance about Nephilim relics, even he can't deny the importance of safe guarding them from being used; At minimum, if his sentiment on the matter is long gone.

Not for their lack of trying, fixing the weapon seems to be taking quite along while however, as you’ve long since wandered out of the Tri-Forge. You've since taken to wandering the wooded paths surrounding, while you wait for Strife to have the knife finally returned to him. He refuses to let it out of his sight, so he stays. He says Death would throttle him all the way to Hell if he lost it.

At least the Maker’s realm is so pretty.

If you look high and far off in the distance, you think you can see the Tri-Forge, but it’s hard to tell. Maybe if you started walking, you could make it there before it got too dark. Probably what you should do in all honesty, but the temptation of spending some more quiet time out here is to strong for you to actually make any effort to move.

This patch of soft grass has become your pleasant little spot, brushing it with your palms as you breath in the woodsy scents of the forest.

Suddenly, a rustle in the woods makes you perk up from where you’re sitting on the ground. You're hand instantly reaches for your hip, while your eyes scan the surrounding area for the source of the movement. It couldn't have been too far away.

You have your knife, but not much else. Most of the aggressive wildlife in the forests around the Tri-Forge only come out at night, or they’ve been pushed far back now that the Makers have a better hold on the realm. Either way, you aren't exactly interesting in having a tussle with anything that might try to start one with you.

Thankfully however, it isn’t an angry creature looking for a meal.

“Mayhem?”

The ghostly looking horse is standing about two meters away as he breaches a set of closely knit together trees, curiously looking at you. His hooves are muffled by the dirt as he walks closer, staring dead at you during the entire approach.

“Something didn’t happen, did it?” The horse looks at you, black eyes staring; Before then giving one indignant snort that is powerful enough to shake his head.

“Guess not.”

Looking away from the horse your watch your feet, tapping the ground with a toe as the grass bends beneath it. As you do you suddenly see a front hoof enter your vision, having to move said foot to avoid it being accidentally stepped on. Shortly there after you can feel the harsh snort of hair blow your hair around, as his head comes even closer to you.

He’s curious, looking around and watching the way you seem bored. For a moment his upper lip just barely brushes the top of your head, before he moves his head lower to your front.

“Hey, gentle.”

His snout presses into your stomach, making it easy for your arms to wrap around his large head. You do so loosely, before putting your cheek to the top of his head in a gentle hug. You're surprised he let you, honestly. His fur is warm in the few areas where you can feel it, while the rest is covered by armor. When he pulls back, you shake your head of at him.

“You are a strange horse.”

Strange but, nice. Over time you’ve found yourself becoming less scared of him like you had been on first sight. Mayhem is intimidating on first glance, but soft on the inside. Much like his rider.

After giving you a curious sniff Mayhem takes a few steps sideways, getting enough space between the two of you that he can safely pivot, pawing at the ground a few times while you watch.

Gently he gets down on one front hock, and then the other, before he then flops onto his side with an ungraceful ‘thud’. He’s now laying down and looking right at you, nostrils flaring as he lets out a harsh breath while his legs are curled inward. He looks remarkably comfortable like that, laying in the grass and crushing a few flowers underneath his weight. A few manage to avoid that unfortunate fate, and stay upwards brushing against his legs or belly.

Mayhem at first was incredibly finicky and distrusting of you- much like his rider in some ways, but it seems over time he’s gradually opened up. As such he doesn’t much mind when you get up to move and sit down beside him, right in front of his chest, putting your back against it. His neck brushes against your right arm while looking at you.

“He’ll be done eventually, I hope. I can feel myself aging.”

Mayhem gives an uncaring blow of his lips, much like a raspberry, in response. Your fingers absentmindedly play with the fabric of your pants, trying to find something to occupy your mind as you relax. The ghostly horse meanwhile just watches, his armor pieces clinking against each other whenever he does any significant adjustment of his body.

You reach up and feel at the soft fur behind his ear, eyes hooded, feeling it flick in your hand. He doesn't move away from it, and if anything, drops his head a bit lower so you can get a better reach until the hand pull away. You scoot your body downward ever so slightly, now leaning onto the horse a little bit more than before.

“Shouldn’t be much longer,” You hope.

Suddenly jerking upright, your muscles are tight at being moved so quick, eyes still blurry as you yawn and look around.

Shit, you’d fallen asleep.

The sky is now turning a pretty orange, but it still isn’t quite dark yet.

Meanwhile Mayhem whinnies at your sudden movement, having been startled but not enough so to move. Guess he didn’t mind being a pillow for awhile, if at no point did he decide to get up. If anything, he seemed to have gotten a bit of a nap in himself. Or whatever the ghostly, distinctly un-horse-like creature equivalent is.

That also meant at no point had Strife called for his steed, which does manage to worry you slightly. Then again, it probably just means that damn weapon is taking even more time that had been originally thought.

Maybe you should head back to the Tri-Forge, especially now that it’s getting dark. Even if the woods are wonderful, it still might not be the brightest idea to stick around them when you have no source of light.

Still a little stiff from sleep you groan as you pull away from Mayhem, slowly getting to your feet. Given his stature it takes Mayhem a moment longer to do the same, but it’s not long after you that he’s all the way upright. He gives himself one good shake, rattling all his armor and letting out a loud snort.

Mayhem is perhaps the most lithe of the Horsemen’s steeds, though it’s not to say the horse is of smaller size by any means. He still towers over you more than almost any normal horse could dream of.

He's also your best chance at getting back to Strife before it's pitch dark, and you'll only have the moon to light your way. Not nearly enough light, by your human standards.

“The forge is a decent walk away,” You’ve ridden Mayhem before, but never without Strife, so you know this might be a bit of a tough sell.

“Mind giving me a ride?”

Cold eyes stare you down- but he didn’t recoil in disgust, or anything similar. Then again, can he even really understand what you're asking of him?

Stepping closer you grab the side of the saddle and attempt to hop on, but end up coming quite a bit short. Getting quite quickly keen on what you’re trying to do Mayhem bends his front legs before laying back down, putting his back low enough for you to throw a leg over and hop on.

Good to know you don't need Strife for a boost, if he insists on being an ass about it again.

“Thanks for the assist.” The horse whinnies.

He also begins moving much to your surprise, though he already has the right direction in mind.

Your feet sort of dangle uselessly close to the stirrups, unable to actually put any weight on them. They were adjusted for someone with quite a bit of height on you, after all. Though at least the saddle itself is comfortable, with a comfortable curve meant for long hours of sitting and stability. The reins in your hand stay loose and floppy, unused, as Mayhem just seems to be going where ever you’re looking anyways.

It’s getting pretty dark now; The sky is now a deep orange fading into purple, with rays of light drastically retracting themselves from the scenery. With it getting so dim you decide to pick up the pace a little bit, sending Mayhem into a light run.

It’s wild; Having to hold on so tight without Strife here to be a brace against your back, but it’s invigorating, for sure. And Mayhem is being quite the good soul, not throwing you off to leave you in the dust. He could've quite easily done so at any point, especially since when you two first met, the horse was distinctly not fond of you.

“We’re here!”

Slowing back down to a walk you reach the front of the Tri-Forge in nowhere near record time, but you at least beat the sunset; Which was the main goal. Doing it fast was just a bonus.

As cobblestones slowly peek up more and more frequently between tufts of grass you move closer, listening out for anything familiar. The sound of hooves on the paving stones is such a nice sound, gentle and even paced as you enter. You could maybe get used to riding a horse everywhere, if it was always this peaceful.

Knocking you out of your thoughts however Valus suddenly stops you, and with quite the look, too. Not that you can blame exactly blame him. He's always been the Maker that seems to have it out for you- but in a overprotectively caring sort of way.

“And uh, what are you doin’ there lass?”

You glance from side to side for a moment before responding.

“Looking for Strife? He’s been gone awhile and it was getting dark, so I decided to head back.”

You speak about the Horseman with such familiarity, more so than any of the other three. He sighs, watching you intently.

“He's by the inner forge with Alya. Givin' her quite the stare down as she fixes that nasty ol' dagger for him.”

Nasty more so in the sense that it's apparently an old weapon of mass destruction, than dirty.

At least you assume mass; You don't know any of the details, as Strife unsurprisingly beat around them when you inquired. He still has some problems telling you about the Nephilim.

You smile at Valus, wide enough to nearly show teeth. Feeling Mayhem shift underneath you, you decide to sit up straight and keep moving.

He says one more thing, however.

“Be careful, lass.”

You don’t know what Valus sees in Strife that you don’t; But then again, he could say the same sort of thing right back at you. You know that the Makers don’t have a fond view of the remaining Nephilim, and while you might be understanding, you’ve been too close to Strife to even think ill of him. Or any of his siblings, for that matter.

Riding forwards you pass Valus and don’t look back out of just a little bit of nervousness, and seeing Alya indeed working at the forge. You see Strife once you get close enough that one of the pillars no longer obscures him, and you call out his name and hope to catch his attention.

“Strife?”

You can see his back is turned, but he noticeably perks up the moment he hears his name. Quickly taking the knife from the Maker he moves away, down the half flight of steps right towards you and his horse.

He tries to hold back the look of surprise when he sees you sitting astride Mayhem, but you still manage to notice the way his eyes widen behind his mask.

“Hey gorgeous,”

He comes closer, slotting the dagger safely back into the the sheathe he has on his hip for it. Heavy boots hit on the cobblestone paths as he crosses his arms, hip cocked slightly out to one side.

“So uh,” Strife takes a look at Mayhem, who has his head held low and relaxed. His ear twitches as he hears his rider speak, eyes moving to look towards the Horsemen. “He just let you get on, huh?”

You nod. “Yeah." Your face suddenly becomes a bit more unsure. "Why, was he not supposed to let me?”

Strife shakes his head and laughs you off.

“Nah, you’re fine. I was just surprised you managed to even get in the saddle, that’s all.”

Insulting your shorter stature than his own manages to sway your attention for just a moment, and he can look over the scene.

The amount of times you've ridden on Mayhem with him has made you significantly more comfortable around him that you had when you'd first met, as your legs dangle comfortably, arms at your sides. Mayhem rests as well, body loose as he waits for something interesting to happen.

Creators, she’s even got my horse wrapped around her finger. I’m fucked.

Stepping closer he grabs along the front of the saddle, before using his other hand to hit your hip softly.

“Let me on, will ya?”

It’s not like you have any issue with him taking his horse back, grasping the saddlehorn and sticking boot in the stirrup, the weight of him putting pressure on it leaning the saddle towards him. Once he finally seats himself behind you however he puts his hands on your legs, rather than taking the reins from you.

“Well now that you got here, how about you let me have a break for a second? Not like Death'll notice me being a few minutes late.”

Of course he’ll take the opportunity to be lazy; Not that you blame him, his lot in life doesn’t exactly leave many opportunities.

You gently move Mayhem forward, walking out the same way you entered as Strife lazily lays against you. He’s massively overdoing it and with how ungodly heavy he is, especially in his full armor, and it’s hard to not just crumble forward. The chin of his armor rests on the top of your head, and he feels content as can be.

Once you’re out of the Tri-Forge and back out into open land you still keep moving with no clear destination in mind; Strife hasn’t given you one, so you largely just steer towards whatever catches your interest.

Before you have a chance to reach any of those interesting points however, Strife gently grasps the reins with one hand for caution, while then talking close to your ear.

“Now, wanna try going for a real ride?”

You barely have a chance to answer Strife gives Mayhem a good kick to send him barreling forward, forcing you to hold onto the reins for dear life. Strife's right here however, and even going so fast nothing would even happen with him and Mayhem both looking out for you.

So he watches you in front of him as you learn on the fly, even if he’s helping to tell Mayhem when to turn with pressure from his legs.

You’re laughing like mad and the wind’s blowing in your hair, even on a horse meant to bring suffering and unrest to anyone who catches even a glimpse.

Strife had thought he was fucked before, but now he realizes he really is; Holding onto you tight so you’ll never leave his vision.

#strife x reader #darksiders x reader #Strife/Reader #strife x you #darksiders x you #mywriting

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phoenix-manga · 3 months

Text

Rozeline Pierrette

CV: Sekine Akira

Biographical Information

Gender: Female

Age: 18

Birthday: May 6

Starsign: Taurus

Height: 173 cm

Eye Color: Coal Black

Hair Color: Sanguine Brown & Bone White

Professional Status

Dorm: Chateau Beastiale

School Year: 3rd Year

Class: 3-e | Student no. 8

Occupation: Student | Dorm Leader

Club: Magical Artworks Club

Best Subject: Ancient Rune Reading

Fun Facts

Favorite Food: Cheese Souffle

Least Favorite Food: Foie Gras

Dislikes: Faulty products

Hobby: Painting surreal subjects

Talents: Photographic memory

Idol Stats

Performance: Vocals suited for classical or opera. Has a certain limit to high pitch or she is going to crack her voice

Choreography: Doesn't mind energetic moves, but prefers the more elegant and interpretive movements

Styling Jewel Outfits: Classical | Gothic

Rozeline used to be a social child until a certain incident left her closed off from mingling with others who aren’t in her family. On the surface, she is a stone-faced genius with skills that would no doubt have her scouted in various industries.

But to those she is close with, she is actually a bit of a dork who gets enthusiastic with her topic of interest. Also, she gets a bit bashful once she was told she was rambling once again.

Rozeline is known for possessing photographic memory that allows her to remember almost any incident which can be fortunate or unfortunate in her case. She can recall even the smallest of details which is impressive but this also means that any unpleasant memory doesn’t disappear.

She has an appreciation for the genre of horror and psychological thrillers, she learned to get over her fears and she enjoys the attention to detail to make the genre horrifying. Rozeline practiced art to make several pieces that depicted horror parallel to her imagination. Her father is proud of her talents but feels unnerved with the artworks hanging in the dark hallway of their house.

Apparently, according to Uncle Vargas, she has incredible reflexes when she’s walking while reading compared to when she isn’t. Which baffles the man a lot but he guessed that’s a hidden talent that Rozeline is known for having.

Hometown: Land of Pyroxene

Family Life

She and her father recently moved to the Land of Pyroxene, their neighbor just so happened to be Ashton Vargas. Little Rozeline met Ashton Vargas at around age 5, when she and her father moved to the neighborhood and her father wanted to give baskets filled with ham, quality cheese and wine to their neighbors. She and her father first went to Vargas’ household because he was literally next door to their house. They became family friends and Ashton became an honorary uncle to Rozeline.

As for, Rozeline’s birth mother, she passed from an illness few years after giving birth. Though Rozeline has vague memories of her mother, it was clear that her father loved his wife so much. She often gazes at pictures in the albums, asking her father what she was like.

Before the “incident”, she was just like any child, playing outside with friends and sometimes getting a bit muddy in the process. She used to be quite the energetic little girl, always wanting to play hero instead of damsel with the other children. She’s always admired the brave heroes in the stories that her father reads to her.

However, one day, one of their friends went into the forest because they lost their ball there. Rozeline followed only to find him cowering by a tree where a large wolf was prowling nearby. She remembered the stories of brave heroes and plucked up the courage to get between the wolf and the boy.

This led to her Unique Magic developing, but it looked terrifying as it appeared as a gnarly thorn beast that towered the wolf and brutally drove it off. Rozeline was then labeled as a monster due to her UM. This incident scarred her and led her to suppress her UM no matter what.

The other children ended up bullying her so much that she was homeschooled for the next few years. Fabien feels sorry for his daughter who simply had a bad timing, the other neighbors excluding Vargas would whisper how there must be something wrong with their family.

Childhood Memories

Rozeline remembers that her father made a machine that used shadow puppets to tell a story, it was a gift to her. Fabien used her favorite storybook as inspiration, Rozeline was inspired to become someone heroic like the ones in the story.

The incident of her UM developing stayed in her memory, the boy she saved called her a monster and told the other children about her. This made them socially isolate her and when she tried to politely clear up what happened at the forest, they just yelled at her and pushed her away. Causing her mental trauma that eventually made her close off herself from people.

During her time she became homeschooled, there was this tutor that her father hired that somewhat got her to distract herself from the incident. She remembered him being strict but also showing her so many new things that can be found in books. He was the only person she let her walls down for because he listened to her struggles and gave her advice. Recalling how she gave him a pocket watch she asked her father to make.

Rozeline is a 3rd Year Chateau Beastiale student and is the current dorm leader.

Rozeline is closed off for the most part, she is very professional when interacting with other students. Which earned her the image of a genius due to how she treats others professionally. She is an intellectual girl who has talent in inventing machines infused with magic as well as a skilled novelist, playwright and songwriter.

Due to her tutor’s lessons, she became skilled in the aforementioned fields to an almost prodigy scale. With the aid of her photographic memory, she is able to pinpoint details that produce high quality work in her school. There have been offers from industries that were mailed to her on occasion, but Rozeline compiles them to ponder over for later.

Rozeline slowly eased into socializing more, it started with the furniture in the dorm before she moved on to people. But there are still moments that she begins to panic, that’s when her UM starts to act up due to her strong emotions.

She likes to busy herself by making articles and documentaries on her fellow students who come from different regions. With their permission, she posts them in a blog under an anonymous identity online. She does so as a way to provide the true knowledge instead of those that are mere assumptions, also she is bummed out that not many would take notice of these amazing cultures according to her.

One thing that Rozeline is known for enjoying is eating new food she has never seen before. Her cool composure crumbles at the sight of a feast. She picked up her father’s habit of saying thanks with a gift basket, she would often give them out when she asked for help from other students. All of them were usually filled with pastries and cheeses.

She has a book series based on a certain dorm leader of Futterwacken and her ventures into angering the dark-haired maiden who has had enough of her nonsense. She was thinking of donating the books to the school library at some point.

Rozeline is a star student due to her intellect and diligence in her studies. But she is terrible at PE, when she’s trying to get over obstacles it was just impossible. However, when she’s engrossed in a book and was reading, she somehow manages to maneuver around people and objects effortlessly.

School Relationships

Rozeline is closed off but there are a few people she socializes with more, those are Evonie, Jinlong and Elu. Though her friendship with them started when she offered to record their projects and other things for them, though she also was curious about their culture.

Evonie often rants to Rozeline about Allison that the two are often seen in a room where the former is sitting on a chaise longue talking about the recent prank Allison pulled on her while the latter sits on another chair writing it all down while listening intently to Evonie ramble.

It was like a therapist dynamic with Evonie and Rozeline, though the two can also be seen trading novels. While with Allison it was like a private investigator taking notes on a target.

Jinlong often brings over antique for her to register into logbooks kept at Chateau Beastiale. She is always amazed how Jinlong always re-forged the objects that look almost impossible to fix. Rozeline also is interested in her culture and would not pass the opportunity to inquire questions about the traditions of the Valley of Clouds.

Jinlong also takes this opportunity to show her both the good and the bad side to tradition to hopefully bring this attention to the public that in turn would get notified to the authority figures back home. Rozeline often gave her a basket full of cheese and bread as thanks for her help.

Elu and Rozeline often exchange ideas on inventions, both aim to help the other in improving their engineered machines. Elu would like to gain more knowledge about how to advance her village while being eco-friendly, Rozeline’s knowledge on machines can help her out with that.

Rozeline in turn is interested to document about culture in Elu’s village, she is well-aware of how that place is hounded with businessmen. Plenty of top articles overshadow any articles about this village’s problem, Elu is hoping that Rozeline could bring some attention to her issues in exchange for her participation.

The two also are two loners in a pod, often preferring the solitude to crowded places. Elu is also gifted baskets of freshly baked French pastries whenever she came over or helped Rozeline out with commission work. The bear girl can’t forget the taste of such delicacy.

Rosia and Rozeline’s relationship is more of a mentor trying to help a withering bud blossom, though it was taking quite a bit of TLC to get there. Rosia is blunt but not brutally honest, she knows that Rozeline can do many amazing things if she can just trust in herself and her powers.

Rosia’s form is from Rozeline’s unconscious desire to finally face her past. Rozeline appreciates what her fairy does for her, she really does but her fears weigh her down like an anchor.

Palmiers

She has a sun bear named, Palmiers. Because she found her in their house one day eating the freshly made palmiers she baked for her father. Sun bears are known to be aggressive and territorial but for some reason, she has clung to Rozeline like a chick.

The bear has a rather mysterious personality, she often stares at people from afar before she retreats into her station. Sometimes Rozeline can hear her mutter about philosophical things that make sense only to a bear.

Palmiers is stationed as a guard for the dorm, though easily bribed by sweets, especially the ones she was named after. The bear often climbs onto high places with no problem at all, though this tends to startle Rozeline when she sees her bear on the ceiling or chandelier.

Sullivan

A shy Selle Francais breed who tends to hide behind his owner. Rozeline got him as a present from Vargas, the man didn’t have the need for a horse since he could easily do its job with ease, so he decided to give it to his honorary niece. Sullivan tends to get spooked a lot, even from the smallest noise and he dislikes the dark.

Rozeline mainly uses him to take a stroll whenever she feels overwhelmed at times. Sullivan can sympathize with her troubles and would nuzzle her to make her feel better.

Her unique magic is called “Beast of Thorns”. She can summon a huge, hulking monster made of thorns to aid her in fight if there was one, she can also summon it as just vines. But this was more complicated as it is connected to her emotions yet it has a bit of sentience. Rozeline does her best to suppress it no matter what.

She isn’t athletic and so mostly uses long range spells and even trap spells to gain the advantage against opponents. She can be a challenge to take out especially when she takes extra measures to make it difficult to attack her.

Fabien Maury Pierrette

Rozeline’s father who is an inventor of magical devices. He runs an antique shop that repairs old and broken items, he is quite good with fixing things. He sometimes ventures into a junkshop to purchase scrap metal to see what he can build.

He is a doting father and he loves his daughter very much, when he found out about the commotion at school that made Rozeline traumatized, he knew he can’t force her to go back so he hires a private tutor and had her homeschooled instead. He is familiar with Ashton Vargas because they’re next-door neighbors, either he or Rozeline go over to his house to deliver a basket of smoked ham and cheese, he even invites the man over for dinner during holidays.

Baptiste Gallois

Rozeline’s private tutor, he is a rather tall man with long unkempt hair up to his shoulders and his voice sounds quite raspy and deep, but he is a very excellent tutor. He used to teach at some university but he retired and now works as a part-time tutor. People are wary of his appearance and would gossip at him and his unsightly state.

He is just a frugal man who prefers to mend his old coats rather than buy new ones. A bit strict but he just wants the child to excel because he believes that knowledge is the way to assure a good future. Rozeline gave him a pocket watch when he announced that she was almost done with her studies, he takes good care of it.

The character’s name, “Rozeline” is a different approach on the usual names that have the word “rose” in it, while her last name, “Pierrette” is also a play on French words.

Rozeline becomes much more talkative when it comes to literature, playwrights and inventing. She’ll ramble on about the parts she thinks is interesting. It can either turn out to be confusing if the person doesn’t get the terms she uses or they would be impressed with her feedback.

She felt terrible for the years she spent homeschooled because she didn’t have the courage to face people. So, she tried to pay back her father by sending screenplays to local small theaters that delivered her share of the profits since the playwrights were good.

She wrote it under an anonymous identity that she still continues to use today. Her father thought she was doing a part-time job, she never told him that she was doing commissions.

The anonymous name she uses is called, “Rosethorn”. Which is ironic considering her unique magic but it fits her quite well.

The artist’s concept before sketch for Rozeline was going to be just the typical girl with a weird pet that was supposed to represent Beast. But then it was changed so that Rozeline is both Beauty and Beast.

#twisted wonderland #diamond crown academy #dca #twst #rozeline pierrette #chateau beastiale #headcanons

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boygiwrites · 8 months

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Harley D. Dixon 11

An amazing edit inspired by this story! (Cred to Cora_Line99) Harley D. Dixon's Pinterest Board! Harley D. Dixon's Playlist!

📖Chapter List.

Author's Note. I'm sorry for the long wait, but at least this chapter is a lengthy-(ish) one, at 6,200 words! :)

Please enjoy!

A twig snaps.

When I open my eyes, it's still night-time. The moon bathes the forest floor in a pearly blue light, just bright enough for me to make out what's happening when I lift my head from the tree roots. A bulky, black silhouette groans loudly as it staggers toward the tree. A walker. A big walker, wearing a white cap. Just as I suck in a breath, ducking back down to hide, it trips over its own two feet and lands on its stomach like a big, fat seal, on top of the entanglement of roots. It lazily claws down at me with its grey-ish hands through the gaps.

I feel around for a rock, pulling one out from the dirt. I toss it away from the tree. I hear it tumble down the hill. The walker gives it a slow backwards glance, but little-girl-meat must taste a whole lot better than rocks, 'cause he turns his attention right back onto me.

He resumes moaning.

Darn.

Looks like I'm stuck with this jerk until he leaves on his own.

"Goodnight, I guess."

I close my eyes, settling back down in the dirt to try get some sleep as he flails above me.

Morning comes.

My eyes flutter open at the first sign of daylight. It filters past the roots like white-gold ribbons, onto my face. I slowly come to. I almost expect to be back in Dad's truck, wrapped up in the fish-print blanket, but the dream quickly vanishes when my skin begins to itch and my back begins to hurt. Right. The woods. The mosquitos. The ditch beneath the tree. I'm still lost and alone. I hear birds twittering in the trees.

Dirty and exhausted, I sit up.

My new friend, the asshole-walker, moved a little in the night, I see. He's rolled over onto his side, laying dormant.

I sigh, my eyes heavy. If only he did that last night.

I take my time crawling out from underneath the tree, and then I stand all the way up and stretch out my arms— God, that feels real good — and then my legs — That feels even better — and gaze out over the misty greenery around me. Wow. I made it through the night. A good start. I walk down to the stream and rinse my bug bites in the cool water, enjoying the way it burns. I'm thirsty, I realize, as I watch the water bubble past. I can't drink it, though, 'cause this is where foxes and birds and frogs poop and pee all day, and it'll make me sick. I can use the mud, though. It's thick, and runny. I smear it over my face and my neck, 'cause it's gonna get hot today, and I'll burn easily.

I pick the twigs and leaves out my hair.

When I look back up the shallow hill, I see the walker is on its feet.

"Fuck you," I call out to it, and then turn on my heels.

I follow the stream for hours.

The sun climbs in the sky.

My Dad got lost in the woods, too, once.

The way Grandpappy Dixon always told it, my Dad went missin' for nine whole days as a child. He ate wild berries, drank pond-water, and wiped his butt with poison oak to survive, and when he eventually stumbled his way back home, the first thing he did was walk straight into the kitchen and make himself a ham and cheese sandwich. My Pappy used to say that Dixons are like cockroaches. They're tough, they're mangy, and just when you think they're gone, they pop right back up again. I'm a Dixon, just like my Dad. I know how to find North, and I know which mushrooms will make ya go green and puke your brains out, and which ones won't. It's been one day for me so far. The only difference is I got people lookin' for me. I'd call that an advantage.

I also know what poison oak looks like. Three leaves, notched edges. No way I'm makin' that mistake. Ouch!

I scale a small mound that clings to the bank of the stream, sweating through my shirt like a hog. I was right. It's gettin' real hot today.

When I stand, I notice a still, black lump amongst the underbrush.

I decide to check it out.

I push back a fern, revealing the lump.

It's a really, really old walker.

Its body is shrivelled and thin like a rotten fruit skin, and it's laying on its back, staring up at the sky with glazed eyes, with its entire chest cavity torn to shreds around it. It's innards hum with flies, gooey and black like thick tar. I almost retch. It smells like every type of yoghurt in the world got mixed with dead fish brains.

I look around the tiny clearing.

I see boot-prints leading to and from the corpse.

Oh. The group.

This must have been them.

Eugh. Why?

I also see tiny bones littered around the place, which prolly came from the walker's stomach, which is flipped inside out on its thigh, which makes me gag. It looks like it's been sliced. They cut open its stomach and pulled out the bones, I realize, which deserves another gag. It's nasty, but at least they saw that none of the bones were Harley-sized. They know this walker didn't eat me up.

Disturbed, I find my way back to the stream and push on.

No walker's gonna eat me up.

I ain't never killed a walker, but I done killed a lotta other things.

Startin' small, I killed plenty of bugs before. Easy, peasy. Movin' up the food chain a little, I shot a rat with a sling shot, before. Its itty-bitty brain exploded around the pebble I flung at it, and that was that. Crunch. Dead. Then, fish. Lots of fish. So many fishing weekends. Apparently, fish don't got no feelings, so that makes it easier. Then, squirrels and possums. My Dad always makes me finish those off when he can, 'cause he says it makes me tough, and I ought to be tough. I don't like the sinking of the blade through their fluffy pelt, or the sad little squeak that comes when they die, but that's just how it is. It's how we ate when money was tight. Then, biggest of all, there's a walker. A full-grown, human person.

I haven't made it there, yet.

My Dad hasn't taught me to kill walkers like he's taught me to kill game. I know what to do in an emergency — You gotta stick 'em in the brain, Harley — but that's it. An emergency hasn't happened, yet, 'cause my Dad's always been there to kill 'em for me.

I won't let anything happen to you, I remember Shane telling me.

I bet he's already found a way to blame this all on my Dad.

I wonder if they've fought today.

Sophia's doll.

I find it caught on a branch in the water.

Dizzy from the heat of the sun, I stumble into the stream to try and fish it out.

By now, it's around mid-day, and I've tied my hair back into a pony-tail, soaked my shirt through with water about two miles back to try cool myself down, and scratched my mosquito bites completely raw. I've eaten a handful of wild raspberries and drank some water from a hole I dug adjacent to the stream, 'cause that's how you filter out the animal-germs, but I'm beyond tired. And against my best efforts, a little sun-burnt, too, all over my upper body. There's been no sign of anyone since the mutilated walker, but this— This is Sophia's doll. It's got orange yarn for hair, and two giant, blue buttons for eyes. It's definitely hers.

Matilda, I think she named it.

I lean over the fallen branch and pull the soggy doll out.

"Hi, Matilda. You're lost, too?"

I wonder if Sophia dropped her while searching.

"Don't worry." I smile, tucking her wet hair behind her round ears; petting the mud off her patchwork dress. "I'll get us both back."

I climb back outta the stream.

"This way, Matilda."

"Karma, karma, karma, karma, karma chameleon!"

I come to a sudden stop sometime in the afternoon.

"You come and go, you come and go-o-o."

That's music. Like... from a radio. As the static-y popstar voice continues singing loving would be easy, if your colors were like my dreams, I step through the dry foliage in the direction it's coming from and come across a tiny, green tent. The owner is nowhere to be seen, but the radio hasn't had time to run out of battery, so they might still be nearby. I scan the trees. No one around.

I cautiously step inside the tent.

There's the radio.

"Karma, karma, karma, karma, karma—"

I search around.

There's also a sleeping bag and a backpack. I sift through it for food or water, but there's only junk in here. A book, a crucifix, another music cassette tape, rope, and... And a steak knife. I pull it out, turning it over in my palm. It's the exact same as the ones in Dale's kitchen drawers.

Black handle, gold button.

This.. I recognise this.

Jim.

This is Jim's knife. This is knife we left him with.

That's the same rope, too.

"Oh, my God."

I back out, taking the knife with me. I take in the camp again with new eyes, feeling alarmed. The cap resting on the stump by the fire, that's Jim's, too. Those foot-prints, those discarded boots — They're both about the right size. Over there, too, that's — That's the peanut butter jar.

It's all Jim's.

This is Jim's camp.

He's alive.

"I'm a man, without conviction!"

If he's alive, he's gonna be real angry with us.

"Karma, karma, karma, karma, karma chameleon!"

I ca— I can't be here.

I spin around and dash straight for the thicket, more than ready to leave this camp far, far behind, but I run into something — Fabric, and string, a makeshift washing line — and as I'm tryna untangle myself from it, a pair of hands shoot out from the other side. They latch onto me. The shirts are ripped off the line as I struggle against them. I can't help it — I scream, and I scream loud. It's Jim, it's Jim, it's— No, no it's not Jim. It's not even a person. It's grey skin and bruised nails and yellow eyes and puffy gums, and jaws snapping in my face.

It's a walker.

It's wearing a white cap.

It's the same one from last night. It's been following me through the forest all day.

It slams me into the ground.

I brace my arms against the heavy walker's chest, crying out in pain. Underneath me, wetness begins to bloom. Then, pain. Searing, searing pain. As I writhe, I drag around a trail of blood that stains the dirt a dark maroon. I look at it, panicked. I can feel a deep slice in my flesh.

I-I think I landed on the knife when I fell.

God, it hurts. It hurts real, real bad.

The walker hisses like a feral cat.

My fingers slide against its slippery, bloody skin as I grapple with it, kicking, kicking, kicking its stomach, and hitting, hitting, hitting its chest. The skin comes apart as easily as layers of lasagna. It peels off and falls onto my bare neck — Oh my God, yuck, yuck, yuck! — and my fingers sink deeper into the soft meat underneath. Cold, red sludge drips down onto my cheek. I turn, squirm; clamp my mouth shut. I use all my might to keep the walker's weight offa me, but I can't keep this up forever.

The knife. Where's the knife?

I dropped it somewhere.

I throw my hand out and feel around for the knife. My arm buckles under the walker, which drops closer to my face, growling and twitching just an inch from my nose. That's a leaf. That's a twig. That's the tin. Come on, come on. The knife. I need the knife.

I squeal when my foot suddenly breaks through the walker's belly.

Slimy entrails slide down my leg.

I moan miserably.

That's a twig.

That's another twig.

That's—

That's a knife hilt.

I wrap my fingers around it.

I have to kill this thing now.

With a violence I don't recognise, I swing the knife all the way down into the base of the walker's neck and then again, and again, and again, and again, again, again, in the collarbone, and the cheek, and the throat, and the shoulder, and then the soft membrane of the under-jaw, which splits open like a water balloon and splatters me with more sticky blood, like cold, chunky soup, and again, again, and again, in the chin, and the nose, and the forehead, but not the brain, 'cause the skull is just too thick to break through. I think about all the times I've heard of skulls breaking, like in car crashes, and I think, why can't you break again, just break now. I drive it into the scalp, again, again, again, but it doesn't work. You gotta stick it in the brain, Harley. I gotta get the brain. I gotta.

The meat hanging from the walker's jaw vibrates as it gurgles at me.

"Come on!" I grind out, losing my strength.

This is when somebody like Rick or Dad or Shane would step in and end it for me, in this moment right before death, but nobody's here to save me this time. I have to save me.

I cry out once more.

The knife squelches through the walker's eye socket.

I drive it deeper and deeper and deeper, until the blade reaches the sweet spot, and pink brain-slime comes leaking out. I twist it and I twist it and I twist it, forcing the razor-edge up into the socket, until the hilt starts to disappear, until my hand starts to disappear. Until—

Until the walker gives out one last croak.

It slumps over into the dirt.

It's dead.

I scramble away, clutching the knife, shaking.

My first walker kill. It weren't nothin' like killing a damn squirrel, not even a little bit, not by a mile. It ain't squeaked. The damn thing squelched. It had layers of skin and meat and bone and cartilage, and I felt them all with my bare hands, and I killed it.

I killed it all on my own.

"I killed you." I laugh, elated. "I killed you! Fuck you!"

Hell yeah!

My side suddenly pangs again, making me groan.

I peel my bloody shirt back.

"Oh, God."

It's a gash, alright. I won the fight, but now I'm gonna have to drag myself through the woods, alone, with this crippling wound in my side. I groan as I take off my shirt. It's still wet. It's bloody, too, now, so I throw it away. As my vision blots, I pick up a new one off the ground and lethargically pull it on, wanting so badly all of a sudden to just lay down and go to sleep. I can barely keep my eyes open.

I cradle my side as I stand.

Chunks of walker-flesh fall off my leg.

There's blood in my hair, on my face, on my neck, on my hands.

I look around for Matilda, 'cause even though I'm about to faint, I know I don't wanna leave her behind. Sophia needs her. I find the doll laying by the fire and pick her up, leaving behind a bright red hand-print on her pretty tartan dress by accident.

"Oh," I pant, shaking my head. "I'm sorry."

"Red and go-old! Red and go-old!"

I hug Matilda to my chest.

"It's okay. Carol will wash it."

The radio continues singing its happy tune as I stagger away.

The hours blend together in a long, hot slurry of sweat, heat, and blood. Barely conscious, I stumble alongside the stream, holding my bleeding side. I have to be close, by now. I've been walking for hours. I focus on my breathing. I focus on walking. I focus on keeping the setting sun on my left shoulder, to ensure I'm headed North. I think I can hear church bells ringing through the forest at some point, but I'm not sure.

It's all so confusing.

Next thing I know, my knees are hitting the ground.

It takes me a while to figure it out, but I realize that I've fallen down a small slope and landed in a watery ditch filled with reeds.

Cold water trickles silently past my hot skin.

I gaze up at the orange sky.

It's nice here. It's so nice here.

I let my exhaustion seduce me into closing my eyes.

I need rest.

I can... I can rest for a minute.

"You don't gotta follow me out here, man."

"I know."

When I open my eyes, woken by the sound of voices, it's night-time again. I must've slept for a long time. My entire side aches when I roll onto my back, trying to see what's going on up there. Through the thin shoots of grass, I glimpse a band of white flashlight illuminating the distant trees.

Those— Those voices. I'd recognise them anywhere. It's my Dad and Rick.

I listen to their foot-steps crunch through the underbrush with a grin on my face.

"You can't drag me back to the highway, so yer gonna babysit me instead? That it?"

"Well, you know I'd prefer you get some rest, like everyone else." Rick replies. Never thought I'd say it, but it's so good to hear his stupid voice. "Trying to, at least. We've been searching non-stop, for I don't even know how long. We can't afford anyone else gettin' lost out here, especially in the dark. Even Shane settled down, eventually, and you know how he's been."

I hear Dad scoff. "Yeah, well, there's no way I'm takin' a fuckin' granny nap while my daughter's lost in the woods."

"Trust me, I'm done tryna convince you. Hence, the babysitting."

"To Hell with Shane, anyway, man." Dad says. "Don't need him out here."

"What the deal between you two, anyway?"

"Whatchu mean?"

"I mean, look at you. Shane gave you a black eye today. He wouldn't do that for no reason."

"Yeah," Dad sighs tiredly, "Well, I gave him a broken nose, and I wouldn't do that for no reason, neither, so think about that."

A black eye?

A broken nose?

They did get into a fight today.

"Okay, I'll think about it. I'll think about it aloud, even." Rick concedes. My Dad huffs but lets him continue speaking. "Since you joined us, you and Shane have avoided each other like the plague. You work well together — I've seen it — but as people, you don't get along so great. That's how it used to be. Suddenly — As in, this is the first time I'm seein' this — You're throwin' hands for no reason, in the middle of the night. Black eye, broken nose. I mean— Well, it just don't make any sense to me, is all I'm saying. Like I said, Shane ain't like this, usually."

"You must not know your buddy so well, then." Dad retorts. "'Cause he's a piece of work."

"Oh, no denyin' that." Rick chuckles flatly. "But I don't know why you're so insistent on buttin' heads right now. Especially right now."

"Hey." My Dad's voice gets louder. "I'm out here right now, runnin' on two hours'a sleep with a busted face and a fucked-up eye, combing these woods for my lil' girl — Who if I recall right, is lost 'cause of your fuckin' super-plan — So don't go tellin' me I ain't got my priorities straight, man. If I beat Shane up, it's 'cause he fuckin' deserved it. You heard the shit he said t'me, you would'a done the same. Father to father, I know that."

"H— What? What'd he say to you?"

"He said it's my fault Harley's out here." Dad snarls. "Said I don't protect her right. Said I ain't a good father to her."

Rick stammers. "Wow. That's both... way outta line, and not true at all. He's got no right to say those things."

That makes Dad almost laugh.

"Nah, man." He scoffs. "Nah, you don't know."

Nobody knows. Nobody besides me, Shane, and my Dad knows about what happened at the CDC.

"I do know." Rick insists, oblivious. "No, I'm bein' serious here. Listen. I've seen you with her. You'd do anythin' do protect her. 'Sides, you said it yourself. You're out here right now, even when others aren't — Even when it jeopardizes your own safety. A lesser man, lemme tell ya, would not be out here in the state you're in. I don't even know how you're still standin', to be honest."

Dad brushes him off. "Nah, you don't get it. It's not— It ain't about that."

"What's it about, then? 'Cause from where I'm standing, I— I honestly struggle to see what Shane's talkin' about."

"Wait."

Their foot-steps come to a sudden stop.

I hold my breath.

"Those are new tracks." My Dad mutters.

My eyes widen.

"You think it's—?"

"It's Harley." He says definitively. "Look. This set go South. This set's comin' our way. She's been following her own tracks back."

There's a pause, like they're shell-shocked and can't quite speak.

Yes. Yes, I have been followin' my own tracks. I slept in a ditch, and I walked for hours, and I killed my first walker and stabbed myself, and then I walked some more, and I'm tired. I'm so, so tired. I can't wait to go home. I can't wait to go back to the group. I can't wait to sleep with a proper pillow and blanket. I hear Dad and Rick's foot-steps suddenly kick back up again, and more of their hushed, intense voices, becoming louder and louder as they follow my most recent tracks. I hear foliage bein' trodden on and snapped. I hear my Dad calling out, Harley, baby, we're here, where are you, and then, finally, after two long days, I see their faces.

I can't believe it.

We've found each other.

As they skirt down the hill, calling my name, I slip back into unconsciousness.

The next morning, I'm woken by sunlight dancing across my closed lids. There's a soft pillow under my head. I feel heavy blankets wrapped around my aching body, and new change of dry clothes rubbing against my skin. I'm warm, and finally, I'm safe. When I open my eyes, groaning lightly, I'm greeted with the blurry sight of the RV bedroom, draped in yellow morning light.

Rick and my Dad must've carried me here last night.

I hear someone moving to my left.

"Daddy—?"

"It's me." Shane says, sitting up. Oh. I look up at him as he reaches for my hair, tucking some behind my ear. "You're okay."

My side pangs suddenly, making me groan again.

I lift up the covers, and then my shirt, revealing a patch of fresh bandages taped to my waist.

Shane shushes me. "Hey, easy."

They cleaned it up pretty good. There's only a small flower of blood stained through the cotton-y material.

"Hurts," I croak, closing my eyes.

"I bet." Shane soothes. "You got stitches under there."

I open them again. "Stitches?"

"Yeah. It's okay. You were in pretty gnarly shape when we gotcha; gash is real deep. Jacqui made quick work of it, though." He says, smiling lightly. "Nothin' we can do about the bug bites. Just gonna have to put up with 'em for now, but you're tough. I know you can do it."

Exhaling thinly, I slowly nod.

I take a minute to look at Shane like this.

A strip of white gauze is plastered over the bridge of his nose, which sits on an awkward, crooked angle. He notices me starin', but doesn't make me look away. He doesn't explain how it got broken, though, either. He just strokes my hair, letting me come to my own conclusions.

"Dad hit you." I whisper, stating it as a fact.

I heard Rick say so, last night.

Me and Shane have barely talked since that day in the parking lot. It's strange to say that we're friends, now, but we are.

He pulls his hand away. "Who told you that?"

I shrug.

He frowns lightly, eventually nodding. "Yeah, he did."

"You hit him back."

Again, he simply says, "Yeah, I did."

I could ask him why, but I already know that, too.

As the silence stretches on, his gaze drifts from my face, down to the floor. He leans forward to pick something up. It's Matilda. They brought her back, too. He holds her for a minute, looking over her orange hair and her green dress — Still covered in my blood — and then he hands her to me, muttering that she fell off the bed during the night. He watches me hug the doll to my chest with a distant sort of look in his eye. I wonder if he feels guilty, but he's prolly just tired. I heard Rick say they were searching for me non-stop these past two days, and that includes Shane.

It looks like he stayed awake all night, too, waiting by my bedside, which for some reason, my Dad didn't.

"Let me get you somethin' to eat." Shane murmurs.

He stands to leave, squeezing past Carol on his way out.

She stands in the doorway, looking at me with tender, puffy eyes. She glances at Matilda. I think she's been crying.

"You found Sophia's doll?" She asks me quietly.

Yeah, I did. I nod.

She comes to sit beside me on the bed, smiling weakly.

"May I?"

I hand her the doll.

"I'm sorry I got blood on it." I mutter. "It was an accident."

She shakes her head, breathing shakily.

"Don't be sorry, sweetie. We're just glad you made it back to us in one piece."

"Can I give her back to Sophia now?"

Carol takes a deep breath. "I don't think you can. Not right now."

Oh. "Why not?"

"Because, sweetie," Carol says, placing a little kiss on Matilda's cheek, and then facing me again, on the brink of tears, "After you were able to escape into the forest — After the herd passed — Sophia ran after you." That makes my eyes widen. Sophia ran after me? Into the woods? Carol purses her lips, so tight it must be painful. "Yes. Your Dad, Rick, Shane — They were already chasing after you, but Sophia just wouldn't give up. Sh— She broke away from me before I could catch her, and we— We haven't seen her since. We haven't seen her. We haven't."

Carol breaks down into squeaky, tiny sobs, clutching the doll to her forehead.

I don't know what to say. I had no idea that the whole time I was missing, Sophia was missing, too.

"I— I found the doll in the creek." I say, feeling unhelpful. "I don't know where exactly, but... In the creek."

Carol nods. "Thank you. Thank you, sweetie. I'll tell them."

"I'm sorry."

I'm sorry I can't help more. I didn't see any other signs of Sophia out there.

Sophia, lost and alone, just like I was — Except Sophia's never learnt how to find North. Sophia's never learnt which plants are safe to eat, or how to out-run a walker. She doesn't know how to start a fire from nothin', or how to wring a rabbit's neck. She doesn't know the stuff I know.

She doesn't have the same chances that I had, which were pretty darn low to begin with.

Carol puts her hand on my knee. "You've got nothing to be sorry for, Harley."

"I— I wanna look for her."

"You can't." She soothes. "You're hurt."

"Sophia might be hurt."

"Nobody's gonna let you look," Carol tells me, "So there's no point in arguing. You know, your Dad has been worried sick about you this whole time. He pretended he wasn't, but it was obvious. He didn't care about anything other than finding you. I saw him maybe one or two times these past couple days, because he's been in those woods for hours on end. Dale's been blaming himself for letting the herd get to us while he was distracted. Shane's been... a mess. Then, last night, your Dad and Rick came running back to the highway with you, and they were barely hanging on. They were covered in mud, in blood — Your blood — in sticks, leaves, scratches. They ran with you for five miles, Harley." Carol frowns. "It's a miracle you're with us. Trust me when I say nobody's letting you back out there anytime soon."

I lower my head, fiddling with the blanket seams.

Carol changes the subject by gently asking, "What happened out there?"

I look up at her.

"I... I just kept walking, I guess."

That's all I did. I walked, and walked, and walked. I wonder if that's what Sophia's doing.

"And I killed one of the dead people."

I can still feel his cold flesh sliding against mine, and how he smelt like old steak.

Carol stiffens.

"Sophia prolly won't run into any." I shake my head. "There was only one."

"Where there's one," She whispers, "There's a hundred."

I stay quiet.

Shane comes back in through the door, holding a bottle of water and some snacks.

"Here you go, sweetheart," He says to me under his breath. "Gotta eat if you want your strength back."

I take the yoghurt-granola bar and the packet of pretzels, but the thought of eating makes my stomach churn.

"Where's my Dad?" I ask instead.

He's the first person I expected to see when I woke up.

"He's still out looking." Carol answers, sighing. "After he found you, I thought I would've had to beg him to look for Sophia, but I didn't. He went on his own. I'm sure it's nothing, sweetie. He's just worried about Sophia, just like we all are, and he's going to find her. I know it."

My Dad's never shown concern for anyone other than his blood. I don't think he's as worried about Sophia as Carol thinks he is, 'cause I know him better than she does. I think back to the conversation I heard last night, and how my Dad almost admitted to Rick the reason he and Shane haven't been seein' eye to eye recently — Almost admitted to hitting me. I wish he would talk to me about it, instead of Rick, but that's not how my Dad operates. I know why he's still out in those woods. He's doin' anything he can to keep avoiding talking to me about the CDC, especially after the beating Shane gave him.

A wake-up call, is what it's called, I think. Shane gave him a wake-up call. Dad's bein' challenged, for the first time in his life.

Shane looks at me. I can tell he knows exactly what I'm thinking. He knows I've figured it out — Figured him out.

"I thought I told you not to help."

Shane goes still.

He glances at Carol, who frowns in confusion.

"What do you mean?" She asks me.

Please don't help, I begged him that day, Please don't do nothin'. Our conversation got cut off when Dale interrupted us, but I wish it hadn't. I wish I made myself more clear. Shane established that I'm allowed to be his friend, but he ain't established my Dad bein' the scum of the Earth, like I know he wants to. He prolly convinced my Dad that's what he is, which is why he's guilty, but he won't convince me. I'll be his friend, but I don't need this.

"I told you not to help." I repeat, a little harsher. "But you hit him, anyway."

"I— I did." Shane calmy nods. "After he swung at me — Broke my nose — I had to subdue him. I had to hit him back."

What a load of crap, I want to argue, You prolly hit him first.

"The fight?" Carol tilts her head. "How did you hear about that?"

I tear my eyes away from Shane's.

"Right before Dad and Rick found me, I heard 'em talkin'." I tell her truthfully. "Rick said Dad has a black eye, now."

"He does." Carol hums. "But you shouldn't worry about it. It's just men bein' men. Right, Shane?"

We both look at him expectantly.

"That's right." He agrees, tense. He's lucky Carol's so clueless, and just gave him an out. He claps his hands. "Now, how 'bout you try gettin' some'a that stuff down, and I'll see if I can't getchu some dessert for afterwards? Maybe a cookie, for our tough little cookie, here, huh?"

Carol smiles warmly. "One tough cookie, alright. Dragged yourself all the way back here with that gash in your side."

I try to smile back. "Uh-huh."

"Alright, then. Let's give her some space." Shane says.

Carol stands, tucking Matilda in besides me with great care. She strokes the doll's hair, and then mine. She even gives my cheek a kiss.

Shane nods her out the door.

After she leaves, he lingers there.

"You told me we could color together." He randomly reminds me. "I reckon I wanna take you up on that offer, later, if that's alright wit'chu."

Oh. He does? This is the first time he's brought this up since I decided he could be my friend, which I told him meant he could color with me, and do my hair, and play games with me. I don't know why he's decided so suddenly that he wants to do this. Maybe it's because my Dad is away.

I think about it for a time, but then I nod.

I don't see the harm in coloring.

Slowly, I nod.

He grins a little.

"I'll send Jacqui in to have a look atcher side in a little while." He says, before nodding, seemingly pleased. "Alright. See ya later, Harley."

"See ya later."

I hear him walk away.

Shane's got a way of makin' me like him, even when I don't wanna.

After I force down three bites of the granola bar, I lay back down, pulling the blankets up to my chin.

Matilda stares back at me with her giant button eyes.

"I'm sorry, Sophia." I murmur.

A short while later, I get a visitor.

"Somebody has a present for you." Lori sing-songs quietly as she guides a nervous-looking Carl into the bedroom. He clutches a large canvas bag to his chest, squeezing it tightly like a teddy-bear. There's a slight sunburn underneath his freckles, and a scab on his eyebrow, but he made it out of the herd just like everyone else did. I don't know Carl so well, but I'm real glad he's alright. I think he's sad about Sophia, and sad about me, too, 'cause his eyes begin to water the longer he stares at me. Lori rubs his back. "Off you go, baby."

He takes slow, calculated steps toward me, and stops about a foot away from the bed.

I notice him glancing at Matilda.

I tell him, "I'm gonna keep her until we can give her back to Sophia."

'Cause we're gonna find her. We're gonna.

He sniffles, nodding.

He likes that idea.

"I— I kept something for you, too." He sniffles. "While you were missing."

Lori hurries over to help me sit up properly, as Carl sits on the edge of the bed.

He carefully places the heavy bag over my lap.

I lay my hands down on it, feeling it out. It's hard. It's kinda crinkly. I look up at Carl, excitedly smiling at what I think is inside.

He's smilin', too, now. "Open it."

He scoots closer as I flip the bag open.

I laugh.

"No way! You got it!"

It's the Pokémon folder, in all its sparkly, yellow glory. The blood on the cover has been wiped away. It looks almost brand-new again, untouched by the horrors of that deadly afternoon. On the name-tag sticker, which was previously blank, is now written in bulky but neat letters, Harly Dikson.

"I had to ask your Dad how to spell your name." Carl says. "But he wouldn't answer. I hope I got it right."

Carl's never been good at spelling. The thought makes me laugh even harder.

Suddenly, I'm hugging him.

He hugs me back.

"He's been very eager to give those back to you." Lori smiles, her hip cocked as she watches on fondly. "He even slept with 'em the first night."

Carl pulls back. "Mo-om!"

She holds her hands up. "Sorry. Embarrassing?"

"It's okay." I giggle. I pull the Lugia card out of my pocket and show it to him. "I did, too."

He gets immediately excited again. "Woah! Another GX card!"

"Yep!"

"Here we go." Lori rolls her eyes.

We spend about half an hour going through the cards and snacking on pretzels together on the bed.

It's as we're on the last page that Lori gently takes hold of my shoulder.

"Harley," She says to me, "I know you're both having fun here, but I think it's time we all got together and... talked about what happened to you in those woods... Okay? We all think it's a good idea. We've been waiting to know ever since you got back, and... Carol says you killed a walker." She smiles tightly. "Would you like to go speak to us about everything? Get it off your chest? Maybe... help us piece everything together?"

I get the sense I don't got a choice in this. They need to understand what I went through; what signs of Sophia I came across.

She senses my answer, and stands, urging Carl out the door.

No more Pokémon cards.

Time to talk about Jim, and the stabbing, and the church bells, and everything else I endured in those Hellish woods.

I just wish my Dad would come back.

Author's Note. For some reason, I ssssstruggled with this chapter. Like, a lot. It's always the most random chapters that seem to kick my ass. Maybe it's because Harley was alone for the majority of it. I tried to make it interesting, nonetheless.

And here is the beginning of Sophia's whole shtick 🫥

Thank you for your patience, and I really hope you enjoyed reading this one!! <3

#the walking dead #twd fanfiction #twd #daryl dixon twd #daryl dixon daughter #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon #daddy issues #rick grimes #shane walsh #angst #fanfic #reader #ao3 fanfic

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maddieautobot273 · 10 months

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Silk & Cologne (18)

A Miguel O’Hara x OC Series - Link to AO3 (X)

Chapter 18 - Forest - link to previous chapter (X)

Pairing: Miguel O’Hara x Female OC

Words: 2.9K+ words

Warnings: PG for action sequences

Summary: Lisa helps Miguel and the Spider-Team take down a Venom Variant.

///////

I gave Miguel a reassuring and confident smile before slipping my mask on over my head. The two of us ran through the portal and we found ourselves in a dark forest. There were skid marks and broken barks and trees all around us.

There was a loud eardrum shattering cry, triggering my spider-sense as I searched frantically for the source of the noise. That was until a giant black paw came swinging towards us within a matter of seconds.

“Miguel, watch out!” I ran and shoved us out of the way of the incoming paw. We crashed to the ground and I felt Miguel reach and grab me, yanking me closer to him as the paw racked across the dirt towards us.

“Guys!!” Penni Parker swooped in, wearing her giant Spider-MEKA suit as she scooped up Miguel and I to safety from getting crushed. “Perfect timing! This thing won’t go down,”

"Penni, you are a life-safer,” Miguel sighed deeply in relief.

I too shared the same reaction before I looked down from where I hugged Penni’s Spider-MEKA. What I saw was bone chilling. A giant wolf-like variant of Venom was tearing apart the forest, slowly inching its way closer towards a village and a beautiful castle.

“Petra’s home?” I asked, glancing over at Miguel.

“Yes,” Miguel nodded as he glanced over at Penni. “Is she here?”

“She was, but we told her to help the guards with the evacuation of her village,” Penni stated as she peered at us through the cockpit of her MEKA.

“That’s good,” Miguel nodded in agreement. “We can’t let this monster get any closer to the village. If he destroys it, he’ll disturb the canon event,”

“It’s a big guy. We’ll need to put it down first before trying to capture it,” I realized as I took in its massive size.

“Any ideas, boss?” Penni asked Miguel.

Miguel paused for a moment, briefly glancing over at me. “If we can get enough webs around him, Lisa is confident she can enchant it,”

Penni gasped, looking over at me. “You think that will work?”

“Venom doesn’t like sound, right? Then he’s going to love that I got planned for him,” I grinned. “I’ll make sure he takes a nice, long nap,”

“Roger!” She smirked, “Team, you caught that?”

“Got it!” They yelled through the comlink. I recognized Hobie’s voice and when I glanced down again, I found his signature silhouette swinging through the trees, leading Venom in a wild goose chase away from the direction of the village.

“Let’s do it!” Penni powered up her jet pack as she flew the three of us up in the air before tossing Miguel and I forward, giving us some air time to shoot our webs and swing around the variant.

Hobie kept Venom distracted while Penni, and who I quickly realized was a Spider-Pig, or Spider-Ham according to his ID tag on the communication link, hovered at his side, latching on to him with their webbing as Miguel and I trailed closely behind him.

“RAAHHH! NEVER CATCH ME!” The Venom variant barked as it snapped its teeth at the group.

Miguel fired a web, making the variant trip on its paw and tumble to the ground. “Maldita sea, I hate fighting these Venom variants. They always make things harder than they need to be,” - Damn it

The team worked together to web the Venom wolf down. They webbed his paws and then covered his back with web fluid to press him down. Hobie grabbed on to a large tree branch, surveying the trap before he waved over at me.

“Okay, Spider-Muse, you’re up!” He yelled.

“Spider-Muse?” I repeated.

Is he referring to me?

“We can’t use your real name while out on a mission, can we? Spider-Muse? Siren-Spider? Spider-Siren?”

I temporarily shook off the name change before I carefully swung and used my webs to create a little platform that connected everyone’s webs attached to the large variant as the wolf struggled to break free. “We’ll discuss that later, Hobie– Here it goes,”

I pressed play on my music player before placing my palms on the platform and began to sing, as all the webs began to glow a golden hue. “Ah, ah, aaaah! Ah, aaah, aaaah, aaaaaah~”

I wasn’t sure what else to try and do, so my mind immediately went to Ariel’s melody from The Little Mermaid. Nothing too flashy, just get it done and over with. I continued to sing it, and after every finishing note I went up an octave and repeated the enchantment.

Miguel let out a small exclamation as he watched all of the webs start to glow. It felt like something out of a fantasy book he read as a kid. He watched with an almost bewildered expression as Venom roared, trying to fight and squirm his way free from the sound of my voice.

For a brief moment, his eyes flickered the same golden hue. The eye patches of his mask flared up as Miguel listened to my voice, briefly looking back up at me and a swell of pride coursed through him along with a flutter of his heart. This was a different feeling from before. Different from how he felt after their sparring match.

Am I attracted to this? Miguel thought to himself.

"I think we're making great progress! Keep it up!” he shouted, shaking off the aroused senses as he focused on the mission.

I focused on Miguel’s words of encouragement as I continued to sing my melody, putting more power into putting this monster to sleep, but this variant wasn’t going down without a fight. I could see it growing tired, but his body still thrashed about as the area around me began to rumble, tree branches breaking apart as the webs began to shake violently.

“No, no, no!” I hissed.

I continued to try and sing as the wolf became more drowsy and it reached a paw forward. However in the direction it was leaning, some of the webs broke off and his paw broke free. My platform began to falter, the webs falling apart. “Ah, ah, aaaah— AH!”

I tried to jump and swing out of the way, but the platform faltered way too quickly and I found myself falling through the webs.

“No, no, get out of there!” Miguel yelled as he ran over towards me as fast as he could. He shoots a red laser web sling from his wrist and soars towards me, reaching his hand out. “Grab on to me!”

I look over in that split second to see Miguel jump for me. I knew he was quick, but I think this is the fastest I’ve seen him react. With a yelp, “Agh!” I reach for him and grab his arm.

As soon as my hand made contact with his arm, he yanked me into him, wrapping his arms around me as he fired one more web to swing us to safety and slow down our descent to the ground as our bodies tumbled in the dirt. He used his body to shield me as best as he could, his back smashing the bark of a tree before we both came to a complete stop.

We collided in what looked like a mixture of mud and moss, but that was the least of our concerns. I heard a crunch at my side. Something fragile breaking.

Miguel then let out a soft, worried gasp as he pulled back, looking me over, “Are you alright?”

“That’s gonna bruise for sure, but I’m okay,” I grumbled as I slowly sat up. I patted my sides, making sure nothing was broken before my hands felt something crushed in my holster and I froze, my eyes widened. “Oh no!”

“What is it?” He asked with a ping of concern.

I pulled out my now smashed music player, tears welling in my eyes. “No, no, without my music my voice and webs won’t be powerful enough to put Venom to sleep. He’s still too big and powerful,”

Miguel sulked a little seeing the pained look on my face, but it quickly bubbled into frustration when Venom roared again, steering their attention towards him as the wolf continued to fight against its webbing shackles.

"We might have to just knock him out the old fashioned way," Miguel spoke in a more stern and serious tone.

I watched as he began to stand. He brandished his claws, the eyes of his mask narrowing at the variant. A ping of fear pierced through me as I reached for him, “Miguel, wait!” I caught his wrist, my voice almost pleading. “It’s too dangerous, even with your claws and your strength, it won’t be enough by yourself,”

Miguel caught my gaze through his mask and he swore he felt his heart pulse with pain and guilt at the sight of me. Hobie swung past us, trying to patch up the escaped paw with more webs, but another one broke free and smacked him.

“Bollocks!” He yelled as he tumbled to the ground, dropping his guitar.

As his guitar tumbled, some of the chords struck an off key note. Just faintly, out of the corner of my eye, I could see my dangling webs briefly flicker their golden hue again. My eyes widened at the sight as I gasped faintly.

Desperately trying to search for the words as I snapped my fingers over at Hobie. “Wait a minute, Hobie, your guitar!”

"His guitar?" Miguel asked with a bit of a confused expression as he then looked at me before exchanging a glance at Hobie. "How can his guitar help us?"

“Wait a minute! Wait a goddamn minute, Musey, you’re on to something!” Hobie’s eyes widened under his mask as he clambered up to his feet, grabbing the guitar from the ground. “What sound do you want?”

“Something pop-rock, and loud enough to keep him distracted!” I called out to him as I pulled myself up to my feet.

I could feel Miguel’s gaze on me as he watched me closely, his hands hovering near my body in the event I asked for assistance. “Lisa, what are you doing?”

“You got it, girlie!” Hobie grinned as he began playing his guitar.

The cords echoed through the forest, ringing in my ears. Venom snarled, his crying revealing his distaste for the sound as he tried to crawl back, but the webs on his back held firm.

“I’ll help too!” Penni cheered as she set up some speakers on her MEKA, as they played along a beat from a drum pedal.

“Wait, I’m confused, what is happening?” Miguel stuttered as he looked around the battlefield, completely dumbfounded as to what he was witnessing and hearing.

“Miguel,” I took his hand again, being mindful of his talons, I regained his attention. “I’m asking you to trust me,”

We both shared a long glance through our masks, and then slowly, I could feel Miguel’s hand squeeze mine tightly as he sheathed his claws. “I trust you,”

“Keep Venom distracted, reinforce the webs! I have to try the enchantment again, but with something else this time,” I nodded firmly.

“You got it,” Miguel nodded in agreement before he swung off to join the others.

I closed my eyes, focusing on the beat that Penni provided. I tapped my foot to sync up with the beat, psyching myself up with some dance moves to Hobie’s cords before the drums kicked in. As the melody went full throttle, I channeled the web fluid in my wrists and slammed my hands onto the ground.

A wave of web fluid coursed across the ground and splattered onto the variant. The Venom wolf howled in retaliation, trying to fight off the webbing. Miguel and the others soared in, firing their own webs to hold him down.

"Now sing again, we have to knock it out cold for this to work" Miguel yells over the music, yanking the web over his shoulder.

The music continued to play as I danced along to the beat, my feet gliding along the webs fluid as if I were skating as I created another webbed platform. I shot Miguel a wink as the song began to play. “Once the chorus kicks up, everyone attacks on my signal!”

“Lisa, use this!” Spider-Ham used his cartoon physics ability to whip out a microphone as he tossed it in my direction.

“Thanks Ham,” I smiled as I caught it. I held the microphone to my mouth as I began to enchant the variant.

[Lyrics are rough english translation of Backlight by Ado]

“My memories so good and awful, it seems they gave me a grudge.

But I have left bitterness and resentment behind me,

And it is all thanks to him~”

I focused on my movements, putting all of my hard and practice these last few days into overdrive. I locked eyes with Venom, keeping my state solely on him as I put in as much power into my voice as I could, the golden hue of my webs slowly returning. I could feel Miguel’s stare again as he watched in pure astonishment as I danced along to the beat.

“Look, it’s the clowns who think they know,

How crushing loneliness can be,

You know nothing ‘till you come with me~”

I snapped my fingers, “NOW!” And then slammed my foot onto the ground, sending another wave of web fluid for the wolf.

“C’mon everyone, ¡Vamos!” Miguel yelled in a very motivated and enthusiastic tone of confidence while he and the others fought off the Venom variant that was trying to break free from its webbing. - Let’s go!!

“And run wild~”

I watched as everyone worked together to web up the variant as much as they could, offering them all a proud smile. The more I sang, the more webs connected with one another as the golden hue glow stretched farther and farther up Venom’s body.

“Release your rage,

Let the winds of wrath blow them away,

Not gonna live with compliance-iance-iance,

I’m not playing the victim, no more~”

I watched as the wolf variant struggled, the sticky webs tightening around its body as his eyes began to droop, tiredly, its voice howling from the pain that coursed through its body from the music.

"Now that's the good stuff, keep it going!" Miguel yells once more, a hint of a smirk curling on his lips.

“Time to rage!

Let’s punish them all,

For their love, I’m done trying to trust,

Not gonna live with compliance-iance-iance,

Gonna play with fire, backlit—”

I leaned backwards as I channeled what power I had left remaining in the high note as the glow of the webs intensified.

“By the flaaaames!~”

The Venom wolf’s eyes flickered between its pale ghost while glow and my enchanted gold until the yellow hue took over it completely. The rest of the team pulled on the webs, holding Venom down with all of their strength as Miguel looked up at me.

“Now’s your chance!”

“Ah, ah, aaaah, ah, ah, aaaah, aaaaaahhhh!~”

I sang one more melody before the webs pulsed and a loud groan erupted from the wolf before it fell unconscious completely, toppling to the ground as the earth shook briefly.

“You did it!” Penni cheered as the rest of the team celebrated their victory.

Miguel clenched his fists together, cheering silently as he looked over towards me. “That plan actually worked. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but–”

His sentence was stopped short when I blanked out from my enchantment. I breathed heavily as the song came to an end on Hobie’s guitar and once I realized it was over, I collapsed onto my webbed platform, the enchantment taking its toll.

“Lisa!”

Miguel called out to me with a tinge of worry in his voice. He fired a web sling, the red laser webs vaulting him up to my platform. He knelt beside me, his mask dematerializing as Miguel then scooped me up into his arms.

“What happened, are you okay?” he asked.

“I’m okay,” I took large, deep breaths to gather myself. I felt a bit light headed as I looked over his worried gaze. I chuckled faintly, smiling. “That’s definitely the biggest enchantment— I’ve ever done so far,” I panted softly.

“So far?” He raised a brow at me.

“Who knows? There could be other Venom variants you’ll need me for,” I panted a faint giggle from my mouth, my throat feeling dry.

Miguel breathed a heavy sigh of relief before chuckling softly. “I really am proud of you. You've come such a long way in your power, Lisa,"

“Thank you, Miguel,” I smiled up at him. “That means a lot, coming from. . . you. . .”

“Lisa?” Miguel spoke my name softly, looking puzzled.

I lifted my hand briefly, looking over to see the mosh that had stained my suit, feeling a very irritating and itchy sensation coming from that spot. I glanced down at myself, realizing that there was more of it along my sides and legs. And when I looked back up at Miguel, I realized some of the mosh was on his suit too.

“Miguel–!”

But I couldn’t get the words out.

Miguel’s expression turned pale as he called out my name, though from my end it was muffled with a distant ringing in my ears. He watched as my eyes rolled in the back of my head and as he called my name again, I passed out from exhaustion.

/////

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morislucidstories · 3 months

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This is how most of our friends respond to meeting our cats. This is a rework of the comic I made to answer an ask on my fanart account.

Text description of comic under cut

[Comic Description: The comic has some info of each cat followed by a panel Coconut (General) 10lbs/4.5kg Likes: Lyly, playing with kitty tease Dislikes: Men, Tall, Loud, Outdoor shoes Panel: Looking down the hallway. There is a smaller panel that is a zoom in of Coconut hiding and staring at the audience. Coconut is a small black cat.

Marzipan (Corporal) 15lbs/6.8kg Likes: knit blankets, ham, people basking in his glory Dislikes: Summer Panel: Marzipan is sitting proud on a cat tree. A featureless stand-in is looking at him with sparkly eyes and holding up a sign that reads "10/10." Marzipan is a fluffy cat with stripes like a Norwegian Forest Cat.

Neapolitan (Captain) 20lbs/9.1kg Likes: food, hugs, snacks, cuddles, treats, people that can hold him Dislikes: being alone, his generalized anxiety Panel: Neo is purring with his mouth wide open to eat a treat being given to him. The text pointing to him read "Does not have teeth" Panel: A featureless stand-in is holding Neo who is purring so loudly that the background is filled with purring sounds FX. The text pointing to the person reads "Cured of Depression." Neo is a large black cat.

End of description]

#mori the webcomic #webcomic #comic #catfectionaries

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wonderfulworldofmaeth · 10 months

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My Name? Oh, it's Van...

Van Cruz

Full name: Vance (Van) Manuel Cruz

Age: 28 years old

Birthday: November 13th

Sexual orientation: Demisexual (Male Leaning)

Pronouns: He/They

Familiar: Jali, the tabby cat

Personality:

Likes: Learning new things by reading, cloudy days, waking up in time to see everyone's morning commute, his eggs over easy and still runny, going to work early so he can come home earlier, freshly ironed clothes, going on coffee runs for his family or workplace, bagels and sweets, lazy afternoons with a good book, slow folkloric music to relax to, buffet restaurants, when the circus comes to town, playing baseball in the park, the dentist, provaleta, rollerskating, organizing documents, doing his friends' taxes, dressing up for Halloween, children, birdwatching, taking walks on the forest trails, painting his nails, playing billiards with his friends, jewelry, playing guitar, shopping in Maeth's retail district, the color purple, helping Marcos in the garage even if he doesn't know anything about automobiles, going to the cinema theater, picnics by Lover's Lake, bow ties, being a guest to parties and gatherings, waiting in line if he's with his friends, visiting the bakery to talk to the owners, long journeys, buying cute and useless bobbles at the antique store.

Dislikes: Hot days, working outdoors in the heat, arrogant or brash men, working long days with no breaks, when people get him expensive gifts he feels like he doesn't deserve, not having fresh produce in the house, having laundry to do on a rainy day, letting his home repairs pile up, neckties that are too long or too short, having too strict of a schedule, wearing suspenders, hosting things at his house, talking about his father or family in general, killing bugs, mowing his grass because it makes his nose runny, the color black, spending a long time in the bath because he gets wrinkly.

Abilities: Van has picked up a few trades here and there and has picked up the reputation of a "do it yourself" type of man. Back in Villa Noche, he's done his fair share of handiwork for pipes, roofs, fences, wagons, and all sorts of other things. He's had to work hard for all his book smarts, but he's incredibly intelligent and dedicated to learning. He becomes a library assistant in Maeth to further his knowledge. He's good at baseball, the most popular sport in Villa Noche. He can cook and bake okay, nothing exceptional. He really likes studying animals, specifically birds.

Favourite food: Ham & cheese empanadas. Provoleta

Favourite drink: Black coffee and Modelos

Favourite flower: The blooms of the Jacaranda tree

Appearance:

Height: 6'0 or 183 cm.

Weight: 140 lbs or 63 kg

Hair: Van has dusty brown hair, thick and silky. It's pretty easy to comb through and almost never tangles. He used to keep it short growing up, but since his decision to leave Villa Noche, he has been growing it long. It's to his shoulders now. He often keeps it back in a ribbon or a satin scrunchy. He likes to experiment with different hairstyles, but most of the time he likes a simple ponytail or his hair down by his shoulders. He has quite a few grey hairs that he's gathered over the years from stress, but now he's just convinced he's greying early. He hopes he doesn't bald too soon.

Eyes: Van has big, deep-set eyes, much like a squirrel. They're chocolate, just light enough to differentiate the iris from the pupil. They glow like maple syrup in the sun. He's got a distinct pair of long, dark lashes, and the skin around his eyes wrinkles when he smiles.

General description: Van is a soft-spoken and empathetic young man. He has a passion for learning both skills and learning about others. He has a host of bad habits he's been trying to unlearn, often struggling with interpersonal relationships between friends who aren't like-minded to him. He's polite and gentle, and he loves to keep in the company of others. Van is very generous and it shows in his everyday life. He is an excellent employee and a caring friend as he will go to great lengths to do more than what is asked of him for people he feels like deserve it.

Van is tall and lanky, sometimes incredibly awkward. He's grown to be more comfortable with himself but still has an awkward walk and a small stammer that stems from his low self-confidence. Van has long skinny legs and thin arms. For a man of many trades, he has quite delicate hands and he likes to keep his nails short. Van has a host of freckles all over his body, lightly washed over his face, but a more intense brown all over his back and arms. Van has thick brows and easily grows a beard, however, he likes to keep it shaved completely or, at the most, keeps a small mustache and stubble.

Van has a large aquiline nose with a distinct bump which is naturally the most distinguishing part of his face. Van's face is defined by high cheekbones and a naturally contoured jaw. His chin is pointed, and he does have a small cleft in the middle. Van has dimples when he smiles, making for a soft, more friendly appearance. Overall, Van is very handsome and his combination of features is quite unique.

Fashion sense: Van isn't overly particular about clothes. He's used to living in a very cold, mountainous region so he's used to dressing warmly. However, once he moves to the more central part of Maeth, he experiments with different styles since the weather is more temperate and isn't as limiting. For the most part, Van enjoys a denim pair of jeans, loose or tight fighting, with a long-sleeved shirt or a sweater of some type. He likes to layer, but always ends up rolling his sleeves to his elbows. He really loves an oversized cardigan. Van usually sports leather or vinyl boots on a daily basis. Sometimes for a more casual look, Van likes cork sandals. Van comes to find that he likes sneakers and is impressed with Central Maeth's wide variety of shoe stores and shoe styles.

A brief look into his life:

Occupation: During his years in Villa Noche, a small village in mountainous Souther Maeth, Van was a sheep and livestock herder like his father. He'd go around doing odd jobs for extra cash since he barely saw any take home from his and his father's work. Upon moving to Central Maeth, Van saw an opportunity for learning and decided to apply as one of the library assistants. He wasn't particularly well-versed in books, but he brought to the table an eagerness and willingness to learn and help others. He often goes to Maeth's primary school library to read to the children there or bring them books they might not otherwise have access to. He likes to pop in at the petting zoo from time to time.

Love interest:

Marcos

Family and friends:

Valerio Cruz, father

Rosalie Rivera, mother

Ignacio Rivera, stepfather

Penelope Rivera, sister

Oliver Rivera, half brother

Petra Moretti, former love interest and best friend in Villa Noche

Nina Yanez and Marnie Ursil, close friends in Villa Noche

Lalo Hernandez, estranged friend in Villa Noche

Fausto Guerra, rival in Villa Noche

Linda Firraldi, former teacher

Marcos, love interest and partner

Thomas, Cole, Matías, and Emilio, his best friends.

Victor Esperanza, mentor at the Maethisse College of Literary Arts

Miscellaneous facts:

Despite an unathletic appearance, Van is really good at baseball and swimming. He is also very good at riding horses and has learned to do so from a very young age

Van is very good with children and animals and both tend to like and trust him easily

Van has many great ideas but often doesn't share them

Van doesn't anger easily, so when you've made him angry you know you've gone too far

Van isn't typically one to forgive and can easily hold a grudge, despite his soft nature

In Villa Noche, Van started participating in bull running and bull riding to fit in since the dangerous sport was considered 'cool' amongst all the young men there. He got to be quite good at it, much to the annoyance of his peers

Most of Van's friends have been girls, which is the main contributor to his empathetic and kind nature

When younger, Van found other boys intimidating and difficult to get along with. He can count on one hand how many close male friends he's had in his life.

Van kept his sexuality private for a very long time, and upon arriving in Central Maeth, he feels relief in not having to hide anymore

Van isn't afraid to explore cosmetic enhancements and body modifications and has often expressed a desire for a nose job or fillers

Van likes piercings on himself and others, but he's yet to get anything beyond a nose ring and double ear piercings.

Although Van appreciates having feminine qualities, he often still opts for a mostly masculine appearance and prefers that in his partners

Story:

Vance Manuel Cruz was born to his mother and father in the small mountain village known as Villa Noche. Quite secluded from the rest of the country, the village of less than one hundred had to be quite sustainable on its own. Because of that, most of the townspeople had practical professions and lived humble lives. Van's father was a sheep herder and a keeper of livestock, while his mother was a seamstress. From a young age, Van had been trained in his father's line of work. He took to it easily enough, not to say it was something he preferred. He did, however, enjoy working with the animals. He was never any good at slaughtering them.

Van had a good relationship with his mother, who often tried to hide the abusive nature of her marriage from her only son. Her husband, and Van's father, Valerio, was a very traditional man. In this sense, he worked long hours and prioritized his duties outside of the home. His wife's responsibilities amounted to taking care of the home, their child and also working long hours. Valerio didn't allow Rosalie many freedoms and she was often unhappy. Their fights would sometimes come to blows when Van wasn't around. The most prominent disagreement between them was that Valerio wanted more children, and Rosalie did not. Life was hard enough already. They didn't have much money, time or means. Having another child would be impossible.

When Van was four or five years old, Rosalie discovered she was pregnant again, this time with a daughter. She kept it a secret from her husband. Not being able to stomach the uncertain future they would both have in Villa Noche, Rosalie gathered what little possessions belonging to her and planned quietly to move away. Although she desperately wanted to take Van with her, Rosalie knew her limitations. There was nobody to help her travel north, and it would be harder with Van with her. It would also give Valerio more cause to run after her. Ultimately she had to convince herself that Van would be okay here in Villa Noche, and she disappeared in the middle of the night, never to return.

After Rosalie's disappearance, Valerio became incorrigible. He was always angry, speaking about how ungrateful Rosalie was. For Van this was difficult. He didn't know who to believe. His father and the preconceived notions of the townspeople, or whatever information he'd gathered about his parents' relationship managed to slip between the cracks.

The more his father spoke ill of her, the more Van began hating his mother.

Van soon took the role of his own mother, taking care of their home as well as himself and his father. He began learning how to cook meals and keep everything clean, doing laundry and maintenance. He took up his mother's place in more ways than one. Van had a very busy schedule between helping his father with the livestock and all of the house chores. He hardly had any time to play, as a child should do.

Valerio seemed to have nobody left to push around, so he set his sights on Van. He was very critical of him, complaining when things weren't done up to his standard. He would lament about not having Rosalie around and that Van was a lousy replacement. Van was often the butt of jokes his father would make at his expense, discussing how he'd make a much better daughter than a son. This bothered Van a lot, but it bothered him more once he began discovering things about himself.

Due to Villa Noche's small population and the value placed on practical work, there wasn't much in the way of formal education. Because of this, Van didn't attend school for very long. There was one schoolhouse in the village that the children could attend. Not very many did because they were helping their families with the labor-intensive work required at home. Between his duties at home, Van attended school as much as he could, much to the disapproval of his father. Here, he learned to read at a basic level and was taught basic mathematics.

The schoolhouse was shut down as the school teacher, who had become a safe and trusted adult to Van, was moving away. Her name was Linda Firraldi. She was a widow and had no means to provide for herself here. The teaching she was doing went unpaid. Many of the children were saddened by this news and donated money to her so that she could afford to leave. Some of the parents were upset by this news, while others were in support of Linda. Since Villa Noche did not have a formal government, not much could be done to accommodate her. Linda didn't want to be a pity case either. So it was decided. Van was so upset that his teacher was leaving, realizing he'd be without a friend and without a safe place to hide from his responsibilities.

All through Van's late adolescence, he struggled to make friends. All of his time was spent at his house or at work. One day, when Van was about eleven years old, he got a knock on his door. He looked through the window to discover it was a girl about his age. Hurrying to open it so his father wouldn't, Van was face to face with one of his former peers from the schoolhouse.

Petra Moretti.

They hadn't been well acquainted then, but Van distinctly remembered her long dark hair and her delicate features. He thought she was so beautiful and well-spoken. Her mother had been friends with Rosalie.

"Hey... hey Petra."

"Hi, Vance. Is your dad home?"

Van quickly nodded. Petra held a small piece of paper in her hands.

"Yeah... he is. Why, did you need him for something?"

Petra shook her head. Handing the piece of paper to Van.

"No... I actually came to see you. I'll make it quick, but my mom and I are holding school lessons at our house. I was hoping maybe you'd come."

Van looked down at the paper, then back at Petra. This was the first time he felt like one of his peers actually cared for him.

"Yeah... yeah I'll try to make it if I can..."

Van was already hesitant as he didn't have any school supplies or anything left from his time at the schoolhouse. He was also afraid that his father would find out. He'd been so relieved when Van stopped attending school, so he definitely intended on keeping this a secret. Petra knew the look on his face.

"Don't worry about the books or anything. We have everything you need."

Van wanted to count all the freckles on her face. He couldn't do it because he didn't know enough numbers.

"Thank you, Petra..."

Before she turned to leave, a cold gust of wind blew her hair back. Her cheeks were red. It made Van's stomach warm.

"Anytime. And Van?"

"Yeah?"

"He doesn't have to find out."

Van looked at that piece of paper all night. It had a list of times that they would meet, written in Petra's neat handwriting. The subjects were on a rotating schedule, so everyone would learn a little bit of everything at some point. There was even a class on Saturday. Van had never been more excited.

So in secret, Van started to attend school at Petra's house. Her father, Gino was one of the village's farmers. He was well respected in Villa Noche and spent long hours at their patch of land some miles out of the village. Petra's young mother, Julietta, made jams and preserves that she sold at the market. She was also a midwife and had helped deliver many of the children that attended her house for school, including Van.

He learned a great many things there and began friendships with some other kids. He got a hunger for knowledge and a taste for learning. In his early teens, Van spent a lot of time at Petra's house. He learned how to make jam with Julietta and he and Petra would spend all afternoon reading and learning together. They would make lists of things they wanted to learn about. Petra would ask her father to see some of the traveling merchants and request books on the subjects. Gino would come with books from all over Maeth for Petra and Van to share. It was the beginning of a beautiful relationship. Van was even able to confide in her about his suffering relationship with his father. He felt like she was able to understand.

In his time learning there, Van met a few other boys his age. He'd refrained from befriending boys in the past, because of conflicting feelings he's had toward them. Despite this, one boy named Lalo Hernandez managed to win him over. Lalo was the son of a metal worker and a seamstress. He was kind, but rowdy with a crooked smile and a lazy eye. He adopted Van into his group of friends. Van thought it felt good to be accepted. His father spoke less ill of him when he discovered he had some friends that would be a masculine influence. The group would often play baseball in the field, travel the forest together, and share stories over their father's alcohol. They would provoke and fearlessly hop atop the bulls of the village to feel danger and impress the girls. Van loved the security that group provided him, but he couldn't help but feel he was an imposter.

Friendship with Lalo and his buddies felt like a double-edged sword. Van was often teased because he wasn't like them. Lanky and awkward, he often felt out of place next to his muscular, confident counterparts. They teased him when he refused the advances of girls and didn't participate in their locker room talk. They joked that Van was only their friend so that he could see them bathe naked. Lalo assured Van it was all just childish jokes. Van wasn't sure that they were, but for years he stayed. Finally accepted by his father, the feeling of belonging coerced him to stay close to the same people he couldn't fully relate to. They liked Van well enough, but Van had again found himself a house with no home.

Van grew older, into a young man. He kept with his studies at Petra's house and with his work herding his family's sheep. He kept with Lalo his group of village misfits through all their ups and downs. Van found his friendship with Petra to be the type of friendship he preferred. It was gentle, nurturing, and intimate. As Petra began to discover herself, their friendship crossed over into something more. She was a beautiful young woman, but Van discovered that wasn't why he was infatuated with her. He loved how he could let his walls come down around her. He loved how they could touch each other and feel safe. Petra was never threatened by Van, nor Van by her. Their physical relationship came long after their strong emotional connection and it was one of discovery.

Van couldn't help but feel drawn to his friends. He explained what he felt to Petra after long contemplation. He explained how Lalo, with his swagger and his ruggedness, made him feel things. Things he was ashamed of but told her anyway. Petra listened.

"Would you be happier with someone like that? With Lalo?"

Van shook his head, quickly putting himself in that situation. He didn't like what he imagined.

"Oh no... I can't have a conversation with any of them about anything important, Petra... I feel like it's so hard to connect to them like I connect with you. I don't want to be with someone like that... I just think he's..."

"Beautiful. Your body thinks he's beautiful, doesn't it? And it feels things when you see him."

Van nods. He was so surprised by her insight.

"How'd you know?"

She shrugs.

"Because that's the feeling I'm missing. Mama said I was supposed to feel things in my body when I look at a boy... Nina too. But I don't. Not what they speak about."

Van rubs his chin.

"What do you feel when you look at me?"

Petra smiles. The kind of smile that reminds Van what real love is.

"The same thing you feel."

It was safety, understanding, companionship, love, and all these other words they already knew.

By the time he was seventeen, Van could consider himself Petra's boyfriend. They spent most of their time together beyond their work, and Van often stayed over at her family's house.

Petra was so happy with Van. The pair had decided to keep their love private for a long time, and Van was okay with that. He actually preferred it. As much as he wanted to prove himself to his father and his friends, he realized that wasn't what he wanted. That was what his surroundings conditioned him to want. His desire to protect Petra and her virtue was far greater.

As they approached the common age of marriage, tensions reached an unbearable point within his group of friends over his relationship with Petra. She was well sought after by the boys of the village because of her beauty and poise. She received endless advances and pursuits from the young men in town, but to all of them, she refused. They despised how close Van was to her, calling it a waste.

"You don't even like girls, Vance. You could at least let one of us put her to good use."

This was the statement that angered him the most. As if Petra's womanhood had anything to do with why he loved her.

Van had always known he didn't see women as toys or things or objects. What he had only recently discovered is that not everyone felt the same. He was beginning to realize why his mother had left his father. He feared finding out the things she'd endured that made her think her only option was disappearing into the night without him.

The friends were beginning to fall apart and they would often bicker over Petra's affections. They would relentlessly harass Van about her most intimate details, but he would never provide so much as a clue. Just the thought that Van had to shield her from their prying eyes was enough to justify his relationship with her. He would be with her. They would never be.

One of their group, Fausto Guerra, was particularly vile. He was the son of the tavern master. Van had never liked Fausto. Fausto was his foil, his antichrist. He was the most braggadocious person he'd ever met. He was haughty, arrogant, and self-important. He expected others to serve him, and his mouth demanded respect before his hands warranted it. His crass opinions of women and his love for alcohol rubbed Van's skin raw with contempt. His greed was insatiable and he had boasted of deflowering many girls in the village. Van doubted the consensuality of his claims. In many ways, Fausto reminded Van of his father. He hated that.

Fausto loved to proclaim that one day he would 'conquer' Petra and make her his wife. Van would die before that would ever happen.

Fausto would buy Petra all the most elaborate gifts in an effort to get her to agree to marry him. Petra would always politely refuse them, as her mind was made up.

"Why doesn't he ever listen Vance?"

Van spared her from the disgusting things that entered his mind from Fausto's lips.

"Because men don't know how to listen."

Her laugh lifted like a feather in the wind.

"You do."

"Yeah, well sure Petra... but I'm different."

"Sure you are... and that's why I love you."

Petra looked out the four-pane window, a book in her lap. Her hair was to her waist now. Vance would brush it often and put it in a ribbon for her.

"It's laughable to think Fausto expects me to consider him at all. I would never marry a man like him."

Van lays on her bed with his arm above his head. His eyes couldn't choose between Petra's elegant form and the orrery hanging from her ceiling. He had a small, teasing smile.

"Why ever not, Petra?"

Her playful scoff made Van warm inside.

"Because I have bigger plans for my life than to be the wench of an insufferable tyrant."

Van chuckled.

"That we do, Petra. That we do."

This wasn't the end of Fausto's advances. When Petra was at the tavern with their friends Nina and Marnie, Fausto tried again. Her answer would always be no. She just feared what this exchange would bring. She knew men often became dangerous when humiliated.

Van had heard the whole commotion from outside the tavern. He'd finished up his work for the day. The sheep were sheared and in the northern pasture. He'd made plans to join Petra and their friends at the tavern for a drink, then walk Petra home. He hadn't known what Fausto had planned on doing. The way things went, he assumed nobody had. When Van arrived a crowd had gathered around the door.

He heard yelling. He heard a glass break. He heard Petra's angry yell.

"I said no, Fausto! No! Doesn't a woman's word mean anything to you? You ask, ask, ask, but it does not mean you will receive. I say no and you do not listen. What kind of marriage would that make for me? Answer me that!"

Van could hear the tears in her voice. He shoved through the crowd and had seen Petra wrapped around herself. Nina and Marnie were in a wall between her and her aggressor. Fausto was red in the face. He grabbed her drink and threw it on the stone floor, glass scattering across the floor like shrill mice.

"Why won't you just give in, huh? I've done everything a man could possibly do. You're so ungrateful. You'll see, Petra! You'll die a spinster. You wouldn't know a good man if one fell into your bed."

Van saw Petra, his poetic and poised Petra, falling apart at the seams. He saw her cowering behind her friends. He saw her dainty hands shake as she held them close to her chest. He saw that the silver button on the cuff of her blouse was gone, the threads slithering out like snakes. Van pictured Fausto reaching out to hurt her. This sent Van into a rage.

"Get out of here, Fausto."

Van parted the crowd like a sea, taking a few steps in front of Marnie and Nina. Even though Van towered over the brute, he couldn't tip the scale at half his weight. Fausto glowered at him, broken glass crunching under his boots.

"And what are you going to do?"

Van clenched his fist. For the first time, he did not know fear. All he felt was anger.

"What do you think?"

"I think you're a bitch, Vance Cruz. You always have been. A bitch like Petra knows how to pick 'em."

Van didn't remember anything after that.

There were flying fists and blood and teeth.

Fausto's father had to pull Van away from Fausto. By then there was blood on the floor, his face, and splattered all over his shirt. Some had gathered to watch, and some had fled. Van didn't feel pain. He felt satisfaction. He didn't hear Mr. Guerra yelling at him to leave. He just heard the ringing in his ears. He didn't see the surprise on the faces around him. He just saw him with his eyes swollen shut, barely recognizable on the ground. Anyone else wouldn't have been able to tell if that was Fausto Guerra or not. This made Van happy.

He reached out for Petra. She went into his arms like it was the only safe place in the world. Van didn't regain his sentience until all four of them had made headway to Petra's house in Marnie's mage light.

After they'd made it out of earshot of the tavern, Petra burst into tears. It broke Van's heart. He'd never seen her so upset, violated, and vulnerable. They supported her along the beaten path to her house on the hill. She'd cried so much she'd exhausted herself, and Van had to carry her. When they got back, Nina and Marnie helped her wash up. Van did the same, helping himself to one of Gino's shirts. He was out of town trading with another village to the east. He wouldn't miss it. When Van had finished, they all went to Petra's room, surrounding her with love and support as she fell asleep in Van's grasp.

"So what happened?" Van asked quietly.

Marnie could feel the anger melting off him in waves. In all the years she'd known Van, she didn't think he was capable of such raw, unchanneled fury. He'd always been so gentle to them.

They sat on the bed together, Marnie's calming magic seeping into Petra's skin.

"Fausto walked into the tavern with a grand gesture. He had flowers and gifts for Petra. We all looked at each other not knowing what to do. He came over to us and sat down next to Petra... He tried to hug and kiss her. Petra had pushed him away."

"We didn't know where he got that idea from," Nina said. "Petra has never wanted to share space with him, let alone touch him. Everyone knows Petra doesn't like being touched by just anyone. Everyone knows she doesn't like Fausto."

Van shakes his head and seethes. The look of worry on his friends' faces told him everything they didn't say with their words.

"And nobody tried to help you..." he mumbled. He wasn't surprised. There weren't many people brave enough to stand up to that tyrant Fausto. Not even the grown men of the village. Van hated that.

"No... we tried to ask him to leave before Petra get any more upset. I'm afraid he didn't take that well," Marnie continued in her soft voice. "He tried to calm her down with sweet talk and fake apologies. He was too dense to see it wasn't working. He ordered her another drink to get on her good side."

Van looked down at Petra, fast asleep in his arms. She only had good sides, but they were for people who were good to her.

"He grabbed her hand and tried to put the ring on her finger saying his much he fancied her... He'd torn the sleeve of her blouse when she tried to rip her hand away from him."

Nina scowled.

"After that, Fausto went berserk. He shoved all the empty glasses onto the floor and banged on the counter, raising his voice at Petra. She told him bravely to leave her alone, but he wasn't listening. We were scared, but we stood up to that pig. We told him to scram or we'd use our magic to blast him out of that shit hole..."

Nina wiped her face, trying not to let the tears escape. Marnie held her hand.

"And that's when you arrived."

Van placed a soft kiss on Petra's head, covering her shoulders with her quilt.

"I'm glad I arrived in enough time... and I'm sorry you three were alone."

Marnie smiled softly. "It's not your fault, Van."

Nina was chewing her finger. Van knew something was eating at her.

"What is it, Nina?"

"He's just... so horrible Van." She looked at Marnie and back to Van.

"She... told us not to tell you. But Fausto has been sending Petra letters."

"What kind of letters?" Van saw his vision get hazy.

Manie was the one to answer. "Very detailed letters of what he would do to her once they were married... Or even before. She hasn't felt safe and we've been staying with her every night until her parents return. She hadn't told anybody."

They told him while Petra slept in his arms. They sat there and told Van everything while the planets spun above them. Van's world seemed to stop. He was so sad for Petra. So sad that she didn't tell him. But he understood. He understood that sometimes people kept secrets because the minute you said them out loud they seemed too real for your comfort. Maybe she feared Van would do something stupid to stand up for her... and maybe she thought Van didn't stand a chance against Fausto.

Maybe.

Walking away from that fight with a bloody nose and a broken rib was the least of Van's worries. It showed how much of a man he'd grown into, despite the examples he'd been given. Van was proud of that.

Van didn't go against Penelope's wishes. He waited to see how Petra wanted things handled. Nina and Marnie had told him what happened when Gino came back. Petra told her father everything, sparing him a few details that would make her ashamed. Mr. Moretti settled things personally with Fausto. Petra had wanted to go and receive her apology. She brought her friends with her for support, and so they could get an apology as well.

Mr. Moretti brought the letters to Fausto's house, making Mrs. Guerra read them. Nina said that she'd never seen a woman so disgusted and offended. The letters made her cry. It was a hard pill for her to swallow, but she needed to see the son she raised. Marnie said she felt terrible for Mrs. Guerra. But she felt worse for Petra. She needed to see the son she and her husband raised.

Mr. Moretti told Mr. Guerra he would no longer provide his produce for his tavern and told Fausto he would kill him if he ever saw him near Petra again.

Fausto apologized to those girls, but it didn't mean as much to Petra as she had thought. Mr. Moretti asked her if she had anything to say.

"Until you raise a daughter of your own, Fausto, you won't know the violation you're capable of projecting onto a woman. And I hope you never have the chance to. I feel sorry for your future wife, and I feel sorry for your mother. I feel sorry that I ruined her perception of you, but you deserve to have your reputation ruined. Since your precious reputation is the only thing I could ruin to make you see the value of a woman's life."

And Petra had spit on him.

Van had just wished he could be there for that. Because when they told him it was all over, it didn't feel like enough.

It was a few months after that, Petra told Van she had decided to leave Villa Noche.

"We're moving to the north so I can study, Van. You should come with us."

It was a casual conversation over provoleta at the Moretti household. Van nearly spits out his drink.

Van didn't know what to make of that. He'd worked so hard to make himself belong in a place he didn't. Now the opportunity to travel abroad with the family who took him in was right here... He didn't know what he'd do.

They'd all talked about it. Gino had a few prospects for their farm lined up. The money from that should be enough to get them anywhere they needed to go. Anything else they sold would be extra cash in their pockets. Julietta was so excited, looking forward to moving to a new place and supporting her daughter's ambitions. They invited Van with open arms. He was a part of their family for more than a decade. They knew he came from a situation that he really wanted to leave. There was never a doubt in their mind that Van was going to be a part of that family for the rest of their lives.

Van felt honored. He had wanted to go. He really, really did. He wanted to go with them, with Petra, but something was telling him not to.

He'd gone home and thought it over. He talked to his friends about it casually, the ones he really trusted anyhow.

Lalo had told him it was self-sabotage, he should just move with them.

"It's a big wide world out there Vance. There are opportunities taller than the mountains."

Van wanted to believe him, but things weren't so simple. He wished to all the planets that it was.

Until this point, Van and Petra had discussed their relationship so regularly. They were best friends. They were two people who shared intimacy and felt safe when making love with one another. Petra and Van loved each other more than the world itself. They discovered many things by being together.

Petra didn't love men. Petra loved Van. Van loved women, but in the way that he wanted to be one and was envious that he wasn't. He still wasn't sure what that meant. Petra was okay with that.

Van desired men in the way Petra did not. Although he'd found this out about himself, Van knew there wasn't a single man he could fall in love with like he had fallen in love with Petra. He asked himself why. Why, why why.

Because Petra was Petra. A soft, sensitive, caring woman that opened the doors to space and time. She was the woman that changed his life.

There wasn't a man Petra could see herself in love with... because there was no man like Van.

Van understood Petra and Petra understood Van. She was the only one who had known his secrets and he was the only one who understood hers. Their lusts and confusion and their skeletons in the closet that, when in each other's company, never seemed so bad.

Their bond was so strong and although they thought they were soulmates, they realized you could be soulmates in a way that belies tradition. Their relationship had become... celestial.

But on the tangible side of things, Petra wanted so much more than Van was sure he could give her. She wanted to try out a big city. She wanted to study the stars. She wanted to love women. She wanted a different life than the one she had. Van was okay with her having all of those things. He wanted her to have those things. Petra had a feeling when she asked him...

She knew Van was unsure if he was okay with uprooting with her. She saw the stars from his eyes disappear and be replaced with uncertainty.

"So you're not coming with us... are you, Vance?"

Van couldn't help the tears in his eyes.

"I don't know... What if I.. what if it's not the right thing for me?"

Petra smiled through her disappointment.

She couldn't help but think it was Van's sweet way of saying

'What if you're not the right thing for me'?

Van tried to think of something, anything to say. He had some things lined up, but he knew those words were already written in Petra's mind. She'd already read and memorized them.

And she'd forgiven him too.

"That's okay. You'll find the right thing for you, Van. I'll write to you."

"You will?"

Petra sniffled and wiped his face with her bare fingers. He was honored. She'd normally reserve her pocket kerchief for something like that. He'd miss these things about her.

"Of course, I will. I'll tell you all about my studies, and mama and papa too. Just don't move away before I do, okay? You have to promise."

Van cupped Petra's face and gave her the kiss he hoped she'd never forget.

"I promise, Petra."

"Are you going to be okay... with your father?"

Van didn't know. He didn't want to worry her. He'd grown into a man now. Whatever issues he had, he would face them head-on. He wouldn't have Petra to cry to anymore. He couldn't hide under the covers with her while his father drank himself into a stupor. He would really miss that.

"I'll be fine. Don't worry."

She nods and grabs the keys to the house from her pocket, looking over her shoulder at her father packing up their wagon.

"We sold the farm to Nina's family, but the house is yours. I told Papa that I wanted you to have it."

Van took those keys into his hands like they were sacred ambrosia.

"Petra... I don't know what- Petra... thank you."

"You're welcome, Van. I'm really going to miss you, you know."

Van took her into his arms and hugged her tight. He was going to miss her more than anything. The sobs in his throat were telling.

"We'll see each other again. When you're an astronomer discovering new stars in a capital city."

"Yeah... we will, won't we?"

"Sure, we will."

Gino's voice yelling for Petra was the calling card. Van found it so hard to let her go. They'd all said their goodbyes about thirty minutes ago when he was helping them pack up the wagon. But now it seemed real. It seemed too terrible to bear.

"I love you, Petra."

Then sunrise peeking behind the mountains cast a gorgeous ray of angelic light upon the face Van had loved. The face Van will always love. He'll remember that forever, the way his Petra looked.

"I know, Van. Don't worry."

___

It was four years after that day. Four years of living alone in Petra's old house. Four years of working in distant silence with his father. Four months of a dry spell that ruined the pastures. Four years of pining that he didn't understand over men he didn't want to love. Four years full of nights dragging your father out of one of the four bars in town. Four minutes of something with Lalo he never wanted to happen. Four long years of writing to Petra, reading how happy she was. Four long years of regret.

Van realized he did make the wrong choice. That was a realization he made hours after Petra had made her departure, but spent years trying to convince himself otherwise.

He wrote to her.

Dear Petra, I don't know how you'll take this. If it's with anger, I understand. If it's with pity, I agree. If it's with compassion, I'll be so ashamed. But I wish I came with you. The four years I've spent here were four years I'd rather have spent in a grave. I miss you. I miss being happy. I miss having meaning. I miss the strength that I had before that would've let me admit that. Petra, my muse, read the stars and tell me what to do. From, Van

When she read the letter she cried. She cried that Van hadn't found himself like she had. She was sad that he couldn't find what he wanted with her. She was sad that she was right. She was right all along that he wouldn't find himself in Villa Noche. She wrote back, tears still fresh in her eyes.

To Van, I take it with sadness. I'm sad you've lived with regret. I'm sad that you haven't been happy. I'm sad that you didn't tell me sooner. I don't need to read the stars to tell you what to do. I don't need to read them to tell you that it's not too late. You know you can come to me. You know you can always come to me and I will be here for you. But Van. You won't find yourself with me. If you didn't before, you won't now. I know that. You need to find yourself with you. Do as I did. Start today. Pick up everything you can bear to bring with you. Pack it in a bag. You're simple, I know you. All it will take is one bag. Take that bag and move away to somewhere you'd never think you'd go. It doesn't have to be grand. Make it suit you, Van. Move there and find a job you like. Maybe a job with sheep, maybe a job without them. I know how much you do like them. Find a place to learn. I know you'll be happier learning new things, just like we were. Once you've done that, write me a letter with everything you've felt over these years. Write me the truth. Let me listen. Or better yet, come visit me when those four years are just an unhappy memory that you'll tell me about in passing. I love you, Van. Go be happy. If not, you can always run back to my arms. Love, Your Petra

It took about three weeks for her letter to reach him. He cried his eyes out, reading it. But she had spoken. Petra was right. He had to go find him.

Van rose from the desk in his bedroom, the bedroom he once nearly shared with Petra. He grabbed his leather bag and began laying out clothes to put inside it. He searched the attic for a second suitcase. He'd prove Petra wrong at least once. He took a few things that belonged to her. Her small collection of hair scarves that he liked to wear sometimes and her rings that were much too small for him, but he liked to wear as necklaces. He pocketed the nail polish she'd left behind, deciding he'd be able to use it wherever he went. He applied a coat before he left.

He walked the thirty minutes to Nina's house. Knocking on the door, he felt the weight of the house keys in his hand.

Mrs. Yanez opened the door. She eyed the bag on his shoulder and the suitcase sitting behind him on the porch.

"Van? Hi honey, how are you? Going somewhere?"

Van smiled softly and tossed the keys in his hand, swinging them on his finger.

"I'm well, Mrs. Yanez. I actually am... I'm moving away. I talked it over with the Moretti's... they said to give you the keys to the house."

Needless to say, Mrs. Yanez was shocked. But she understood. She understood Villa Noche wasn't for everyone. If she was being honest, she wasn't entirely sure it was for her.

"Well, I'm sad you're leaving. I'll tell Nina you stopped by."

"That would be great, Mrs. Yanez. Thank you. Tell her I'll write."

"Of course, Van... Where are you going?"

He shrugs.

"When I figure that out, I'll let you know."

Van gives her a hug and leaves the keys with her. It was feeling real.

He went to tell his father. When Van walked into the front door, the young man found Valerio splayed out drunk in the living room. His snoring was so loud, it seemed to shake the paneled walls. Between the drunken slurs on the long walks home and the agitated mumbles when Van came to start the morning's work, Van and his father didn't speak very much. When they did it was about work. It had been a long while since Van had a decent conversation with his dad that didn't involve how many bags of wool were waiting to be washed, or where the grass was best for grazing. It had been a long while since they had a conversation at all. Van frowned, looking around his childhood home for a pen and some paper.

Going through the desk, he stumbled upon a faded picture of him and his mother. Van remembered those big, clunky cameras that would take his picture every year. He remembered going to the church with his mother where a few other people were taking photos too. They always had to wait a long time. It would be him and his mother, holding hands, waiting for their turn. His father never came. Van realized she must have the one who liked the family photos because when she left, his family had never taken another one. Van stared at it, the picture. He stared at his young face and the beautiful face of his mother whom he'd nearly forgotten. He shook his head and put it in his bag, paperclipped between the photos of him and Petra. He wished he could cry some tears about that photo. About how he was taking one of the only tangible things his father still had of his former wife. About how much he missed his mother. About how betrayed and lonely and angry he felt. He couldn't cry anymore. His feelings about this were so absent, it bothered him. Van wished he could cry, just to feel something. Feel something for this broken family.

Van remembered the paper. When he finally found some, he wrote a note.

I'm moving away. I won't be around to help you anymore. If you need anything, I hope there is someone you can call. Please don't forget about my sheep. -Van

He put the piece of paper on the messy kitchen counter, by the coffee press. He'd be sure to find it there. He took a long look around. He didn't recognize this home. He'd lived here for years, yes, but he couldn't recall happiness here. Petra was right. How could he ever have found himself in this mess?

A rustling in the half-open pantry caught Van's attention. There was a young cat making a mess out of the bag of grain on the floor. Van had seen it a few times when coming to tuck his father into bed after a long night who knows where. He'd made some trust with this cat, feeding it leftover fish from the pub and giving it milk from time to time. He assumed it was a stray that his father took in because his loneliness was killing him. Van's replacement. Van clicked his tongue. The cat was emaciated, ribs showing and all. This was no way to live. If Van was rescuing himself, he could make room for one more on the ship to salvation. He just hoped this cat was up for the adventure.

Van scooped up the cat and put him in his backpack. He curled up quite nicely in there. He must have known Van was trying to save him.

That was that. With all the moving and shuffling Van had done in the house, his father still hadn't sat up to see what the commotion was.

Van left without saying goodbye.

As Van was walking along the road out of town, he thought about Lalo. Their friendship had fallen apart ever since that day.

That fateful day.

It was Sunday.

Lalo and his friends were day drinking at the tavern and he'd come all the way to Van's pasture to find him and tell him to quit working for the day. Van had listened, for once. He wasn't one to spare any expense when caring for his animals. Lalo had helped him round up his sheep and put them back in their pen for the day. They'd not even washed up before they headed to resume their merriment.

The two of them were the last ones to leave.

Maybe Lalo had suspected him all along. Maybe he'd know what Van had been thinking of him. Maybe he'd been too afraid to say anything about it sober, risking his reputation and his street cred with his friends... but he thought he could explore all of it under the influence of drink. So they did.

Not for very long. It was a short time. But the hungry way Lalo kissed him was borne into his soul like a brand. It was nothing like the sweet love he'd bad to Petra. It was hard. It had hurt. It was rough. It was dirty. Van hated that he'd done it. All those years of fantasizing about his friend, a friend he didn't want to think of in such a carnal way... summed up to the heaviest guilt he'd felt in his life. And he walked away. For good.

He avoided Lalo after that day. Even when Lalo was begging him to stay. He put on his pants and disappeared, kept to himself as much as he could. He say Lalo less and less, and it hurt him, to watch a friendship die like that. He felt responsible for ruining it. What was worst of all, was that he told no one.

Lalo had chased him, asked him why. Why couldn't they try things out. Asked him if he hadn't been good enough in bed, if he didn't like boys like he thought he did. That wasn't it. It wasn't a question Van knew the answer to. Not right then. In short, Van told him he wanted to try it, and he did. He wished he never did. Not with him.

Van later realized it was that he placed such a price on Lalo and his affection that when he finally paid it... the cost was too much for too little. He thought sleeping with him would provide clarity to all his confusion... make him feel better. He thought it would give him closure and maybe even a relationship. He thought he could make something with Lalo like he'd made with Petra. Something beautiful and safe and sacred. At least he wanted to think that. But Van found out... the things he loved, truly loved, about Lalo, he had made up.

He never told him that. It would've hurt him too much.

Before he knew it, he was on the edge of town. He was really leaving. He'd made his plan before leaving his front door: travel the day to Lola, the nearest town near the base of the mountains, get a room, and in the morning find a wagon to take him north. While in thought, a deep, baritone voice roused him. A passerby on the road.

"You leaving?"

Van turned.

Speak of the devil.

"Oh... yeah. I am."

His lazy eye was squinting against the mid-afternoon sun, shining right in his face. By his bags, Lalo assumed Van was leaving for good.

"Well... I'll make sure your old man takes care of your flock."

The statement sat in Van's stomach like a stone.

"Thank you... I'm sure he'll need reminding."

Van wanted to hug Lalo goodbye. He missed Lalo's hugs. The hugs that he cherished and savored in secret where he'd smell his clothes and wonder what it was like to kiss him. Before Lalo ever knew what his insides felt like.

Hugging him now, he couldn't stomach the thought. The only hug he thought of now was the one locked in close with sweaty grunts in some foreign animal language. He felt bad, knowing Lalo probably wanted the same thing.

Van was quiet for a minute as they stood there, shoulder to shoulder facing opposite sides of their destiny.

"I'll miss you, Van. Maybe one day we can talk... about everything."

Van felt strange tears prick at the back of his eyes.

"Yeah... maybe one day we can... I'd like to."

"Me too."

"Take care of yourself, Lalo."

"You too."

And as Lalo's footsteps were the last to sound behind him, Van was off to start his new life.

#van cruz #petra moretti #the maeth post

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