#will climb into barn rafters

[countrymusiclover]

Ch 2 - Angel Eyes

Part 3

Cowgirl’s Don’t Cry

@hcwthewestwaswcn co author

Tag list - just ask to be added @lothiriel9 @babygirl-4986 @alicenwrites @hcllfireandhclywater @5sos1404 @darhk-angel @drunkdyslexic @faithm120601 @sqrlgrl22 @opheliax98

Y/n's Pov - 6 years ago

Exiting the barn I brushed my hands over the light brown fur of my horse. My hair was in pigtail braids falling over my shoulders as I heard the main house front door open and saw my mother walking up with a bottle of wine in her hand. "You clearly got an attachment to those things from your daddy. You remember what I taught you right?"

"Don't let any man think they instantly get to be with me. Because they are all led by the tail between their legs." I responded to her knowing that she said she would never get back on a horse after the day her mother was killed. She basically hated them unlike my father who hated whenever he had to put one down.

She rests a hand on my shoulder showing me a small smile then motioned her head towards the young ranch hand that I had met in the barn a few years ago. "Seems like he needs a lesson on how to saddle a horse. Go help him dear."

Ryan ran a hand through his hair holding his hat in his other hand somehow getting some of the straps twisted together. "Need some help there, cowboy?" I chuckled standing beside him, crossing my arms over my chest.

"Shit yes. I don't know I geezed this up!" He cursed under his breath, clearly frustrated, making me shake my head. He sure had the mouth of a cowboy that's for sure.

Patting his shoulder I quickly noticed his problem shifting the saddle around then gesturing with my right arm for him to move. "Climb on now. You'll notice a difference. Oh and here's a tip for riding a horse." Ryan stared down at me as I explained standing up tall then I lowered myself down on my knees a little like I was sitting on the saddle. "When the horse bounces up, let it stand you in the stirrups and when it comes down sit back in the saddle."

"Seems easy enough." He replied as I climbed up onto my own horse.

"Yeah well see about that, Ryan. I bet you'll be cussing till the cows come home."

Ryan glanced back to the barn eyeing my mother who was smirking in our direction drinking her bottle. "Who is that woman watching us?"

"My mother. Now let's ride." I moved my horse behind his hitting the horse on the butt causing Ryan to grab the reins with it taking off quickly.

"Am I gonna get in trouble for talking with you - oh shit!" He started to ask before I chased after his horse, smirking at his language seeing I was right.

I teased him, feeling the wind blowing through my hair while I kept my pace up with his horse hearing him curse every so often but a smile was forming on his face. "If my daddy heard me talk with that mouth of yours he'd ring me up by the rafters in the barn. Just trust me it will get easier."

Y/n's Pov

Y/N looked at him, having returned to the ranch as she dismounted the horse and took them both to the barn "You didn't do too bad cowboy, but I think you will get the hang of it eventually if you're asking me. You've shown improvement in some things, so you've got it going" She says softly, knowing that he was still trying to get used to being on a horse and riding

Y/N was the same way when she first learned how to ride, but she slowly got the hang of it when Beth and Rip left her alone and she eventually figured out what she had to do and how to do it whenever she was alone and able to focus on riding her horse, Marleigh who was a five year old Mare.

Y/N had always had a passion for the animals, but she also knew that her mama didn’t like the damn things because of what happened with her grandmother but she looked at the cowboy as she dismounted the horse and took the saddle off before she heard Ryan coming up behind her as she was leaning against the stable wall as her hand rested on his cheek when she leaned in and kissed his lips passionately and deeply as she made out with him.

Unaware that her uncle was coming into the barn, but she was too caught up in the moment with her cowboy as she pulled away and breathed shallowly as she looked at him and smiled “I would like to do that more often, if you want to Cowboy” She spoke softly to him.

Kayce’s POV

Heading up towards the barn I could hear a weird sound right before I stopped in the doorway seeing my niece and one of my father’s ranch hands kissing. Normally I didn’t care what she did but I haven’t been around much so something came over me. “What the hell do you think you are kissing my niece, Ryan!” The lair broke away and for some reason he seemed confused.

“I didn’t start the kiss. She did - shit!” He cursed fumbling with his cowboy hat on his head.

Stomping forward I grabbed him by his shirt, shoving him away from her. “You don’t need to be anywhere near her. Go get back to work now.”

“What the heck, Uncle Kayce!” Y/n spun on her feet raising her voice towards me. “I’m not ten years old anymore but I guess you don’t know that since you left with the girl you got pregnant!”

Raising my brows at her statement I could sense my sister's personality breaking through. She could surely rip it to someone if they made her angry enough. “Well would rather your father kick him off the ranch. Because trust me darling, being here is a lot easier.”

“Yeah right!” She scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest avoiding my gaze.

Ryan shifted his feet through the dirt walkway of the barn nervously leaving us alone. “Uh….I’m gonna go.”

Rip’s POV

Rip saw Kayce dragging his daughter to the house by her ear, he rolled his eyes and stepped down off the porch as he looked at his brother in law. “I suggest you let her go, you ain’t got no right to be disciplining my child when you can’t even keep your son under control. Now let her go, or I will fight you Kayce.”

He says, being protective of his little girl who he loved more than anything and he wouldn’t stand for her uncle to be doing what he was to her as he walked to him and shoved Kayce hard. “Y/N go on inside, you are gonna wait there until i tell you to come outside. Do you hear me.”

He was never harsh on his little girl, and he wasn’t going to start doing so now as he ran a hand through his hair as he talked with Kayce and sorted everything out. “You let that girl be, and worry about your own. I will handle her, you aren’t her parent. I am.” He says sternly, being protective and defensive of the girl he had been raising for 17 years now.

Comments really appreciated ❤️

#cowgirl's don't cry #ryan yellowstone #ryan x reader #ryan #ian bohen #rip x beth #rip wheeler x daughter reader #rip wheeler #cole hauser #beth dutton #kelly reilly #luke grimes #kayce dutton #john dutton #kevin costner #bunkhouse cowboys #bunkhouse #yellowstone fanfiction #yellowstone #yellowstone fanfic #yellowstone tv #yellowstone tv series #yellowstone series #wattpad fanfiction #ask box is open for feedback #comments really appreciated

[circesays]

{Alright so this AU (I’m going to call it the Cursed Toy AU and tag it as such- this started this AU, and this is the continuation of it) has affected my thoughts and now I have More Ideas so here’s another one. I’m already drafting a sequel to this one and maybe gonna put these on Ao3, so if you have any ideas or something like that, feel free to tag it in a reblog or notes or dms or anything like that :D}

{also, sorry not sorry. ;)}

The day everything truly began to go downhill was calm, at first. The inhabitants of Tumble Town were loud, going about their daily routines in the usual chaotic manner. Horses raced and whinnied, their hooves beating against the ground and kicking up pale dust. The barn animals called out as they were brushed or sheared or fed. Casual chatter and laughter rose from couples and friends and rivals as they mined gold, herded creepers, and worked on expanding another house. All of it echoed in the bowl, a cacophony of joy and teasing outrage and life.

(Of course, they couldn’t have known that it wouldn’t last.)

Jimmy watched from his office, the window still stained and dusty, despite having cleaned it several times just hours earlier. He idly twirled his wooden pen, adorned with a carved horse head, a gift from the first settlers to arrive to their new home.

Despite the laughter from below, the Sheriff had a sinking feeling in his gut. It wasn’t the familiar thrum of the God of Lore’s arrival, nor the cold pounding of anxiety that consumed him whenever he saw his eyes (not his not his not his) in the mirror or narrowly avoided snagging his the pull-string on his back.

No, this was unfamiliar. Unusual. But he had a feeling that it wasn’t anything good.

(And he knew the joy wasn’t to last, because he was cursed and abandoned and seemingly ignored by his friend. And it was so, so odd, because his friends knew his limits, and they know him, so how could they not see-?)

As the sun steadily made its way toward the horizon, time progressed as usual. The inhabitants met at the saloon in the evening to relax and play games. The stables were locked up for the night, the animals settled in their stalls. Jimmy sat at his usual seat, listening to the eager ramblings of a new settler, a young woman gesturing wildly as she described the designs for her new forge setup.

He fiddled with the empty glass in front of him, happily nodding along and offering ideas.

(Jimmy had quickly stopped feeling hungry or thirsty, when he’d finally turned fully. He could no longer sleep, or blink, or bleed. He turned to glue and potions instead of bandages and bread.)

In the corner of the room, a group playing poker created a ruckus as one of the players cheered jubilantly, the rest groaning or playfully punching their arm.

(And the feeling spiked.)

The Sheriff sat up straight, immediately on edge. The blacksmith frowned, her amber eyes shooting to scan the room for any threats. Within only a few moments, the saloon was on high alert, people peering out windows and climbing into the rafters with practiced ease to aim out of the higher vantage points.

(Because the entire town respected their Sheriff, trusted him. He was entwined with the magic of their home and the lives of his people. He’d never let them down, not even when an intruder changed him.)

An elderly stablehand was the first to break the stillness. “There’s a boy running over from the barnyard.”

Sure enough, a brunette, no older than 16, burst into the room, huffing and panting, his hands on his dusty jeans as he tried to recover as fast as possible. “Trouble- in- the- stables!” he gasped, pointing shakingly back out the door. “Come quick! They’re- the horses-”

The Sheriff strode over and gave him a glass of water, which he drank as quickly as possible without making himself sick.

“I was just going in to double check the water supply for the morning. The horses are restless- I’m not sure- they’re-” he stumbled over his words and paused, frustrated, before trying again. “The horses are turning into plastic. I can’t make it stop.”

(Little did they know that it was just the beginning.)

As days went by, more problems arose. The Sheriff ran himself ragged, not needing sleep or rest. The horses were fully plastic within a few days, their flanks smooth and dull. They could no longer run quickly or even keep at a solid trot, their joints having too much friction.

(Their steeds lived, fueled by the very magic infecting them. But it came with a heavy toll.)

(Within a week, Tumble Town lost their main method of transportation.)

The houses were next, the walls changing and morphing. Instead of wood streaked with yellow and scarlet dust, they were pale mints and sunshine yellows and pastel pinks, completely untouched by the surroundings.

(One cowboy tried to brighten the situation, jokingly complaining that the aesthetic was lost, that that darned god was completely destroying their nice, dirty, chaotic-energy town.)

(Another grimaced, because their precious home was built completely by hand, taking days of cutting wood and painting walls. Now their house looked like every other house in the town, a two-bit dollhouse with no love put into its creation.)

Anything alive in the town began to shift quickly after. Fur and wool and down turned to fluff and stuffing, the entire barn becoming a plushie overnight. Every pet was still, the faint pit pat of a stuffed heart keeping them alive.

(The Sheriff carefully adjusted Deputies Flick and Norman in their beds, the fire in his heart raging, because not even their companions or their food was spared.)

Everything came to its breaking point the very next morning. Jimmy lifted his dull eyes from the letters he’d been writing.

(Pleading for aide, for help, for mercy. The trash can was overflowing with imperfect drafts, because nothing could quite convey the message of “you’ve ruined my life and my people’s lives and my home and you’re fools and traitors and why are you ignoring me” kindly.)

Since Tumble Town’s founding, the Sheriff would begin his day earlier than every other inhabitant. Every morning, Jimmy would listen to the noise of his town waking up, from the laughter of parents bringing their children to the stables for the ride to school, to the whinnies of horses and the crowing of roosters.

(Even as their home changed around them, from loud and chaotic and alive to plastic and plush and dull, the people of Tumble Town began their mornings with noise, because it was a constant that held them together.)

This morning, the town was silent. The roosters could no longer croak. The horses slept, unable to move.

The townspeople didn’t emerge from their homes.

(The Sheriff felt true fear, a bolt of white-cold terror down his spine.)

He took off, scrambling down the steps and to the houses nearby, his once-shining golden badge (now cheap plastic, tarnished by the magic that cursed him and cursed his home) left on his desk.

Movement caught his eye, the Sheriff rapidly spinning on his heel. The brunette, the young boy from the stables, stumbled towards him. Jimmy barely managed to reach him before he fell.

“Heya, Sheriff,” he croaked. His skin was wooden, and his eyes were fading to paint even as he spoke. “Guess I’m the last one left. Ma’ and Mum were already frozen.”

Jimmy couldn’t speak, his horror causing his throat to tighten and his words to catch (the string, the string, the string-).

“Hey, Uncle Jimmy?”

(That nickname, given fondly, because this little scrap of a brunette was the first child in Tumble Town, the honorary leader of the stables-)

(On his desk, a wooden horse pen left a trail of ink on an unfinished letter.)

“Give them hell for us, would’ja?”

(And the boy smiled, his eyes dulling.)

Jimmy scrambled to place his head to his heart, unable to feel a pulse because his neck was made of wood-

(The steady thump of another plush heart was the only thing keeping the Sheriff grounded.)

Jimmy had never wished he could cry more.

(Around him, Tumble Town gave a final wisp of a sigh as his home and his people and his friends turned into toys.)

#mcyt #jimmy solidarity #empires smp #empires smp season 2 #empires season 2 #tumble town #lore #there’s a few ocs but they’re townspeople #solidarity jimmy #solidaritygaming #angst #empires fanfic #Cursed Toy AU #yeah this is a thing now and it’s Consumed my writing brain #I’ve been trying to work on my team rancher fic but this said lol no #toy jimmy

[yeahyankee]

Palimpsest [Trigun '98 - Post Show - Vash x Meryl] - Pt. 3

Meryl ended up only having room for half of her plate of food. The rest of it sat ignored, perched on the corner of her work desk.

She'd tried to go to sleep a dozen times since then, woken up anew each time the storm rocked the house, making the rafters and shingles quake in their ramshackle rental.

Ultimately, she climbed out of bed and sat down at her desk. Insomnia was a hell of a good time to transcribe her notes into her report for the week. No time like the present.

Meryl felt herself get lost in the rhythm of typing. When she could manage to separate herself from the discomfort of having to report the sins and tragedies of other humans—the news was just reporting back a series of facts.

That was enough to keep her mind busy most nights until she ran out of steam or typewriter ribbon.

Except, today, her enemy was light itself.

She rounded out the hefty quote at the end of a page and pulled a blank one towards her.

Her table lamp flickered and sputtered out. Meryl cursed, getting up to fiddle with the room's light switch. Nothing. She sighed, knowing the sandstorm had finally knocked something loose at the local plant.

Outside, she couldn't hear anything but the scrape and shudder of sand blowing against the home.

Meryl made her way downstairs cautiously and tried to remember where the generator in the house was. Did Milly say it was in the basement? Outside the house? She couldn't remember.

She kicked herself. Hadn't Vash checked on it earlier?

She pressed her palms against the cool walls downstairs, closing her eyes to feel her way along. It was too dark to see anything this late, with the occlusion of the sand, no moonlight or street lights to guide her.

Downstairs, the sound and the cool dark made it sound like she was in a deep cave. The dark was an improvement, if she was being honest, to the storm's lead-up. The way it turned the sky an ember shade of red, so much like August. The churning red sky, the cratered, smoldering absense where parts of the city used to be.

A bead of sweat cropped up on her temple as she made her way through the dark. Vash was a lot of things, one of those things was a being that was not...to their understanding. And it wasn't until he'd left ages ago, that she realized--even beyond the spooky marksmanship and the hole he'd blown in the moon--people knew he wasn't like them when he showed up to town.

Like a minor note in a major chorus, they picked him out each time. The sorrow that followed Vash wasn't something he sought out, it was his punishment for being different, standing outside the flow of time.

Something slipped around her forearm and she jumped.

"Hey, whoa now, it's me," Vash said in the dark.

She slapped at him where she pictured his chest would be, "I'm not a barn animal, you don't need to horse whisper me."

"All right, fair enough," he said, grabbing her hand unceremoniously in the dark.

Meryl's soul felt like it was about to leap out of her skin. He'd practically sponge bathed her in a nightgown and somehow this seemed like the most shocking thing he'd done all evening.

"Come on, I wanna show you something," he said, tugging on her hand gently. He waited for her to catch up, mindful she wouldn't trip. "Watch your step."

"Is the generator working?' Meryl asked idly as they padded to the back of the house.

"Nah," Vash said. "Compressor's busted."

Meryl followed him to the back of the house, where the long, covered sunroom looked out towards a dusty field. The slant of the add-on roof shielded most of the covered porch from damage.

But she could see now, it provided an almost impossibly beautiful view onto the lone field, only caught in moments of visibility between rough snatches of wind.

The braided gusts of sand wove past them, and it reminded her of her old experiments as a child, shaking up water and sand in a glass bottle--a tiny imitation surf.

Vash let go of her hand and took a seat on the rattan bench, littered with Milly's favorite blankets for napping.

"I couldn't sleep so I've just kind of been watching the storm."

She sank down into the worn cushions next to him, pulling one of the crocheted blankets around herself. Less for warmth and more for comfort.

"It's beautiful," she said, relishing the dull thunder of sand buffeting against the tin roof, hearing the sand slide downward, like a big, bristled brush.

When she checked back, she noticed him looking at her, face at ease but inscrutable. "You look like you're feeling a little better, that's a relief," he said.

Meryl struggled to find her voice for a moment, "Good, yeah, I'm fine, thanks."

"Come here for a sec, you had a knot on the left side of your neck," he scooted back on the settee, making room in front of him. "Let's get that out, too."

Meryl muttered something, seemingly at her lap, and then awkwardly budged herself. She perched herself at the very edge of the settee.

Vash's hands found the back of her neck in the dark, working the pads of his fingers around the tenderness in her neck, easing out the pain slowly with practiced swipes of his thumb.

They slipped underneath her jaw, working out all the tension from when she ground her teeth in her sleep.

"You're a mess," he chuckled softly behind her. She could feel it rumble against her back as he leaned in.

"You're one to talk," she shot back, her mind going back to memories of his body. So painfully torn up, but lean, and practiced, a savage beauty to the patchwork of scars and along his flesh.

She'd counted every bullet hole on his body. Cataloged every entry and exit wound, knew every freckle, cut, and hair on his head. On some of their scariest nights, she counted them back to herself, as Vash tried to keep down the pain medication long enough to sleep.

"You know what I always wondered?" Vash asked, fingers kneading into her scalp.

"What?"

"How come you never said anything after you kissed me, that one time."

He tipped her head back and she opened up her eyes, staring at him. Somewhere along the way, she'd come under the impression that they'd silently agreed to never speak of that night again.

It was an impulsive, celebratory move, the night they stumbled back home after his recovery. The truth was that they were both delighted that Vash could walk, more than anything else.

"I was glad you weren't dead. Plus, you fell on me on the way back to the house," Meryl bristled, but as she did, she could feel Vash shift closer.

"That's the story you're going with?"

"That's what happened," she insisted.

"And now?"

He was stone sober tonight, and she had no idea what that meant. His hands swept around her hips, lifting her effortlessly into his lap.

Vash brushed the straps of her nightgown downwards, planting soft, lingering kisses on her shoulder.

"You're beautiful, Meryl," he murmured into her soap-fresh skin.

"That tickles," she shuddered, squirming in his lap.

A short huff of want, and then lips along her earlobe. His fingers curved around her ribcage, tugging her nightgown down. The tips of his fingers traced circles around her budding nipples. Lace scraped deliciously against her sensitive skin.

She leaned against him, as his fingers explored her, tracing paths from her ribs to her belly-button. She jolted softly in his lap when she felt his fingers bunching up the gown, sliding it back.

The lightest touch, so soft it almost tickled, brushed against her inner thigh. Her heart would be thundering out of nervousness if it hadn't begun to thunder out of want first.

Vash's fingers appeared at her lips, pressing against them softly for entry. She opened her mouth and took both of them to the knuckle, enjoy the salty-sweet taste to him.

Fingers slick, Vash pressed into her. She already was wet with want, his fingers slipping into her easily as her curled them upwards.

He spread her legs, hooking them on his knees, so her hips could cant upwards.

The pressure in her hips built as she bucked towards his hand, lips mouthing silent pleas.

Vash kissed along her jaw, pulling his fingers out of her.

She pressed into his hand, needy, and his middle finger pressed down on her clit, rubbing soft and slow.

Meryl bucked up against his hand one final time, feeling herself hurtle off the edge with abandon, topping into a velvet dark.

The storm outside ate any sound of their indiscretion in the solarium, and that was probably for the best.

Later that night, as she rested, curled into his chest, and counted the seconds between his breaths getting longer, more even.

When she was sure that he was a sleep, she pressed her forehead to him and whispered "I didn't think I'd see you again."

Vash's lumbering arm pulled her close, almost making her jump.

"Didn't think I'd find you."

"We didn't do a good job at this the first time around, did we?" she said glumly, feeling lulled into some false sense of security, convinced he was already asleep, babbling in a dream.

"Never too late to start over, I think," he said, suddenly humbling her. He lifted a sleepy hand to poke her on the nose. "You worry too much."

"Give me less to worry about, then," she grumbled, but felt herself relax against him.

"Yes ma'am."

She smiled.

In the morning, after the storm was isles away from town, they would wake to a glorious sky, draped in colors you could only imagine most days in the desert.

Pinks, that bled into explosive purple, soft blue, and delectable, sherbet orange, everything painted a new coat of dazzling varnish.

Maybe you could overwrite something painful with something good.

Maybe to try was human.

#trigun spoilers #trigun 98 #fanfiction #vash x meryl #meryl stryfe #vash the stampede #post show

[squishablesunbeam]

The Palette Pt. 15: The Fire

Prev. Next

No animals are harmed!!

TW: dehumanization, whumpee as an object, arson, drugging, kidnapping

Mark was sleeping fitfully until the sound of a dog barking shot like an alarm blaring through his subconscious. He felt ice water chill down his spine as he shot out of bed. It was all of the dogs. They were all barking.

Jesse.

Mark ran to Jesse's room and found him still shockingly sound asleep.

He moved to the side of the bed and laid a hand on his shoulder, shaking gently.

“Jesse, hey you need to wake up.”

His eyes slowly opened and then he sat up fast, hearing the commotion from all the dogs. His eyes darted around until he finally registered Mark holding his shoulders and looked right at him.

“You with me?” Jesse nodded firmly, “Okay, we need to go. Right now.”

Mark helped Jesse climb out of bed and they went out to the living room. Some of the dogs had already gone out the dog door, all the others were pacing nervously and sniffing at the door. Mark drew the curtain back and looked out the window.

“Oh my god, the garage is on fire.”

Mark's heart slammed in his chest. He quickly pulled on his boots and told Jesse to do the same.

“Listen, I don't know what's happening but I need you to stay right by my side okay. Can you do that?”

Mark could smell smoke now. Jesse nodded, his eyes wide, as Mark pulled out his phone and called 911.

“911 dispatch. What's your emergency?”

“Yeah, I'm at 3976 Cedar Brook Lane. My garage is on fire.”

He dropped the phone on the counter, grabbed Jesse by the hand and ran outside. Mark scanned the property. The dogs were frantic. He knew this was Drew Pike. It had to be. He couldn't risk leaving Jesse in the house with the fire already engulfing the garage. He needed to try and stop the fire before it moved over to the house but it wouldn't be long before that happened. And what if that was Drew's plan? Draw him out so he could break in and take him. Bringing him out in the open didn't feel right either but he'd rather have Jesse by his side than not.

They went to the hose and turned it on full blast. Mark did his best to soak the top and sides of the garage but there was no way it would be enough. The fire was strong and quickly eating up the old wood. He could feel Jesse pressed in against his back, his forehead against his shoulder and his fists holding onto the back of his shirt. As long as he could feel him, he was safe.

Something popped loudly and they both flinched back from the garage, smoke billowing from the old rafters.

Suddenly, Jesse gasped.

“Lyra!”

He yelled out and started running towards the garage before Mark caught him by the waist and dragged him back.

“No! Please! I have to get Lyra!”

Jesse knew the old barn cat usually slept in the garage. Mark could hear her meowing. He knew Jesse could too.

“Jesse, I can't leave you.”

“PLEASE!” Tears were streaming down his face and he struggled to pull himself from Mark's grip, “She'll die! Mark please! You have to help her!”

He looked to the garage. The left side of the structure was filled with smoke but hadn't caught fire yet. They could still hear her.

Shit.

Mark scanned the property again. He couldn't see anyone. The dogs were everywhere.

He pressed his forehead to Jesse's and squeezed his shoulders tight.

“Okay,” Jesse looked at him with hope and so much fear in his eyes, “You stay right here, okay. Listen to me. If you see anyone but me, you scream, as loud as you can. If anyone tries to take you, you have my permission to fight. Do you understand?”

He wasn't sure if he really did, confusion crossing Jesse's face, but he nodded anyway.

Mark kissed his forehead and ran into the garage.

It couldn't have taken him more than three minutes to find Lyra. The smoke was thick and stung at his eyes, burning its way into his lungs. He grabbed her up from under the boxes she had decided to hide under and ran back outside. His eyes searching for Jesse immediately.

No.

Mark dropped the cat. He couldn't breathe.

“JESSE?”

He heard an engine behind the house just as he heard sirens coming from the other direction.

He took off running.

“No!”

Careening around the corner, he caught site of Cali running through the woods. She was an old dog and couldn't run very fast but she still had so much spirit in her. He caught up to her and called for her to stop, hooking a finger in her collar. She had blood smeared on her face. He quickly looked her over and it didn't seem like the blood was hers.

“Good girl! You're such a good girl! Go back home.” She whined and watched him as he ran into a full sprint down the trail. He could still hear the engine but it was getting farther and farther away. He stopped short at the top of a hill. An ATV was already speeding up the other side of the valley, a big box attached to the back.

“You mother fucker! JESSE!!”

The man looked back and gunned it.

Mark ran. He ran until the ATV disappeared. He ran until the sound no longer reached his ears. He ran until he couldn't anymore.

The world around the edges of his vision started to darken, his lungs heaving in air he swore no longer existed.

He dropped to his knees, his fingers digging into the dirt under his hands as he gripped the earth. He was panicking. Mark could barely drag in enough air to clear his vision. He shook his head hard and screamed.

Jesse was gone.

–

Well fuck.

Drew wrapped a towel around his bloody hand and tried to concentrate on steering the van down the highway with all the adrenaline pumping through his veins. He'd planned on preventing a dog bite, even wore these hideous canvas pants and jacket to prevent just that. It was a good thing too. That damn old dog had gotten a hold of his arm and about dragged him off of the moving ATV.

He wasn't planning on the fucking palette biting him!

He lifted up his throbbing hand, seeing blood trickle down his forearm. Little shit.

Drew looked in the back of the van through his rear view mirror and grinned. He got it though. The thing was easy enough to subdue once he stuck the needle into its neck. The palette was out cold in seconds and now sleeping soundly in its box. Where it belonged.

He'd seen the fucking bedroom that man had made up for it. Who does that!? A thing needed to understand its place. It was a disservice to treat an object other than what it was. Cruel even.

This disaster was a direct result of such blatant negligence.

It was nothing Drew couldn't fix though.

He would keep it in the box long enough for the thing to remember what it truly was.

Drew's heart was thrumming with excitement. He gripped the steering wheel and sped off the exit that would take him back into the city.

I wouldn't be long now.

Soon enough, the palette would finally take up its proper place.

Taglist: @whumpsday, @hold-him-down, @maracujatangerine, @pigeonwhumps, @boxboysandotherwhump, @darkthingshappen, @octopus-reactivated, @whumpzone, @unicornscotty, @melancholy-in-the-morning, @keep-beach-city-werid, @whumpthisway, @pumpkin-spice-whump, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump , @onlybadendings, @canislycaon24, @joeywhumpsitup, @thebirdsofgay, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @whumper-soot, @whumpworld, @haro-whumps, @whumpcereal

#the palette #dehumanization #whumpee as an object #arson #kidnapping #drugging #no animals were harmed!

[thatmexisaurusrex]

Hi! For the ficlet prompts: 9. "Don't do this alone." Please and thanks?

Quick Ficlet List

Thank you so much for sending in a prompt, Cee! 🥰 Here's a ficlet that's longer than I expected it to be 😂 I hope you're fine with a post-Civil War ficlet. Also, this turned out much more hurt comfort than I expected, I hope that's okay 😅

"Don't do this alone."

Sam tended to find high places. He always had, ever since he was a kid. It felt a little ironic. His family found their life on the ocean, yet he was always looking for a tree to climb, a roof to lay on, a rafter to hang off of.

And Sam would say that it was surprising that he was doing that now, but Sam didn't really want to analyze himself at the moment.

"Sam?"

Sam hadn't really thought about where he was. All he knew was that there was no way he was ever going back home.

They had offered deals to Scott and Clint. They had families. Not Sam, though. Not Uncle Sam. Sam wondered if he would take a deal if they gave him one. An absurd deal after they illegally kept him in a super secret underwater prison for a crime that wasn't really a crime.

Would Sam take such a deal?

Of course he would.

Of course he would to see Sarah and her family again, make sure they were okay, and Sam felt ill knowing that. Because he wasn't sure if that was wrong or weak or good of him, but he would take a house arrest deal in a heartbeat if they offered him one.

"Sam, I'm coming up."

Sam wasn't even sure why he was thinking about this. It had been months since Steve got him out of the Raft. It had been at least a year since he disappeared from Sarah's life with only news stories and a very short call from Steve, Nat, and Bucky about what actually happened.

It isn't even as if Sam hadn't talked to Sarah since he was freed. He had talked to her and Jody just moments ago.

Or was it five minutes ago?

An hour?

He'd talked to her a handful of times since he escaped the Raft, but it only clicked this time that Sam would probably never see his nephews grow up. He wouldn't be there if Sarah or Jody needed him, if something happened to either of them.

Sam couldn't breathe.

Sam heard half a row of books topple to the ground. Wincing smacks and slams that reminded Sam how old some of the texts were.

That reminded Sam that he was currently curled up in the corner of one of the largest libraries he had ever seen. A multistory behemoth of a library off in the far corner of the Citadel.

Giant, sturdy shelves filled its walls. Sam wasn't sure how he found himself tucked in one of the highest shelves in the library nor how it was holding him up or even fitting him, but he was there.

"Sam?"

And somehow Bucky Barnes of all people was there too.

"I heard you were up here," Bucky said as if this was normal.

Sam didn't want this. He didn't want Bucky there. He didn't want anyone. He wanted to curl up into a ball and disappear. He wanted to bury himself in this shelf and never think again.

Sam wanted to go home.

Sam wanted Bucky there. He wanted to fling himself at this man and hold on tight. Make sure Bucky was real. That it was actually Bucky who was dethawed and not the man who tossed Sam around like a ragdoll.

Sam didn't know what he wanted.

Sam felt Bucky's hand on his knee and instantly moved away.

"No," said Sam, his voice breaking as he said it, "You don't get to do that. You don't get to pretend we're okay."

Because they weren't. How could they be?

Bucky moved his hand away. Looked at a loss.

"I just want to be here for you," said Bucky.

"But can I trust you?" asked Sam, feeling the sob coming, "I trusted you to be honest. I gave you my word. I kept your location secret. And you didn't tell me. You didn't tell me there were words that would flip that switch."

Sam could feel it. The way Bucky moved like a force of nature when he grabbed Sam by the jaw and tossed him.

"I should have told you," whispered Bucky, giving Sam his space, "I was pretending I didn't know it was a possibility. I didn't want it to be. I wanted to be normal. I didn't want to think I could be that again. I wanted five seconds to pretend I was just some guy. In a city. With a fella who probably wouldn't even look my way if not for the fact that his friend told him to keep an eye on me. But ignoring something like that wasn't a smart idea. I was being selfish. It put everyone in danger. I'm so sorry, Sam."

"You left me," sobbed Sam, finally feeling the tears and snot, "You left me there."

Which might not be the fairest thing to say. Sam had told them to leave him at that airport. But it felt like everything was pouring out of him at this point. And they did that. They left him there. And he was stuck in that prison for months just thinking about it.

Sam felt the arm around him, pulling Sam closer. Pulling Sam into this awkward contorted embrace in the cramped space of the large bookshelf they found themselves on as he sobbed into Bucky's shirt.

Sam wanted to push Bucky off of him. He wanted to get as far away from Bucky as possible. He wanted to never see Bucky again.

Sam wanted to cling to Bucky. He wanted Bucky to hold him forever. He wanted Bucky to never leave Sam again.

Sam found himself doing nothing. Frozen as Bucky held him.

"Don't do this alone," whispered Bucky, "I don't have to be the person you talk to, but you need someone to lean on."

Sam unraveled at the seams completely as he collapsed into that embrace. Sam's tears staining Bucky's shirt. Sam barely able to breathe as Bucky rubbed his back soothingly. Sam did need to talk to someone about this. Maybe not Bucky, but someone. For now, all he wanted to do was let Bucky hold him, though.

*****

Want me to write a ficlet for you? Check out the prompts and send me an ask!

#ceeeee ✨✨✨ #sambucky #sambucky ficlet #sam wilson #bucky barnes #'don't do this alone.' #hurt comfort #post cacw #bucky takes care of sam

[primedoverlord]

A couple of Voa ocs that needed a design. 

A bit about them both: 

They’re twins that were abandoned by their higher class family when they were born 

Inashi (Female) holds the braincell between her and her brother, Vrihashi 

Inashi is a food gremlin, stealing food and growling, putting up a fight when her stolen treat is threatened 

Vrihashi is a messy eater 

When Vrihashi isn’t doing parkour, he’s getting stuck in weird places, like... the face of the family home, or can’t get down after climbing the rafters of the barn 

It has to be her idea before Inashi goes near water, otherwise she protests against bath nights 

Vrihashi is chill when it’s bath night, getting lost in the sauce

Vrihashi is full of energy and is always wanting to play with Inashi 

Inashi would rather nap or cuddle than put up with her brother’s shenanigans, it usually ends with the skippity paps when Vrihashi pesters her enough 

They’re both adopted, loved and well taken care of by Phobus(human) and Verhnach(voa) 

Voa belong to @toastyglow 

#Church animatic #Escape From Divinity #My art #My OCs

[mintywolf]

A Long Road Home - Author Notes

For Page 3

(Please do not expect freckle continuity from me.)

It’s fine she’s just spending some time with the president of Night Vale Community College.

The scene of Laudna and Imogen’s (apparent) first meeting went through several variations before arriving at what we’ll be seeing over the next few pages. The very first version, as I previously mentioned, appeared pretty much fully-formed in a dream. (As in, I was reading the completed comic pages in the dream and woke up like Oh that’s cute, I should draw that.) It was a very simple, silly scene wherein Imogen goes into the barn to milk the goats and becomes aware that there is something Spooky lurking above her on the ceiling. (Or in the rafters, as I realized that she wouldn’t have access to Spider Climb yet.) They startle each other, and Imogen throws the milking pail, knocking it down. Realizing it’s actually a (now rather embarrassed) person, she apologizes and, bound by the code of Southern hospitality, invites her in for dinner.

Then when I started expanding the concept of a Southern Gothic Meet Cute Comic into something bigger, I felt there would need to be a scene at the market at some point to establish Imogen’s reaction to crowds and for convenience decided to move their first encounter there. (Later I realized that approximately 75% of fanfic authors have apparently had the same train of thought, haha, because a lot of prequel fics seem to have them meeting there.) In this version Imogen overhears a mysterious stranger being refused service by a fruit vendor and, able to discern from her internal monologue that she’s hungry and just wants a damn apple, decides to intervene on her behalf despite her own discomfort. (And then, again, invites her home for dinner.)

But I also had an image I liked of Imogen entering the woods to find them decorated with eerily beautiful things someone has crafted out of reused odds and ends -- animal bones, broken bottles, twigs, beads, fabric scraps -- and hung from the trees with red string. (I’ve also been waiting for a setting with an appropriate climate so I could draw those birch/aspen trees with the creepy eyeball bark and now I finally have one!) As seen now in the chapter title page.

Combining the two, this was my working draft until very recently:

--

Page 3

Panel 1: (wide) Imogen enters the market square uncomfortably, avoiding the eyes of the other villagers, who regard her with suspicion or even outright hostility. The population is largely human with a few half-elves and halflings sprinkled in and it’s clear that Imogen’s appearance makes her an oddity. Their thoughts crowd her, painfully, and she can hear what they think of her - and each other - without them having to say anything.

Townsfolk Voices: There’s that Temult girl what’s she doin’ here? -- Get out of my head, you freak! -- Cryin’ shame, what a waste of a pretty face -- Is she lookin’ at me don’t look at me I got nothin’ to hide don’t look at me -- how long ‘til closing time I want to go home maybe stop at the pub just one pint this time I swear just one Penny and the kids don’t need to know -- Just honest folk here trying to get by -- damn Susannah Mason is lookin’ fine in that tight dress if I weren’t married if I weren’t married I’d -- what a tragedy for poor Relvin first the wife and now the girl too -- where the hell is the damn squash --

Panel 2: The babel of voices continues as she progresses through the market stalls. Starting to get overwhelmed and wincing from the pain of an oncoming headache, she seeks refuge in a narrow alleyway. 

Townsfolk Voices: So that’s one silver, five copper, wait, no -- heard there was a witch in the woods we already got one witch in town we don’t need another what is Gelvaan coming to -- goodness me gave me a fright -- in MY day these only cost -- who is that never seen her around before hope she’s just passing by don’t like the look of her -- pears, radishes, goat cheese, ham bone -- one silver, seven copper and -- Pelor’s shining britches, what is that -- is that a dead bird on her belt ugh no it’s some kind of rat?? --

A Different Voice: oh how beautiful!

Panel 3: Then a different voice catches her attention. To her surprise, this one isn’t painful.

Different Voice: Should I get an apple? I should get an apple just one still need to buy bread but they’re in season now I do love this time of year everything smells so nice I really shouldn’t have come this was a mistake I’m not wanted here but just one

Imogen: Who . . . whose mind is makin’ that . . . sound?

Panel 4: She peeks out of the alley. A small commotion has gathered around a fruit merchant who is refusing to sell to a strange woman in ragged dark clothing who looks very out of place in the warm-toned surroundings. Despite the summer heat she is wearing a hood that mostly hides her face, but we get a glimpse of long, unkempt dark hair streaked with white, dark lips and curiously colorless skin. Her thinness makes her look taller than she is. Other villagers are glaring at her with distrust and ushering their frightened children away.

Fruit Vendor: They’re not for sale, devil.

Stranger: What? That’s preposterous. It says they’re for sale right there. Look, I can pay--

Fruit Vendor: You watch those hands of yours! They’re not for sale to outsiders, is what I mean. Locals only.

Stranger: Well that’s hardly a sustainable business model.

Fruit Vendor: Go on, get. Afore I call the guard.

Panel 5: Closer on the stranger, who is still looking forlornly at the fruit, starting to twist her long, bony fingers anxiously in her hair. Her thoughts are softer in Imogen’s mind than the others. 

Her Thoughts: the apples were sliced so thin and made into little roses it was so lovely this was a mistake I shouldn’t have come here every town is the same I could do that I don’t have any butter or sugar or flour to make a tart but I could cut an apple like that maybe bake it on the hearthstone it would be pretty I don’t know why I thought it would be different here it’s probably not even the right town everyone is staring I’m not wanted I’m not wanted I should leave I can go another day I’ve done it before but oh I’m hungry I’m hungry I’m hungry

Page 4

Panel 1: The stranger withdraws as a stern, stocky woman of early middle age, conservatively dressed, with dark blonde hair drawn back in a bun, steps forward from the crowd and glares underneath her hood suspiciously with narrow green eyes and an authoritative air. An unpleasant-looking child of about nine folds his arms smugly behind her.

Woman (Cornelia Ashburn): There a problem here, stranger?

Stranger: No. I’m sorry. I’m just leaving.

Panel 2: Watching this interaction, Imogen makes a decision.

Panel 3: The crowd (including the stranger) draws back further as she impulsively approaches the fruit vendor. Putting on her best charming manner, she addresses him, holding out six copper for the listed price of 1cp/each.

Imogen: Well, hi, Mr. Merryday, Miz Ashburn! Fine day, isn’t it? 

Fruit Vendor (warily): Sure . . . How can I help you, Miss Temult?

Imogen: I’d like to buy half-a-dozen apples, please. Good thing I’m local, right?

Fruit Vendor: Fine. That’ll be 3 silver.

His Thoughts: go away go away go away

Imogen: Ugh.

Panel 4: Apples acquired, she looks around, but the stranger has disappeared.

Imogen: (Now, where’d she go?)

Panel 5: Cautiously she enters the woods, following the sound of the stranger’s mind without knowing why she’s doing it.

Imogen: (She can’t be too far off . . .)

Panel 6: She shrinks nervously in on herself a little, but she continues.

--

I was never totally happy with it though because I felt the setup didn’t sufficiently emphasize how miserable Imogen was in Gelvaan before Laudna came into her life. A lot of the script was planned several months ago and most of the first chapter was already written even before Laudna’s death and the resulting Whitestone arc. So while I figured things were pretty bad for Imogen, I didn’t quite imagine how bad. Like, bad enough to fill her pockets with stones and walk into a river.

Which is what she’s doing here. It will be more obvious that that’s what she’s doing on the next page (where I want to talk about something else in the author notes so I’m talking about this now) but I hope her intent is pretty clear? Famously, this is how Virginia Woolf died, but as a lesbian English major I fear I may be overestimating the obviousness of her intentions. (It is referred to in “What the Water Gave Me” by Florence + the Machine and, I’ve just remembered, also Hadestown so hopefully there’s enough cultural familiarity in the reader base to understand what’s going on here.)

The scene clicked into place though while I was listening to “Drumming Song,” a different Florence + the Machine song which, appropriately enough, is about someone trying to escape the clamor in her head:

“I run to the river and dive straight in I pray that the water will drown out the din But as the water fills my mouth It couldn't wash the echoes out But as the water fills my mouth It couldn't wash the echoes out

I swallow the sound and it swallows me whole 'Til there's nothing left inside my soul As empty as that beating drum But the sound has just begun”

This decision was made after I had already sketched out and started working on Page 3 so I actually had to go back and add pockets to her outfit in the previous page. For the purpose of filling them with rocks.

I do regret that (most of) Laudna’s internal apple monologue was lost as a result of this (and the implication that Imogen saved herself by helping Laudna, rather than the other way around) but I think it was an important change. It also undercuts quite how lonely and miserable things were for Laudna before she came to Gelvaan and found Imogen, but there is no scarcity of scenes of pre-Imogen Laudna being sad and lonely and hungry in future pages so I think it’s fine.

#a long road home #author notes #cw discussion of suicide

[jasonhelsong]

February Daily Writing Challenge: Day 5 Ambition/Relentless

After the defeat of the Jailer, before Tournament of Ages: Shadowlands

Late one evening at Jiroki Glaivefall's estate, where after some time and discussion she allowed Jason Helsong to move in with him. The Kaldorei woman and Human man afflicted with the Worgen curse started sharing more of their lives, even performing together in a few shows. Jason spending this night in the large barn that housed some hippogryphs. Working on an act they planned on doing for the Tournament of Ages, easily being one of the biggest shows they've performed in to date.

I have to get this right, Jason thought to himself as he looked up at the silks hanging from the rafters, he had been out practicing since him and Jiro had put the kids to bed. Bits of straw hung to his hair as he started to wrap the cloth around his arms again, lifting himself up. He started climbing further up the silks, reaching out to where Jiro would be as they would begin their spin, his anchor foot slipping and starting to fall, spinning out of the silks and landing on his back on the straw below.

"Shit.." he let out frustratedly as he stared up at beams and the loft above him, sitting up a bit slower this time. Maybe it was falling again or the hour getting later that made him groan, behind him though, there was the sound of someone clearing their throat.

"Darling it's late, come to bed and we'll practice tomorrow." Jiroki stood, the tall lavender skinned elf wearing her night robe as she stood at the barn door. Jason sighed as he started to pull himself up again, hanging on to the silks as he does.

"I need to get the hang of this, it's the biggest event we've been in-" Jason's arms wrapping in the silks again, "I don't want to make you look bad." Jiroki narrowed her eyes a bit at the man.

"I am not concerned about you making me look bad, you haven't before and you won't when the day comes." Jiroki moved from the door and crossed the floor to him, reaching a hand out to pick some straw from his hair. Jason looked into Jiroki's eyes getting little butterflies as he often did looking at her.

"I..just worry love, what if I mess up?" Jason letting go of the silks for the moment, Jiro shrugged.

"Then you mess up darling, no one will know and we go on. I will still love you regardless~." leaning over, brushing his hair from his forehead and kissing it gently. Jason's cheeks turned red for a moment, kissing against Jiroki's cheek.

"You sure it won't change your mind?" he smirked a bit, Jiroki rolling her dark eyes.

"I won't as long as you come with me now." she giggled softly and reached for his hand, "You need a bath~". Jason smiled sweetly at her and took her hand.

"You have a way of offering things hard to resist." he started to move with her, "Ok...but we practice twice tomorrow!...and more baths~" he teased as they went to put out the lights and close up the barn.

@bread-elf

@daily-writing-challenge

#februarydwc2023 #februaryday52023 #jasonhelsong

[chaoticcat32]

Another shorter little naga Steve🐍

Eddie was running for his life. He had left the abandoned barn the kids had put him up in like an idiot. He knew they’d be sure to tell him that. But he just had to get away from that snake guy, who he learned was Steve fucking Harrington, the king of Hawkins, after being stuck in there with him for so long. Sure, he was happy to not be all by himself in there like he was at the boat house, at least he had some company. But the dude fucking swallowed him when they first met.

He claimed it was because Eddie was being too loud. Eddie had been screaming because, you know, he was locked in an old barn with a fucking snake dude. Eddie didn’t really mind snakes, he’d even thought about getting one as a pet at one point, but this was a snake person, which were two completely different things.

Eddie had climbed out a window while Steve slept up in the rafters, landing on the ground and running as fast as he could away from the barn. He knew he couldn’t just go into town, people were looking for him, after all, so he decided to run into the woods.

Turns out, the jocks on the basketball team were also looking in the woods for him. ‘Hunt the freak’, right? He’d been running through the trees for a while when he’d run into them. Literally. He ran himself right into the chest of Jason Carver, head of the Hawkins High basketball team while looking behind him to make sure Steve wasn’t following.

“Hey watch where you’re goi- is that the freak?!”

Eddie’s head snapped up at the voice, looking up from where he fell on the ground.

“Shit!”

Jason grabbed the front of his shirt, lifting him up and getting in his face.

“Well, well, well, what do we have here?”

“I, uh-“

Eddie brought his knee up into Jason’s crotch and he yelled, letting go of him and putting both his hands over his jewels.

Eddie turned and ran back in the direction he came from, beelining it back to the abandoned barn, yelling “shit, shit, shit!” The entire time.

“Don’t just stand there, you idiots, get him!” Jason shouted in rage at the others just standing around him.

Eddie ran and ran as fast as he could, incredibly lucky that he was able to get a head start from the jocks. He was fast, but he definitely wasn’t as fast as them. They were athletes, and he was far from it.

He gasped in relief when he finally saw that old red barn ahead of him and through the trees, but he could also hear the jocks catching up behind him. He ran even faster across the open stretch between the forest and the barn, coming around the front when he reached it.

He pulled open the door to the barn and jumped inside, turning to shut it behind him.

He never got to, though, because he felt a large, long scaley tube wrap around his midsection and yank him up into the rafters, causing him to let out a small yelp. He looked up only to be face-to-face with an angry snake. Steve was looking at him, fangs bared and forked tongue flicking out of his mouth in an annoyed fashion.

“Where the hell have you been, Munson?”

“L-look uh, I can explain b-but I’m in kind of a pinch right now, I need to close the door!”

Steve heard the jocks getting closer to the barn and snarled, looking back at Eddie.

“You’ve really done it now, Munson, haven’t you?”

Eddie shrugged and smiled sheepishly at him.

Steve sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and thinking. His annoyed expression quickly turned into a grin.

“I have an idea, Munson,” he said with a smile, “but you’re not gonna like it.”

Eddie's face immediately fell.

“Wait! No, no, no, not again!”

The jocks were closing in at this point, almost right outside the door at this point.

“Fine,” Eddie said, squeezing his eyes shut, “Just get it over with.”

Steve opened his maw wide, his jaw unhinging like a snake’s, and shoved Eddie’s head inside just as the jocks made it into the barn, bursting through the open door.

“Where the hell did he go?”

The jocks stand there in confusion, looking all around the barn for possible places where Eddie could’ve hidden. This is, until they hear a loud gulp from above them.

Steve had just taken his first gulp of Eddie Munson, the bullies underneath them snapping their heads up in the direction of the sound. They didn’t see anything at first, until one must’ve caught sight of a section of his tail.

“Holy shit! Look at that huge-ass snake up there!” One of them said, pointing up at him.

Their eyes trailed across the scaly tail, following as it got thicker and thicker, winding through the wood in the rafters. Then Steve took another gulp. Their eyes snapped immediately to where the sound came from, only to see the bottom half of one Eddie Munson hanging out of the freakishly human-like face of the large snake. The rest of the tail was wrapped around the metalhead’s legs.

The teens' faces morphed into expressions of horror, looking on as the snake-man took another gulp of the guy they’d been chasing.

By the third gulp, only Eddie’s legs were out of the mouth, and the snake easily slurped them down like a pair of noodles, gulping in quick succession.

The jocks just stared dumbly, not knowing what else to do but stand there.

“Hey, uh… does that snake guy kinda remind you of Steve Harrington?”

One of the other teens looked over to him.

“Steve?! As in King Steve?!”

They began arguing about whether or not the snake looked like Steve. He had been gone for a while, but most thought he just left Hawkins, even for a little bit. They’re arguing turned into shouting, them being obviously scared and trying to think about something other than what they just witnessed.

“Well whatever it is, at least it got rid of the freak.” Said a particularly bold member of the basketball team.

They then heard someone clear their throat directly behind them.

“Forget about something?”

They all whipped around and found themselves face to face with the snake man.

Steve bared his fangs, growling at all of them and snapping his teeth. He slithered closer, making himself taller and looking larger than he really was, claws out.

The smell of ammonia filled the air as a few of the jock’s pants started to grow wet. Steve snickered, his fangs on full display and they all turned around and ran out the door. If they had tails, they’d certainly be between their legs.

One man lingered behind, stepping backwards slowly out the door.

“Y-you, you don’t scare me, freak!” Jason yelled, raising his fist.

Steve’s amused expression fell, and he slithered directly up in Jason’s face.

“You wanna join him?” He said, opening his mouth wide enough to fit Jason’s head.

Jason stumbled back when he felt a small tug at his foot, looking down to see a thin coil around his ankle. He screamed and fell over, quickly getting up and scrambling to get away, running off after his friends into the woods.

Steve smirked and shut the barn door behind him, slithering back up and into the rafters where he was relaxing before. He purposely hung the section of coils that Eddie was currently trapped in, like a living hammock for the metalhead.

“Uh, thanks Steve. You can let me out now?”

Steve snorted.

“Yeah, I’m not going through all that work to get you out when it’s your fault you’re in there in the first place. Plus I have to make sure you don’t escape again. Get comfortable in there, I’m going back to my nap.”

Eddie sighed. He really didn’t know what he expected, but he decided that he’d better take Steve’s advice and get comfortable, which wasn’t very hard as the flesh surrounding him was soft and warm, plus he’d always liked hammocks.

Both boys settled down to sleep, hanging from the rafters in the safe abandoned barn.

#eddie munson #safe vore #soft vore #steve harrington #stranger things vore #stranger things #steddie #naga pred #naga

[lady-grace-pens]

FOAD Excerpt [5]

Wasn’t planning on posting today but fuck it, happy love day everybody. I really enjoyed writing this scene between Emily and Ilya, and I especially love the mood of his part.

Taglist: @wordwizards @flowerprose

•••

A gust of wind cools my burning features. On its back, follows a certain…smell. You know those very specific scents from your childhood stored in the back of your brain? They’re forgettable in your daily life, but every now and then you catch a whiff of it floating on the breeze, like a ghost of your own history, and you realize how much it means to you.

Such is the case with the tin feeding bucket Grandpappy had on his farm. It was old, tarnished with age and white paint splatters. The grains inside it felt like air conditioning compared to our hands. Cal and I got so excited every time he let us feed the chickens, the grains all but slipped out our little child fingers.

Grandpappy died when we were seven. Maw-maw let everything fall to ruin since then, except for the barn and that one feeding bucket.

I curse myself for introducing Arthur to that place when we were together. I haven’t been able to go there in years. Every time I do, I’m bombarded with visions of us. Swinging from the rafters, climbing things we know we shouldn’t… The weather-beaten wood remembers our teases and the pounding of our bare feet chasing each other round and round. The songs, the dances! The… Our first time making love, and all the times after that.

Memories flash a dime a dozen. All the emotions tied to them make waves in my empty stomach. Thorns rake the sides of my throat. I wilt into myself and begin to weep.

Breaking down like this is… truly a new low for me. I should’ve seen it coming, in retrospect. There is only so far you can run from your emotions before they catch up with you. I feel the piercing eyes of every stranger that walks past. I can only imagine the thoughts running through their heads. The kindest of them dismiss me as another drunkard. The worst of them…

“You know he loves you, right?” says a voice from behind me.

As I go to look, Ilya replaces the barren spot beside me. My eyes stutter, thinking they can blink away my confusion. “W-What? Sorry, who do you mean?”

“Matthieu. Who else?”

“Nothing. No one. I mean I was just… No one.”

My fingers flirt with the wine at my hip. I offer him a sip, to which he refuses. He keeps his eyes glued to the tall and skinny apartments across the street. He almost smiles, as he continues on.

“He’s borderline obsessed with you.”

I say nothing.

“How much do you love him?”

“What?”

I look up. His eyes carry the same Mona Lisa smile as his lips do. As far as I can tell, there is no judgment or crudity on his mind. The moonlight works in his favor, smoothing all fine lines and harsh edges. With his skin being as pale as it is, Ilya is a vision ripped straight out the mind of a silent film director. Whether this helps disguise his ulterior motive, I can’t say. I only know what I see, and that appears to be earnesty.

He repeats his question.

“I… I’m not understanding what you… I love him, isn’t that enough?”

“No no, I know you love him. I want to know how much.”

#wip: foad #my writing #writeblr #my wip #creative writing #writing excerpt #writing

[solipseismic]

my opinion of you is that if there was a barn with easily climbable rafters placed in front of you, you would be up there with the owls before anyone could even blink

THIS IS HISTORICALLY CORRECT! my grandma used to have a barn (she was a horse trainer!) and every summer when we visited her me and my sister would spend like 85% of our time climbing the hay bales and getting into the rafters of the barn and dicking around

#they are so very very climbable. #im a simple man i see things i climb em #asks

[katethevampire]

Very long post about a dream under the cut

Somebody was chasing me but it wasn't like scary chasing it was like the amount of fear you get when you're in like Roblox flee free the facility if anyone's ever played that. But anyways I somehow run into the video game (specifically Nintendo since the walls were red) section of a Target and there's a whole section dedicated to sonic stuff, but not like Sonic games. Like, Sonic add-ons to put on your Nintendo devices. One of them I remember seeing was a Shadow the Hedgehog add-on that you could put on your switch to enable hacks on every game. Basically you would take a plank of wood with little models of Shadow and Sonic attached to it, and put it on top of your switches screen and then it would enable the hacks. I remember very specifically on a small TV screen there being an advertisement for it where Sonic is trying to convince Shadow about why it's bad to cheat in video games but Shadow doesn't care and he cheats anyways. The models on the wood looks like if someone is 3D printed that image of Shadow doing the trollface from Sonic Prime and Sonic's model just looked like someone took a Sonic amiibo, ripped off the stand, and super glued it to the bottom of a piece of wood. The figures were positioned to make it look like Sonic was chasing Shadow. The weird thing about it was the wood wasn't included? Like the box only had the figures and you had to go out and buy the wood separately. Suddenly I heard the voice of Sonic the Hedgehog speak to me in my head about how why using aimbot in video games is bad and why you should never cheat and I started arguing with him. There was also like customizable dolls next to the stand that you could buy? I don't remember exactly what they looked like they kind of look like a combination between the Koko from frontiers, Coco from animal crossing, the creepy mask guy from Zelda, and the people from The book of Life. I just remember you could customize how their arms looked and what shape their heads were and stuff. Then I was suddenly transported to be sitting on top of a rafter in a barn, above the ocean???? Like there was a huge bridge and I just remember watching people fall off from boards breaking. A bunch of characters from Heather's were there and I kept switching between being Veronica and JD, apparently I was running away from the others as JD and this is my best spot where they couldn't get me because they were mad that I was trying to kill people. I also think Tommyinnit was trying to help them catch me by throwing stuff at me so I would lose my balance on the board and fall. After stumbling I end up breaking and falling through the board onto the ground and then I black out, I wake up and I'm Veronica and me and Heather McNamara are chasing JD into the barn until he climbs up into the spot where I was. We start yelling at him about how he ruined everything and then Heather takes out a big book and gives it to me I look at the book and it's a book about Heathers????? Apparently in this dream universe Heathers is a book but the book looks like a really cheaply made textbook for school? I throw the book at JD and then it cuts to a shot of him looking at it and the cover is different for some reason? It's still Heathers it's just a different design on the cover. Then me and Heather start yelling at him about how he ruined everything and that we were happy before he came along and that now he's not following the events of the book so something bad is going to happen all while the camera keeps cutting between our faces while we yell at him. So apparently we're not actually the real Veronica or Heather or JD we're actually just people role playing as them or something and we're mad because he's fail-rping by killing people. After this revelation I woke up from confusion.

#dreams #aren't dreams ment to tell you something about yourself #what does this one mean #heathers #sth

[seashellsoldier]

“Gone To The Wolves” by John Wray (2023)

I really, truly wanted to love this novel. Ilana Masad gave a glowing review for NPR (https://www.npr.org/2023/05/04/1173613977/john-wray-novel-gone-to-the-wolves-heavy-metal-book-review), which only heightened my interest and led me to purchase the e-book through Barnes & Noble.  

As a traumatized and misfit kid of the ‘80s who embraced heavy metal in ’85, then thrash in ’87, then speed in ’88, then crust and grindcore and death metal after my very first concert—the Milwaukee Metal Fest of ’89, then . . . just a couple of years later as the “Grunge Gold Rush” took off . . . all subgenera of what is now a vast spectrum of metal musicianship, I felt this story might resonate deeply within my grey matter of memories. Back then, metalheads were truly outcasts just about everywhere, the geeks and freaks and broken things that slithered into our own cloistered cliques who haunted the back of the cafeteria and found solace in empty parking lots far away from the football and basketball games, wanting to disappear and be left alone with our music and comic books and hollowed-out dreams. Finding kinship in any form was something akin to fate; the dark gods smiling on their chosen bastard children for some blissful moment. Tape-trading was the ONLY way to discover new music that wasn’t on garbage FM rock stations, until Columbia House started having a metal insert in their monthly mailings. There were the magazines, but we never read any of them. Nobody had the money to piss away, or the monomaniacal fascination to toss money at them. I didn’t even know about MTV’s Headbangers Ball until about ’90 and only then because my girlfriend was babysitting at a house who could afford cable. 

I remember that hallowed night in a cavernous building in the dead of winter watching some 30 bands blast us to shreds in Milwaukee, most of whom I had never heard of before then. We were kids amongst a horde of leather-clad giants handing us beers and drags from joints and pushing pills in our hands (“just say no!”). Nuclear Assault nuked the place. I remember being deafened by a wall of speakers as Judas Priest opened up with a long drum solo for their Painkiller tour in Chicago, while Rob Halford languidly rolled out on his Harley as another curtain opened to reveal a second wall of speakers. I remember climbing a plastic construction fence to get to the sound booth in the rafters as Rage Against the Machine whipped the crowd into a frenzied mob on the outskirts of Honolulu. They tore the place apart. I remember seeing Metallica in Bangkok in an open-air arena with what felt like a million others who spoke a different language. I remember seeing Type O Negative, Danzig, and Ronnie James Dio-fronted Black Sabbath play on Halloween 1994, and the hurried drive back for the graveyard shift with some kindred spirits with ears ringing and the afterglow lasting long past dawn. I remember seeing Project 86 at what seemed like a 1950s cocktail lounge in Chevy Chase, Maryland, as they thunderously evoked their Songs to Burn Your Bridges By, and as I prepared to go to Iraq to save hallowed democracy from the evils of Islam (and cash in on their oil fields). I remember seeing Slipknot at a filthy toilet-bowl bar in downtown Des Moines looking like lunatics who just escaped from the asylum and raided a cheap costume store (by this time I was wearing earplugs to concerts big and small). I remember seeing the almighty GWAR, alien overlords that they are, in Minneapolis, drenching the crowd in fountains of fake bile and blood and semen. I remember thousands of us screaming “God hates us all!” over and over at a Slayer show to the silent, impotent, starry and frigid firmament in Sacramento. I remember seeing Obituary on Leap Day 2020, as the world soon succumbed to the worst pandemic in a hundred years, and the millions of obituaries which followed in its wake. I remember, quite recently, Body Count turning their mosh pit into a furious meat grinder with energy I’ve not witnessed ever before, nor probably will ever again. The hate is real, America. It is so tangibly real. So many other venues, tours, and bands with less-permanent memories are held within my mind, for as long as that lasts. Metal music is infused within my apostate, heathen, godless life-blood. It will accompany me beyond, to whatever end awaits us all. Most likely boring, open-mawed Oblivion. 

The chord that rang out was familiar enough—an overdriven minor triad—but what stood [Kip’s] hair on end was how it felt. Distorted guitar had always had a certain temperature to him: it had always, no matter how vicious the music, been a sound he understood in terms of heat. Embedded with that warmth—hidden inside it—lived a cryptic form of life-affirming power. Deicide and Morbid Angel played their riffs to raise the dead, not to inter them. That was the nature of the exchange, the secret truth of the transaction, however bleak the songs might sound to virgin ears. Rage and violence and pain instead of nothingness (pp. 226-227, Nook). 

Wray captures this environment—this “subculture”—incredibly well, even if his chosen trio is nothing like anyone I ever knew, wedged as we were between the steel mills and iron works of East Chicago and Gary, Indiana, and the endless cornfields of everywhere beyond. Florida backwater it was not, but neither did anyone have the depth of knowledge in guitars, amplifiers, band members, and vocabulary like Leslie does at such a similar age. Doesn’t matter. I was the quiet, awkward, rage-filled wallflower . . . and metal music filled the void in my damaged soul. 

Masad has understandable issues with the lone female character, Kira, but at the same time the “beautiful but broken girl from a white-trash home” was a familiar trope from my high-school hellscape. No circus-freak father required. Normal blue-collar fathers were awful enough. My white-collar Vietnam Vet father was simply a haunted monster no bottle of bourbon could quell. Connie and Angie and Kim and Shannon and Crystal fit the bill all-too perfectly with Kira, if tragically. Masad may want to do some research on childhood trauma and its effects on developing brains. I have no idea if any of them are alive today, but I have no recollection of any of them speaking to the depth of personality that Kira does either. We didn’t grow up online though. We had, at best, five or six television stations to gawk at. Some regrets can never be resolved. Some mistakes never forgiven. 

Gone To The Wolves is theatrically broken into three parts for our wayward trio: the Florida Death Metal scene, the dying LA Glam and rising LA Thrash scene, then—oddly—the Norwegian Black Metal scene. It’s the Scooby-Doo third part that collapsed my nostalgic high, but I understand Wray’s supposed Dan-Brown desire to make a “thrilling finale”. For me, it falls flat by stepping way outside plausible reality (but I’m primarily a nonfiction reader so grant me some leeway if this is the norm these days). Too many people need endorphin bumps every two minutes or so thanks to tech addiction. I do not. I would have liked to see our troubled trio mature in the early 90s, like most of us did to one degree or another. Some died early of course, others weren’t true metalheads to begin with. We die-hards are devoted to the bitter end. 

While I can’t definitively identity with any character in this book, Wray opens to door to so many vibrant arteries of our subculture’s primordial existence that we can—at the very least—sympathize with them. We knew people who resembled them. The lost souls, the drug addicts, the lovelorn, the bipolar-depressive violent. I have to assume early heavy metal coming-of-age stories are rare. Nobody truly cared about us, and they still don’t. So maybe we can call this The Perks of Being a Wallflower meets Lords of Chaos? 

Nevertheless, completely enjoyable, to a fault. 

#book review #metalforlife #heavy metal #thrash metal #death metal #john wray #gone to the wolves

[barryfromsales]

The Star People  had arrived on Theros by way of massive branches from the sky. One moment, it was a sunny, idyllic day on the outskirts of Akros, and the next the world was beset by mechanical horrors straight from nightmares that would drive even the sanest mad.

Elene had spent the day farming and tending to crops, but found herself on the run from armored beasts. One particular creature, a poor pastiche of a minotaur, had caught her scent. It spent the better part of an hour hunting her, and her alone. A minotaur’s war cry was always something Elene had feared, but this one made sounds like gears grinding against each other and speaking in a loose Theran tongue that she could only barely understand. Only a few words made sense to her: “convert” and “consume.”

The farmhand was hiding in her family’s barn, hoping that the scent of animals and vegetation would shield her from the wrath of this beast. She had only farm tools for weapons and a toga for armor, so a fight was well beyond her abilities. Being Akroan, she knew how to fight, but she also knew when a fight was best avoided.

Her respite from the beast was short lived. The minotaur burst into the barn, caring little for the wooden doors. The girl got her first good look at the creature, and she wished she hadn’t. The thing stood well over ten feet tall, a height even other minotaurs would find unnatural. Elene looked over the beast’s skin, bursting with copper spikes. They seemed to have torn through its skin, as if they had grown from within itself, a latent feature waiting for a moment to surface.

The minotaur’s stomach was distended and pulsating a foul green light. Elene shuddered at the thought of what foul digestion such a beast would be capable of. She doubted any material could survive such an environment, let alone flesh.

Her thoughts of the beast from afar were dramatically cut short as, with a sudden turn and a flaring of nostrils, the minotaur turned to her hiding place. With a speed that should not have been capable of such a lumbering beast, the minotaur bounded towards Elene, letting out a roar. The sound of grinding gears and animalistic braying made Elene cry out and cover her ears, and she called out the name of her god, Iroas, in a plea for protection and strength from his enemy.

But no answer came.

The beast was upon Elene, now, and grabbed her head with a single, massive hand. She pulled at its fingers, trying to pry them away, but the creature only let out a dark, rumbling laugh.

In a terrible voice, the minotaur said “Iroas is not here. Only Phyrexia.”

Elene kicked and screamed, but she could not move the creature or gain any footing. The creature had her, plain and simple, and there was nothing she could do about it. As she flailed, the sound of pressurized air escaped from the minotaur, unleashing a foul stench into the air. The creature’s stomach had opened, a green gas pouring from it. It smelled like decay and oil, as if a cow had been caught in a machine and left to rot.

Elene was lifted up and dropped, falling into the cavity of the beast. She screamed as she fell, but no answer came. She tried to climb out of the beast before the opening closed again, but there was no use. The trap was shut as soon as she reached the bottom. With its prey finally secured, the minotaur sat into Elene’s hiding place with a heavy thud.

Elene’s head spun as she pounded at the cavity’s wall, but it was stronger than her fists. Like pounding against a pane of reinforced glass, she was never going to break through. THe gas made her cough, and she could feel something moving beneath her skin, like worms writing in rotted meat. She tried to cover her nose and mouth, but she knew she had already breathed in too much for that futile attempt to matter. Elene resigned herself to death, her strength already failing her.

Before she could pass out, though, she was startled back into lucidity by the descent of a black intestine. Like a rope hanging from the rafters, the ebon line fell in front of her face. It hung for a brief second before moving, like a snake looking for a rat. It dripped a thick, black liquid from its end, an ichor that smelled no better than the chamber Elene was trapped in. As it touched her skin, the whispers of a voice spoke to her. The voice was soothing, but metallic. Elene couldn’t hear what it said, but she found herself placated by it and the fear of this creature melted away for just a second.

As the ichor-snake moved lazily in the air, it bumped into Elene. The touch seemed to give the thing purpose and it began to move deliberately. It pushed at the girl’s face, prodding for openings. Elene felt the thick liquid pouring from its tip coat her face, covering it almost completely before it found what it was looking for: her mouth.

The intestine took no time after finding Elene’s mouth to start moving with even more direction. It pushed against her lips, like the cock of an animal trying to find the cunt of its mate. Elene resisted, trying to keep her mouth shut from the thing, but that only made it push harder. The pain of pressure wore on her jaw and teeth, and the human eventually gave in and let her mouth open slightly. That moment of weakness was all the thing needed to shove its way all the way to the back of her throat.

The murmuring whispers grew louder, making the girl feel at ease for a moment again. Elene was no stranger to sucking dicks; trysts in barracks and barrooms were no stranger. Elene fell on instinct as the thing filled her mouth. The hanging snake was no bigger than anything she had performed on before, and the foul oil it seeped seemed to grow sweeter the longer it stayed with her. With the voices consoling her, Elene became relaxed and allowed the thing to do as it wished.

Involuntarily, Elene swallowed the ichor as it filled her mouth, and it poured from the corners of her mouth when too much flowed in. The faux cock moved back in her mouth, letting more of the cavity fill with its foul seed, before pushing back in to force more of the fluid into her stomach. It was numbing her throat, suppressing Elene’s gagging, but she still wretched as it pushed too far. Black oil spilled from her nose when she tried to breath out.

The squirming beneath Elene’s skin was moving faster now, too, and she could feel the sorrowful stuff chaff and split, but the voices, in words she was beginning to understand, told her to not worry. It would be replaced with material much more suited to her. Her fair flesh would be like ivory and harder than bronze, she knew, and she would finally be more respected than a peasant farmer. She would be an equal, a full member of Phyrexia.

Tears welled in Elene’s eyes, but clear water was quickly replaced by black oil. Her face was turning, too, into the ivory mask she was promised. She knew of the golden masks the Returned wore, but this was different. Better. She would wear the mask with pride, and she would use the grace it provided to further spread the glory of her new form.

It was impossible for the girl to know how long she had been suckling at the makeshift cock of the beast, but by the time the process was finished, she was covered nearly up to her sitting waist in glistening oil. The finally pulled back from Elene’s mouth, returning to the beast it came from, and the beast’s stomach opened again, splashing the barn floor with ichor. Elene stepped from her cell, her legs stronger than before, and steadier. She was coated in white porcelain now. Plates of bone ivory divided a sea of bright red sinew. She dripped with oil, and she could feel a face of ivory clack beneath ivory fingers. Her jaw spared the covering, but it was bright red muscles and dripped oil like saliva.

Elene looked at the minotaur again, her sinewy lips curling at the sight of the fearsome beast. She recognized the bone constructs in its horns, now, and knew that it was like her, one with Phyrexia. She reached up and touched the monster’s face, tracing its jaw and wiry hair.

“Such a beast like yourself must be famished,” Elene said, her voice now ringing with metallic tones. “We simply must find more for you to eat. Town isn’t too far, we shall find you something there.”

With the beast in tow, Elene would share her glory with the worthy and destroy all else.

[meretextuality]

Summer's End

By the end of the summer, I’d found a haven in an old café some ways down the road. In the beginning, I’d go there to get out in the world. The first night I went I was in my room, wallowing. I could feel the walls closing in on me and hadn’t the strength to push back or withstand the impact so I snatched up a book, my laptop, and walked out the door.

Without the slightest idea of my destination, I started driving and found myself in front of a weathered barn with the word “Café” painted on the front in large, faded white letters. Something inside me said, “This is it,” so I pulled over and went in.

It took me a few seconds for my eyes to adjust, but when they did there wasn’t much to see (dirt floor, counter with a register, some empty tables and chairs) save for the looming brick wall on my right hand side. To me, it was beautiful, with a hearth and a fire to match. I decided I was going to make the place mine so I walked up to the counter, ordered a Chai Tea Latte and took a seat in front of the fire

For a while I just stared and sipped, transfixed. I don’t know exactly how much time had passed before the old man who ran the place came over and handed me a quilt, saying he was going to open up the roof to let in the night sky. Then he asked me to bundle up so I would not catch cold. I did and watched in amazement as the rickety building transformed in front of my eyes. It wasn’t in some extra-terrestrial, futuristic way or anything. He climbed a ladder to the roof. But it was the sight that I saw when he opened the latch. It was unlike anything I’d ever seen before. It dazzled me. Constellations blazed back at me. It’s not like I’d never seen a night sky before. But this, this was transcendent. The old man made his way down, put out the fire and pulled up a chair.

Normally, when you find yourself alone in a dark place with a strange man you should run. But there wasn’t need for that tonight. We sat there in silence, gazing up at the stars, lost in the incandescence of the evening. I could tell you that suddenly a meteor shower appeared and the sky rained diamonds for three straight minutes but that would be too perfect.

“The heavens are telling of the glory of God; and their expanse is declaring the work of His hands. Day to day pours forth speech and night-to-night reveals knowledge. There is no speech, nor are there words; their voice is not heard,” breathed the old man.

“Psalm 19,” I smiled. “It never fails to amaze me how so many can live in a world such as this, see sights like this and not believe in God.”

“We see what we want,” he said simply. “The bending of our will to His is the only thing that will ever change that. Not galaxies, not sunsets or rainbows. We’re dense. Always have been. ”

His face was serious, but his eyes twinkled and when they met mine, I got the sense that our brains ran on the same wavelength. He motioned to me for my mug.

Momentarily, I could hear the sounds of him refiling my tea, and as I waited, I marveled once more at the splendor of the night. As I breathed in the twilight air, sending shivers down my spine, the wretched walls evaporated and for the first time in a long time, I felt hope.

On his way back, the old man stopped to fidget with the phonograph that stood in the corner by the fireplace. The sweet notes of La Vie en Rose floated through the rafters and my heart swelled.

#words

[decaeysa]

@gutterblade​​  |  akali.

few things are worse than a noxian, but a cowardly noxian definitely fits the bill.

a deserter hiding from the cause in ionia hoping to be spared by his homeland and forgiven for his atrocities by the ionian people  --  yeah, this one has to go. the only thing about cowards is that they know how to run.

a few weeks and an entire boat journey have elapsed since she started this chase, but the assassin won’t return until the blood stains her hands. she wants to be brutal, she wants to make it hurt... she wants to go against every second of her training, but she can’t. it would do her no good to get clumsy on noxian soil, risk getting caught in a place with no escape in sight. no one even knows she’s here, let alone able to do anything to help her. no, she has to be clever about this.

his trail leads her to a barn on the outskirts of a village, likely readying himself to rest for the night. it seems like the perfect chance to end things quickly and slip out under the cover of night.

nimbly she climbs to the roof, slipping into the rafters through a skylight. the barns seems to be used for storage more than anything else, which gives her plenty of room to hide until darkness covers the sky. she tucks herself behind a heap of straw bales, keeping an eye on the floor below for any sign of movement.

#gutterblade #* AKALI : IN CHARACTER. #hope this is ok ! figured they could both be going after the same guy #since they'd both have reason to? #lmk if you'd like me to change it !