#but all the characters are pretty good in their own way
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hi!! could you write shy!reader where Eddie bumps into the new kid at school and she gets hurt? I’m a sucker when it comes to Eddie doting on people 🙈
i tried to be so normal about this request but then proceeded to write 2k words for it so... hope you like it lol :D — the hawkins high freak takes the new girl under his wing after they run into each other. literally. (shy!r, meet ugly-ish, hurt/comfort, 2.2k)
You clutch a paper schedule in a pair of anxious hands, squinting to see through the scribbles there. Three boys in bright green lettermans made a total mess of it — writing directions in chicken scratch and doodling a sloppy map of the school over your classes. They said they were helping you, but really they’ve just turned you all around.
Fallen leaves crunchbeneath your feet as you walk past the vacant football field. West of the bleachers and down the dirt trail, the stranger with a harsh jawline and quaffed blonde hair told you. His directions lead you directly to a half-decrepit building in the thick of the woods. A strange spot for a biology lab.
You’re trying to make sense of the scrawled notes on your syllabus — eyes narrowed, and chin tilted downward — when you run into something tall and firm. You don’t hit the warm body hard enough to fall, but stumble back in fear enough to slip on the dewy grass. Like a cartoon character and a banana peel, you land comically on your ass.
“Shit. Sorry,” the towering stranger grimaces. “Didn’t see you there.”
Your wrists start to sting, burdened with the weight of catching your fall. “It’s okay…” you tell him anyway. ‘Cause everything’s always okay. Even when it isn’t.
A ringed hand enters your vision then — lanky, pale, and tattooed. “Here. Let me help you up.”
“It’s okay,” you dismiss with a shake of your head. “I got it.”
Your jaw clenches tight as you rise on your feet. The slippery mud threatens to pull you down again. Your wrists throb with a dull and distant ache. You stand, despite all that, before the stranger you’d stumbled into the back of.
Eddie watches you wipe your dirt-covered palms together with a lopsided smile tugging at his mouth. He doesn’t have a clue who you are, but he’s getting a few ideas now. You’re a strong, stubborn, and shy little thing. Pretty, too.
“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he cautions with his palms spread awkwardly in front of him. He wants to make sure you’re alright, but he doesn’t want to make you uncomfortable. Strong, stubborn, shy, and definitely skittish, he thinks to himself.
You shake your head again, finally glancing at the boy looming before you. His curls are dark and untamed, billowing in the early spring breeze. His deep chocolate eyes match the color of the frizzy strands — both equally as wild as the smile he looks at you with.
Your breath catches suddenly in your throat. You hadn’t expected to bump into him, of course, but you expected even less for him to be so pretty.
“I’m—”
“Don’t say okay,” he interjects before you can start. His plush lips quirk in a genuine smile a second later, to show he’s only joking.
You swallow hard, still hopelessly trying to rid the mud from your aching palms. “I’m… I’m— I’m fine.”
The boy scoffs a faint laugh. “Here. Let me see.”
He takes your wrists in his hands before you can protest. His fingers are long, gentle, and strangely warm as he brushes the mud off your scrapped skin — hardly flinching when it dirties his own.
He wipes his palms on his jeans after, never minding how it stains the denim. Then he reaches a leather-clad arm behind you and plucks a leaf gently from your hair. He flicks it to the ground again.
“There,” he grins. “Good as new.”
“Thanks…” you sigh, voice wavering from a reason you can’t name.
“Why haven’t I seen you around before?”
“‘Cause I’m… I’m new.”
“Explains why you’re all the way out here,” he jokes. Most people only come around this side of the football field to buy weed off him, and you don’t exactly seem like the type. His chocolate eyes narrow. “You lost?”
You shift on your feet, feeling suddenly very silly about the whole thing. You’ve got to be a special kind of stupid to take advice from a bunch of jocks and hardly bat an eye when they lead you in the exact opposite direction. You’re too trusting for your own good. It’s embarrassing.
“I was, uh— I was just trying to follow this map, but…” you wave the paper in your clammy hand. “I think it just made me more lost.”
Eddie reaches out a ringed hand and takes the schedule from you when you hand it over. His face scrunches softly together as he squints at the sloppy scribbles. You can’t tell if he’s confused or if he needs glasses. Maybe both.
He can hardly make sense of the directions. And the map was designed in a very obvious attempt to confuse you — the sweet, shy girl who’s never stepped foot here before. Something redhot simmers in his chest ‘cause he can’t imagine doing this to someone. Finding someone who obviously needs help and doing them over for a couple measly laughs.
It’s got Jason Carver and the Dick Brigade written all over it. Literally.
“Who gave this to you?” he asks anyway, just to be sure.
You blink up at him with a pair of doe eyes, gaze glimmering with innocence. “Um… A couple of basketball players, I think. They were wearing lettermans, so…”
“Fucking Carver,” the boy grumbles under his breath.
“What?”
“Nothing…” he sighs. “Here. C’mon. Let’s go.”
“Where— Where are we…” you mutter in a mousy voice, trailing off when he stomps past you. You get a faint whiff of floral shampoo and woodsy cologne as he goes. Less inclined to stay alone in the unfamiliar forest, you decide to follow behind him. “O-Okay…”
You fight to keep up with his considerably longer strides as the stranger leads you back towards the school. His dark eyes flit over your schedule, squinting to see past the messy lettering covering the typeface.
“No point in making it to your third period,” he announces suddenly, swinging the heavy metal door open with a ringed hand. The rusted hinges squeak in protest when he holds it open for you with his foot. You slide in past him. He walks on ahead of you again, letting the thing slam shut behind him.
“Why?” you ask the back of him, voice wavering.
“‘Cause you’re already fifteen minutes late. And take it from me— Mr. Kaminsky hates when people are late,” Eddie tells you, flashing you a stern look over his shoulder. “Trust me. I learned that the hard way.”
Your brows pinch as your face swirls with a distant panic. You couldn’t conceal your worry if you tried. The gravity of it all hits you, then — the fact that you’re following a stranger you ran into (in the most literal sense of the phrase), who’d previously been half-hidden away in the forest behind the school.
It’s all a bit odd when you think about it. This. Him. You.
But this strange boy, dripping in silver and all black, is the very first person to show you an ounce of kindness all day. You don’t know why you’re following him so blindly — only that you don’t mind it as much as you should.
“Okay. So. Uh… Where are we— Where are we going, then?” you squeak behind him.
“Right here,” he answers, stopping short in the middle of the hallway.
Still a few paces back, you don’t hopelessly bump into the back of him like you did before. You watch with wide and curious eyes as he wraps a pale hand around a rusted door knob. The heavy wooden entrance squeals when he opens it.
“Welcome to my humble abode,” the boy jokes with a crooked grin. Everything about the pink expression glitters with mischief. He flicks on the light switch, letting the flourescent lights buzz on in protest. “Well, not abode— I don’t live here, but… You get it.”
The room smells overwhelmingly teenage boy. A mixture of cologne, sweet soda, and sweat. Most of the chairs have been stacked on top of each other and pushed to the edge of the room to make space for the long wooden table in the center. Binders, notebooks, and miscellaneous figurines sit scattered on a gameboard.
“Is that D&D?” you wonder quietly.
Eddie lights up at the question. “You play?” he asks as he saunters to the desk shoved in the very back corner of the room.
His excitement makes you regret your answer.
“No…” you waver, then quickly follow. “But I’ve— I’ve heard about it.”
“I’m president of the Hellfire club,” he tells you, nodding to the poster on the wall. The demon in the center of it isn’t nearly as intimidating when you can tell it’s handmade. “You should join.”
The boy eyes you expectantly as he rounds the metal desk. You shift your weight on your feet and wring your clammy hands together. He tilts his chin to his chest and peers at you from underneath his lashes. “Think about it?” he presses.
You nod once. “Sure.”
He ducks down then, out of view behind the bulky desk. You stand awkwardly in place while the boy rummages through the drawers. “Ah, here we go…” you hear him murmur after a few moments — followed by a dull thud when he bangs his head. “Shit!” he swears under his breath before rising to his feet again.
You hide your smile behind your scrapped palm as he walks back over to you. His cheeks glow faintly pink as he rubs the crown of his head with his hand — the one not clutching a first-aid kit. “Here. Shit down. Let me look at your hands,” he urges, still worried about you despite his throbbing skull.
You shake your head rapidly in response. You’re not used to being doted on like this — or at all, really — but especially not from a metalhead, wild-haired, pretty-faced stranger. “No. I’m— I’m okay.”
His chocolate eyes go wide and softly stern. They glimmer playfully down at you as his brows raise behind his fluffy bangs. “What we’d just talk about?” he teases.
You swallow down the rest of your protests. “Right…”
You sit in the chair adjacent to the one at the head of the table. The cheap plastic is a stark contrast to the heavy wooden throne the stranger descends upon — with a sort of ease that tells you he sits there often.
He digs into the opened first-aid kit and pulls out a bandaid for you. He fumbles with the packaging for a moment before ripping it open with his teeth.
“It’s okay not to be okay, you know?” he tells you, mostly muffled until he spits out the paper in his mouth. It lands on the floor at his feet, but he doesn’t seem inclined to pick it up. “Tell me I’m a shithead who needs to watch where he’s going. I know that’s what you’re thinking.”
Your face screws in offense. “I wasn’t—”
“I’m teasing,” he interjects softly, peering at you with a pair of button eyes. “Even though I am a shithead who needs to watch where he’s going.” He takes your palm between his warm and gently calloused ones. He smooths the large bandage over the raging scrape below your thumb with an impossibly delicate touch. “I’m sorry about that, by the way. Again.”
“It was my fault,” you murmur, gaze averted to the boy’s kind hands — at the six tiny bats tattoed in the junction of his thumb and forefinger. “You don’t have to apologize. It’s just a scrape, anyway, I can handle it.”
“Agree to disagree,” the boy says with a lopsided smile, brushing his thumb over the bandage to smooth it out. He gives your fingers a small squeeze before he parts from you. “There you good. Good as new.”
Your hands buzz with the longing to feel him again. You bring both of them to your lap, wrenching your fingers into a knot and hoping your face doesn’t look as hot as it feels. “Thank you…” you murmur, trailing off when you realize you don’t know the kind stranger’s name.
“Eddie,” he finishes for you.
“…Eddie.”
“You can stay in here with me if you want,” he offers with a nonchalant shrug — trying to be cool despite his thundering heart. “Third period’ll be over in, like, twenty minutes. I can walk you to your next class— you know, make sure all the freaks leave you alone.”
You purse your lips to the side of your mouth in attempts to hide the beam tugging there. It only halfway works. “That’d be great,” you tell him in a mousy voice. “Thank you…”
Eddie swallows hard and leans forward again. You can smell the nicotine on his breath and the musky cologne on his neck. His face hardens into a gently solemn look.
“And don’t… Don’t hang around Jason Carver and his goons anymore, okay?” he tells you, sounding like he’s half-pleading. “Those assholes that fucked with your schedule? They’re bad news.”
Feeling like he must know this better than anyone else, you nod firmly in response. “Okay,” you answer, though it comes out in a whisper when the word gets caught in your throat. Something about having Eddie to you is making your body go all funny. It’s weird.
“Stick with me, okay?” the boy smiles, pink and pretty and petaled, as he slouches back onto his throne again. “I’ll take care of you.”
#published by bug#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson x y/n#eddie munson x you#stranger things x reader#stranger things imagine#eddie munson imagine#stranger things fanfic#stranger things fic#stranger things fanfiction#eddie munson fanfiction#eddie munson fanfic#eddie munson fic#st drabbles#eddie spaghetti drabble
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Hi, genuine good faith question if you'd like! How is TOS racist? It was my understanding that the OG Series was like, huge for equality in media?
I’m speaking primarily about the content of TOS itself, not its historical impact - I understand it had various historic firsts in terms of having characters of colour in respectable roles, which I’m not dismissing. My experience with the discourse on here surrounding the show is that people front-load these character representations as emblematic of the show’s progressive politics. Which, if we want to go that route, TOS was contemporary to the US civil rights movement, which provides us with a handy measuring stick to see how TOS actually grapples with race, not just the presence of characters of colour themselves. I'm going to be kind of defensive in this explanation, not towards you specifically, but because I have had this conversation with people online many, many, many times, and so any defensiveness on my part is in anticipation of arguments I know will come up as a result of making the basic claim that a show made in America in the 1960s is racist. I'm also going to be copy + pasting from an older post I've made on the subject since it's been a while now since I've watched TOS so some of the details are fuzzy.
Like okay, the premise of TOS is that the Enterprise, as an ambassador of Starfleet/the Federation, is seeking out new alien life to study. The Prime Directive prohibits the Enterprise crew from interfering with the development of any alien culture or people while they do this, so the research they collect needs to be done in an unobtrusive way. I think this is the first point at which people balk at the argument that TOS is racist or has a colonial conception of the world - the Enterprise’s mission is premised on non-interference, and I think when people hear ‘colonial’ as a descriptor they (understandably, obviously) assume it is describing active conquest, genocide, and dispossession. Even setting aside all the times where Kirk does directly interfere with the “development” of a people or culture (usually because they’ve “stagnated” culturally, because a culture "without conflict" cannot evolve or “develop” beyond its current presumed capacity - he is pretty explicitly imposing his own values onto another culture in order to force them to change in a particular way), or the times when the Enterprise is actually looking to extract resources from a given planet or people, I’m not exactly making this claim, or rather, that’s not the only thing I’m describing when calling TOS racist/colonial.
The show's presentation of scientific discovery and inquiry is anthropological - the “object” of analysis is alien/foreign culture, meaning that when the Enterprise crew comes into contact with a new being or person, this person is always read first and foremost through the level of (the Enterprise’s understanding of) culture. Their behaviour, beliefs, dress, way of speaking, appearance, and so on are always reflective of their culture as a whole, and more importantly, that their racial or phenotypic characteristics define the boundaries of their culture. Put another way, culture is interpreted, navigated, and bound racially - the show presents aliens as a Species, but these species are racially homogeneous, flattening race to a natural, biological difference that is always physically apparent and presented through the lens of scientific objectivity, as "species" is a unit of biological taxonomy. Basically species is a shorthand for race. This is the standard of most sci-fi/fantasy genre work, so this is not a sin unique to Star Trek.
Because of this however, Kirk and Co are never really interacting with individuals, they are interacting with components of a (foreign, exotic, fundamentally different) culture, the same way we understand that a biologist can generalize about a species using the example of an individual 'specimen'. And when the Enterprise interacts with these cultures, they very frequently measure them using a universalized scale of development - they have a teleological (which is to say, evolutionary) view of culture, ie, that all cultures go from savage to rational, primitive to advanced, economically simple to economically complex (ie, to capitalist modes of production). And the metrics they are judging these cultures by are fundamentally Western ones, always emphasising to the audience that the final destination of all cultures (that are worthy of advancing beyond their current limited/“primitive” stages) is a culture identical to the Federation, a culture that can itself engage in this anthropological mission to catalogue all life as fitting within a universal set of practices and racial similarities they call “culture.”
This is a western, colonial understanding of culture - racially and spatially homogeneous people comprise the organs of a social totality, ie, a society, which can then be analysed as an “object,” as a “phenomenon,” by the scientists in order to extract information from them to produce and advance state (ie Federation) knowledge. The Enterprise crew are allowed to be individuals, are allowed to be subjects with a capacity for reason, contradiction, emotion, compassion, and even moments of savagery or violence, without those things being assigned to their “race” or “culture” as a whole, but the people they interact with are only components of a whole which are “discovered” by the Enterprise as opportunities to expand and refine the Federation’s body of knowledge.
Spock is actually a good example of what I'm talking about, because he is an exception to this rule - unlike the others in the crew, his behaviour is always read as a symptom of his innate Vulcan-ness, where his human and Vulcan halves war for dominance in his mind and character. Bones (the doctor, one of the main cast) constantly comments on Spock's inability to feel things, that he is callous and unsympathetic, ruled by Vulcan logic to such an extreme that his rationality is a form of irrationality, as his Vulcan blood prohibits him from tempering logic with human emotion and intuition. Now you can argue that Bones is a stand-in for the racists of the world, that Spock proves Bones wrong in that he is able to feel but merely keeps it under wraps, that Vulcans are not biologically incapable of emotion but merely live in a socially repressive culture, but this still engages in the racial logic of the show - Vulcans are a racially-bound species with a single monolithic culture, and Spock's ability to express and feel 'human emotions' is the metric by which he is granted human subjectivity and sympathy.
And on the flip side you have the Klingons - a “race” that is uniformly savage, backward, violent, and dangerous. In the episode Day of the Dove, where Klingons board the Enterprise along with an alien cloud that makes everyone suddenly aggressive and racist (this show is insane lol), the Enterprise crew begins acting violent and racist, but the Klingons don’t change. They aren’t more violent than before (because they already were fundamentally violent and racist), and they don’t become less violent when the cloud eventually leaves (because they are never able to emerge from their violence and savagery as a social condition or external imposition - they simply are that way). Klingons are racially, behaviourally, psychologically, and culturally homogeneous, universally violent and immune to reason, and their racial characteristics are both physical manifestations of this universal violence as well as the origin of it. The writers and creators of TOS are explicitly invoking the orientalist idea of the “Mongolian horde,” representing both the American fear of Soviet global takeover as well as blatantly racist fears about “Asiatics” (a word used in the show, particularly in The Omega Glory where a fear of racialised communist takeover is made explicit) dominating the world.
This is colonial thinking! Like, fundamentally, at its core, this is colonial white supremacist thinking. Now this is not because TOS invents these tropes or is the origin of them, it is not individually responsible for these racial and colonial logics - these conceptions are endemic to Western thought, and I am not expecting a television show to navigate its way outside of this current colonial paradigm of scientific knowledge. I’m also not expecting an average person watching this to pick out all the intricacies of this and link it to the colonial history of Europe or the colonial history of western philosophy/thought. But this base premise of Star Trek is why the show is fundamentally colonial - even if it was the case that the crew never intervened in any alien conflict, never extracted any material resources from other people, this would still be colonial logic and colonial thinking. The show has a fundamentally colonial imagination when it comes to exploration, discovery, and culture.
I think a good place to end is the opening sequence. The show's first line is always "Space! The final frontier." I do not think the word frontier is meant metaphorically or poetically - I think the show is being honest about its conception of space as an infinitely vast, infinitely exotic frontier from which a globally Western civilisation (which the Enterprise is an emblem of) can extract resources, be they material or epistemic
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The idea of yandere gojo and geto (both at the same time) plotting against their darling reader using geto's cursed spirits to make her on them gets my mind reeling for nights 👀 wonder if my favorite writer has any thoughts on this
Perfect Prey
Characters: Yadere!Geto Suguru, Yadere!Gojo Satoru,FAB!Reader
Warnings: yandere!Geto/Gojo, manipulation, dub! con read is unaware that the boys are manipulating her! (consent is vital for me!!) double penetration, smut, mentions of wounds, cursing
Word Count: 3,404
A/N: Ah! thank you Nonnie! This made me smile! Oooh, this, this was fun. I loved getting into this! I hope y’all enjoy it!! (I really enjoyed writing for Suguru 🥵)
“I finally got my own mission!” Geto and Gojo glanced up at you as you proudly walked into the first-year's classroom. “Took years, but I think they finally realized I’m fully capable of destroying a curse or two by myself!”
Geto gave you a warm smile, resting his chin on his fist. “Is that so? Funny, I thought we made it clear one of us was supposed to accompany you on any mission.” He shut his eyes, tilting his head slightly to the side.

“Oh, that’s a good one, Suguru!” You excitedly plopped down on Gojo’s desk, kicking your feet back and forth. “All jokes aside, they did want to send one of you with me.”
“Wanted to send one of us?” Satoru questioned, dipping his chin to watch you.
The two men watched you closely as your pretty head nodded. “Yaga said,” you tilted your chin at Satoru, “You were assigned to come with me, Satoru. But seeing as you just returned from your mission, I insisted that I could handle a couple of curses on my own.” Gojo scoffed, his head turning to give Suguru a look of disbelief. “Oh, don't look at him like that!” Sure, the duo were best friends, but their silent communication between stolen glances made you feel left out.
“I don't think me coming back from a mission, which I handled easily because I’m Gojo Satoru, of course. Means I can't come with you. They assigned us this together.” The white-haired man’s time was thick with annoyance. “For a specific reason, I’m assuming.”
You cocked an eyebrow, eyes darting between the two men. “Why would the Gojo Satoru be needed to exorcise a handful of low-grade curses?” Looking at Gojo, you could almost hear the wheels turning in his head. “You know what—why do they even send you both you're Special-grades?” Before you could question them, Geto chuckled, soft and rich.
“Ignore Satoru; he’s just being clingy. Congratulations on your first solo mission.” Pride swelled in your chest at his acknowledgment. You happily kicked your feet faster as Geto reached over, ruffling your hair. “Just promise to be careful, and if you need any help, please know we’re but a phone call away.”
“Thank you.” The condescending tone of your voice has Satoru clenching his jaw. “I’ll get this mission done so fast, you won't even notice I’m gone!”
Geto pulled his hand back, nodding, dark hair swaying as you slid off the seal. “Be safe; we’ll see you at home.”
“I will! See you both later!”
Geto smiled, waving until the door shut, and he could no longer hear your footsteps down the hall. The instant he was confident that you weren't around, his smile fell, eyes narrowed at the door. Gojo was fuming, pulling his blindfold down, letting it pool around his neck. Between the two men, their anger could freeze Hell over.
“This is problematic.” Geto rubbed at the pulsing sensation in his temple.
“Problematic? No, this is a disaster if she gets through this mission, which we know she will! She's going to get more solo missions. Solo missions turn into group missions, with other sorcerers, other men.”
“And we can't have that. No one is good enough to protect her, let alone breathe the same air.”
Gojo sat on the edge of the desk, watching as his best friend tapped his thumb against the center of his forehead. Between the two of them, they would find a way to fix this sticky situation. Their solution had to be clean. They couldn’t have you finding out that they were the ones responsible for your lack of solo missions. The two pulled strings to ensure you were always with them.
Some might call them possessive and obsessive. But they didn't see it like that. They just knew no one on the face of the planet would ever be good enough for you. You were their darling little princess. The keywords are theirs and theirs alone.
“We could tell Yaga to pull her off, tell a white lie like maybe she changed her mind.”
“No, no, that would look suspicious. She went through all the trouble, convincing him to let her go alone. After all that, for us to ask that, she would start asking questions. We can’t have her knowing we’re responsible for her lack of solo missions.”
“Okay, do you have any ideas?” When Geto said nothing, Gojo sighed, exasperated, feeling Geto’s eyes on him. “It would be easier if we showed her how ‘dangerous’ these solo missions can be.”
A lightbulb went off in Geto’s mind. “Satoru~” he purred, “that’s a brilliant idea.” The other man furrowed crisp white brows in confusion. “She thinks it’s just a handful of curses, right?”
“Yeah?”
“It would be a shame if there were more curses than she could handle,” Geto smirked, specks of black forming behind his shoulder, his curses coming to life, revealing his intentions.
Satoru grinned wide with a sharp laugh. “That truly would be a shame, wouldn’t it? Poor sweetheart will have to call us to help.” Geto nodded, motioning for Satoru to follow.
“Come on, we got shit to do.”
Later that night, you were scrambling off the ground, wincing as the fifteen curses chased you around the corner of the abandoned building. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” You screamed, palms bleeding, knees scraped up as you stumbled back to your feet, barely avoiding the sharp teeth of the curse behind you.
This was supposed to be a simple job! One where there would be maybe two or three curses to take out! Three were okay! You were able to handle that on your own. But after you took them out, you suddenly found yourself surrounded by dozens of curses. All of them ranged from different grades, from four to two, but a couple gave off a darker presence, possibly special grades, which was not good.
How the hell did three curses turn into three dozen?! How could the intel be so off?! And how the hell were you going to get out of this?!
A low snarling snapped you out of your frantic thoughts before the curse in front of you swiped at your stomach with very long and very sharp claws. You dodged, falling back onto the ground, watching it close in on you. This was not good, not in the slightest, and it didn’t help that you were all alone!
Scrambling back, you pushed yourself off the ground, ducking into a room, slamming the door. “Goddamn, fuck me.” Pulling your phone out of your pocket, you called the two strongest men of the modern age. Sure, there was a one hundred and fifty percent chance they'd boast about how they were right, how you needed to listen to them, but that didn’t matter right now! “Pick up! Pick up, pick up!”
The phone rang and rang and rang. Just when you thought it would go to voicemail, the line clicked. Gojo yawned on the other line without a care in the world. “Hello~?” He cooed, listening to the raspy breathing.
“Satoru!” You gulped down breaths of air. “Toru, I need help!” You screamed as a curse slammed against the door.
Gojo covered the receiver, snickering as Geto eyed the building you were in. “What was that? You need our help?”
“Yes!” you cried out, “Satoru! Please help!!”
“Are you sure? I mean, I am considered a Special Grade; low-grade curses are something I shouldn’t worry about, right?”
Geto’s curse smashed through the door, dashing at you. He swore he could hear your scream through Satoru’s phone. His poor princess is getting chased around by his curses. This could have been easily avoided if you didn’t insist on taking on this mission alone. Unfortunately for you, the choices you made led to this outcome.
Your heart was hammering against your rib cage as you slipped and maneuvered around the curses slowly surrounding you. This was way out of your league, and you were beginning to regret now bringing one of the boys with you. Plus, Satoru wouldn’t drop everything and come running to your rescue, not after everything you’d said earlier.
“Toru, please.” Pleading was something you rarely did, but Satoru’s ego had been bruised, so you had to do what needed to be done. “Please, I'm begging you.”
Both Gojo and Geto exchanged a look with each other. “You beg so nicely,” Satoru commented, listening to a loud crashing sound followed by your curse. “I suppose I could come, maybe bring Suguru too.”
“Y-Yes! Yes, please!”
“On one condition.”
Despite the fact dozens of curses were chasing you, you stopped dead in your tracks. “Condition?! What fuckin’ condition?!”
“You never take a solo mission again.”
After this endeavor, he didn’t even have to ask you to do that. “Y-Yes! I agree. Just fucking hurry!” In the blink of an eye, the tall white-haired man teleported before you with Geto by his side. The curse that had been charging at you slammed hard against Gojo’s infinity before being forced back as the white-haired man stepped forward.
You fell to your knees, panting heavily as Geto peered down at you from over his shoulder. “Are you alright?” You just nodded your head, glancing down at your bleeding hands. “You don’t look alright.” You could smell the woodsy musk
as Geto knelt in front of you. “Give me.” He gently grabbed your hand, examining the scraps on the heels of your hand.
”Tsk, tsk, tsk.” Gojo chastised as he grabbed you and Geo, teleporting the three of you back to their apartment. “Guess your first solo mission didn’t quite go as well as you planned now, did it?”
There was no retort or sharp comeback because he was right. Even if the intel had been wrong, you couldn't handle this mission on your own. You had failed after you insisted that you could handle this mission without any hiccups. Now, that confidence was replaced with shame and disbelief. You had to call on your colleagues for assistance. After they warned you that this is something you wouldn’t be able to handle.
The two men who had orchestrated this scheme watched you with unreadable expressions—on the outside, their demeanor seemed unnerved, while on the inside, they were swelling with pride and excitement. Seeing you so distraught and broken had their pants tightening at the almost broken, blank look in your eyes.
“Oh, don’t be embarrassed,” Suguru announced, lifting you and ushering you towards the bathroom. “There’s nothing to be ashamed about. You’re not the only sorcerer who isn't capable of handling three dozen cursed spirits on their own. Not everyone is as strong as Satoru and I.”
Suguru moves to the shower, turning it on as you remain still, the events of the evening replaying over in your mind. “Suguru’s right. Not everyone would have handled a situation like that. You should be grateful, though. You’re lucky enough to have us willing to come to your beck and call.” Satoru is moving in front of you, holding your hands over the sink, running hot water over the wounds. “If we hadn’t shown up when we did, you could have died.” The truth of his words had your head jerking up, meeting crystalline eyes.
“I-I could have died.” The monotone repetition of his own words had Satoru’s cock throbbing at the broken throaty words that left your mouth.
“You could have.” He agreed, pressing his lips against your neck. “But you didn’t because we saved you.”
“I-I know.” You whispered as Geto joined your side. “You saved me.”
Hands, hot and rough, ran over the mounds of your breasts, gripping your hips, manhandling you in ways they had done in the past. There had been nights when the three of you had been so bored you just decided to hook up or when they just needed a little stress relief. This time, however, felt monumentally different. Like they were holding their breath, holding themselves back. Their stoic bodies jittered with anticipation, waiting to see what happened next.
To you, it was them being pent up, maybe the adrenaline rushing through their systems. Because if you were being honest with yourself, you felt just as pent up. Almost dying had you wanting to cave into your raw human desires. While the men standing on either side of you shared one of their infamous knowing glances. They weren’t driven by the adrenaline and passion of what had happened. Not in the slightest. No, their desire was driven by pure, unfiltered joy.
They finally had you right where they wanted you. Broken. You had lost a fight you knew you could have won. Due to them, your confidence in your abilities was clouded by a fabricated series of events.
First, you’d be broken, not taking missions alone any further. The next phase would be to distance you from the school slowly. Trying to convince you that you didn’t need to worry about working, the two made more than enough money to provide for the three of you. If all went according to plan, you would be their perfect little live-in girlfriend in no time.
What made all of this ten times better was the fact that you had no idea tonight's events had left you in their web of lust and desire. They were the spiders, and you were the poor innocent fly—a fly about to be devoured in the most primal ways imagined.
“Thank you for saving me.”
”Nu-uh.”
“We did save you, so you need to thank us properly.”
The men pressed lips against you, hands trailing over your body. You melted against them, gasping as hands cupped your breasts, hard cocks rubbing against your hips as they ground against you. They did save you, didn’t they? They went above and beyond to stop what they were doing and come to your aid.
“Y-Yeah, I think I will.” You whispered, turning to kiss each man on the mouth before sinking to your knees. “Please, let me thank you.”
Two thick long cock were suddenly in your face, throbbing and leaking pre-cum from angry, flushed tips. Seeing as your hands were scrapped up and ran, you took turns sucking and licking each man's cock, while they jerked off. Your tongue flicked, swirled, and lapped the two cocks, until their cum spurted over your face coating your lips and cheeks. Your appreciation didn’t stop there. You pulled both fully clothed men into the shower with you, tugging their clothes off and discarding them over the shower door.
Satoru and Suguru both help you, lifting you, your legs wrapping around Satoru’s waist as Geto’s wet, chiseled chest pressed firmly over your back. Both cock’s teased your wet cunt’s entrance, rubbing over against each other as you whined softly, tilting your head back. Their cocks both pressed past the tight opening of your pussy, stretching your walls in a painful yet pleasurable way, leaving your cock drunk the deeper they sunk into your wet heat.
A minute was all they allowed you to take to attempt to adjust yourself to the sensation of having two cocks buried inside of you. They were bullying inside of you. Satoru’s cock kissed your cervix with each thrust, While Suguru rubbed against your g-spot in the most heavenly way. Perhaps if you had been a good girl and just left everything as it was, they would have taken it easier on you. Regretfully, in their eyes, you had almost ruined their carefully constructed ploy to make you theirs in every sense of the word. Due to that, you were going to be punished severely.
Their thrusts were hard, deep, and almost painful. Fucking into you as if you were just a sex toy rather than a human being. Satoru’s teeth dug painfully into your shoulder, leaving indentations in his wake. Suguru’s mouth trailed kissed over the nap of your neck, mouth gentler than Satoru but his hands were as cruel as the white-haired man's. He pinched and pulled at your nipples, yanking them until you cried out his name before releasing his grip. The relief never lasted long; as soon as the dull, stinging sensation subsided, Suguru returned to the painful teasing.
The kisses, touch, and thrusts weren’t the only way they were mean to you. Their words stung just as bad as the scrapes on your hands and the abrasions to your knees. If you hadn’t been crying from the mere overstimulation of pained pleasure, their words might have had your eyes watering just as much.
”Our stupid dirty slut, getting herself into such a fucked up me.”
”Yes, dragging us both out to save her.”
“Then, on top of everything we did. Going out of our way to save her after she blatantly told us she was fine, she still gets fucked good like the whore that she is.”
”Yeah, she might not be able to take on a cursed spirit, but she’s sure good at taking two dicks at the same time.”
Their words had your skin flushing in shame and need, your mouth dropping into an ‘O’ as the abdomen in your lower abdomen started to tighten. “Oooh, fuk, please, ha—ah fuuck.” You were so close, so damn close to either passing out or having the most intense orgasm of your life. If you were lucky, which didn’t seem likely after all the mishaps today, maybe, just maybe, you could experience both. “G-Gonna cum, please.”
”You hear that Satoru, our little cock slut wants to cum.”
Satoru’s hips began to jerk faster, the head of his cock slamming into your cervix thrust after thrust. “Does she even deserve it?” He continued, leaving pain over your skin, his tongue brushing over the marks.
“P-Please, oooh god, please don’t tease”
“Hm, what do you say, Suguru? Nngh fuck—“ Satoru hammered his hips into you, thrust after thrust, drawing you closer and closer to the edge. “Should our precious girl cum?”
“Aaahh yes~ let her cum, make her take both our loads, then once she catches her breath, we fuck her even more.”
Reaching between your bodies, Satoru rubbed your clit, making your walls twitch around the two monster cocks inside of you. Their pace matches the others, working in harmony to send you over the edge. A scream, one that had never left you before, echoes inside the steamy shower. “C-Cummin! Cumming!” You screamed over and over until both of you stiffened, ropes of thick hot cum filling you.
“Take it bitch, take every last drop, milk me dry.” Satoru was always more vocal, nipping and sucking at your ear as his whiny groans invaded your mind.
“P-Princess, mmmhm, fuuuck.” Unlike Satoru, who was all about talking and heaving his voice, Suguru was softer, moans deep and feral, but he didn’t feel the need to announce it to the entire apartment complex. “Fillin’ you up so good~”
They both did; their hot cum leaked out of you, running down their softening shafts. In the shower, you hummed, listening to the tittering splatter in the water washing over you. The peaceful moment lasted for but a second as both men pressed kisses on your shoulder.
“You belong to us.”
“Do you understand?”
As their wandering hand dug into your skin, you nodded. Rocking slightly against them with a helpless whine. “Yes, yeah, I belong to you both!” The two friends shared a cold, knowing smirk as you began thrusting into you harder, making your eyes roll back into your head as loud moans wrecked through you. Little did you know how serious they both were.
You belonged to them in every way, shape, and form, whether you liked it or not.
#jjk smut#jjk x reader#jjk x you#jjk reader smut#jjk#jjk y/n#jjk gojo smut#jjk reader insert#jjk men#jjk gojo#jjk gojo x reader#reader jjk#jjk reader instert#jjk yandere#yandere!gojo#yandere satoru gojo#yandere suguru geto#jujutsu satoru#geto x reader smut#gojo x reader smut#jjk suguru geto#suguru geto smut#geto suguru smut#satosugu#satosugu smut#gojo satoru smut#satoru x suguru x reader#gojou satoru x y/n#satoru x reader x suguru#gojo x reader x geto
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Kabru is such a brilliantly written character, one of the best in Dungeon Meshi (which is a high bar as it is, most of the main cast are similarly genius).
His thing is that he is very friendly and nice confident and maxed out his charisma stat, but is also kinda ambitious and manipulative. But not in an overtly malicious way. Which kinda scares me.
The most impressive thing about him, writing wise, is that it’s all show-don’t-tell. He very frequently uses his charm and empathy and understanding of how people think in really clever ways. We’re often walked through his thought process of how he does these social deductions. We’re never told he’s scarily charismatic, besides other characters reacting to him being scarily charismatic.
Kabru is a natural-born leader and social engineer with superlative skills in both, which makes him the perfect foil for Laios, who’s too autistic and unambitious that he’s not even the de facto leader of his own party that he’s the official leader of. He’s so bad at leadership that his party just, sort of, doesn’t have a leader. They just kinda argue and do stuff.
What’s also neat, and perfectly inline with Meshi’s general theme of clever and logical subversions of fantasy tropes, is that Kabru’s character design in no way clues us in on this fundamental character trait of his.
He’s sort of a human fighter / knight archetype, which in the language of fantasy RPGs is a class most would associate with being a white bread jock, chivalrousness optional. (Laios subverts the same trope in the same way. It’s really funny that the walking exposition dump of the group looks like the character creator default preset spec’d as the most generic class available.)
If Kabru was a bard or noble and Laios a wizard, their character traits would be far less interesting
Even better is that we would expect someone who looks like Laios to have Kabru’s personality, and vice versa. Their character designs are flipped; the confident super charismatic leader is a short wide-eyed twink, while the slightly naive and very autistic monster enthusiast is a tall conventionally attractive Aryan lookin’ mf. (see what I mean by Kabru being such a good foil for Laios?? No wonder everyone ships them, they’re perfect for each other!)
Yet, their designs also work for them. Kabru just has a face that’s easy to talk to, his piercing blue eyes and curly hair gives him a false sense of naïveté, while his iconic 👁️👁️ expression hints that there’s actually quite a bit going on inside his head. Meanwhile, Laios believably looks like someone who doesn’t know what hair conditioner is. His armor’s collar gorget thing is also pretty dorky.
You can’t trust people like that (I mean overly charismatic people with a manipulative streak, not blue-eyed twinks) because you can’t know what their real motives are. You can’t know they aren’t pretending, you can’t know they aren’t trying to or haven’t already manipulated you. How could you? When he has so much more social intelligence than you do, average socially awkward Tumblr user? He’s touched all the grass!
In episode 16 (spoilers, btw) Kabru finally meets Laios’s party, who he’s been trying to find and fight for the better part of the season, and he just decides that no confrontation is necessary. Like, immediately upon meeting the guy. Just from how Laios looked at him. He figures that since Laios didn’t seem to recognize him, they either have never met meaning he has the wrong guy, or Laios forgot meaning he didn’t think it’d be a big deal, meaning the treasure was a trap or something. Which is pretty in line with Kabru’s established ability to always roll nat 20s for every charisma and deductive reasoning check, so cool.
But he doesn’t even seem curious about which of those cases is true. (He might be interested to find out some of the treasure wasn’t dangerous, but accidentally got thrown off a bridge). Much to Rin’s dismay, he’d rather just not bring it up because that could upset the leader of the party he might be working with for the foreseeable future.
Actions speak louder than words. So, all we really learn in this scene is that Kabru’s goals and M.O. can change on a dime, and that he values reputation and political capital more than money and vengeance. More than his own party’s desire for those things. Not only is he someone with a silver tongue, but he knows its value and is determined to use it at every opportunity.
Kabru and his party might not be very good at fighting or surviving in the dungeon, in fact their frequent TPKs are a running gag. But, he also doesn’t need to be when he can just manipulate Laios’ and Shuro’s much more proficient parties into helping him.
So far, Kabru seems like the most likely one to become king of the dungeon or whatever the mcguffin is. He is the only protagonist so far who has said that’s an actual goal of his. He’s said that he doesn’t think someone like Laios who isn’t a born leader should get it.
In fact, Kabru seems to have very strong opinions on what kinds of people should be allowed to adventure in the dungeon, evidenced by the fact that he murdered an entire party over it, justified or not. Kabru seems to think that Kabru is such a leader, and he’s probably right about that, but what kind of leader?
What would Kabru do with that kind of power if he gets it? Because I’m not sure. All I know is that he is the kind of person with the ability to use real political power to its full potential. For good, or for very, very bad.
I’m not saying that Kabru is evil or that he’s secretly gonna be the surprise villain. I dunno, I haven’t read the manga. He could just be a nice guy that’s just, like, is like that. Everything he’s done could be justified by the explanations he’s given. He actually reminds me a lot of one of my IRL friends, and I’d trust him with my life.
But, I can’t help but feel a distinct sense of unease whenever he’s on-screen. I try not to trust confident natural-born leaders like him right out of the gate. I don’t like that our instinct as humans is to blindly follow them without thinking about it.
Tyrants and psychopaths also use confidence and charm and a friendly demeanor to make people think they’re a good guy, while manipulating everyone into thinking their self-serving actions are altruistic. Benevolent, confident, skilled leaders do exist. But there exists many more snakes wearing their skin. Wolves rarely bother with sheep’s clothing, they dress as shepherds and sheepdogs.
Anyway, my point is that I think it’s kinda neat that it’s possible to overthink this much about a character whose probably just a nice guy that is the mirror opposite of an autistic person. Writing that kind of ambiguity is hard, and employing it in this way is inspired.
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Reminded of this ask and specifically the phrasing "narrative cruft."
Folks, I'm something of a fan of RPGs. I think RPGs are a pretty neat marriage of narrative and gameplay. I think the two are pretty neatly intertwined. If the fiction and mechanics of an RPG are in tune, I would hesitate to call the fiction "narrative cruft." It would do a huge disservice to the game.
So what is being called "narrative cruft" here? I can't say for sure but I believe the source of this ask was the recently resurfaced really smart post by yours truly where I talk about how trying to reframe the action of D&D (killing creatures and taking their stuff either as amoral tomb robbers or basically a posse of vigilantes under the blessing of those in power) as somehow aspirational may be a lost cause and how people would do a lot better to just accept the gameplay of D&D for what it is because the game itself will suffer for attempts to turn it into something it very much isn't.
Here's the thing though: D&D is very much a game about dungeons and also dragons. And I feel a lot of modern D&D players already reject that premise. Simply looking at what D&D, by its rules, says:
All characters will have to take part in some degree of resource management. At the very least they will have to track hit points throughout the day. Depending on edition and class they will have to take part in managing class-based resources. Even equipment is often consumable.
When it comes to resource management during the gameplay these games are the most opinionated about (combat and exploration) depletion of resources is very much the name of the game. You can, throughout the day, recover some resources, but often at the cost of another. Characters will generally not be gaining more resources throughout the day.
Looking at the types of creatures that are represented as adversaries in the game, most of them occupy the fictional space of "the dungeons," a type of nebulous mishmash of underground complexes, often implying some kind of underworld, or the wilderness.
I won't go further than that but these three things are actually pretty harmonious with the traditional gameplay of Town -> Wilderness -> Dungeon that is pretty much part of the game's DNA. Even D&D 5e is at its core still a dungeon game. It is very opinionated about things like "the adventuring day."
This is no coincidence. D&D is very much a resource management game, a "trying to survive in a hostile space while your resources get depleted" game. The interplay of having to make meaningful decisions between when to move out of the dungeon and back into civilization to rest and recuperate is an important part of the game. The game itself tells you this by asking the GM to take the shape of the adventuring day as a whole into account as a consideration in adventure design.
And there's a lot to criticize there: some people don't want to engage with that gameplay loop. Thankfully there are games other than D&D out there! Some people may see the gameplay loop as problematic. True, and I do think that the division of the world into effectively conflict zones and "civilization" is deeply ideological, but it's as txttletale said in that post of hers that my post was a reaction to: you can either take the media at its own word ("for the duration of Return of the King we are monarchists") or twist yourself into a pretzel shape trying to argue that the things that the text itself says about the world and game it is trying to get across aren't actually meaningful and no no the core gameplay of D&D is clearly about a plucky little found family just doing goodness.
Anyway, the way I personally reconcile is by not bringing moralism into it. At least in my opinion, "Amoral tomb robbers" and "sell-swords working for the highest bidder" are infinitely preferable to any of the ways that try to frame the action of D&D as somehow heroic, because now that there is no attempt to sell it as somehow aspirational we can actually have a discussion, during gameplay, about how the way of things in the fictional setting of the game are actually kinda fucked up.
Also if I wanted a queer take on dungeon fantasy I would play a game built with that as part of the text from the ground up, like Dungeon Bitches, and even Dungeon Bitches doesn't try to frame its dungeon-crawling disaster lesbians as somehow aspirational: they are fucked up women in a fucked up situation forced into a lifestyle that is violent and dangerous because they have chosen it over the comforts of a civilization that often doesn't treat women and especially queer women well.
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sorry, still thinking about whirl. imo the most important characteristic whirl has in MTMTE isn't the obvious ones. it's not that he's an asshole, it's not that he's funny, it's not that he's violent, it's not that he's done terrible things, it's not that he hates himself. all of those are important, and they're usually the immediately obvious traits that stick out panel to panel. but they're not what drives the narrative function of the character most across the whole run of the comic.
imo the thing that most defines the engine driving whirl's narrative function is that he is astute and perceptive. it doesn't come up in obviously quotable panels moment to moment, but the way his arc interacts with the overall arc of the comic is that whirl is the one who sees through a lot of the bullshit that's going on and the way he acts and the decisions he makes overwhelmingly rely on that knowledge. unlike most characters, his decisions are rarely defined by the emotional intensity of his own investment in this or that thing (an interpersonal relationship, an insecurity, a need to prove something) but instead by his sharp awareness of the dynamics of the people around him.
whirl knows the score with rodimus and what the whole mess that is their 'mission' is really about- or rather, what it isn't about, not really. he does not take it seriously because he understands in a very real way, it's just not serious, it's an excuse. whirl knows the score with cyclonus and tailgate and when to intervene in that whole mess instead of being kind about it. whirl understands what getaway is doing and where it's leading and that both makes his decision to initially back getaway's plan both an asshole move but also a decision made with total clarity, in contrast to almost everyone else who makes that decision. whirl knows how to get past drift's act and gets a punch in the face for it, because he smells the bullshit there immediately. whirl is not unaware of the social dynamics on the LL at all; he is choosing to be as abrasive and inhospitable as he usually is on purpose with full knowledge of what he's poking at. whirl gets to the supposed afterlife and immediately knows it cannot possibly be real!
unlike basically every other major character, there's really no point whirl makes a decision with his judgement meaningfully clouded by something. he has a strong interiority and motivations, absolutely, but above all else he is making every decision, no matter how bad or self destructive, with a level of genuine awareness and clarity that is pretty much unique, and his assessment of everyone and everything around him is pretty much unmatched if you read between his constant pisstaking. it's fantastically good, and what makes him a completely essential part of the ensemble all the way through the comic's run. nobody else can be so consistently relied on to respond to the situation presented to him as it is. (cyclonus is really the only person in the cast who recognises this, i think, and it explains why they wind up perfectly matched. see again: whirl's interventions with him and tailgate.)
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sick day
character(s): wanderer/scaramouche, wriothesley, childe/tartaglia
summary: you’re sick and they take care of you (can be read as platonic or romantic, possibly ooc wriothesley)
Wanderer/Scaramouche
“I really cannot be sick right now, I have things to do the next few days and my entire body hurts,” you groaned.
“Stop complaining.” Wanderer rested a warm towel on your forehead. “Or it’ll just get worse.”
You had fallen ill after a bad rainstorm caught you defenseless while running errands in the forests of Sumeru. Chilled to the bone, you had returned home and fell asleep, forgetting all about how Wanderer was set to come over that afternoon.
Thankfully, his tsundere act didn’t prevent him from helping you out with your cold.
You let out a violent sneeze that tossed the compress back towards him. “Sorry,” you grumbled, turning towards him.
“Use a tissue next time, ew,” were the kind words that came out of his mouth. “Or at least warn me.”
“It’s not like I can predict some of these things, and you don’t have to be an ass about it.”
“I also don’t have to help you, but here I am,” he huffed, moving to place the towel on your head again. “I’ll go grab a bucket soon, just in case you throw up.”
“I doubt I’m that sick,” you said.
“Good, because that’s the last thing I want to clean up.”
“Just shut it and let me rest.” You closed your eyes and crossed your arms over your chest. Surprisingly, he followed your request and let you doze off, staying by your side the whole time.
Wriothesley
You made your way up to his office in the fortress, sniffling and coughing the whole time.
“Wrio, I think I’m sick.”
“I’d say that’s accurate. So why are you here and not resting?”
“I wanted to see you. Plus it’s a just a cold, I’ll live.”
Wriothesley chuckled. “You really should be in bed at the infirmary if you’re sick. At least while you’re here, have some tea with honey for me.” He pulled a chair over opposite his desk and motioned for you to sit down while he prepared the tea. He, of course, made himself a cup as well.
“Thank you,” you said hoarsely before you blew on the steaming liquid. Once you felt it was cool enough to drink you took a small sip. Instantly you felt your throat soothed as the sweet honey made its way down.
“Has anyone checked your temperature? Sigewinne?” Wriothesley took a sip of his own tea.
“No, not yet. I felt like complaining to you first.” You smiled.
He let out another laugh. “That’s very kind of you, but we really should get you to the infirmary to make sure it’s nothing major.”
“I’m pretty sure it’s just a head cold, though,” you said. “It’ll probably be gone in a couple of days.”
“How about we finish this tea and head down. If you’re right I’ll let it go, but if you’re wrong you have to rest on the doctors orders.”
“Deal.” You smiled behind your cup.
Childe/Tartaglia
"You're sick."
"No I'm not."
Childe slowly put a hand to your forehead and hummed. "You have a fever. Did you dress warmly like I told you to?"
You looked to the ground as your cheeks grew hot with shame. "N-no."
He had taken you on a trip from Liyue to Snezhnaya after you expressed interest in experiencing the culture there. Despite given his clear warnings of the cold, you had only packed a thick jacket and crocheted scarf to keep you warm.
Upon seeing you, Childe let you borrow his fluffy hooded coat and handed you a spare pair of mittens he kept on him. They were a little small since he carried them around to help out his siblings, but you were grateful nonetheless.
Soon enough, he had you in his spare bedroom surrounded by blankets. A bowl of chicken broth with noodles sat on the nightstand next to you. You assumed he had a lot of experience taking care of sick people due to how big his family was. That many kids in one household was bound to spread the flu like wildfire if one caught it.
"After you eat, I need you to get some rest, okay?" Childe said it as more of a light demand than a suggestion. "Tourism can wait, and in the meantime I'll see if I can find some warmer clothes for you to wear in the meantime. What was your favorite color again?"
a/n: this turned out a bit longer than i had planned but i hope you enjoyed it! if you’re sick while reading this i hope you feel better soon.
© mrowlai
#inspired by me not feeling well rn#genshin impact#genshin fluff#genshin x reader#genshin sickfic#scaramouche#wanderer#scaramouche fluff#wanderer fluff#wriothesley#wriothesley fluff#childe#tartaglia#childe fluff#tartaglia fluff#*mine
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What are some Cody-related headcanons you have? If you'd like to share 🙏
Hello Anon! Thank you so much for this wonderful ask. Cody is one of my favorite characters to write, and it's a joy to share some of the ideas and inventions that have come out of building stories for him.
I think one thing that's become crucial to the way I imagine Cody is that he's been thrust into this extremely high-responsibility, heavy-emotional-toll position at a super young age, and he's had to learn how to compartmentalize and repress pretty aggressively in order to keep doing his job. There are losses he just can't let himself fully acknowledge if he's going to remain functional (and he's very good at his job, so there will be more losses if he can't function), so I think of there being a distance - both deliberately cultivated and unconsciously formed - between what Cody's feeling and what he's saying, or even what he's thinking about consciously enough for it to surface in the narrative focalization.
That means that I see Cody as a character with an incredible strength of will and power of self-denial, but I also like to think about the small ways he might allow himself to blow off steam, and I imagine a lot of them would be sensory: extra spice in the food, a little flavored creamer in the caff, the ritual of smoking a cigarette, or of having sex - especially with someone with whom he's on the kind of footing that allows for eye rolling and shit-giving.
On that note, I also think of Cody as someone who derives satisfaction from solitude (which he hardly ever gets) and is maybe too good at bearing loneliness (which he gets more and more of as the war goes on). He has a fierce loyalty to his men, and he also has to order them to their deaths all the time. He understands that means he can't share the same kind of camaraderie with them that they share with each other. So he holds himself apart: someone many people respect, some resent, and few really know. But as isolated as that might make him feel, he's also got barely any time that he can truly call his own, so I imagine that maybe in a no-chip/Republic-wins AU he might decide to peace out for a while: go live by himself and do things that are low-stakes and build some habits that are totally his own.
I think he's so used to using anger - a kind of low-simmering, deeply saturating, furious indignation - as a substitute for fulfillment that he barely notices how much of his emotional apparatus is coated in frustration until he's struck by something that reopens the yearning - the curiosity and thirst and restlessness - that not even the brutal grind of being Marshal Commander of the Third Systems Army can crush out of him.
Also he's funny and he's sharp: that's important to me. Cody can absolutely read you for filth while sounding unremarkably polite, and you won't realize he's verbally shivved you until you're on the turbolift leaving the meeting.
Thank you again for this lovely ask, Anon!!! I hope this is close to what you had in mind by headcanon. <3<3<3
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How is Aang a terrible friend? Genuine question. I know he’s a mess in regards to katara and his family, but I never heard anything about him and his friends
There isn't much to hear about him and his friends, is there? He's friendly and likable and that gets him surrounded by friends who themselves are selfless and brave. That makes him look pretty good by association, but the deep, character shaping moments he's a part of are to his benefit. He has all these great friends to turn when he needs them, but who turns to him when they need comfort? The strongest showing I can think of that he had as a friend was sneaking to teach Katara waterbending when she was refused. That lasted right up until he was confronted by Pakku. Then Katara stood up to Pakku and called him on his stupidity, and Aang instead of standing ten toes down for his friend told Pakku she didn't mean it. Like consummate people pleaser he is. Katara fought that battle alone.
Let's not forget the way he literally blew up at his friends in the desert when Appa was kidnapped. Don't get me wrong, his being upset was completely understandable, but a good friend would apologize for that. Toph especially didn't deserve that for him, and she never gets an apology.
Aang is a terrible friend for the same reason he's a terrible partner and father. He's selfish. He receives way more than he gives. Yeah, he's cheerful and fun to be around, but that doesn't make him a good friend. Toph is a better friend, and she hardly gets any of her own story on screen.
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Forged From Death - Sihtric Kjartansson x Widow!Reader
An: Thank you so much @foxyanon for the request and officially turning me into a Sihtric girl. I hope this is everything you wanted. And @zaldritzosrose thank you for creating the header you are amazing!
Masterlist here!
Separate from the normal CW section for a special attention. This is going to be dark as reader thinks cruelty of her husband, Sigefrid, and her father towards those around them. No explicit examples of violence or abuse. I really was just trying to capture emotions without talking of direct acts.
CW: Language, political marriage really, Sigefrid is not a good man, neither was reader's father, warlord husband and father, scared child, character death, P IN V sex, fingering, dirty talk, gets quite dirty lots of smut, breeding kink, vague talks of pregnancy kink, she/her pronouns, use of you, reader not really described or named, FLUFFY, Stepdad!Sihtric, found family trope, soulmates trope kinda, love and lust and first sight
Pairing: Sihtric Kjartansson x reader
Word Count: 6.2k
You knew what you were. A bargaining chip, a prize. Something akin to a crown, symbolizing power. With your own father being a man who bargained in fear rather than respect, you weren’t surprised when your husband was the same.
Sigefrid Thurglison, rather quickly upon marrying you, decided his family’s wealth and power would be found in England. So, you sailed along with him and his brother to find this for yourselves. You, the dutiful wife, who knows your fate would be worse had you denied your father’s arrangement. You, who disappointed your father from birth by just being a daughter, who he could only use as a piece in his games but never actually respect. You, who married a man just like him.
You remained silent throughout. You played your part well, perhaps too well. Your name was used as a way to remind men of the force your husband could bring upon England. Even if they weren’t directly familiar with your father, they remembered the tales their fathers spoke to them, and they bowed at Sigefrid and Erik’s feet.
Until they met a man by the name of Uhtred. You couldn’t tell if he wanted to die or if he was just too stupid to realize that death was a very real possibility. But he was quick to anger your husband and his brother through way of opposition. And, apparently, Uhtred did not heed warnings well. He was unconcerned with the possibility of your father showing up.
“If he wanted England, he would be here,” said a voice from behind Uhtred upon your first meeting. You looked for the source. When you saw the man, you were certain your heart stopped for a moment.
You had seen beauty before. Land, sky, men, women, all of which held a certain captivating air about them. And yet there had been nothing as beautiful as the man who stood before you. You heard Uhtred refer to him as Sihtric, and your eyes made their way over his form. From his brown hair, to his striking yet mismatched eyes, over the angles of his face, and the swell of his muscles that already could be seen straining against the silver bands he wore, there was no part of him you felt was not hand crafted by Freyja herself to be the perfect embodiment of everything she represented.
And Sihtric noticed you. By the gods, did he notice you. You were pretty, prettier than any woman he had ever seen. He couldn’t tell what started swelling faster when he saw you looking back at him and smile: his cock or his heart.
That was the day he swore he would have you.
When he saw you again, it had been over three years. He hadn’t gone a day without thinking of you if he were honest. He was waiting so he could have his chance with you. Those few moments of seeing you was what carried him through the years. You were the face he saw with every victory and every stroke of his cock.
He only wishes it were under better circumstances.
You still resided in the fortress after Sigefrid laid dead on the ground. You knew the only way any of this would end would be if Sigefrid died. And you knew, as you listened to the herd of feet approach the room you were hidden in, that he had.
Sihtric was the first in the room. He knew that Sigefrid would never leave you far behind. It was unfortunate such a man had the honor of being your first husband. Sihtric, though, was perfectly fine being your last.
A feeling that did not waver when he saw you holding a small child close to your body. There was a fear in both of you, but you had the rage of a mother in your eyes. He could see it, and he wanted you more for it.
“He is dead?” you asked Sihtric as others, Uhtred and another you vaguely recognized, came into the room.
Despite having only seen him once, you knew Sihtric could be trusted. You couldn’t explain why. Maybe it was lust clouding your judgement. Perhaps it was a sign. Or maybe you were being stupid and crazy and you would only end up right back where you have been your whole life.
But, his eyes made you feel like that would never be the case again.
“Aye,” he said to you. “How old?” He nodded towards your child, your daughter, who looked at him in fear. He held up his arm, wordlessly keeping Uhtred and the other man from coming any closer.
“Four. She was born here, before we were sent away,” you told him truthfully.
“Her name?” he asked you. He continuously looked between your faces, barely capable of holding himself in place and not taking you in his arms.
“Astra.”
He said nothing else to you for the moment, instead crouching down to be on the same level as your daughter. She clung to you tightly.
“Hello, Astra. Are you hurt?” he said quietly to her. In silence, she shook her head. “Is your mother?”
“Mama is safe, I am safe,” she whispered.
It caused your heart to ache when you heard her repeat the words you told her when everything got quiet. Had you never left England, you would’ve been able to leave Sigefrid. You knew you would have had somewhere to take Astra to keep her safe from him. But when your husband was banished, he swore he would return with your father, and you knew better than to wait around for that. Your only saving grace now was that your father had died before you got back to Norway.
“Would you like to leave here? You and your ma can come with me, if you would like.”
Astra looked up at you, tears in her eyes as they had been all day. You knew that while Sigefrid had never touched either of you, he had given you both more than enough reason to be fearful. And you wanted so badly to make sure she never had to live with this fear again.
Your daughter looked to him and nodded silently. He extended his arms towards her slowly.
“Come then, little one. I will get you out of here,” he said softly. Astra, who had never trusted anyone but you, walked directly into his arms.
The sight of his arms wrapping themselves around her small body caused your heart to ache. It was something you had never thought to wish for, your daughter being in the arms of someone but you. Now you could only pray that this was her new normal.
“I’ve got you little one,” he whispered and stood up, holding her close. “I want you to close your eyes tight and put your forehead against my cheek until I tell you. Can you do that for me?”
She nodded. You watched as she squeezed her eyes shut, her whole face squinting up. Her forehead rested perfectly against his cheek, her brown hair matching his in a shocking way. It almost felt as she was made of him.
“You are as pretty as your ma, brave just like her too,” he told her. You were surprised when you heard her giggle. He looked to you. “Take my arm, Lady. “
You did as he said, stepping closer to him and holding tightly to his arm. He made sure you were not questioned or stopped as he led you out of the fortress. He already had stepped in as your protector and you barely knew him.
When you were outside the walls and far from the carnage, Sihtric finally stopped. You watched as he sat Astra down to stand on her own. He told her it was safe to open her eyes, and she looked relieved when she opened them and saw you.
“Lord,” Sihtric said as he saw Uhtred approach. He instinctually moved to stand between you both.
“Are more men following him?” Uhtred asked you, looking at you over Sihtric’s shoulder. His hand remained on his axe, though he did not unsheathe it.
“He was the last of them,” you told him. And that was the truth. Any men that hadn’t abandoned him before this battle laid dead.
“Do you have anywhere to go?” he asked.
You knew the truth of what he was asking. You were a widow now. Your husband’s family were meant to take care of you now, and your daughter. But Sigefrid was the last of his family, having killed his own brother during his last rampage. Their father had long since been dead and had no living brothers.
“No, Lord,” you told him. “He had no surviving family. And my own father died two winters ago. I was the only child.”
He looked past you to Astra. You could see in his eyes he did not trust you. And you did not trust him. You could not find it in you to trust anyone but Sihtric. But good men, which you ultimately believed Uhtred to be, did not harm little girls.
“You may come with me and my men, then. Until you find other…arrangements,” he said gruffly.
It was three and a half months when you began to worry about your future. You thought of Astra and worried endlessly for her. Her father’s reputation would stain her future forever, you feared. You had no way to provide for her truly. Should your fears be proven true, you wouldn’t even be able to arrange a proper marriage for her when the time would come.
But, you thought perhaps you were worrying too much for Astra. You stood in Uhtred’s hall, watching as Sihtric, Osferth, Finan, and Uhtred spoke, Astra settled peacefully on Sihtric’s lap. She was loved so deeply by Sihtric, and by extension the men he fought beside, one could be forgiven for thinking he was her father. Interestingly enough, she looked more like Sihtric than she ever did Sigefrid.
Uhtred looked to you and nodded, having noticed your presence for the first time. You two had a somewhat uneasy trust in each other now. Well, trust that if either of you betrayed Sihtric, or the others, the other would respond with a blade. And that seemed to make you friends.
Sihtric noticed you, immediately lighting up when he looked at you. He beckoned you to him, to Astra, the both of them holding your whole heart.
You were insane, you knew it. But from the moment you saw him those years ago, you loved him. He was obvious. You would burn down all of England for him if he were to ask.
He had never done anything but protected you and Astra from the very first moment. The day Sigefrid died, it could’ve been so much worse for her. But Sihtric was the one to make sure that no bad ever touched her since he met her.
It was one of many ways that everyone knew you two would find your way to each other. Sihtric would give everything for and to you. As far as he was concerned, the universe began and ended in you and at your feet he would worship. And there had never been a moment in which you doubted his devotion to you or Astra.
“Go say hello to your ma, little one,” Sihtric said softly to Astra.
“Okay, papa,” she giggled as she crawled off his lap while you knelt down.
It was not the first time she had referred to him as such, but it touched your soul every time you heard it. Sihtric looked to you immediately to make sure you did not think to correct her. He was not deluding himself into thinking his presence in Astra’s life could erase all the bad. But he knew, without a doubt, that she was his. From the moment he first held her in his arms, she was his girl and there was no argument he would listen to.
Your darling girl ran into your waiting arms. She was giggling, as she had done since your arrival in Coccham. She was happier than she had ever been. She felt more peaceful.
“Mama, mama, papa is making me an axe,” she told you excitedly.
“Oh is he?” you asked, raising an eyebrow as you looked up to Sihtric. He blushed brightly, especially when Uhtred and Finan began to tease him for being in trouble.
“M-my love, I only,” he said, beginning to attempt an explanation.
“She will need an axe if she is going to be on my shield wall one day,” Uhtred told you, grinning from ear to ear. He stood from his seat, drumming a bit on the table, before he jogged over to you and Astra. “And if there is one thing my Little Star will be it is an excellent warrior.”
You watched as Uhtred picked her up and put her on his shoulders. She squealed and giggled until she was settled on her perch.
“If you are teaching her, then I consider myself lucky to have such a warrior in my home,” you said, standing, while grinning ear to ear. “Perhaps she will be knowledgeable enough to teach our next child.” You looked directly at Sihtric as you said ‘our’.
“Our next ten,” he said back to you. He was still blushing a bit, but he enjoyed these moments.
“And you shall birth them all? If it is up to me, you get five,” you said to him.
“You would give me five more children?” he asked excitedly. You could practically see him buzzing.
“Should you decide to take me as your wife,” you said nonchalantly, shrugging to him as you walked over to the table he sat at.
Once you were in his reach, his arm wrapped around you, hand resting on your hip. There was no hesitation from either of you as Sihtric pulled you onto his lap and you wrapped your arms around him.
At first, you had withheld from such public affection. You were only a few months a widow, you felt as though there was some need to respect your loss. But, when your husband had been so cruel to everyone around him and Sihtric was such a soft presence, you lasted perhaps a week before you made your affections clear.
“You honor me, my love,” he said softly. “To think you have already blessed me with one, and are willing to bless me with more. One would be a fool to deny the chance to be your husband.”
You kissed his cheek. It was truly simple with him. There was no darkness. Only love and warmth flowed between you both.
“You will make sure she is careful?” you asked him, bringing the conversation back to the idea of Astra getting an axe.
“Of course, my love,” he confirmed to you. “You know nothing means more to me than the safety of my girls.”
It was less than a month later that you were married. Sihtric made sure it was everything you dreamt of it, everything you were not afforded the first time around. He was watching as you danced with Astra. He loved both of you more than anyone had loved two people.
“Congratulations,” Uhtred said as he sat next to Sihtric. “You will make a fine husband.”
“Thank you, Lord,” he said, smiling. His eyes went between you and Uhtred rapidly, wanting to make sure you never disappeared.
“I see our Little Star got a hold of your hair,” Uhtred smirked as he grabbed a drink. Sihtric’s hand moved to his head, where there was a tiny braid in his hair.
“There is no finer braider in all of England,” he said. “Finan has offered to keep her tonight.”
“Did he tell you Osferth and I were asked to come too?” Uhtred chuckled.
“He did, Lord,” Sihtric laughed, taking a drink of his ale. He sat the cup down, looking to his Lord, his friend. “I want her to be mine.”
“She already is,” Uhtred said. “Nobody will deny that.”
“No, I mean....I want Astra to be just as the children of my blood. I want her to inherit, I want to be responsible for her. Entirely. And should she and my wife allow, I want to give her my name,” Sihtric said.
Uhtred could see a determination on his friend’s face that he had not quite seen before. It shone through in a burning heat. He lived for the family he had with you now. No oath superseded his oath to the two of you, and none ever would.
“Should they wish it, it is done. I will make it known Astra is to be no different than any child of your blood,” he promised his friend. “Now, go dance with your wife. Take her to bed. We will keep our Little Star.”
With a clap on the shoulder, Sihtric stood from the table and began to work his way through crowd to you. You were twirling Astra around, making her laugh and laugh. He could not imagine a more perfect life for himself.
Sihtric chuckled when Astra noticed him and ran into his legs. He knew she was his. She was meant to be his daughter. He could not be bothered by something as trivial as blood. He, of all people, knew family was not limited to blood. Family was created by love, and he loved her enough to create a universe.
Then there was you, his dear wife. He thought you looked stunning in your dress, the deep red color feeling like the physical representation of his love for you. You were more than he could have ever dreamed of. All of his life, he wanted to be what his father wasn’t. A good, honorable man who stayed for his family and loved his wife. A man worthy of love and respect.
And he realized that’s exactly how you saw him.
“Hello, my love,” you said to him when you saw him.
“Are you talking to me?” he asked teasingly, picking Astra up when she stopped dancing.
“Yes, my love. Though, perhaps you would much prefer my husband,” you said, smirking.
“Aye. After all, I will never call you anything but my wife again,” he said and rubbed his nose against Astra’s cheek.
“Hehe papa,” she said as she hugged him tightly. “I love you.”
Sihtric could feel his heart skip a beat. She had called him papa for months at this point, that was no surprise. But, Astra had not told him she loved him. And there was something so precious about hearing it.
“I love you, little one,” he said softly, pressing his lips against her forehead.
You smiled at the two of them. You wanted to hold this moment in your mind for the rest of your life. Capture it, freeze it for all of eternity, something you could hold onto and remember love.
“Now little one, Uncle Finan is excited to start your time together. Your ma and I will see you in the morning,” he told her as he sat her down.
“UNCLE FINAN I AM COMING!” Astra shouted as she ran off through the crowd.
Every person parted to let her through, allowing your eyes to follow her path to Finan. She was loved by most any in town. Her personality was loud and bright enough so that everyone knew her. Of course, it helped that she was always right by your side, and you were always close to Sihtric.
And you knew, at least within the confines of the town walls, she was safe to move about. Most everyone would agree that harming a child is egregious. Everyone agreed that harming your child was the fastest way to ensure a brutal death by the hands of Sihtric, and a quick one by Uhtred and Finan. Even Osferth, sweet Osferth, would pray for his God’s forgiveness as he took the life of anyone who would lay a finger on Astra. She was loved, she was safe. For the first time in her life she did not flinch when she was more than an inch from your skirts.
“Being my wife suits you,” Sihtric told you, drawing your eyes from Finan and Astra to him.
He looked at you with pure adoration. He worshipped you. Made certain that he loved you enough to make the bad parts of your life feel like another lifetime.
“Just as being my husband suits you,” you said to him, wrapping your arms around his neck.
His arms wrapped around your middle, pulling you tightly to him. He breathed you in, feeling overwhelmed by you. Everything about you was intoxicating to him. From your beauty, the way you smelled, the way your body pressed against his own, there was nothing that could dampen his desire of you.
“Then it seems we are in agreement,” he said.
“That it does,” you said softly, leaning forward slightly. Your lips hovered next to his ear. “And I think I would like to feel my husband.”
You felt him shudder with your words, the unmistakable hardness of his erection beginning to dig into you. It had not been difficult to get him excited these last months. Even after both of you had agreed to wait until you were married, you had enjoyed riling him up before he returned to his own home.
“I have dreamt of this night for years,” he muttered to you. “From the moment I first saw you, I knew you were mine. I dreamt of my cock sinking deep into you for hours on end.”
It was your turn now for a shiver down your spine. There was no part of you that could deny dreaming of the same thing for just as long. In the years trying to exist outside of England, the nights where you went to bed amidst yells and cheers during another fight to the death for Sigefrid’s amusement, you dreamt of his mismatched eyes. Of his sharp beauty. Of a life you now got to share with him.
You weren’t sure who broke away first between the two of you, but it wasn’t long before you were walking down the streets to his, no your, home. The home you would grow old together in, gods be good. And the two of you couldn’t keep from stopping every few feet, pulling the other for a deep, passionate kiss.
When you finally arrived at the house, he picked you up and carried you over the threshold. In fact, he did not put you down until he could place you on the bed. You had barely recognized that you were laying on it before he was hovering over you, repeatedly kissing your neck.
“Such a pretty wife,” he muttered with every kiss. You put your head back to expose more of your sensitive skin. “Have been blessed, haven’t I? Blessed by the gods to be given such a pretty wife.”
You placed a hand on the bag of his head and gripped his hair firmly. Despite the pull on his hair, you only brought him closer into you. You could feel him starting to grind himself against your thigh, desperately looking for some relief.
“Fuck, Sihtric,” you moaned out. But when his name left your lips, he nipped at your neck quickly. It took you by surprise, causing a quiet squeak to escape you.
“Be a good, pretty wife and do not use my name tonight,” he whispered in your ear.
“Such a demanding husband I have,” you teased. “So desperate to fuck me he has to rut against me like an animal.”
He groaned into your neck at your words, his right hand beginning to fumble with the fastenings of your dress. You ignored the shaking of your own hands, your need of Sihtric outweighing your nerves. This was meant to be, after all. And you had faith it would be perfect.
“Use your mouth for better things and perhaps I will let you fuck a child into me tonight,” you told him. This time it was not a groan, but a quiet whimper, that left his lips. His fingers struggled with undressing you, the way it was held to your body being more complicated than he had thought.
He pulled back entirely, sitting up on his knees as he began reaching for the knife he carried. He cut the fabric of your dress away from your body. You stared at him, eyes heavy with lust.
“Nothing but a dress, you can replace it,” he told you. You could only nod at him as he helped remove the material away completely. After a moment, the tattered remains of the dress and his knife fell together to the floor, just as quickly forgotten.
He stared at your naked form. He could not help it, truly. Everything about you was perfect for him. He leaned forward and kissed you once more, before his lips started trailing down your body. Along your jawline, down your neck, over your collarbone. He only took pause when he got to your breasts. Sihtric’s left hand began pawing at one while his lips wrapped around your nipple.
You moaned quietly as he sucked while massaging your soft flesh. Your eyes fluttered shut, whimpering every time he decided to graze your nipple with his teeth. You wanted to beg him to give you more, to pleasure your aching cunt.
He groaned to himself before pulling away from your breasts entirely, muttering a promise he would play with them more. You almost started to laugh, only for it to catch in your throat when his fingers found your slick. He smirked down at you.
“You must really enjoy this, wife,” he whispered teasingly. His fingers ran up and down your folds, deliberate in their light touching of your pearl.
“Of course, I have only dreamt of you as my husband a few dozen times now,” you told him. Your thighs trembled a bit as you resisted the urge to buck your hips into his hand.
He hummed quietly as he allowed his finger to sink into you. While you became a whimpering mess, he just slowly thrust his finger in and out. Never had you known such bliss. His finger felt thicker than you had anticipated.
“What is it, pretty wife? Cannot think through your pleasure?” he asked you, looking directly into your eyes.
Your resolve finally broke. With a moan, you allowed your hips to move to meet his hand. All you could think of was chasing your pleasure with him.
“You say I am demanding, but you are so needy,” he cooed. He pushed another finger into you, curling his fingers slightly with every thrust of them. His touch was perfectly focused on the spongy spot inside you.
“Love, my love, please, fuck, please,” you moaned. You couldn’t finish a single thought as you felt a band tightening behind your navel.
You had only experienced such a feeling with yourself. Pleasure had never been at the forefront of your life. Until now, at least, since Sihtric seemed determined to make you reach that point. He increased the speed of his fingers movements.
“Cum for me,” he practically demanded of you. His voice was quiet, meant only for your ears, but forceful in nature. “And then I’ll give you my cock. Such a good girl, you deserve it. Don’t you, my love?”
“Y-yes,” you whispered. You gripped the furs under you tightly, the edges of your vision going fuzzy.
“Deserve my cock, deserve my love. You have both, entirely, you understand?” he asked you, his thumb barely ghosting against your pearl.
“Yes, fuck, my love, my husband,” you whined pathetically. It seemed to please him, at least enough.
His thumb finally rested against the bundle of nerves, rubbing circles in time with every thrust of his fingers. The band finally snapped as you cried out, back arching off the bed. A jumbled mess of his name, husband, love, and expletives left your tongue.
You were able to watch as Sihtric removed his touch from you entirely. He brought his fingers to his lips before he sucked them clean, earning another whimper from you. And then you got to watch him undress, his shirt and pants being flung away in a matter of moments.
You weren’t entirely sure which of the gods had blessed you, but you thanked everyone of them when Sihtric stood naked before you. His toned chest and stomach was near flawless, save for a few scars earned in battle. The Thor’s hammer pendant rested against his taut chest. Your gaze washed over the grooves of his form, able to count each muscle, until they finally landed on his cock.
He was blessed even then. His heavy cock bobbed with need. When his eyes caught yours, he smirked at your hungry gaze. He was long and thick enough to make you question just how exactly you were meant to take him in entirely.
Sihtric couldn’t hide his smirk when he grabbed you by the hips and pulled your body closer to his. He groaned softly as his cock now rested against you, already collecting your slick.
“I love you,” he said to you, his voice softer than the cocky look etched on his face would have you expect.
You tried to stutter out some response before he started rubbing himself against you. Anytime the head brushed against your pearl, the feeling stole your words and sent shockwaves through your body. There was a pride he felt at already having you responding like this before having even fucked you.
“I love…fuck, fuck me, fuck I love you,” you finally managed to get out.
“Good girl, using your words,” he cooed. He moved his cock to start pressing against your entrance. “Are you going to keep being a good girl, love?”
“Yes,” you said weakly and nodded
He smiled at you. He grabbed your leg gently, hooking it on his arm, as he leaned down to bring his face closer to you. Your knee pressed against your chest while he kissed you. You melted into his kiss, your hands releasing the furs you laid up on to hold his face gently.
Your kiss only ended on account of the way he couldn’t hold back his whines and whimpers when he pushed into you. He couldn’t help the way your name left him when you took half of him without issue.
He pulled himself away to look down at your face. After a moment, he looked between your bodies and groaned when he saw you impaled on his cock.
“Fuck, such a pretty wife I have,” he muttered. “You ready for more, my love?” he asked when he reconnected your gaze.
“Yes,” you told him, nodding eagerly.
He groaned as he moved his hips forward. It was pure bliss for both of you. His cock throbbed with every thrust, your walls clenching tightly around him. Every nerve ending in both of you felt like it was on fire as your connection only grew. Sihtric watched you every second, trying to make sure it was as mind blowing for you as it was for him.
His speed increased desperately. He needed more, you needed more. Your hands roamed his body, your moans filling his ears like a beautiful song. The head of his cock kept moving against the spongy spot inside, making your thighs tremble once again.
You watched him as he thrust into you. His pendant and your breasts moved in time with his thrusts, captivating him. You could see him teetering the line of control and instinct. He wanted this to be sweet for you, to be perfect, everything you deserved. He has heard enough stories of your life to know you deserved more than to once again be used for someone else’s pleasure.
“Such a good husband already,” you told him, gripping his biceps. His gaze softened when you spoke, his hips stuttering a bit. “We have all our lives for you to make me scream your name in pleasure, do we not? “
He nodded wordlessly. His cock never once stilled in you as he watched you. He kept grunting under his breath, every noise ending in what sounded like a whine.
“Then I say tonight, I want you to finish inside of me until there is no doubt that come morning I am carrying your child,” you commanded.
His mouth hung open, his hips slowing a bit as he stared down at you. You could see him searching for any uncertainty on your face. Yet, he could search for his entire life and never find in you any doubt of him.
You couldn’t help yourself. You leaned up and took his pendant of Thor’s hammer in between your teeth before looking directly into his eyes. His thrusts picked up in speed, going harder and deeper than before.
He closed the gap between you, his lips coming next to your ear as he finally released your leg. On one side all you could hear a symphony of skin slapping against skin as he fucked you at an almost bruising intensity. In the other, he began to whimper and whine for you.
“Pretty wife, amazing mother,” he whispered in your ear, punctuating each word with a thrust of his hips. He was throbbing inside you and you could feel just how close he was. The way he twitched and pushed against you, his weight pressing into your chest, the band started to tighten again.
“Already a desperate man for you,” he grunted. You were incapable of getting any sound to leave your mouth. All you could do was focus on his word, his sounds, his movements. He was all you knew to be true in this moment.
“Can’t wait to see you pregnant. Probably prettier, round with child and tits swollen with milk. Fuck,” he said to you as his hips started stuttering more frequently.
Your orgasm overcame you finally, causing you to cry out his name. You were barely aware of his whisperings still in your ear.
“That’s a good girl, fuck, yes, my pretty wife,” he practically growled in your ear. Finally, his thrusts stopped, his cock buried inside you as he released ropes of hot cum into you. Sihtric let out a sound with every throb.
You were trembling when he pulled himself from you, breathing heavily. Carefully, he maneuvered the furs out from under your body before carefully covering you both. You moved closer to him and laid your head on his chest. His arm wrapped around you, holding you as though he was terrified of you walking out the door.
You laid there in silence for several moments, basking in the way you felt. With being given from your father to Sigefrid, you had never known much of love or safety. You had never really known kindness. You had feared for so long that the violence and chaos both of them had brought into their lives and halls would haunt you forever.
Yet, laying here in Sihtric’s arms, you almost couldn’t remember how they made you feel. He made you feel so powerful, so loved, so worshipped beyond belief that you would now go days without thinking of the horrors of your past. Even Astra seemed to feel nothing but safety and love.
You turned your face to look at him. He was looking happily down at you, a cheesy, lazy little grin splashed on his face. You were certain nothing could get better than this.
“I love you,” you said softly. “Especially your eyes.”
He rolled them, yet the smile never faded. “Which is your favorite?” he asked.
“Oh no, that is like trying to choose a favorite mountain, or snowflake. Each so unique, so special, one would be an ignorant fool to pick a favorite,” you told him, smiling up at him. “Luckily, I do not have to. I get to enjoy them until I die.”
“Oh? And if I die before you?” he teased, kissing your forehead.
“You are not allowed. I cannot let you walk into Valhalla without me there to greet you, even if that means I will need to pick up an axe again,” you said simply. It was your truth. “I have spent my entire life waiting for the love you give me. You are not allowed to ever make me live without it again, husband.”
Sihtric tried to hide it, but you could see him wiggle just a bit, his smile spread further, when you addressed him as husband. In the moments past, he was too distracted by lust. But now it was sinking in, for both of you, and you felt just as joyful as him.
“Of course, wife. I would not dare leave you to raise our ten children alone,” he said, smirking as you laughed.
“I believe I said five more,” you told him, raising an eyebrow.
“I believe Freyja will bless us with a small army, as much as I plan to bury my cock in you,” he told you, kissing your forehead. “Speaking of.”
Sihtric smirked before kissing you again, pulling you on top of him. You felt your laugh rumble in your chest as you couldn’t help but kiss him back.
You were finally no longer a bargaining chip.
Taglist: @sihtricfedaraaahvicius @gemini-mama @alexagirlie
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Honestly at this point it's our own fault for expecting to not be disappointed by theses chapters apperantly hori can only gives good moments to irrelevant characters therefor said moments are also irrelavent and don't have the impact they would have if given to someone that mattered
I've come to not expect anything else really anytime hori does something axtuly good it's followed by a million not (his characters and stories have so much potential and there all wasted like way are fanfics so much more impact full than the main story 😢
Although I'm a little confused as to what happened to the todorokis?
The leaks came in truly bad quality this week, but even so, it's evident that Hori is still trying to "hide" what happened fully.
All we know for sure is:
Endeavor and Shoto were awake enough to respond to the back-up call and come through the portals (this to me is not a surprise. Shoto especially is in relatively good condition. He only overstretched his quirk but had time for cooldown).
They come from two different portals, but at the same time to do a Flashfire Fist to drive back AFO away from Izuku. (It's a pretty basic move for both of them, and not very powerful, and it maybe because they are down to the last scraps or because of the crowd, they can't do AoE moves).
And then there is this cryptic flashback:
It looks like the robots are putting Rei (?) on a stretcher, while Natsuo is still moving. Toya is hidden. Using pikahlua's TL because the scanlation look inaccurate:
"Quickly, to where Recovery Girl is...!" "The old lady is also at her limit with injured persons... Whether or not anything can be done..."
-> This could refer to either Rei or Toya (or likely both) - basically implying that they are in critical condition and the family is trying to get them to Recovery Girl...
Then Natsuo says - I think talking to specifically to Enji (because he uses "anta") and not to Shoto:
"Even with you here, mom and the others will only be hot."
This confirms pretty much that Toya is there too.
Enji hesitated whether to take the portal or go with his family.
Natsuo basically says that there is nothing Enji can do and his presence could be even harmful - implying that Enji is still overheated (which if you look at both Shoto's and Endeavor's pupilless eyes makes me wonder if they absorbed a lot of Toya's heat)
"So go. Even if it's [just] a little, if you can muster [any] strength..."
Even if it's just a litte is written over Enji's panel, which may imply that he's on his last fumes and his presence here is not necessarily to boost the fight, but for whatever narrative conclusion purpose
if you can muster [any] power - this part is on Shoto's panel. As the Japanese uses "chikara", as in the famous "kimi no chikara" moment between Deku and Shoto, I'm guessing it foreshadows a more powerful attack from Shoto at a later stage (which could include a quirk upgrade if he absorbed Toya's heat - it would make sense or it could include a combo with Toya if he'll show up, which I have a strong feeling he will).
So I think the important thing is that Toya's fate, just like Toga's is left in limbo, as well as there is a strong sense that the Todorokis are running here on fumes, just like everyone else.
My personal feeling is that Hori is setting up a quite hopeless fight with a moment where the star arrivals to the battlefield will be the LoV (possibly because Kurogiri decides that this is the boost Tomura needs), and it will be the tipping point to bring Tomura back who will be essential in stopping / defeating AFO together with Deku (and maybe the other Origins - Bakugou and Shoto).
Bringing in the LoV would achieve tying in the efforts to save Toga and Toya (and Spinner) into the final main conflict, tying together Deku reaching Tenko's/Tomura's fused desire to be the hero of the villains and also for the civilians to see the villains fight against the big bad. It could also foster final conclusion of the big character arcs, including for Enji, Toya and Shoto.
#c1a asks#bnha manga spoilers#bnha manga leaks#bnha 421#bnha speculation#tracking the fight#keeping up with the todorokis#bnha meta
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What You've Done, You Cannot Undo (Medieval AU)
Chapter 3
Dew feels guilty, Rain screws up.
Rating: M now, to be safe
Content: side character death, minor descriptions of violence, flashbacks, peril
Words: 2253
Link to all chapters with associated tags: Tumblr | AO3
hi hi @revengeghoulette here's your alert! and @everybodyshusband you seemed very keen haha!
Read below, or on AO3!
Dew stomped along the path surrounding their fields. The warm sun overhead taunted him, it's rays full of promise and life while he felt only cold and empty inside. He knew he'd been too harsh on Rain, deep down, but he'd have to be threatened with banishment to the pit to admit that. Dewdrop refused to allow himself to feel guilty; that was a slippery slope of self-hatred he knew he wouldn't be able to crawl back up from. He knew he could be short-tempered, and he harboured enough resentment of his own that it was bound to overflow into his actions.
Rain seemed to have had things so much easier than him though, it wasn't fair. From the day he arrived he had bonded with the others in a way Dew had struggled to. They would chitter and purr at Rain for the slightest thing, whereas they had remained suspicious of him for ages. Dew was self-aware enough however to realize that he hadn't helped his case by hissing and growling at his packmates for the smallest thing.
That didn't mean it didn't hurt. Rain got a lot of leeway for being young, the others quick to write off his transgressions as ignorance rather than malice, but they forgot Dew was young too. Despite presenting himself as world-wise and experienced, he was closer in age to Rain than he was to any of the rest of his packmates. He'd worked hard to rewrite his time before Aether and Mountain found him, both the most difficult and most sheltered parts, but he couldn't erase their impact.
He continued his mission uphill, to the base of a large oak tree that overlooked their whole farm and surrounding area. Smoke curled from the chimneys of houses in the village in the distance, and a multicoloured patchwork of fields spread out around them. Following the path in the opposite direction, Dew could just make out the dark speck of Rain walking to Farmer Wilkins’. He was stubborn, not taking Dew's constant snipes to heart, Dew had to grudgingly respect that. He watched until Rain turned a corner and was lost from sight.
~~~~~~~
On the walk over, Rain was also enjoying the warm weather as he followed the stream. There was barely a cloud in the sky, the open blue expanse painted with faint white wisps reached as far as the eye could see. Rain could see why his help was needed: the summer had stretched on for several glorious months, and the ground beneath his feet was showing signs of cracking from lack of rainfall. A gentle breeze worked to sweep the cobwebs that still clung tightly to his dream and Dew's comments from his mind.
Arriving at the farm with sweat beginning to bead on his forehead from the heat, Rain was greeted by Farmer Wilkins, sat out on his porch. He was a jovial man, round and ruddy faced, with a vigour for life that defied his advancing age. Rain didn't know him well, but he was a regular down at the village tavern and always had a spare word or smile for Swiss when he passed by.
“Good mornin’, Rain! I didn’t expect to see you so soon, please, sit down. My daughter Marina’s preparing some elderflower cordial against this hot weather. We can wait ‘til you’re rested to begin!”
Rain awkwardly accepted the proffered seat on the porch bench, glad for the shaded spot after the heat of his walk. He heard light footsteps approaching, and looked up to see a young woman emerge from the cottage holding a tray of glasses and a jug of pale liquid.
Her dark hair fluttered around her pretty face in the breeze, and Rain gasped feeling as though he’d been shot in the chest: she was the spitting image of his childhood sweetheart. From the gentle wave in her ebony hair to the asymmetric dimples in her cheeks as she smiled at him in greeting, they could have been twins if not for her obvious humanity.
Noticing Rain’s slack-jawed stare, the farmer chuckled good-naturedly.
“Quite a looker, ain’t she Son! Don’t be getting any funny ideas, she’s engaged to the lad down the road. Childhood sweethearts, they were!”
Rain was struck by the similarities to his own previous life. In another world, his water ghoulette’s father could have spoken of him like that. Instead, Rain had the distinct impression that he had been glad to see Rain leave.
Feeling as though he was watching himself behind glass, Rain accepted a drink with shaky hands. Marina rolled her eyes at his stuttered thanks, but smiled kindly at him as she headed back inside. Luckily, the farmer seemed happy to keep the conversation moving all by himself, leaving Rain to nod in what he hoped were the appropriate places. He sipped his drink in an attempt to replace the moisture in his mouth, which was now as dry as sand. Moving his limbs to raise the glass, Rain felt like he was pulling at the strings of a marionette puppet.
Once Farmer Wilkins had exhausted his supply of one-sided small talk, the pair headed out to the fields, beginning with the one closest behind the house. Here, the corn grew luscious and tall: Mountain did a stellar job encouraging the crop earlier in the season. Rain had tagged along that day, watching as Mountain pressed his palms to the ground to imbue it with his own magical energy.
Now Rain stood in the field without the earth ghoul by his shoulder, feeling alone and detached. He sensed the eager eyes of the farmer watching him, the intense interest making Rain’s knees begin to tremble anxiously. He took a deep breath, and copied what he had done before with Mountain, what he had seen and heard Aether do a hundred times.
Raising his arms out in front of him, palms to the sky, Rain closed his eyes and called out,
“Ancient Spirits! Bless this land, that it be free from drought and pestilence.” he swept his arms around a bit, then turned his palms to the ground. “Gracious Earth, protect these bountiful crops so they may feed us another year.”
Rain winced at how fake it all felt, like he was just going through the motions, and the flowery language rang false in his ears. He cracked his eyes open and saw the farmer – along with half a dozen or so curious farmhands who had downed tools to stare – watching in barely concealed fascination. He squeezed his eyes shut again, waved his arms around a final time in what he hoped was a convincing manner, and went silent as he tried to connect with his element. Rain knew the others could control their power while talking and moving, but he still struggled without devoting his complete concentration to it.
He felt the motion of the water in the stream at the foot of the field, the weight of the droplets in the few scraps of cloud overhead. Flexing his fingers, Rain imagined drawing them in, encouraging them towards the field. He sensed the flowing rivulets of water from the creek begin to channel through the ground, moistening the dry soil around the roots of the crops. The clouds above thickened imperceptibly with the promise of future raindrops.
As Rain felt the water begin to do his bidding, he opened his eyes again to ensure that none of his changes were visible to the small audience of humans. From day one, Aether had instilled the value of plausible deniability into Rain. He insisted it was the most important part of using their elemental connections outside of ghoulish colonies, that they should never give the humans too much evidence of their power and should always leave them with a rational explanation.
As the light flooded his retinas, he saw her standing there: Marina was hovering behind her father's shoulder, watching Rain work with a curious smile and her uncannily familiar dimples. Rain choked on his breath as the sharp stab of longing for his lost future caused him to double over. The pain coursed through his veins and as it did so, Rain felt it cross over with his call to the water. Unbidden, he felt the shock and subsequent rush of emotions transfer into the water he was drawing in, reacting to the ache he had taught himself to supress.
The wisps of feathery clouds he had been coaxing to coalesce now slammed into each other as though pulled by a magnetic force. More water joined from seemingly nowhere, until the clouds hung dark grey and pregnant above the field. Unable to stop the flow of emotionally charged elemental power, Rain watched in horror as the water from the creek rose up, bursting its banks and rushing uphill in an unstoppable tidal wave of water. It reached higher than the stalks of corn, barrelling towards the assembled crowd and flattening the crops indiscriminately. He tried frantically to cut the connection and stop the flow, but with no success.
Rain's panic began to grow, only adding to the ferocity of the water, and the clouds took this as their sign to drop their contents onto those gathered below. The deluge of raindrops hit at the same time as the towering wall of water did, knocking Rain to his feet as he screamed out for the flood of both water and emotions to stop assaulting his body and mind. As the water covered his face, he felt his gills burst free and his glamour dissolve. Rain fought against the water as it dragged him further up the field and back towards the cottage.
To his horror, he saw a flash of dark hair dragged past him. The currents of his own creation slammed the girl against the stone wall of the farmhouse and pinned her there, suspended in a grotesque position, until eventually releasing her to crumple limply into the churning water below. Rain barely had time to process what he was seeing, before he heard a shattering of glass as another farmhand, a boy from the village who could barely have been fifteen, was thrown through the glass roof of a greenhouse. The rain that was still pouring down on them did nothing to dilute the obvious red of the blood spreading through the water.
The tidal wave finally retreated down the field, revealing the destruction left in its wake as it did so. The body of another farmhand emerged from the frothing stream, lifeless without the swirling of the water to animate it. Those remaining staggered to their feet, screaming out in terror. At seeing the carnage and bodies scattered across the field, they turned their anger on Rain. Feeling all the eyes on him, Rain took off running with no heed for where he was heading. Farmer Wilkins let out a howl of anguish as he cradled his daughter's mangled corpse, turning into a roar of anger directed at Rain. The farmhands left alive scrabbled for their abandoned tools scattered by the currents and gave chase, baying for Rain's blood.
As Rain hurled himself down the road, he realised too late that he was heading straight for the centre of town. The noise of the men chasing him attracted the attention of the occupants of the houses he fled past until a small mob was following him, figurative and literal pitchforks raised. Half-crazed, with fear threatening to paralyse him if he paused, Rain kept on running. Lungs burning, he kept pumping his legs as fast as they would go. His feet were now fully unglamoured and the excess webbing between his toes made his shoes feel too small. Every step was agony and yet he knew if he stopped, he was as good as dead.
Rain's mind started to swim, his actions and their consequences catching up with him making him feel dizzy and nauseous. With his tail now caught in his trousers, his balance was almost entirely gone. He felt his foot catch on a loose stone and as he went flying, he knew it was all over. Rain hit the sandy ground hard, all the breath knocked out of him. His eyes frantically swivelled left and right as he scrabbled backwards. Seeing double, Rain stared through the cloud of dust he had kicked up at the crowd bearing down on him. He registered the approaching shovel only as it slammed into the side of his head, stars flashing across his vision before everything went black.
~~~~~~~
From his seat under the tree, Dew was close to dozing off when something caught his attention. He watched in confusion as dark clouds appeared and raced across the sky, before combining together over one field. The air underneath them rippled with falling waves of the torriential rain falling from them. Dewdrop realised a few things simultaneously: firstly, those clouds weren't natural. Dew knew enough about elemental magic to recognise it when he saw it. Secondly, that amount of rain was dangerous and sure to catch the attention of the townsfolk, especially given the recent stretch of warm weather. Lastly, he realised in horror that the clouds were centred directly over the very field Rain had gone to that morning.
Dew leapt to his feet and took off running back to the farmhouse. This was it; all of their worst fears come to life. Their cover was well and truly blown and Dew had to get to the others.
#what you've done you cannot undo#cw angst#cw death#cw violence#mild but still there#the band ghost#nameless ghouls#foot of the gallows marriage#medieval au#historical au#enemies to lovers#ghost#ghost bc#dewdrop ghoul#rain ghoul#ghost fanfiction#raindrop month#em writes
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The confines of a story
Any time you play a game, you need to know the rules. A puzzle has a border, you can't smash the pieces into a spot they don't fit with a hammer (I mean, you can, but it won't look right when you're done), etc.
My mental assumptions are that we are following the rules of stories as told in both novel form and video form. I'm not going to list ALL the rules associated with storytelling in both forms, because whole books and classes have been written about them and the parameters are way too big.
How do I know these rules? Well, I write novels, too. I'm not Neil Gaiman, (and I'm not going to go so far as to say I'm anywhere near his level, looking at you, Magic Trick OP), but the people who've read my books say they like them, so I think I do okay? I never went to school for any of it, but the library was and is my best friend, and I've read as many books and taken as many workshops as I can on this topic. Am I an expert? Nah. I know some stuff. There's always more to know.
So anyhow, some rules:
Rule one: the story has to be generally satisfying and not make people feel betrayed or angry. Hurt is fine, angry at the characters is fine, tricked is fine, but the reader can't feel betrayed or totally let down by the author at the end of the story. It's impossible to avoid this entirely, but most people in general have to agree that the story isn't a betrayal of the reader. The author needs to keep faith with their reader as best they can.
Rule two: in mysteries, all the cards need to be on the table at some point. Misdirection or downplaying of important information or use of double-meaning words are totally fair tactics, but the answer has to be there to be sussed out by a clever observer. (I got really mad when I tried to read murder mysteries for a little while. I figured this rule out very quickly on my own, and I could always spot the killer by the end of the second chapter. I gave up on murder mysteries. HOWEVER, another author I admire wrote a classic murder mystery-style book, and when I spotted the killer in chapter two like always, she had arranged matters so that the killer's motive was shrouded in deep mystery. I burned through that book to find out WHY he dunnit, and when the main character helped the killer escape at the end, I was troubled but satisfied.) But mah point is, all the pieces to the puzzle need to come in the box.
Rule three: (which isn't really a rule so much as an observation and something I myself struggle with), writing fiction can be very hard because people are naturally not good at knowing that other people do not know what they know. You know? Psychological studies have shown that when a person knows something, like where an object is, they develop this sort of assumption that the object's location is OBVIOUS, or that other people also know where the object is or can easily guess it, no matter how hard a time they had guessing it themselves before they were told. So not only do newer writers sometimes struggle to maintain what various characters do and don't know at different times in a story, readers can also struggle with the same thing. Gotta keep your eyes peeled for what information each character actually has, and also keep in mind how easy it is to be fooled when you think you have all the facts. I notice Neil and John taking advantage of this in Good Omens a lot -- the lies that Crowley and Aziraphale tell to the other angels and demons seem really obvious -- but that's because we know they are lying and what they're lying about. When we are lied to, we fall for it as easily as those angels and demons, because we assume we know what's going on. Watch out!
Rule four: you can't break the rules. If you're going to make a wild, avant garde, ground-breaking story, that's pretty much the whole point of the entire story. Twists are fine, emphasizing or de-emphasizing expected tropes or ideas is fine, subverting a trope is fine. Otherwise, you have to stick to ideas, formats, plots, structures, etc., that have come before. For example, just as I started seeing metas about the POV characters in Good Omens 2 jumping around, I had remembered an episode of the X-Files from way back where an "alien landing" is told from three characters' perspectives. When told from the POV of the alien conspiracy-believing kid, the story gets really weird with all kinds of wild things happening. When told from doubting Scully's perspective, it gets very boring and mundane. POV jumping is nothing ground-breakingly new. There won't be anything ground-breakingly new.
Rule five: it has to make sense. Mark Twain once said, "Of course truth is stranger than fiction. Fiction has to make sense." Once upon a time, a friend of mine who liked to embellish stories told me all about his new fiancee, who he'd met and proposed to all in a few months, who was head over heels for him, a gorgeous red-head, one of triplets. I never met this mystery woman, and then one day he called me to tell me she had died very suddenly and dramatically. I had my suspicions that she wasn't even real in the first place, so I made consoling noises and asked him when and where the funeral was so I could be there for him. I expected to be put off, told some crazy reason why there wouldn't be a funeral or it hadn't been planned yet and I would somehow mysteriously not hear about it until it was over. Instead, he gave me a date and location immediately. I was taken aback. I was even more taken aback when I arrived at the funeral to meet this woman's family, including the remaining red-headed pair from her triplet set, and hear all about what a whirlwind romance she'd had with my friend. If that had been a novel, I would have shut the book and told the author to give me a break. Books and TV and movies and plays can't push the consumers' credulity too much. Readers have to maintain their willingness to suspend their disbelief. It can't get too crazy. What's too crazy? Hard to say, it's kind a of a "I'll know it if I see it" sort of thing. And some people are certainly more willing to go along with something wild than others. The author can only try their best to maintain faith. To tell a story that can be believed.
Anyhow, I dunno if that's helpful at all, but it's sort of the litmus test I'm using to gage all my questions and theories. And what I'm using to shuffle in the metas and theories I like from others.
#long explanation#this is how my brain works for any who are curious#good omens#good omens 2#good omens fan theory#searching out the ineffable mystery#the rules of the game
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A Cowboy for Clementine - An Elvis Presley AU Cowboy Fanfic
Summary: Clementine looked to Elvis, her expression coolly determined. "If there's nothing else, I'll go unpack and change. See you at the barn."
With that, Elvis turned on his heel and strode off, spurs jingling. Clementine released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Lord, what had she gotten herself into? Wrangling cattle was one thing. Wrangling a surly cowboy with an itchy trigger finger and an apparent grudge was quite another. She had a feeling this Elvis Presley would prove as untamed as the land itself.
Word count: 26,000 (first four chapters)
Chapter 1
The stagecoach lurched and swayed as it wound its way through the rugged mountain pass. Inside, Clementine Olivetti gripped the worn leather seat, her knuckles white from the effort. She peered out the dust-caked window at the forbidding landscape rolling by—jagged peaks, skeletal trees, sun-baked earth. A far cry from the cobblestone streets and genteel townhouses of New York.
What am I doing out here? Clementine thought, not for the first time since beginning this journey west. Traveling across the country to take ownership of some rustic ranch she'd never laid eyes on, bequeathed by an uncle she barely knew. It was rash, reckless even. Very out of character for the practical, level-headed Clementine. A girl who always had a plan.
But perhaps that was precisely the point. To do something unexpected, impulsive for once. To break free from the comfortable confines of her predictable city life. There was a certain romantic notion to it all—a young woman striking out on her own to start anew in the untamed frontier. Like something out of the dime novels she and her best friend Bonnie used to giggle over late at night.
Bonnie Mae Blakely. Her vivacious partner in crime since childhood. The yin to Clementine's yang—bold where she was cautious, impetuous where she was measured. They had shared so many dreams and secrets over the years. When Clementine told her about the surprise inheritance, Bonnie had squealed and hugged her fiercely.
"Oh Clemmie, it's just like a storybook! A rugged ranch out west, waiting for a plucky heroine to make it her own. Promise you'll write and tell me every adventure! And maybe I'll even come visit once you're all settled."
Clementine smiled at the memory, picturing Bonnie's pretty face alight with excitement. In truth, having her friend's unconditional support had given Clementine the courage to undertake this journey. To believe she could reinvent herself and start fresh, even without any family left to tether her to New York.
Her parents had passed on years ago and she had no siblings. Just an uncle out west she scarcely remembered from childhood. The letter from the lawyer informing her of Uncle Ned's death and his bequeathing of Windy Creek Ranch had come as a shock. Almost as much as his written words, which she now withdrew from her handbag to read once more:
"Dearest Clementine,
If you are reading this, then I am gone and the Good Lord has finally called me home. I regret that I did not make more of an effort to be a presence in your life. But know that not a day went by that I did not think of you and wish for your happiness.
I leave to you my most prized possession: the Windy Creek Ranch. Six hundred and forty acres of prime grazing land nestled in the heart of cattle country. It isn't much to look at, but it has potential. Like a rare gem in the rough just waiting to be polished. I built this spread from nothing, with just grit and determination. I know you have that same strength within you.
There is a small town close by called Crossroads. You'll be able to purchase any supplies there and the townsfolk are generally amiable. But be warned, there have been rumors lately of cattle rustlers and claim jumpers looking to prey on the local ranches. Trust your instincts and keep your wits about you.
I wish I could be there to guide you as you begin this new chapter. But I take comfort knowing the ranch is in capable hands. Take care of it and it will take care of you. Never forget, you are my niece. We are made of tougher stuff than most.
Yours, Uncle Ned"
Clementine folded up the letter, blinking back tears. She barely remembered Uncle Ned—a grizzled, wild-eyed man who would occasionally blow into town like a tumbleweed, his clothes smelling of leather and horses and endless sky. Her father's eldest brother. A dreamer. An adventurer. Everything her straight-laced father was not... and did not approve of. The brothers had a falling out when Clementine was just a girl and Ned rode off into the sunset, never to return.
She used to envy his freedom, his daring. While her days were filled with needlework and piano lessons, she imagined Uncle Ned out there living a thrilling life. Herding cattle, exploring the wilderness, sitting around a campfire under a canopy of stars. It all seemed terribly romantic to her younger self.
But as she grew older, Clementine came to accept her lot. Became the obedient daughter, always striving to please, to fit the mold of a proper young lady, accepting decisions made for her and on her own behalf. She buried those yearnings for adventure deep down where they couldn't hurt her. Convinced herself that she was content with her sensible, uneventful existence.
Until that letter arrived and reawakened something within her. A spark. A hunger for more that she could no longer ignore. It was high time Clementine Olivetti started living life on her own terms. Even if that meant venturing into the unknown wilds of cattle country to claim her unexpected inheritance—a ranch that would be hers and hers alone. The prospect both thrilled and terrified her.
The stagecoach hit a particularly deep rut, jolting Clementine from her musings. She clutched her carpet bag closer and said a silent prayer that her worldly possessions would survive the journey intact.
As if reading her thoughts, the driver called out, "Almost there, miss! Crossroads is just up ahead."
Clementine's heart rate quickened. This was it. No turning back now. She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and prepared to meet her destiny. Whatever that may be.
The stagecoach rumbled down the main thoroughfare of Crossroads, kicking up clouds of dust in its wake. Clementine peered out at the rustic frontier town, all wooden storefronts and hitching posts. Rough-hewn men ambled down the street in dungarees and cowboy hats. Bonneted women swept front porches and corralled children. A distant clang rang out from the blacksmith and the mouthwatering scent of baking bread wafted on the breeze. Quaint yet industrious. A town where everyone knew everyone else's business and no secret stayed buried for long.
The coach rolled to a stop and the driver hopped down to assist Clementine. A few coins were plunked into his hand. She stepped out into the bright sunlight, stretching her travel-weary limbs. Her legs wobbled a bit, unaccustomed to solid ground after so many hours.
"Miss Olivetti?" a voice inquired. Clementine turned to see a short, wiry man hurrying toward her, his bald pate gleaming.
"Yes, I'm Clementine Olivetti," she replied.
"Hezekiah Gruber, attorney at law," he said, pumping her hand enthusiastically. "We exchanged telegrams about your inheritance. My condolences for your loss."
"Thank you, Mr. Gruber. It was a shock to us all."
"Your uncle was one of a kind, that's for sure. Now then, I imagine you're eager to get out to the ranch and take possession. I won't keep you but let's get your signature on a few documents at my office to make it all official-like."
Clementine followed him down the creaking wooden sidewalk to the lawyer's storefront, noting the curious glances directed her way. She was used to it—a fashionable girl with a funny surname drew attention even back east. She could only imagine the gossip her arrival would stir up here.
"Here we are," said Gruber, ushering her into his cluttered office. "Won't take but a minute to get you squared away."
He shuffled some papers on his desk and handed Clementine a pen. She dutifully signed her name on the dense lines of legalese, the gravity of the moment not lost on her. With a few strokes of ink, she was now the rightful owner of Windy Creek Ranch. Her future.
"It's all yours, Miss Olivetti," said Gruber, blotting the documents. "I'll file these with the deed office today. In the meantime, let's get you on your way to your new home. I'll have Jebediah bring 'round the rig."
"The rig?" asked Clementine, perplexed.
"For your baggage. Unless you were planning to carry those trunks to the ranch yourself?"
Clementine blushed. Of course. This wasn't New York where deliveries arrived directly at one's doorstep. What would Bonnie say if she could see her now, preparing to rattle off in a dusty wagon toward an uncertain future? Probably clap her hands in glee and tell her it was the start of a grand adventure, the kind they'd always dreamed of having.
"Much obliged, Mr. Gruber," Clementine managed, her smile bittersweet. "I'm afraid I have a lot to learn about life out here."
"You'll get the hang of it," he assured. "Now remember, if you run into any trouble out there at Windy Creek, you just send word. I've been looking out for the place since your uncle took ill. I'd hate to see it fall into the wrong hands."
Something in his tone gave Clementine pause. Was that a note of warning? But before she could inquire further, Gruber had ushered her out into the dazzling daylight where a rickety wagon waited.
A grizzled old man sat hunched on the bench. He squinted at Clementine and gave a gap-toothed grin. "All aboard for Windy Creek Ranch!"
Trepidation pricked at her insides but Clementine forced a smile, determined to meet each new challenge with pluck and poise. She clambered up beside Jebediah, her trunk secured in the wagon bed.
"Much obliged," she told the driver. He clicked his tongue and snapped the reins. The mules lurched forward and they set off at a bone-rattling pace. Clementine gripped the sideboard, already regretting her choice of footwear. Perhaps button-up kid boots weren't the most practical for a cross-country trek.
The road out of town quickly turned to a rutted dirt track winding through a patchwork of ranches and farmsteads. Jebediah kept up a steady stream of chatter, pointing out local landmarks and the neighboring spreads.
As Crossroads receded behind them, the landscape opened up into a vista of endless grassland and rolling hills. Herds of cattle grazed in the distance, mere specks on the horizon. The air smelled of sage and leather and something else... of possibility.
"That there's the Circle J, belonged to old Joe Abernathy nigh on forty years 'til he passed on last spring. His boys run it now. And over yonder's the Triple Cross—biggest outfit in the county, but too big for their britches if you ask me."
She thought again of the cryptic warning from Mr. Gruber. Claim jumpers and cattle rustlers, he'd said. The untamed frontier was full of dangers she knew nothing about. As if sensing her unease, Jebediah spoke up.
"Yep, Windy Creek is a right fine piece of property. Yer uncle was real proud of what he built out there. 'Course, ranch life ain't for the faint of heart. Takes grit and know-how to make a go of it."
"I'm a quick study," replied Clementine with more confidence than she felt. "And I'm not afraid of hard work."
"That's good 'cause there'll be plenty of it," said Jebediah with a dry chuckle. "Between the repairs and the brandin' and the drives, ranch folk earn ever' penny of their keep. And that's assumin' the weather cooperates and the rustlers keep their distance."
"I've heard tell of such threats," said Clementine carefully. "Have there been many incidents hereabouts?"
"More'n there oughta be," said Jebediah. "Buncha no-good varmints that'll stop at nothing to line their own pockets. Thievin' cattle, cuttin' fences, raidin' homesteads. Even murderin' folk that get in their way."
Clementine suppressed a shudder, trying not to let her imagination run away with grisly scenarios. If only Bonnie were here to bolster her courage with a saucy quip or two. Her friend had always been the brave one, ready to take on any challenge with a laugh and a toss of her auburn curls. But Bonnie was thousands of miles away, living her own life. This was Clementine's adventure now. Her dream to chase, for better or worse.
"Still, a body can't borrow trouble," continued Jebediah. "Windy Creek's got a solid crew of hands to help you protect what's yours."
Clementine nodded, somewhat reassured. She knew there would be cowhands and ranch staff to assist her, though Uncle Ned's letter had been scarce on specifics. No matter. She would learn everyone's roles and prove herself a capable mistress. How hard could it be?
The wagon crested a hill and suddenly the breathtaking expanse of Windy Creek Ranch stretched out before them—640 acres of pristine range, just like Uncle Ned had said, framed by distant blue mountains under an endless dome of sky. Clementine's heart swelled at the sight of the whitewashed ranch house, the red-roofed barn, the towering windmill spinning lazily in the breeze. Cattle dotted the pasture, fat and healthy. Chickens pecked in the dust and a pair of ranch hands paused in their work to regard the newcomers with frank curiosity. It was more beautiful than she'd dared imagine. Raw and wild and brimming with promise. And it was all hers.
Clementine drank it in, marveling that this was all a part of her uncle's spread. Her spread now. Doubt niggled at her again. What did a city girl know about running a cattle operation? About negotiating with cowhands and driving livestock to market? There was so much to learn, so much riding on her getting this right. She couldn't afford to fail, not when Uncle Ned had entrusted her with his legacy.
As they rolled to a stop in the front yard, Clementine gathered her skirts, preparing to descend with as much dignity as possible given her ungainly boots and the long journey. But before her foot touched the running board, a rifle shot cracked the air. Clementine yelped as a bullet gouged a tree trunk mere inches from her hand.
Heart pounding, she whirled toward the source to see a tall, black-clad figure emerge from behind the water trough, his features obscured by a low-pulled Stetson. He racked the lever of his Winchester with fluid ease and took aim again.
"That's far enough," he growled, his voice rough as saddle leather. "This here's private property. State your business or hit the road."
"Don't shoot!" cried Clementine, throwing up her hands. "I'm... T-this is my ranch now. I've c-come to take possession."
The man lowered his rifle a fraction but kept it at the ready. "That so? Got any proof?"
With shaking fingers, Clementine fumbled to produce the deed from her handbag. "It's all here. Signed and notarized."
She held out the document but he made no move to take it, his stance unwavering. Clementine bristled at his rudeness. Of all the welcomes she'd imagined, being shot at by her own ranch hand was not one of them.
Jebediah, who had wisely taken cover, peeked out from behind the wagon bench. "Now Elvis, what's the big idea? This here's Miss Clementine, Old Ned’s niece and heir."
Elvis? Clementine looked again at her antagonist. Was he one of the hardworking ranch foreman Uncle Ned had spoken so highly of? He certainly hadn't mentioned the man's alarming propensity for gunplay.
"Never heard of her," said Elvis flatly. "And I ain't about to hand over the keys on the say-so of some pretty city gal. Could be anyone—a rustler scoutin' the place or worse. Ned never said nothin' 'bout no niece."
Clementine scowled at his dismissal. "Yes, well, I suspect there's quite a lot Uncle Ned neglected to mention all around. Starting with the presence of an armed squatter on my property!"
Elvis darkened at that but before he could retort, a hulking bear of a man in a sweat-stained union suit came lumbering out of the barn.
"What's all the ruckus?" he called, scratching his fiery beard. "I heard shootin'."
"Stay back, Red," ordered Elvis. "We got us a trespasser."
The big man squinted at Clementine and broke into a slow grin. "Well I'll be hogtied. If it ain't Miss Clementine in the flesh! Spittin' image of ol' Ned, ain't she? 'Specially 'round the eyes."
"You know her?" demanded Elvis.
"'Course I do! Ned's been braggin' on his pretty niece comin' to take over the place for weeks now. Clear 'fore he passed."
Red was a huge bear of a man with a shock of fiery hair and a bushy beard to match. Clementine thought he looked like he could lift a steer with one hand. He stepped forward, his face split by a friendly grin. "Pleased to meetcha, Miss Clementine. I'm Moses Redding, but everyone calls me Red on account of, well..." He gestured to his hair self-consciously.
Clementine couldn't help but return his smile. "A pleasure, Red. I look forward to working with you."
Realization dawned on Elvis' stony features. "Hellfire," he muttered. "Reckon that's my cue to start packin'."
"What on earth are you talking about?" said Clementine.
Elvis met her gaze, resigned. "Way I figure, a fine lady owner ain't gonna want the likes of me hangin' around. Know when I'm not wanted."
Comprehension clicked into place and Clementine gasped. Good lord, Uncle Ned hadn't just failed to mention a few cowhands. He'd neglected to tell her about the man living on the ranch itself! This Elvis character had obviously made himself quite at home in her absence, acting the lord of the manor. And now with her arrival, he assumed he was out of a job and a place to lay his head.
She ought to be livid at the presumption. Ought to send him packing that instant for his insolence and trigger-happy reception. But something in his defeated posture and faraway look stirred an inconvenient pang of sympathy in her breast. Curse her soft heart. As satisfying as it might be to give him his marching orders, the fact remained that Windy Creek was woefully shorthanded. She couldn't afford to lose a single man, especially not one who knew the spread top to bottom. Elvis had been Uncle Ned's right hand. It stood to reason he would be valuable in her transition to ownership, prickly attitude notwithstanding.
Clementine drew herself up, mustering an air of unruffled authority. "That won't be necessary, Mr... Elvis, was it? I've no intention of displacing anyone, provided they pull their weight. If you've been a loyal employee to my uncle, I see no reason why that should change on my watch."
Surprise and something like relief flickered across Elvis' rugged features before he could school them into impassivity. "That so?"
"It is," said Clementine firmly. "I'll need all hands on deck to keep Windy Creek thriving. Starting with a thorough tour of the premises and a briefing on daily operations. As the new owner, I plan to take a very active role in management."
Elvis looked as if he wanted to argue but thought better of it. He gave a curt nod. "Whatever you say, boss lady. Reckon we best start in the barn then. Red can see to your bags."
"Very well," she said crisply. "I'll change into suitable attire and meet you at the barn in half an hour."
Elvis looked mildly impressed by her ready acquiescence, but his expression quickly shuttered. "Suit yourself. But I should probably introduce you to the rest of the gang before you get too high on that horse of yours."
He turned and hollered over his shoulder. "Slim! Rusty! Get on over here!"
Two men materialized from various corners of the ranch yard, ambling over to join them on the porch. The first was a wiry old-timer with a weathered face and a wad of chaw bulging in his cheek. The second was a gangly youth who couldn't have been more than eighteen, all freckles and awkward limbs.
"Boys, this here is Miss Clementine Olivetti," Elvis announced. "Ned's niece and the new owner of Windy Creek. She aims to learn the ropes, so I expect you to show her the same respect you would've shown Ned. We clear?"
The men nodded, touching their hats respectfully. The old-timer spat a stream of tobacco juice and nodded curtly. "Slim Jackson. Been wranglin' beeves since before you was born, missy. You need any pointers, you just holler."
The young man ducked his head shyly, scuffing a boot in the dust. "Rusty Calhoun, miss. I'm real sorry about your uncle passing. He was a fine man and a heck of a boss."
"Thank you, Rusty. I hope I can live up to his example." Clementine turned back to Elvis, her expression coolly determined. "If there's nothing else, I'll go unpack and change. See you at the barn."
With that, Elvis turned on his heel and strode off, spurs jingling. Clementine released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Lord, what had she gotten herself into? Wrangling cattle was one thing. Wrangling a surly cowboy with an itchy trigger finger and an apparent grudge was quite another. She had a feeling Elvis would prove as untamed as the land itself.
But Clementine was no shrinking violet. She had not traveled hundreds of miles to be cowed by one ornery ranch hand, no matter how unsettling his smoky gaze or how broad his shoulders. She would meet this challenge as she intended to meet all others—with grace, gumption, and a stubborn refusal to back down.
*
Elvis looked Clementine up and down appraisingly as she approached.
"Well now, don't you clean up nice," he drawled. "Those dungarees suit you. Almost take the city polish off."
Clementine wasn't sure if it was meant as a compliment or an insult. Likely both, knowing this man. She tilted her chin and replied evenly, "I believe in dressing for the occasion. So, show me around the barn?"
Lifting her chin, Clementine marched after Elvis, determined to assert her authority and begin this new chapter on her own terms. Ranch life was already proving far more complicated and unpredictable than she'd bargained for. But she had to believe that with hard work, an open mind, and perhaps a bit of that famous Olivetti pluck, she would find her way.
She thought fleetingly of Bonnie, no doubt going about her day back in New York, blissfully unaware of the upheaval in her friend's life. What would she make of all this—the sprawling ranch, the motley crew of cowhands, the arrogant and mysterious Elvis? Clementine could almost hear Bonnie's laughter, could picture her delighted grin and twinkling green eyes.
"Oh Clemmie, it's better than any dime novel!" she would say. "Handsome cowboys, wild horses, wide open skies... and you, the unlikely heroine out to prove herself and tame them all! Just think of the adventures you'll have!"
The corners of Clementine's mouth twitched with an unbidden smile. Trust Bonnie to see the romance in even the most daunting of circumstances. Perhaps there was something to that unshakable optimism. With any luck, Clementine would live to write her friend a bushel of thrilling letters detailing her exploits as the mistress of Windy Creek Ranch.
Provided she survived her first day as Elvis' employer, of course.
Clementine forced down a flutter of trepidation as she neared the looming barn door. Steeling her nerve, she stepped across the threshold into the cool shadow, the pungent scents of hay and horses and honest sweat enveloping her. Her heels sank into the earthen floor, the faint clucking of chickens and a few falling feathers drifting from the loft above.
Elvis stood at the far end of the aisle, backlit by a shaft of sunlight. He had one hip cocked against a stall door, arms crossed over his chest as he watched her approach with an inscrutable expression. Clementine tried not to notice the way his chambray shirt pulled taut across his muscled torso or how his worn denims hugged his lean thighs. She had no business admiring the physical attributes of a subordinate, no matter how undeniably attractive.
He started further into the barn, glancing over his shoulder with a smirk. "You alright there, princess? Need me to fetch you a fainting couch?"
Clementine glowered at him behind his back.
"Welcome to the heart of Windy Creek," he said as she drew near. "This here's where the magic happens."
Clementine arched a brow. "Magic?"
Elvis' mouth twitched, his eyes glinting with something suspiciously like amusement at her primness. "Figure of speech. I mean this is where we break the horses, mend the tack, store the feed. Pretty much everything that keeps the place runnin' starts and ends right here."
He pushed off the stall and gestured for her to follow. "C'mon, I'll show you the layout. Reckon you'll be spendin' a fair bit of time in here, seein' as how you're aimin' to be a hands-on boss and all."
Clementine chose to ignore the note of condescension in his tone and fell into step beside him. For the next half hour, Elvis led her through the barn and corrals, rattling off details about everything from the hay inventory to the farrier schedule to the breeding records of the small remuda. His taciturn demeanor thawed by degrees as he spoke of Windy Creek's prize bloodlines and the foals he hoped to see come spring. It was clear this ranch was more than a job to him; it was his life's work, his pride and joy.
Despite herself, Clementine found she was hanging on his every word, absorbing the intricacies of a world so different from her own. The easy confidence with which Elvis navigated this domain, the surety of purpose in his every move, was oddly compelling. She could see why Uncle Ned had trusted him implicitly.
As they circled back to the main barn, Elvis nodded to a large fenced pasture dotted with grazing cattle. "That there's the heart of the herd. 'Bout 300 head of prime Hereford. The real moneymakers. They'll be your bread and butter once we drive 'em to market come fall."
Clementine shaded her eyes against the glare, marveling at the sea of dun backs and lowing faces. Never in her life had she been responsible for so many living creatures. The weight of it settled on her shoulders like a tangible thing.
"And you're certain we have enough hands to see them safely to market?" she asked, her brow furrowing. "I won't pretend to be an expert, but it seems an awful lot of ground to cover with just the few men I've seen so far."
"We're a lean crew but we're solid," said Elvis. "Me, Red, a couple fellas who drift through as needed. Ain't never lost a steer yet and don't aim to start now." He cut her a sidelong glance. "Course, an extra pair of hands come drive time is always welcome. You any good with a horse?"
Clementine's cheeks warmed at the challenge in his eyes. "I'm a fair rider," she said, lifting her chin. She had ridden in Central Park quite a few times when she was younger. "Though I'll admit it's been a while since I've sat anything beyond a sedate little mare on a bridle path."
"Ain't nothin' sedate about the mounts we raise here," said Elvis with a slow grin that did funny things to her insides. "But I reckon we could find you a steady cow pony, get you back in the saddle."
"I'd like that," said Clementine, pulse quickening at the thought of flying across the open range with the wind in her hair. Yearning for speed and freedom and a taste of the untamed life that had always been denied her.
Something shifted in Elvis' gaze, his eyes darkening as they dipped briefly to her mouth. "Bet you would."
The air between them thickened, charged with a sudden crackling tension that raised the hairs on Clementine's nape. For a long, suspended moment, neither of them moved. Clementine hardly dared breathe, caught in the snare of Elvis' penetrating stare. What was happening? Why did it feel as if the very ground had tilted beneath her feet?
Then Elvis blinked and the spell was broken. He took a measured step back, features shuttering. "Best we get you settled in the house," he said brusquely. "Red's probably fixin' to break down the door wonderin' where we got to."
Clementine swallowed, her tongue darting out to moisten her suddenly dry lips. "Of course," she managed. "After you."
They walked in silence back to the ranch house, a palpable charge still shimmering in the scant space between their bodies. Clementine's mind raced as she tried to make sense of the strange, heated little moment in the barn. Surely it was just a trick of the light, an odd fluke of exhaustion and overwrought nerves. There could be no other explanation for the way her skin had flushed and her stomach fluttered under Elvis' intent gaze.
She was just tired, that was all. Tired and overwhelmed and in desperate need of a bath and a good night's sleep in a proper bed. Everything would seem much more manageable in the clear light of morning. Including a certain confounding cowboy who seemed to swing between hostility and allure at the drop of a hat.
By the time they reached the house, Clementine had convinced herself she had imagined the whole unsettling interlude. Elvis deposited her on the front porch with a perfunctory nod and a promise to have one of the hands bring up a hip bath and hot water. Then he was gone, striding off towards the corrals with that swagger that drew entirely too much of her attention.
Clementine pushed through the door, resolved to put the perplexing man out of her head for the time being. She had more pressing concerns, like acquainting herself with her new living quarters and trying to impose some order on the chaos of this abrupt upheaval.
But as she climbed the creaking stairs to the second floor, dusty carpetbag in hand, she couldn't shake the feeling that her true adventure was only just beginning. That Elvis and Windy Creek Ranch might wind up changing her life in ways she had never dared dream.
With a flutter of nervous anticipation, Clementine stepped across the threshold of her new bedroom, ready to embrace whatever challenges and surprises lay ahead. She could only hope she proved equal to them.
As Clementine explored her new bedchamber, she couldn't help but feel a sense of awe at the rustic charm that surrounded her. The room was simply furnished with a sturdy oak bed, a weathered dresser, and a washstand bearing a chipped porcelain basin. Faded calico curtains fluttered at the open window, letting in a breeze that carried the scent of lavender and distant pine.
It was a far cry from her cozy apartment back home, with its gas lamps and indoor plumbing and nosy neighbors just a thin wall away. But there was something undeniably appealing about this rough-hewn space, with its sense of history and hard-won comfort. She could almost imagine Uncle Ned sitting on the edge of this very bed, pulling off his boots after a long day in the saddle.
A lump rose in Clementine's throat as she thought of her uncle, of the legacy he had entrusted to her. She still couldn't quite believe he was gone, that she would never again hear his booming laugh or see the twinkle in his eye as he regaled her with tales of the wild west. He had been a larger-than-life figure, a beacon of adventure in her otherwise orderly world.
And now he had given her the greatest adventure of all. A chance to build something of her own, to carve out a place for herself in this untamed land. It was a daunting prospect, but also an exhilarating one. For the first time in her life, Clementine felt truly free. Free to make her own choices, to chase her own dreams, to become the woman she had always longed to be.
Oh, there would be challenges aplenty. She was under no illusions about that. Running a ranch was backbreaking work, and she had no experience with any of it. She would have to learn everything from scratch, would have to earn the respect of the men who worked for her. Men like Elvis, who seemed determined to undermine her at every turn.
Clementine's mouth tightened as she thought of the infuriating cowboy. He had made it abundantly clear that he thought she was in over her head, that a city girl like her had no business trying to run a cattle operation. Well, she would just have to prove him wrong. She would work twice as hard as anyone else, would study and practice until she knew this ranch inside out. She would show Elvis and everyone else that Clementine Olivetti was more than just a pretty face in a fancy dress.
With renewed determination, she set about unpacking her trunk. She carefully hung up the simple frocks and sturdy boots she had brought for work, then tucked away the few more fashionable items she couldn't bear to leave behind. Her fingers lingered on a photograph of her parents on their wedding day, their faces alight with joy and promise. She placed it gently on the dresser.
A knock at the door startled Clementine from her reverie. "Come in," she called, smoothing her skirts self-consciously.
The door swung open to reveal a plump, motherly woman with greying hair and a flour-dusted apron. She bobbed a curtsy, her lined face creasing into a warm smile.
"Beggin' your pardon, miss, but I thought you might be ready for some supper. It's been a long day for you, I reckon."
Clementine's stomach rumbled at the mention of food. She hadn't eaten since breakfast, too nervous to do more than nibble on the journey. "That would be wonderful, thank you. Mrs...?"
"Jameson, miss. Ida Jameson. I've been cookin' and cleanin' for Windy Creek nigh on twenty years now. Ever since Mr. Ned hired me on after my dear Henry passed."
"I'm so pleased to meet you, Mrs. Jameson," said Clementine sincerely. "I hope you'll be patient with me as I learn my way around. This is all quite new to me."
"Oh, don't you fret none. We'll get you settled in right quick. Ain't nothin' to runnin' a house once you get the hang of it." Mrs. Jameson's eyes twinkled with kindly amusement. "And don't mind that Elvis none. His bark's worse than his bite. He's just used to havin' things his own way."
Clementine felt her cheeks heat at the mention of the exasperating foreman. Did her consternation show so plainly on her face? "I'll keep that in mind, Mrs. Jameson."
"You do that, miss. Now, let's get you fed afore you faint dead away. I've got a nice beef stew on the simmer and fresh bread just out of the oven."
Clementine's mouth watered at the thought. Suddenly ravenous, she followed Mrs. Jameson down to the kitchen, the delectable scents wafting up the stairs making her stomach growl audibly.
The kitchen was a large, homey space, dominated by a massive cast iron stove and a long wooden table that could easily seat a dozen. Bunches of drying herbs hung from the rafters, jars of preserves lined the shelves, and a motley collection of skillets and kettles dangled from hooks on the walls. It was a far cry from the convenient, modern kitchens Clementine was accustomed to, but there was a cozy charm to it that put her instantly at ease.
Mrs. Jameson bustled about, ladling steaming stew into a blue willow bowl and cutting a thick slice of crusty bread. She set the meal in front of Clementine with a flourish, then poured a tall glass of cool, creamy milk from a stoneware pitcher.
"There you are. Eat up now, and don't be shy about askin' for seconds. Lord knows there's plenty to go around."
Clementine breathed in the savory aroma, her eyes fluttering shut in anticipation. She couldn't remember the last time a simple meal had looked so enticing. Murmuring her thanks, she dug in with gusto, the rich flavors exploding on her tongue.
For a few blissful minutes, there was no sound but the clink of Clementine's spoon against the bowl and the occasional appreciative hum as she savored each mouthful. Mrs. Jameson puttered about, wiping down counters and setting a pot of coffee to brew, a small, satisfied smile on her face as she watched her new mistress eat.
But the peaceful moment was shattered by the sudden bang of the screen door flying open. Elvis strode into the kitchen, his spurs jingling and his hat pulled low over his brow. He drew up short at the sight of Clementine, his eyes narrowing imperceptibly.
"Mrs. J, we got any of that stew left? I'm powerful hungry after wranglin' that new string of horses all afternoon."
"Sit yourself down, Mr. Elvis, and I'll fetch you a bowl," said Mrs. Jameson placidly, seemingly impervious to the sudden tension in the room.
Elvis hesitated, his gaze flicking between Clementine and the empty chair across from her. For a moment, she thought he might make some excuse and flee, but then he shrugged and sank down onto the bench, his long legs stretching out beneath the table.
Clementine kept her eyes fixed on her bowl, her appetite suddenly deserting her. She could feel Elvis watching her, could sense the coiled energy radiating off him like heat from a stove. It made her skin prickle and her heart thump erratically in her chest.
Mrs. Jameson set a heaping bowl in front of Elvis, then tactfully withdrew, muttering something about needing to tend to the laundry. Clementine silently cursed the woman for abandoning her, even as she understood the impulse. The air between her and Elvis was thick with a strange, charged energy that made it hard to breathe, let alone carry on a normal conversation.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Clementine pushed a chunk of potato around her bowl, acutely aware of Elvis' every move as he tore off a hunk of bread and sopped up the rich gravy. She could hear the soft, wet sounds of his chewing, could catch the faint scent of horse and leather and sweat that clung to his skin.
It was all suddenly too much. Too intimate, too unnerving. Clementine pushed back from the table, nearly upending her milk glass in her haste. "Please excuse me," she mumbled, not meeting Elvis' eyes. "It's been a long day and I'm quite exhausted."
She fled the kitchen before he could respond, her cheeks burning and her pulse pounding in her ears. She didn't slow down until she reached the sanctuary of her bedroom, the door slamming shut behind her with a satisfying bang.
Clementine leaned back against the solid oak, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. What on earth was wrong with her? She had never been one to let a man fluster her, had prided herself on her poise and composure in even the most trying of circumstances. But something about Elvis made her feel off-balance, unsettled in a way she couldn't quite define.
It was more than just his rough manners and challenging attitude. There was a rawness to him, a sense of barely leashed power that sent a thrill down her spine even as it set her nerves on edge. When he looked at her, she felt stripped bare, as if he could see straight through her proper facade to the wild, yearning heart beneath.
It was terrifying. And if Clementine was being honest with herself, it was also strangely exhilarating. All her life, she had played by the rules, had done what was expected of her. She had been the dutiful daughter, the demure debutante, the efficient employee. But here, in this rugged land so far from everything she had ever known, she could feel those old constraints falling away. Here, she could be anyone she wanted to be, could chase dreams she had never dared voice aloud.
Even if those dreams involved a certain brooding, impossible cowboy with eyes the color of a stormy sky.
Clementine pushed off the door, shaking her head at her own foolishness. She was being ridiculous. Elvis was just a man, no different from any other. A bit rougher around the edges, mayhap, but certainly not worth losing her head over. She had more important things to worry about, like learning to run this ranch and proving herself worthy of her uncle's trust.
With a resolute nod, Clementine began to undress for bed, her fingers deftly unfastening the long row of buttons down the back of her bodice. She slipped the heavy garment off, sighing with relief as the cool air hit her sweat-dampened skin. She reached for her nightgown, a simple cotton shift that fell to her ankles in soft folds.
But as she lifted the garment over her head, a sudden gust of wind from the open window sent the curtains billowing inward, the fabric brushing against her bare skin like a lover's caress. Clementine shivered, gooseflesh rising on her arms and legs. For a moment, she imagined it was Elvis' hands on her, his callused fingers tracing the curve of her spine, the hollow of her throat, the swell of her breast...
With a gasp, Clementine wrenched the nightgown down, her face flaming with mortification. Good heavens, what was she thinking? She must be more tired than she realized, to let her mind wander down such inappropriate paths. Elvis was her employee, nothing more. To allow herself to entertain such lurid fantasies was not only foolish, but dangerous.
Flustered and out of sorts, Clementine crawled beneath the patchwork quilt, the bed creaking beneath her weight. She thumped the pillow a bit harder than necessary, then lay back with a huff, staring up at the shadowy rafters above.
Sleep. That was what she needed. A good night's rest to clear her head and settle her nerves. Tomorrow would be a new day, full of challenges and opportunities. She would rise with the sun, would throw herself into the work of the ranch with all the energy and determination she possessed. And if her thoughts should happen to stray to a certain dark-haired, blue-eyed cowboy, well... she would just have to deal with that when the time came.
With a sigh, Clementine closed her eyes, willing her racing mind to quiet. But even as she drifted off to sleep, she couldn't shake the feeling that her life was about to change in ways she had never dared imagine. That Elvis and Windy Creek Ranch would test her in ways she had never been tested before.
And that maybe, just maybe, she was ready for the challenge.
Chapter 2
The shrill crow of a rooster jolted Clementine from a dreamless sleep. She sat up with a start, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings. Then memory came flooding back - the long journey west, the startling confrontation with Elvis, the strange, charged moment in the kitchen the night before.
Clementine groaned, flopping back against the pillows. She had hoped that a good night's sleep would clear her head, would settle the unsettling flutter in her stomach whenever she thought of the taciturn cowboy. But if anything, the light of day only made her confusion and trepidation worse.
How was she supposed to face him this morning, after fleeing from him like a frightened rabbit? He must think her a complete fool, a silly city girl who couldn't handle the slightest hint of rough manners. And what must the other ranch hands think, seeing their new boss so easily flustered by their foreman?
Clementine set her jaw, a spark of determination igniting in her chest. No. She refused to let Elvis or anyone else rattle her. She was Clementine Olivetti, mistress of Windy Creek Ranch. She had faced far greater challenges than one surly cowboy, and she would face this one with the same grit and grace that had gotten her this far.
With a resolute nod, Clementine threw back the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She winced as her feet hit the cold floorboards, the chill of the early morning air raising gooseflesh on her arms. Shivering, she hurried to the washstand and poured a measure of tepid water from the pitcher into the basin. She splashed her face and neck, the bracing coolness helping to chase away the last vestiges of sleep.
As she toweled off, Clementine caught sight of herself in the small, spotty mirror hanging above the washstand. Her reflection stared back at her, wide-eyed and a bit wan. The long journey and the stress of the previous day had taken their toll - there were shadows beneath her eyes and a pinched look to her mouth. But there was also a new resolve in the set of her chin, a glint of steel in her gaze.
She was not the same woman who had left New York. The old Clementine would have balked at the idea of manual labor, would have blanched at the thought of getting her hands dirty. But the new Clementine, the Clementine who had crossed a continent to claim her inheritance, was ready to roll up her sleeves and get to work.
With that thought firmly in mind, Clementine set about dressing for the day ahead. She chose a simple frock of sturdy blue calico, the skirt full enough to allow for ease of movement. Over it, she layered a crisp white apron, the bib protecting her bodice from any stray bits of dirt or debris. She pulled her hair back into a practical bun at the nape of her neck, then topped the ensemble with a wide-brimmed straw hat to shield her face from the sun.
Looking at herself in the mirror, Clementine felt a surge of satisfaction. She looked like a woman who meant business, a woman ready to take on whatever challenges the day might bring. With a nod of approval, she turned away from the glass and made her way downstairs.
The kitchen was already a hive of activity when Clementine entered. Mrs. Jameson stood at the stove, stirring a pot of bubbling oatmeal with one hand while flipping pancakes with the other. The air was thick with the scent of frying bacon and fresh coffee, making Clementine's stomach rumble in anticipation.
"Good morning, Mrs. Jameson," she said, taking a seat at the long wooden table. "That smells heavenly."
"Mornin', Miss Clementine," the housekeeper replied, casting a smile over her shoulder. "I hope you slept well. I know the first night in a new place can be a bit unsettlin'."
"I slept just fine, thank you," Clementine lied, not wanting to admit to the restless thoughts that had kept her tossing and turning half the night. "Is there anything I can do to help with breakfast?"
Mrs. Jameson looked scandalized at the very idea. "Heavens no, miss! You just sit right there and let me take care of everything. It's my job to make sure you're well-fed and rested, not the other way around."
Clementine opened her mouth to protest, but the housekeeper cut her off with a stern look. "I mean it, miss. You've got enough on your plate as it is, learnin' the ropes of runnin' this ranch. Leave the cookin' and cleanin' to me."
Chastened, Clementine sat back in her chair, feeling a bit useless. She was used to being busy from sunup to sundown, to having a full day's work ahead of her. The idea of sitting idle while others bustled about made her itch with restlessness.
But before she could dwell on it too long, the kitchen door swung open and Elvis strode in, his spurs jingling with each step. Clementine's heart gave a traitorous leap at the sight of him, her skin prickling with awareness as his gaze landed on her.
"Mornin', Mrs. J," he said, tipping his hat to the housekeeper. Then, almost as an afterthought, "Miss Clementine."
"Good morning, Elvis," Clementine replied, proud of how steady her voice sounded. "I trust you slept well?"
Elvis shrugged, hooked his thumbs in his gun belt. "Well enough. Got a full day ahead, so I reckon I'll sleep when I'm dead." His blue eyes glinted with something that might have been amusement, or might have been challenge. "You ready to get your hands dirty, boss lady?"
Clementine lifted her chin, meeting his gaze squarely. "I am. Just tell me where to start."
Elvis' mouth twitched, as if he were fighting back a smile. "Reckon we'll start with the chickens. Gotta collect the eggs and feed the birds 'fore we do anything else."
Clementine's nose wrinkled at the thought of mucking about in a chicken coop, but she nodded gamely. "Lead the way, then."
Elvis cocked a brow, looking almost impressed by her easy acquiescence. He jerked his chin toward the door, then strode out into the morning sunlight without a backward glance.
Clementine hurried to follow, her heart hammering with a mix of nerves and excitement. This was it - her first real test as mistress of Windy Creek. She could only hope she was up to the challenge.
The chicken coop was a ramshackle affair, all weathered wood and rusting wire. It stood at the edge of the yard, a few dozen scrawny birds pecking and scratching at the dirt around its base. They scattered as Elvis approached, clucking and flapping in agitation.
"Little bastards," Elvis muttered, kicking at a particularly bold rooster who dared to dart across his path. "More trouble than they're worth, most days."
Clementine eyed the birds warily, keeping a safe distance as Elvis unlatched the coop door and ducked inside. She could hear him moving about, the soft cluck and coo of the hens as he gathered their eggs. A moment later, he emerged, a basket hooked over one arm.
"Here," he said, thrusting the basket into Clementine's hands. "Hold this while I scatter the feed."
Clementine took the basket gingerly, peering down at the warm, speckled eggs nestled in the straw. They were still faintly damp from the hens' nests, and they gave off a rich, earthy scent that made her think of new life and green growing things.
As Elvis scattered handfuls of cracked corn across the yard, the chickens swarmed around his feet, pecking and jostling for position. Clementine watched in fascination as they darted and fluttered, their beady eyes bright with greed. She had never seen anything so vibrantly alive, so utterly unconcerned with human affairs.
"They're quite something, aren't they?" she murmured, almost to herself.
Elvis glanced up at her, surprised. "What, the chickens? I suppose so. Never gave 'em much thought, to be honest. Just another chore to be done."
Clementine shook her head, a small smile playing about her lips. "There's a lesson in that, I think. They don't worry about yesterday or tomorrow. They just live in the moment, taking what they need and letting the rest go."
Elvis straightened, dusting his hands off on his chaps. He regarded her with a new intensity, as if seeing her for the first time. "Ain't you just full of surprises, Miss Clementine."
Clementine felt a flush creep up her neck at his words, at the way his gaze seemed to linger on her face. She ducked her head, suddenly fascinated by the eggs in her basket.
"We should get these inside," she said briskly, turning back toward the house. "Mrs. Jameson will be wanting them for breakfast."
She could feel Elvis' eyes on her back as she walked away, could sense the weight of his regard like a physical touch. It made her skin tingle and her stomach flutter, made her feel alive in a way she never had before.
But she couldn't let herself dwell on it. Couldn't let herself get distracted by the way he made her feel. She had a ranch to run, a legacy to uphold. And she would do it with or without Elvis' approval.
With a determined set to her shoulders, Clementine marched up the porch steps and into the kitchen, ready to face whatever the day might bring. And if her thoughts kept straying to a pair of piercing blue eyes and a crooked, knowing smile, well...that was nobody's business but her own.
As the morning wore on, Clementine found herself thrown headlong into the daily rhythms of ranch life. After breakfast, Elvis put her to work mucking out stalls in the barn, a task that left her sweaty and aching but oddly satisfied. There was something soothing about the repetitive motions, the earthy scent of hay and horse, the soft whickers and snuffles of the animals as she worked.
Next came a lesson in saddling a horse, Elvis' hands guiding her through the intricacies of cinches and stirrups. Clementine tried not to think about how close he stood, how the heat of his body seemed to seep into her skin through the layers of her dress. She focused instead on the task at hand, on the supple leather beneath her fingers and the solid weight of the saddle as she hefted it onto the horse's back.
By the time the sun reached its zenith, Clementine was sore and sweat-streaked but buzzing with a sense of accomplishment. She had never worked so hard in her life, had never pushed herself to such physical limits. But there was a deep satisfaction in it, a pride in knowing that she was capable of more than she had ever imagined.
As they made their way back to the house for dinner, Elvis fell into step beside her, his long legs easily matching her shorter strides. Clementine glanced up at him, surprised to find a glint of approval in his eyes.
"You did good today," he said gruffly, as if the words pained him. "Reckon you might just have what it takes to make a go of this place after all."
Clementine felt a warm glow of pleasure at his praise, even as she bristled at the note of surprise in his voice. "Did you doubt it?" she asked archly.
Elvis' mouth twitched, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Let's just say I had my reservations. But you're full of surprises, Miss Clementine. Reckon I'm gonna have to keep an eye on you."
There was something in the way he said it, a hint of challenge and something else, something that made Clementine's pulse skip and her skin tingle. She met his gaze squarely, refusing to back down.
"I suppose you will," she said, her voice steady even as her heart raced. "But I intend to keep an eye on you as well. We're in this together, Elvis. Whether you like it or not."
For a moment, Elvis just stared at her, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he nodded, a glimmer of respect in his eyes.
"Reckon we are," he said, his voice low and rough. "Reckon we are."
And with that, he turned and strode off toward the barn, leaving Clementine to watch him go, her heart hammering in her chest and a new determination burning in her veins.
*
One morning, Elvis gathered the ranch hands for the afternoon's work—a cattle drive to the south pasture to check on the herd and survey the fence lines. Clementine insisted on going along, despite Elvis' skeptical look and Slim’s poorly concealed grin.
Elvis gestured to a small bay mare tethered nearby. "That there is Nutmeg. She's gentle as a lamb and sure-footed on any terrain. Figured she'd suit a greenhorn like you."
Clementine eyed the saddle and tack warily. She knew she was badly out of practice. But she'd be damned if she let Elvis see her falter.
"Lovely," she said brightly, untying Nutmeg's reins and leading her out into the sunlight.
Now came the tricky part. How in blazes did one mount a horse unassisted whilst wearing trousers? Clementine's mind raced as she tried to recall the particulars. There had been talk of a mounting block or some sort of assistance from a groom...
Before she could make a bigger fool of herself, a large, work-roughened hand appeared in her peripheral vision.
"Allow me," Elvis murmured, his breath tickling her ear.
Clementine stiffened but managed a jerky nod, steeling herself as he gripped her waist and practically tossed her into the saddle as if she weighed nothing at all. Good lord, the man was strong as an ox!
"There now," Elvis said, sounding faintly amused. "Snug as a bug. Let's hit the trail."
He swung aboard his own horse, Rising Sun, with effortless grace and set off at a brisk trot, leaving Clementine scrambling to gather her reins and urge Nutmeg to follow. The mare fell into step readily enough, but the motion of the saddle had Clementine lurching and sliding like a sack of potatoes. She clung to the horn for dear life, her teeth rattling and her hat threatening to fly off with every jolting stride.
“You alright there, city slicker?” Elvis offered with a smirk.
Clementine scowled at him, her face flushed with exertion and embarrassment. "I'm perfectly fine, thank you. It's just been a while since I've ridden."
"I can see that. You're bouncin' around up there like a flea on a hot griddle." Red, Slim, and Rusty chuckled.
Clementine's temper flared. "Well, forgive me for not being born in the saddle like some people. We can't all be insolent, arrogant cowboys!"
Elvis' eyes narrowed, his smile fading. "Careful now, missy. That insolent, arrogant cowboy is the only thing standing between you and a long walk back to the house. Might want to mind your manners."
“Aw hell, Elvis, leave the little lady alone,” Slim attempted to diffuse the budding argument.
Clementine knew she should back down, should swallow her pride and apologize. But something about this man just rubbed her the wrong way, stirring up a reckless, contrary streak she didn't even know she possessed.
"Oh, I'm sorry," she said sweetly to herself, not expecting anyone to hear her. "I thought I was the boss around here. My mistake."
Elvis' jaw clenched, his hand tightening on the reins. "Boss or not, out here you're just another greenhorn. And greenshorns who don't listen to good sense often end up buzzard bait. So you can either stow that snippy attitude and let me teach you a thing or two, or you can take your chances on your own. What'll it be?"
Red, Slim, and Rusty slowed their horses down, holding their breath and waiting for her answer. Clementine glared at Elvis, her pride warring with her common sense. As much as it galled her to admit it, Elvis was right. She was out of her depth out here and antagonizing her only guide was foolish at best, deadly at worst.
"Fine," she bit out. "Teach away, oh wise one. I am your humble student."
Elvis snorted, shaking his head. "You sure don't make it easy, do you? Alright, first things first—loosen up on them reins. You're holding 'em like you expect Nutmeg to bolt any second. She ain't going nowhere, trust me."
Clementine forced her white-knuckled grip to relax, letting out a shaky breath as the mare flicked an ear back curiously.
"Good. Now, stand up in them stirrups a bit. Let your knees absorb the motion 'stead of your backside. And keep your heels down for balance."
Clementine did as instructed, wobbling precariously for a moment before finding a rhythm. To her surprise, the ride smoothed out considerably, Nutmeg's rocking gait almost pleasant now that she wasn't being jounced to pieces.
"Well, would you look at that," Elvis drawled. "She can be taught. Keep that up and we might make a passable rider out of you yet, Miss Clementine."
Clementine felt an absurd flush of pleasure at his gruff approval. Honestly, what did she care what this uncouth lout thought of her? Still, perhaps it wouldn't kill her to bend a little, to put aside her wounded pride in service of the greater goal. She needed Elvis' cooperation if she hoped to make a go of this venture. Catching more flies with honey and all that.
Red’s mare caught up to hers, and he gently squeezed Clementine’s arm. “Don’t pay old Elvis no mind. He’s always a little ornery in the morning.”
The four of them rode on in relatively companionable silence, the raw beauty of the landscape stealing Clementine's breath. Towering buttes and mesas rose up from the sun-baked earth, their banded layers glowing red and gold in the slanting light. Gnarled junipers dotted the hillsides, providing scant shade for the cacti and scrub brush that clung tenaciously to the rocky soil. In the distance, a band of wild mustangs kicked up dust as they fled across the flats, tails streaming behind them like banners.
It was a harsh, unforgiving land, but stunning in its austerity. Clementine tried to imagine her uncle Ned riding these same trails, his weather-beaten face creased in a smile as he surveyed his domain. She may not have known him well, but she sensed a kindred spirit—someone drawn to challenge and adventure, to pitting themselves against an untamed wilderness and emerging the victor.
Well, here I am, Uncle Ned, she thought. Following in your boot prints at last. I just hope I'm up to the task.
Lost in thought, Clementine scarcely noticed when Rusty reined in his horse at the crest of a rise, his keen gaze scanning the horizon.
"There," he said, pointing to a distant smudge of brown against the green and gold. "The herd's just over that next ridge. About three hundred head of prime Hereford, Ned's pride and joy. Let's ease up on 'em slow and quiet-like. Don't want to spook 'em into a stampede."
They approached the grazing cattle cautiously, Clementine's heart thudding with anticipation. Her first real look at her newfound livelihood. What would Ned have thought, seeing her astride a ranch horse, ready to take the reins of his empire? Would he be proud or appalled? Amused or aghast?
"You sure you're up for this, Miss Clementine?" Red asked, his blue eyes twinkling with mirth. "Ridin' herd ain't no picnic, 'specially for a greenhorn."
Clementine lifted her chin, giving him a cool smile. "I'm tougher than I look, Mr. Redding. And I'm a quick study. I'll be just fine."
The cattle regarded the riders placidly, chewing their cud and swishing their tails at the flies. Up close, they were even more enormous than Clementine had imagined, their heavy bodies and wickedly curved horns dwarfing the horses. She felt a flicker of unease, remembering tales of cowpokes gored and trampled by unruly steers.
As if sensing her trepidation, Elvis murmured, "Easy now. They're more scared of you than you are of them. These are good, docile beasts, well-used to human handling. Just keep your movements slow and predictable and you'll be fine."
Clementine nodded jerkily, fighting the urge to wheel Nutmeg around and gallop in the opposite direction. She trusted Elvis' expertise, even if she didn't particularly like or respect the man himself. He'd kept this herd thriving for five years—that had to count for something.
They meandered through the milling cattle, Elvis pointing out choice specimens and explaining the finer points of branding, breeding, and husbandry. Clementine did her best to absorb the onslaught of information, her head fairly spinning with talk of bloodlines and feed supplements and market prices.
One thing was becoming crystal clear. She was hopelessly out of her depth when it came to the day-to-day realities of running a ranch. Short of a miracle or divine intervention, Windy Creek would be bankrupt and in ruins within a month under her ignorant guidance.
Clementine's throat tightened with despair at the thought of failing her uncle, of losing this land that meant so much to him. And what of the people who depended on Windy Creek for their livelihood? Red and Slim and Rusty and the other hands she had yet to meet—how could she face them if her incompetence cost them their jobs, their homes?
No, it was unthinkable. She needed help, loath as she was to admit it. She needed Elvis.
Clementine was just working up the nerve to broach the subject when the quiet afternoon exploded into chaos. One moment the cattle were grazing peacefully, the next they were bellowing in alarm, eyes rolling and hooves churning the earth. The cause of their distress soon became apparent—a pair of snarling, yipping coyotes had burst from the underbrush, harrying the herd's flanks in search of an easy meal.
"Damnation!" Elvis swore, spurring his mount towards the threat. "Slim! Red! Rusty! Get after 'em 'fore they scatter the herd!"
Clementine watched in amazement as the cowhands sprung into immediate action, whooping and hollering as they rode to head off the predators. Red in particular was a sight to behold, his enormous frame dwarfing his horse as he thundered after a fleeing coyote, his lasso whirling overhead.
In the midst of the pandemonium, Clementine lost sight of Elvis. She reined in Nutmeg, heart in her throat as she scanned the milling herd for any sign of him. Panic clawed at her insides as horrible visions flashed through her mind—Elvis thrown from the saddle, trampled beneath a hundred hooves, bleeding and broken on the unforgiving ground...
A flash of movement caught her eye and Clementine shrieked in alarm, instinctively wrenching Nutmeg to the side. Too late, she realized her mistake as a coyote darted from the brush directly underfoot, spooking the mare into a wild, twisting buck.
Clementine felt herself slipping, her tenuous grip on the saddle horn failing as Nutmeg crow-hopped and whirled beneath her. She had one instant of sickening clarity, the knowledge that this was going to hurt, before the ground rushed up to meet her with stunning force.
The impact drove the air from her lungs in a whoosh, black spots crowding the edges of her vision. Dimly, she registered the thud of approaching hoofbeats, the bawl of frightened cattle, someone shouting her name with increasing urgency.
"Clementine! Clementine, goddammit, answer me!"
Rough hands seized her shoulders, rolling her onto her back. Clementine blinked up at Elvis' ashen face, his blue eyes wide with fear.
"I'm... alright," she croaked, wincing at the stabbing pain in her ribs. "Just had the wind knocked out of me."
"You're hurt," Elvis said roughly, his fingers coming away from her temple sticky with red. "What the hell were you thinking, pulling a stunt like that? You're lucky you didn't break your damn fool neck!"
"I was thinking that I didn't particularly want to be some coyote's dinner," Clementine snapped, struggling to sit up. "What was I supposed to do, let it take a chunk out of Nutmeg?"
"Better the horse than you!" Elvis shot back. "Christ almighty, do you have any idea what it would've done to me if you'd been killed on my watch? On your first day here?"
There was something raw and desperate in his voice, an emotion Clementine couldn't quite name. She stared at him, struck speechless by the intensity of his reaction.
Before she could formulate a response, the sound of pounding hooves announced the return of the other cowhands. Red reined up hard beside them, his ruddy face creased with concern.
"Miss Clementine! You okay? We saw you take that spill and feared the worst!"
"I'm fine, Red," Clementine assured him, accepting Elvis' hand up with as much dignity as she could muster. "Just a little tumble. No permanent damage."
Rusty looked skeptical, eyeing the bloody gash on her forehead. "That's gonna need some doctorin'. We best get you back to the house and have Juanita take a look."
"I said I'm fine," Clementine insisted, swaying slightly as a wave of dizziness washed over her. "There's no need to fuss."
Elvis made a wordless sound of frustration, scooping her up into his arms as if she weighed no more than a sack of flour. "Stubborn woman! You're gettin' patched up and that's final. Rusty, ride back to the ranch and tell Juanita to put the kettle on and set up a place on the porch.”
"Yessir, boss!" Rusty wheeled his horse and took off at a gallop, stirring up a cloud of dust.
"Slim, you get this heard settled and head on back when you can. Red, you lead Nutmeg back. I'm takin' Miss Accident-Prone here home before she finds more trouble to get into."
Elvis plunked Clementine onto his saddle and swung up behind her, caging her in with his long arms. She opened her mouth to protest the indignity of it all, but a stern look from those flinty blue eyes had her subsiding into sullen silence.
The ride back to the house seemed to take an eternity, every jolt and jostle sending fresh sparks of pain through Clementine's battered body. She could feel the heat of Elvis' chest at her back, the tickle of his breath ruffling her hair. It was unsettling, being in such close proximity to him. Like trying to relax with a loaded gun at your temple.
By the time they reached the ranch yard, Clementine's head was throbbing and her stomach was churning alarmingly. Black spots swarmed her vision as Elvis lifted her down from the saddle, his hands exceedingly gentle for all their strength.
"Easy there, darlin'. I got you."
Clementine leaned into him, too woozy to protest the endearment. He smelled of leather and sweat and something uniquely male, a scent that made her pulse flutter in a way that had nothing to do with her injuries.
She was only vaguely aware of being carried up the porch steps and settled onto a low cot, clucking female voices buzzing around her like concerned hens. Cool hands smoothed her brow, a damp cloth dabbing at the sticky mess at her hairline. The sting of alcohol made her hiss, flinching away.
"Hush, child," crooned Juanita, the middle-aged Mexican woman who served as the ranch’s de facto doctor-slash-veterinarian. "This will clean the cut, keep it from putrefaction. Drink this now, for the dolor de cabeza."
A cup was pressed to Clementine's lips, bitter tea laced with something sharper, medicinal. She gulped it obediently, desperate for anything to dull the relentless pounding behind her eyes.
Gradually, blessedly, the pain receded to a distant ache, her limbs growing heavy with languor. Clementine felt herself sinking into the downy embrace of the cot, the muted sounds of the ranch fading to a distant hum. Just before oblivion claimed her, she thought she felt the calloused touch of a hand smoothing her hair, the gruff timbre of a voice rumbling something that sounded suspiciously like "rest now, wildcat."
But it was probably just a dream, a product of her exhausted, concussed brain. Elvis Presley would never be so tender, so solicitous. Not to her. Not in a million years.
*
Clementine slept, and did not dream at all.
She awoke slowly, surfacing from the depths of unconsciousness like a diver ascending sunlit waters. Her head felt muzzy, her mouth dry as cotton, but the pain had faded to a faint, distant throb. Blinking gummy eyes, she struggled to focus on her surroundings.
She was lying on the cot on the front porch, a patchwork quilt tucked around her legs. The sun was setting in a blaze of orange and pink, the long shadows of the outbuildings stretching across the yard like grasping fingers. Somewhere nearby, a lone cicada buzzed in the cooling air, a herald of the approaching dusk.
"Well now, look who's back among the living."
Clementine turned her head, wincing at the twinge in her neck. Elvis was seated in a rocking chair a few feet away, his long legs stretched out before him and his hat tipped low over his eyes. He looked relaxed, indolent even, but Clementine could sense the coiled energy beneath the languid facade, the watchful tension of a predator at rest.
"What happened?" she croaked, struggling to sit up. "How long was I out?"
"Couple hours," Elvis replied, leaning forward to hand her a tin cup of water. "You took a pretty good knock to the head when that mare bucked you off. Juanita cleaned you up and dosed you with one of her concoctions. Said you'd be right as rain after some rest."
Clementine sipped the water, frowning as memory returned in fits and starts. The coyote, Nutmeg's panicked thrashing, the sickening weightlessness as she flew through the air...
"The cattle!" she exclaimed, slopping water down her front in her agitation. "Did they scatter? Was anyone hurt?"
Elvis shook his head, a faint smile playing about his lips. "Nah, we got 'em rounded up and settled quick enough. And other than a few bumps and bruises, everyone came through just fine. Except for you, a'course. Damn foolish stunt you pulled out there."
Clementine bristled at the censure in his tone, even as a tiny part of her acknowledged the truth of it. "I was just reacting on instinct. I didn't want Nutmeg to get hurt."
"And I didn't want you to get dead," Elvis retorted, a sudden edge to his voice. "Do you have any idea how close you came to dying today? How it felt to see you layin' there in the dirt, bleedin' and still as a corpse? Christ, Clementine, you 'bout stopped my heart."
Clementine stared at him, caught off-guard by the admission.
She flushed, both at the scolding and the backhanded compliment. "Yes, well, I suppose I've learned my lesson about playing the hero. Ranch work is a sight more dangerous than minding a shop or keeping accounts."
To her surprise, Elvis chuckled. "Reckon that's true enough. But you showed some real grit out there today, greenhorn or no. Not many city gals would have stuck it out like you did."
His praise, grudging as it was, warmed Clementine down to her toes. She ducked her head to hide her pleased smile, suddenly very aware of his nearness, of the way his knee brushed her hip through the quilt.
"I guess I'm tougher than I look," she said, aiming for nonchalance.
"Guess you are," Elvis agreed. Something in his tone made Clementine look up, her breath catching at the intensity in his blue eyes. For a long, charged moment, they just stared at each other, the air between them fairly crackling with an unnamed tension.
Then Elvis blinked and looked away, clearing his throat gruffly. "Best you get some more rest," he said, rising from the rocker. "I'll have Ida bring you up some supper later. Holler if you need anything."
And with that, he was gone, leaving Clementine alone with her whirling thoughts. She lay back against the pillows, her heart racing and her skin tingling where his gaze had lingered. What on earth had just happened? One minute Elvis was his usual gruff, scolding self, the next he was looking at her like... like...
Like a man looks at a woman he desires, a traitorous voice whispered in her head. Clementine shook the thought away, scandalised. Surely she was imagining things, seeing more than was there. She and Elvis were like oil and water, always rubbing each other the wrong way. He tolerated her for the sake of the ranch, nothing more. The idea that he might feel something deeper, something tender and passionate and real... it was impossible.
Wasn't it?
Clementine groaned and turned her face into the pillow, suddenly exhausted. Her head ached abominably, and her heart felt like a bird beating its wings against the cage of her ribs. She needed sleep, needed time to sort through the jumble of her emotions and the strange, unsettling effect Elvis Presley seemed to have on her good sense.
But even as she drifted off into a fitful doze, Clementine couldn't shake the memory of his eyes on hers, intense and searching and full of something that looked achingly like longing. It haunted her dreams, that look—a promise, a challenge, a invitation to something thrilling and terrifying and utterly forbidden.
Something Clementine knew she shouldn't want... but lord help her, she did.
She wanted it with every fiber of her being.
*
Over the next few days, as Clementine recovered from her injuries, she had ample time to reflect on her growing feelings for Elvis. It was maddening, the way he seemed to invade her every waking thought. She would be in the middle of some mundane task—shelling peas with Ida in the kitchen, or mending a torn shirt in her room—and suddenly his face would swim before her mind's eye, those piercing blue eyes and that crooked, knowing smile making her stomach flutter and her cheeks heat.
It was ridiculous. It was inappropriate. It was... inevitable, if Clementine was being honest with herself. From the moment she'd first laid eyes on Elvis, standing tall and proud on the porch of Windy Creek Ranch, she had felt the pull of him. The attraction, the fascination, the infuriating urge to crack that stony facade and see the man beneath.
But it was more than just physical allure. As the days turned into weeks and Clementine settled into her new life at the ranch, she began to see glimmers of the real Elvis: the loyal friend, the tireless worker, the unexpected jokester. Oh, he could be maddening, with his gruffness and his stubborn pride. But he could also be unexpectedly kind, unbelievably patient, and downright entertaining when the mood struck him.
Like the time he'd caught her trying to sneak a peek at his guitar, the one he kept propped in a corner of the bunkhouse. She'd been sure he would scold her for snooping, or worse, laugh at her clumsy attempts to pluck out a tune. But instead, he'd just shaken his head and smiled that crooked smile of his, then sat down beside her and showed her how to hold the instrument, his callused fingers guiding hers over the strings until she could pick out a passable melody.
Or the night he'd found her crying in the hayloft, homesick and overwhelmed and halfway convinced she'd made a terrible mistake in coming to Windy Creek. He hadn't said a word, just sat down beside her and pulled her into his arms, letting her sob into his shirt until she was spent. Then he'd tipped her chin up and looked into her eyes, his own gaze fierce and tender all at once.
"You're doing just fine, Clementine," he'd said, his voice low and rough. "You're right where you're meant to be."
It was moments like those that made Clementine's heart ache with a longing she couldn't quite name. A yearning for something more than friendship, more than partnership.
Something that felt suspiciously like affection.
But it was impossible. She and Elvis were too different, too stubborn and set in their ways. They would drive each other mad within a year, Clementine was sure of it. And even if by some miracle they could make a go of it, there was still the ranch to consider. Windy Creek needed her, needed Elvis. They couldn't afford any distractions or entanglements.
No, it was better to put such foolish notions out of her head. To focus on her duties and her goals, and let her heart's desire remain just that—a secret, wistful dream.
But oh, how she dreamed.
As the weeks passed and Clementine grew stronger, she threw herself into life at Windy Creek with renewed determination. She rose with the sun each morning, joining Mrs. Jameson in the kitchen for a hearty breakfast before heading out to tackle the day's chores. She rode herd with the cattle, mended fences with Red and the boys, even tried her hand at roping and branding.
She still felt hopelessly out of her depth at times, but she was learning fast. And she had Elvis to thank for that. He was a patient teacher, though a demanding one. He pushed her hard, expecting nothing less than her very best effort. But he was also quick with a word of praise when she got something right, or a steadying hand when she faltered.
Slowly but surely, Clementine could feel herself changing. Growing tougher, more resilient. The blisters on her palms turned to calluses, the ache in her muscles to a pleasant sort of soreness. And though her prim city dresses were a thing of the past, she found she didn't miss them all that much. There was a freedom in denim and calico, a practicality that suited her new life.
She knew she still had a long way to go before she could truly call herself a rancher. But for the first time since arriving at Windy Creek, Clementine felt like she might actually belong here. Like she was exactly where she was meant to be.
And if her gaze still strayed to Elvis more often than it should, if her heart still raced at his nearness and her skin tingled at his touch... well. That was her secret to keep. Her cross to bear.
But lord, what a sweet burden it was.
*
One evening a few months later, as the sun dipped low on the horizon and painted the sky in shades of gold and pink, Clementine found herself alone with Elvis on a bluff overlooking the ranch. She'd gone up there to get away from the noise and bustle of the house for a while, to let the peace of the prairie soak into her bones and ease the remnants of the day's tension.
She hadn't expected Elvis to follow her. But then, he seemed to have a knack for turning up wherever she was. A coincidence, she told herself each time. Just a quirk of ranch life, two people whose paths were bound to cross often. It didn't mean anything.
But as Elvis came to stand beside her, his shoulder brushing hers as they looked out over the rolling expanse of Windy Creek, Clementine felt that old familiar flutter in her chest. The hitch in her breath, the skip of her pulse.
It meant something. It had to.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the wind rustling through the grass, the distant lowing of the cattle in the pasture. Clementine breathed it in, let it fill her lungs and settle in her bones. This place, this land. It was a part of her now, as vital as her own beating heart.
"It's beautiful," she murmured, almost to herself.
Elvis hummed in agreement, his gaze never leaving the horizon. "Never get tired of this view. No matter how many times I see it."
Clementine glanced at him, struck by the wondering note in his voice. "You really love this place, don't you?"
Elvis nodded slowly. "It's in my blood. Has been since I was old enough to sit a horse. Used to dream about having a spread like this, a place to call my own." He paused, his jaw working as if wrestling with some inner debate. Then, quietly, "Never thought I'd find someone to share it with, though."
Clementine's heart stumbled, then began to race. Surely he didn't mean... no. He couldn't have.
They rode home in silence.
Chapter 3
The sun beat down on Clementine's back as she rode across the pasture, her eyes scanning the herd for any signs of trouble. It had been just over a year since she'd arrived at Windy Creek Ranch, and in that time, she'd learned more about cattle and cowboying than she'd ever thought possible.
She'd also learned a thing or two about herself. Like the fact that she was stronger than she'd ever given herself credit for, and that the wide-open spaces of the West felt more like home than the bustling streets of New York ever had.
As she turned her horse back towards the ranch house, Clementine couldn't help but smile. Despite the long days and the hard work, she'd never been happier. She had a purpose here, a place where she belonged.
She had Elvis.
Of course, he was as quiet as ever. Truly, the strong and silent type. But somewhere along the way, through all the disagreements and teasing, a comfortable companionship had grown between them, and Clementine was grateful.
She dismounted in front of the house, handing the reins off to one of the ranch hands. "Take good care of him, Johnny," she said, giving the boy a pat on the shoulder. "He worked hard today."
Johnny grinned, his freckled face beaming with pride. "Yes, ma'am, Miss Clementine. I'll give him a good rubdown and some extra oats."
Clementine nodded, grateful for the enthusiasm and dedication of her crew. Over time, the workers at the ranch had become like her family. In addition to Red, Slim, and Rusty, there was Johnny, the eager young newcomer; Hank, the grizzled old-timer who'd been working the ranch since before Clementine was born; Juanita, the no-nonsense veterinarian who kept the animals healthy and her affable husband Gerónimo; Ida, the motherly housekeeper and cook whose fried chicken was legendary around these parts; and a handful of other steady, reliable hands.
She made her way into the house, sighing with relief as the cool shade enveloped her. She had just taken off her gloves and settled down at her desk to go over the day's receipts when a letter caught her eye. It was postmarked from New York.
Clementine smiled as she unfolded the pages, eager for news from home. But before she could read more than a few lines, the door burst open and Elvis strode in, his face grim.
"We got trouble," he said without preamble. "Rustlers hit the Falling Tree Acres last night. They're missing a dozen head."
Clementine's blood ran cold. Rustlers. The scourge of the open range, the nightmare of every rancher west of the Mississippi. She had heard the stories, had listened to the ranch hands swap tales of cattle thefts and midnight raids. But she had never thought it would happen here, in their peaceful valley.
"Are you sure?" she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper.
Elvis nodded grimly. "They found tracks this morning, out by their western pasture. Looks like the bastards cut the fence and drove off a dozen head in the night. Took ‘em 'til now to make sure there weren't no stragglers."
Clementine sank back into her chair, her knees suddenly weak. A dozen head. It didn't sound like much, but she knew that every animal counted, that even a small loss could be devastating to any ranch.
“What’ll they do?” she asked, hating the tremor in her voice. "What if the rustlers come here?"
Elvis sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. "Ain't gonna be easy. These rustlers, they're smart. They know how to cover their tracks, how to disappear into the wilderness like ghosts. We could spend weeks chasin' 'em and never see hide nor hair."
Clementine's heart sank even further. Something had to be done, but... weeks of fruitless searching, of neglecting the ranch and the rest of the herd? They couldn't afford it, not now. Not when they were just starting to find their footing. Then again, they needed to do something about it—prevent any losses before they happened.
But then, a sudden thought struck her. A memory of something her uncle had said, long ago, when she was just a girl. Something about the importance of neighbors, of community, of banding together in times of trouble.
"What about the other ranchers?" she asked, sitting up straighter in her chair. "Surely we're not the only ones who have been hit by these rustlers. What if we joined forces, pooled our resources and manpower?"
Elvis looked at her in surprise, as if the idea had never occurred to him. "You mean, like a meeting?"
She took a deep breath, her mind already racing. "Yes," she said, standing up from her desk. "Let's get the word out. I want every rancher in the valley here tonight. We need to figure out a plan."
Elvis nodded, his jaw tight. "I'll send Rusty and Johnny to spread the news. You want me to ride over to Big Sky, let them know?"
Clementine hesitated, remembering the last time she'd seen Nathaniel Hawthorne. The man had been cold and dismissive, making it clear that he didn't think much of a woman running a ranch. But Big Sky was one of the largest spreads in the area, and they needed all the help they could get.
"No," she said finally. "I'll go myself. It's time Nathaniel and I had a little chat."
Elvis's eyes narrowed, but he didn't argue. "Alright then. I'll hold down the fort here, make sure everything's ready for tonight."
Clementine nodded, grateful for his support. She knew that Elvis had his doubts about her plan, but he trusted her enough to follow her lead. It meant more to her than she could say.
She rode hard for Big Sky, her thoughts churning as she tried to come up with a way to convince Nathaniel Hawthorne to join their cause. The man was as stubborn as a mule, and twice as mean. But if they had any hope of stopping the rustlers, they needed Big Sky on their side.
When she arrived at the ranch, she was surprised to be greeted not by Nathaniel, but by his son Aaron. The young man was a few years older than Clementine, with sharp hazel eyes and a no-nonsense air about him.
"Miss Olivetti," Aaron said, his tone cool but polite. "I'm afraid my father is indisposed at the moment. What can I do for you?"
Clementine dismounted, dusting off her hands on her skirt. "I'm sorry to hear that," she said, though she wasn't entirely sure she meant it. "I've come to talk to him about the rustler problem. We're calling a meeting tonight, and I was hoping Big Sky would be represented."
Aaron’s eyes narrowed, and Clementine got the sense that she was being sized up. "I see," the young man said finally. "Well, I can't speak for my father, but I'll be there. Big Sky takes the rustler threat very seriously."
She rode back to Windy Creek feeling accomplished, like they might just have a chance against the rustlers after all. But as the sun began to set and the ranchers began to arrive, Clementine felt her confidence waver.
The main room of the ranch house was crowded, the air thick with tension and the murmur of voices. Clementine looked around at the gathered men, recognizing most of the faces. There was Jake McAllister from the Circle B, his weathered face set in a scowl. Tom Hawkins from the Rocking H, his fingers drumming an agitated beat on his thigh. Hank Brewster from the Lazy J, his shoulders slumped with weariness. Of course, Jake Dawson from Falling Tree Acres was there, too, hopping mad. And a half-dozen others, all looking to her for answers.
Her own men were there as well—Red and Slim and Rusty, their expressions grim. And a few more she'd come to rely on over the past year: Jeb Thompson, a grizzled hand who could coax a calf from the orneriest of heifers; young Billy Turner, eager to prove himself; and Lyle Davis, quiet and steady, with a gift for gentling horses.
But there was one face Clementine didn't recognize—a woman, standing slightly apart from the rest. She was tall and slim, with honey-blonde hair and sharp blue eyes. When Elvis saw her, he stiffened, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face.
"Katie," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "Didn't expect to see you here."
The woman—Katie—smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Desperate times, Elvis. My father and Aaron sent me in their stead." Aaron Hawthorne. Katie was Aaron’s brother, and Nathaniel’s daughter.
There was a story there, Clementine could tell. A history between Elvis and this Katie Hawthorne. But now was not the time to dwell on it. They had bigger problems to deal with.
As if on cue, Tom Hawkins spoke up, his voice tight with anger. "We all know why we're here. These rustlers are bleeding us dry, and something needs to be done about it. But I think we ought to wait and see." A murmur went around the room, heads shaking and fists clenching.
"And what good would hunkering down do?" demanded Sam Johnson, his fists clenched at his sides. "They'd just pick us off one by one, like lambs to the slaughter. No, we need to take the fight to them, hit them hard and fast before they can hit us again."
"Are you out of your mind?" Nathaniel Hawthorne's voice cut through the din like a knife. "You're talking about going up against armed men, men who won't hesitate to put a bullet in your back. It's suicide, plain and simple."
"I say we let the law handle it," said Hank Brewster, his tone weary. "It's their job, ain't it?"
Jake McAllister snorted. "The law? You mean Sheriff Hodges? That old drunk couldn't find his own ass with both hands and a map. We'd be better off hiring a pack of coyotes to guard the henhouse."
A ripple of uneasy laughter went through the room. Clementine frowned, her patience wearing thin. They were getting nowhere with this bickering. Soon, the men all erupted into argument, voices rising and tempers flaring. Clementine looked from one angry face to another, her heart sinking. This was exactly what she'd been afraid of—that the ranchers would be too divided, too set in their ways to find common ground.
"We have to do something," she said, her voice ringing out clear and strong. "We can't just sit back and watch everything we've worked for be taken away."
"And what do you suggest, Miss Olivetti?" Katie asked, her tone faintly mocking. "That our men go out there, guns blazing, and get themselves killed?"
Clementine opened her mouth to retort, but Elvis beat her to it, his deep voice cutting through the din like a knife.
"Seems to me," he said slowly, "that we don't have much choice in the matter. Either we take the fight to the rustlers, or we sit back and watch everything we've worked for get stolen out from under us. I don't know about y'all, but I ain't too keen on the second option."
A heavy silence fell over the room, broken only by the occasional cough or shuffle of feet. Clementine could see the indecision on every face, the warring impulses of self-preservation and solidarity.
But then, slowly, heads began to nod. Shoulders straightened, jaws set with determination. "The man's right," Jake McAllister said grudgingly. "We can't just sit back and let them pick us off one by one. We have to stand together, or we'll all fall alone."
There were murmurs of agreement from around the room, a sense of purpose beginning to take hold. Clementine felt a surge of pride and gratitude, her eyes seeking out Elvis's across the sea of faces. He met her gaze steadily, something warm and reassuring in the blue depths.
"Alright then," Elvis said, his voice ringing out with confidence. "Let's get to planning. We'll need every able-bodied man who can ride and shoot. We'll track the rustlers to their hideout, and we'll make sure they never trouble us again."
The meeting broke up soon after that, the ranchers dispersing to make their preparations for the evening. As she was lighting a candle, Clementine caught a glimpse of Katie Hawthorne deep in conversation with Elvis, their heads bent close together as they spoke in low, urgent tones.
Something twisted in Clementine's gut at the sight, a flare of jealousy that she didn't quite understand. But she pushed it down, focusing instead on the task ahead. There would be time to worry about Katie Hawthorne later.
*
Later that evening, Clementine found herself wandering the quiet halls of the ranch house, her mind too full of worries to settle. She was just about to open the cupboard when she heard a noise from the living room, a soft clink of glass on wood.
Curious, she padded over to the doorway, peering into the dimly lit room. Elvis sat at the table, a half-empty bottle of whiskey in front of him and a troubled expression on his face. He looked up as she entered, his eyes widening in surprise.
"Clementine,” he said, his voice rough. “What are you doing up?”
She shrugged, suddenly feeling self-conscious in her nightgown and robe. “Couldn’t sleep. Too much on my mind, I guess.”
Elvis nodded, his gaze dropping to the glass in his hand. "I know the feeling," he said, taking a swig of whiskey.
Clementine's heart clenched at the weariness in his voice, the vulnerability he so rarely showed. "You don't have to go tonight, you know," she said softly, reaching out to lay a hand on his arm. "The other men can handle it. You've done enough already, Elvis. More than enough."
He looked up at her then, something fierce and determined in his eyes. "Ain’t no way," he said, his voice low and intense. "I promised your uncle I'd look after this place, Clem. I ain't about to break that promise now."
Clementine felt a rush of warmth at his words, a flutter of something deeper and more complicated than gratitude. But she tamped it down, focusing instead on the danger ahead.
"It's going to be risky," she said, her voice wavering slightly. "I don't want you getting hurt on my account, Elvis. I couldn't bear it if something happened to you."
He covered her hand with his own, his skin warm and rough against hers. "Good thing I ain't planning on gettin’ hurt, then," he said, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Besides, it’s just a search party. We ain’t gonna do no shooting tonight. We’re just gonna track the rustlers, that’s all.”
Clementine laughed, the tension draining out of her in a rush. "Well, I suppose I can live with that," she said, her eyes sparkling. "Just promise me you'll be careful out there, alright?"
"I promise," Elvis said, his voice solemn. "And you promise me, Clementine. You’ll be waiting when I get back?"
She nodded, her throat suddenly tight. "I promise," she whispered, meaning it with every fiber of her being.
They sat like that for a long moment, hands clasped and eyes locked, the silence stretching out between them like a promise of its own. And then Elvis cleared his throat, releasing her hand and standing up from the table.
"Best get some rest," he said, his voice gruff. "Got a long day ahead of us tomorrow."
Clementine stood as well, her heart racing as she followed him to the door. "Goodnight, Elvis," she said softly, her hand on the knob. "And thank you. For everything."
He paused, his hand coming up to brush a strand of hair back from her face. "Anytime, Clem," he murmured, his eyes soft. "Anytime at all."
And then he was gone, the door closing softly behind him, leaving Clementine alone with her thoughts and the pounding of her own heart.
*
The ranch house was quiet that night, the usual bustle and chatter replaced by a tense, watchful silence. Clementine wandered the halls like a ghost, her mind spinning and her heart aching.
She couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong, that some disaster was looming just beyond the horizon. And she couldn't help but wonder if she had made the right choice, staying behind while her men out to face the danger alone.
She found herself in the kitchen just as dawn was breaking, staring blankly at the coffeepot as it burbled and hissed on the stove. She couldn't remember how she'd gotten there, or why she'd come. All she knew was that she needed something, anything, to take her mind off the worry and the fear.
And then, like a miracle, Elvis appeared in the doorway. He looked haggard and worn, his face lined with exhaustion and his eyes shadowed with some dark emotion. But he was alive, and whole, and Clementine felt her heart leap with relief.
"You're back," she breathed, stepping forward to meet him. "What happened out there? Did you find them?"
Elvis shook his head, his jaw tight. "No. We rode hard all night, followed their trail as far as we could. But they're clever bastards, know how to cover their tracks. We lost the scent somewhere around Coyote Creek, and by then it was too dark to go on."
Clementine's heart sank, disappointment and frustration welling up in her throat. "So what now?" she asked, her voice small. "What do we do?"
Elvis sighed, running a hand over his face. "We start again the day after tomorrow, at first light. Keep searching until we find them, or until we can't search no more."
He looked at her then, his eyes dark and intense. "I need you to be strong, Clementine. I need you to keep this place running, keep the men in line. Can you do that for me?"
Clementine swallowed hard, forcing down the lump in her throat. "Of course," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. "I'll do whatever needs to be done, Elvis. You know that."
He nodded, something like pride flickering in his gaze. And then, to her surprise, he reached out and pulled her into his arms.
Clementine stiffened for a moment, unused to such displays of affection from the taciturn cowboy. But then she melted into him, her hands fisting in the back of his shirt and her face pressing into the warm, solid strength of his chest.
"I'm scared, Elvis," she whispered, the words muffled against his skin.
He tightened his hold on her, his chin resting on the top of her head. "I know, darlin'. I'm scared too. But we can't let that fear control us, you hear me? We gotta be strong, for each other and for this ranch."
Clementine nodded, drawing in a shuddering breath. And then, before she could lose her nerve, she tilted her head back and pressed her lips to his.
The kiss was quick and chaste, a gentle exploration that made her heart race and her blood sing. Elvis made a low, desperate sound in the back of his throat but before things could go any further, he tore himself away, his breath coming hard and fast. "I’m sorry. I shouldn’ta done that." he said, his voice rough with wanting. "We can’t. I ain’t gonna take advantage of you.Not when we both don't know what tomorrow might bring."
“I—you’re right.” Clementine knew it, even as her body screamed in protest. She stepped back, wrapping her arms around herself as if to ward off the chill of his absence. "I'm sorry," she said, her voice trembling. "I don't know what came over me. It's just... the thought of losing you..."
"Shh." Elvis placed a finger over her lips, silencing her.
"Don't talk like that. We're gonna make it through this, you and me. And when we do, we'll have all the time in the world to figure out what this is between us."
Clementine nodded.
He leaned in, pressing a soft, chaste kiss to her forehead. "But for now, we gotta focus on the task at hand. We gotta be strong for the ranch. Can you do that for me, Clem?"
She looked up at him, her heart in her eyes. "I can. I will."
He smiled then, a real smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made her heart skip a beat. "That's my girl. Now, let's get some rest. We got a long day ahead of us tomorrow."
*
The first rays of the sun were just beginning to paint the sky in shades of pink and gold when Clementine stepped out onto the porch, a rifle slung over her shoulder, two pistols at her hip, and a steely glint in her eye.
The ranchers were already gathered in the yard, checking their tack and loading their saddlebags with grim determination. Elvis stood at the center of the group, his black hat pulled low over his brow as he issued last-minute orders and instructions, saddling his mount quickly and efficiently.
He looked up as she approached, his eyes widening in surprise and something like consternation. "What do you think you're doing? I thought I told you to stay put," he demanded, striding over to block her path. "You ain't comin' with us, Clementine. It's too dangerous."
She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze squarely. "The hell I'm not," she said, her voice ringing with conviction. "This is my ranch, Elvis. My land, my cattle, my responsibility. My men. And I'll be damned if I'm going to sit back and let someone else fight my battles for me."
He opened his mouth to argue, but she cut him off with a sharp gesture. "I know what you're going to say," she said. "That I'm just a woman, that I don't know how to handle a gun or ride with a posse. But you're wrong, Elvis. I've been learning this past year. I can shoot as straight as any man here, and ride twice as quick."
Red’s face split into a big, knowing smile. Elvis elbowed him, and his ruddy companion stood ramrod straight. She saw the flicker of surprise in Elvis’ eyes, too, the grudging respect that warred with his instinctive need to protect her. But she wasn't about to back down, not now, not when so much was at stake.
"I'm coming with you," she said, her voice low and intense. "And that's final. You can either accept it, or you can try to stop me. But either way, I'll be riding out of here at your side, come hell or high water."
For a long, tense moment, Elvis just stared at her, his jaw working as if he were chewing on a particularly tough piece of rawhide. Then, slowly, he nodded, his eyes glinting with something that might have been pride, or exasperation, or a little bit of both.
"Alright, then," he said gruffly. "But you stay close to me, you hear? And if I give you an order, you follow it, no questions asked."
They rode out in a thunder of hoofbeats, the sun high overhead and the wind whipping at their faces. Clementine could feel the adrenaline coursing through her veins, the thrill of the hunt mingling with a cold, creeping fear. She knew that they were riding into danger, that there was no telling what they might face out there on the open range.
But she also knew that she was not alone, that she had Elvis and the others by her side, ready to fight for what was theirs, and that knowledge gave her the courage to keep riding.
They rode for hours, following the rustlers' trail across the rugged terrain. The sun beat down on them, the heat shimmering off the rocks and the scrubby brush. Clementine could feel the sweat trickling down her back, the dust caking her face and hair. But she hardly noticed, her mind focused on the task at hand, on the need to find the stolen cattle and bring the thieves to justice.
It was nearly sundown when they finally caught sight of the rustlers' camp, a thin plume of smoke rising from a hidden canyon up ahead. Elvis called a halt, his hand raised in warning.
"We'll have to go in on foot from here," he said, his voice low and tense. "Can't risk them hearing us coming."
Clementine nodded, her heart pounding in her chest. This was it, the moment of truth. She slid from her saddle, her legs stiff and sore from hours of riding. She checked her rifle, making sure it was loaded and ready, then fell in behind Elvis as he led the way toward the canyon.
They crept through the underbrush, the only sound the crunch of their boots against the dry leaves and twigs. Clementine could feel the tension in the air, the sense of impending danger. She knew that the rustlers would be armed, that they would fight to keep their stolen herd. But she also knew that they were outnumbered, that the posse had the element of surprise on their side.
As they neared the edge of the canyon, Elvis held up a hand, signaling for them to stop. He peered over the edge, his eyes narrowing as he took in the scene below.
"They're down there, alright," he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Looks like they've got the cattle penned up in that box canyon. I count six men, maybe seven."
Clementine swallowed hard, her mouth suddenly dry. Six men. Six armed, desperate men who would stop at nothing to keep what they had stolen. She knew that the odds were in their favor, that they had the rustlers outnumbered and outgunned. But she also knew that anything could happen in the heat of battle, that there was no guarantee that they would all make it out alive.
She looked at Elvis, saw the grim determination in his eyes, the set of his jaw. And she knew that he was thinking the same thing, that he was weighing the risks and the rewards, the need to protect their own against the danger of the unknown.
"What's the plan?" she asked, her voice steady despite the hammering of her heart.
Elvis took a deep breath, his gaze still fixed on the canyon below. "We'll split up, come at 'em from both sides. Jake, you take half the men and circle around to the north. Tom, you take the other half and come in from the south. Clementine, you're with Jake. I’ll go straight down the middle, try to draw their fire and give the others a chance to get in close."
Clementine felt a sudden, sharp fear at his words, a sense of dread that she couldn't quite shake. She knew that Elvis was putting himself in the greatest danger, that he was using himself as a distraction to give the others a chance. And she knew that she couldn't let him do it alone.
"I'm coming with you," she said, her voice brooking no argument.
Elvis looked at her, his eyes widening in surprise. "Clementine, I don't think—"
"I'm not asking, Elvis," she said, cutting him off. "I’m coming."
For a moment, Elvis just stared at her, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he nodded, a flicker of something like pride in his eyes.
"Alright then," he said, his voice gruff. "Let's do this."
They made their way down the steep slope of the canyon, the loose shale and gravel sliding beneath their feet. Clementine could hear the low murmur of voices from the camp below, the soft lowing of the penned-up cattle. Her heart was pounding in her ears, her palms slick with sweat on the grip of her rifle.
As they neared the bottom of the canyon, Elvis held up a hand, signaling for her to stop. He peered around the edge of a boulder, his eyes narrowing as he took in the scene.
"Alright," he said, his voice low and tense. "On my signal, we move in. You stay close to me, you hear? And if things start to go south, you get the hell out of there and don't look back."
Clementine nodded, her throat too tight to speak. She knew that he was trying to protect her, that he was willing to lay down his life to keep her safe. And she knew that she couldn't let that happen, that she would fight to her last breath to keep him alive.
Elvis took a deep breath, his hand tightening on the grip of his pistol. Then, with a nod to Clementine, he stepped out from behind the boulder, his voice ringing out across the canyon.
"Drop your weapons and let the cattle go!" he shouted, his pistol leveled at the nearest rustler. "You're surrounded and outnumbered. There's no way out!"
For a moment, there was silence, the only sound the low moan of the wind through the canyon. Then, with a shout of defiance, the rustlers opened fire, their bullets whizzing past Clementine's head and shattering the rock at her feet.
She dropped to the ground, her heart pounding in her chest. Beside her, Elvis was returning fire, his pistol barking in the still air. She could hear the shouts and curses of the rustlers, the panicked bellowing of the cattle as they milled about in their makeshift pen.
Clementine leveled her rifle, her hands steady and her aim true. She squeezed the trigger once, twice, three times, watching with grim satisfaction as the rustlers fell, clutching at their wounds.
But then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw something that made her blood run cold. Elvis, locked in hand-to-hand combat with one of the rustlers, his gun lying forgotten on the ground.
The man was huge, easily a head taller than Elvis and twice as broad. He had a knife in his hand, the blade glinting wickedly in the sun, and a feral grin on his face as he bore down on the smaller man.
Clementine didn't hesitate. She got up from her position, charging towards the two men with a shout of fury. She leaped, tackling the rustler around the waist and sending them both tumbling to the ground.
They grappled in the dirt, the man's knife slashing at the air as Clementine tried to wrestle it from his grip. She could hear Elvis shouting her name, could feel the impact of bodies hitting the ground all around her as the battle raged on.
And then, with a final, desperate twist, she wrenched the knife free. The man lunged for her, his eyes wild with rage and desperation, but Clementine was faster. She plunged the blade into his chest, feeling the sickening give of flesh and bone.
The rustler's eyes went wide, his mouth opening in a silent scream. And then he was falling, his body hitting the ground with a dull, final thud.
Clementine staggered to her feet, her breath coming in great, heaving gasps. She looked around wildly, taking in the scene of carnage and chaos.
All around her, the canyon exploded into chaos. The posse had burst from cover, guns blazing as they bore down on the rustlers. She could hear shouts and screams, could smell the acrid tang of gunpowder on the air. Bullets whizzed past her head, kicking up puffs of dust at her feet.
It seemed to go on forever, that nightmarish battle in the heart of the canyon. But in reality, it was over in a matter of minutes. The rustlers, outnumbered and outgunned, threw down their weapons and surrendered, their hands raised in supplication.
Clementine sagged with relief, her knees suddenly weak. She looked around, taking in the scene of carnage—the bodies sprawled on the ground, the wounded men groaning in pain, the cattle milling about in confusion.
And then her gaze fell on Elvis, and her heart stopped.
He was lying on the ground, his face pale and his eyes closed. There was a spreading stain of red on his shirt, a wound in his chest that pulsed with each labored breath.
"No," Clementine whispered, stumbling forward on numb, leaden feet. "No, no, no."
She fell to her knees beside him, her hands shaking as she pressed them to the wound, trying desperately to stem the flow of blood. Elvis's eyes fluttered open, glassy and unfocused.
"Don't you dare," she said fiercely, her tears falling hot and fast on his face. "Don't you dare leave me, Elvis Presley. Not now, not like this."
*
"Somebody help me!" Clementine shouted, her voice raw with desperation. "Please, he's hurt, we need to get him back to the ranch!"
The others crowded around, their faces grim as they took in the sight of their fallen comrade. Tom Hawkins knelt down on Elvis' other side, his fingers searching for a pulse.
"He's alive," he said, his voice tight. "But he's lost a lot of blood. We need to get him back to Windy Creek, and fast."
Clementine nodded, her vision blurring with tears.
“Put him on White Lightning!” Rusty cried, “Clem’s horse is the fastest.” She watched as the men lifted Elvis onto the back of her horse, his head lolling limply against his chest. She wanted to go to him, to gather him into her arms and will the life back into his broken body. But she knew that she couldn't, that she had to be strong now, for him and for herself.
"I'll go with you," said Jake, swinging up into his own saddle. "Red and Tom, you, round up the herd and head on back. The rest of you, tie the rustler up. We'll meet you there."
The ride back to the ranch was a blur, a nightmare of dust and sweat and clenching fear and Elvis’ limp form cradled against her chest as she urged White Lightning onward. She could feel his blood soaking through her shirt, could hear the rattling wheeze of his breath in her ear.
But she refused to give up hope, refused to let the fear and the despair take hold. Elvis was a fighter, a survivor. He would make it through this. He had to.
They reached the ranch just as the sun was setting, the sky painted in shades of orange and gold. Clementine leapt from the saddle, shouting for Juanita and the ranch hands as she half-carried, half-dragged Elvis inside.
"Help him!" she demanded, her voice tight with fear.
Mrs. Jameson hurried over, her face creased with worry. "They took him straight up to his room, miss. Juanita's with him now, doing what she can to stop the bleeding. But he's in a bad way, I won't lie to you."
The next few hours passed in a haze of activity and dread, the ticking of the clock on the mantel the only sound in the silent house. Juanita worked tirelessly, cleaning and stitching and bandaging, her face set in grim determination.
*
It had been hours, and Clementine had no news. "I need to go to him, Ida" she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I need to be with him."
The housekeeper nodded, her eyes soft with understanding. "Of course, miss. You go on up. I'll see to the hands and the stock."
Clementine managed a grateful nod, then turned and fled into the house, her heart pounding and her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. She took the stairs two at a time.
She burst into Elvis' room without knocking, her eyes wide and wild as she scanned the dimly lit space. He was lying on the bed, his shirt torn open to reveal the ugly, seeping wound in his chest. Juanita was bent over him, her hands bloody as she worked to staunch the flow.
"How is he?" Clementine asked, her voice thin and reedy to her own ears. "Will he... will he live?"
Juanita looked up, her dark eyes unreadable. "I don't know, Clem. He's lost a lot of blood, and the bullet's still in there. I've done what I can to clean and bind the wound, but he needs a real doctor, and soon."
Clementine nodded, her throat too tight for words. She sank down onto the edge of the bed, her hand reaching out to brush the sweat-soaked hair back from Elvis' brow. He was burning with fever, his skin hot and dry beneath her palm.
"Oh, Elvis," she whispered, the endearment slipping out before she could stop it. "What have they done to you?"
She sent Red to fetch Doc Jamison from town, his saddlebags laden with all the medical supplies they could spare. And then there was nothing to do but wait, and pray, and hope against hope that Elvis would pull through.
The sun rose and set, the hours bleeding into days.
Clementine sat by Elvis's bedside, holding his hand and whispering words of encouragement. She barely slept, barely ate, her whole world narrowed down to the rise and fall of his chest, the fluttering of his eyelids, the faint pulse at his wrist.
And then, on the eighth day, a miracle. Elvis's fever broke, his breathing easing and his color returning. He opened his eyes, blinking up at Clementine with a weak, crooked smile.
"Hey there, darlin'," he rasped, his voice hoarse from disuse. "Fancy meeting you here."
Clementine let out a sob, tears of relief and joy streaming down her face. She threw herself into his arms, burying her face in his neck and breathing in the warm, familiar scent of him.
"Don't you ever do that to me again," she whispered fiercely. "You hear me, Elvis Presley? Never again."
He chuckled softly, his hand coming up to stroke her hair. "Yes, ma'am," he murmured. "I promise."
*
The next morning, Clementine awoke to Elvis screaming in agony. Before long, Doc Jamison was at his bedside, procuring a large needle from his medicine bag and injecting it into the patient’s arm. Clementine watched with bated breath as Elvis slowly settled back into a comfortable sleep, floating in the twilight of morphine.
She sat at his bedside, keeping vigil, praying for him. At one point, he whispered something.
"Marry me," she thought she heard. "Be my wife, Clementine.
Chapter 4
Clementine sat at her desk, sorting through the mail that had arrived the previous week. Among the various bills and correspondence, one letter caught her eye. The familiar handwriting on the envelope made her heart skip a beat. It was from Bonnie.
With trembling fingers, Clementine opened the letter and began to read:
"My Dearest Clemmie,
I hope this letter finds you well and thriving in your new life at Windy Creek Ranch. I miss you terribly, and the city feels empty without your laughter and companionship.
I have exciting news! I've decided to take a break from the hustle and bustle of New York and come visit you at the ranch. I long to see the beautiful landscapes you've described and meet the intriguing characters you've mentioned in your letters.
Expect me to arrive within the next fortnight. I cannot wait to embrace you and hear all about your adventures.
Your loving friend, Bonnie"
Clementine clutched the letter to her chest, a wide grin spreading across her face. The prospect of having Bonnie at the ranch filled her with joy and excitement. She couldn't wait to show her best friend around and introduce her to everyone, especially Elvis.
Elvis. The thought of him made Clementine's smile falter. Since his injury, their relationship had been strained. She had been tending to him diligently, changing his bandages and ensuring he was comfortable. However, every time she tried to bring up his morphine-induced mumblings, Elvis would change the subject or feign exhaustion.
A knock at the door startled Clementine from her thoughts. "Come in," she called, setting the letter aside.
To her surprise, Katie Hawthorne stepped into the room, her blonde hair perfectly coiffed and her blue eyes sparkling with mischief. She looked ravishing in an emerald green day dress, the hue making her cheeks look all the more rosy.
"Good morning, Clementine," she greeted, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything important."
Clementine forced a smile, trying to ignore the twinge of jealousy that Katie's presence always seemed to evoke. "Not at all, Katie. What brings you here?"
Katie sauntered over to the desk, running her fingers along the polished wood. "I was hoping to visit Mr. Presley. I heard he's recovering well, and I thought he might enjoy some… new company."
Clementine's stomach churned at the thought of Katie spending time alone with Elvis. She knew there was a history between them, but the details remained a mystery. "I'm sure he would appreciate that," she managed to say, her voice strained. "He's in his room, resting."
With a nod and a triumphant smile, Katie swept out of the room, leaving Clementine alone with her thoughts. Unable to concentrate on her work, Clementine decided to take a walk around the ranch to clear her head.
As she stepped outside, the warm sun and gentle breeze greeted her. The sound of laughter caught her attention, and she spotted Red and Slim engaged in a lively conversation near the stables.
"Miss Clementine!" Red called out, waving her over. Clementine made her way over to them, eager for a distraction. "You're just in time. Slim here was about to share a story about the time he singlehandedly fought off a pack of coyotes."
Slim grinned, puffing out his chest. "It's true! I was out on the range, minding my own business, when suddenly..."
But as Slim launched into his tale, Clementine found herself only half-listening. Her mind wandered to the conversation she had overheard earlier between Katie and Elvis. She had been passing by Elvis' room when she heard their voices, low and intense.
"You can't keep avoiding me, Elvis," Katie had said, her tone pleading. "We have a history."
"That's exactly why I'm avoiding you, Katie," Elvis had replied, his voice tired. “Yeah, a history. As in, it’s in the past, and it needs to stay there."
Katie had scoffed. “I know you don't mean that…”
But she had hurried away before she could hear Elvis' response, her heart racing and her mind reeling. What exactly had happened between them? And why did the thought of them together make her feel so uneasy? Feigning a stomachache, Clementine gently extracted herself from Slim and Red and started back for the house.
Lost in her thoughts, she didn't notice Ida approach until the older woman placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Miss Clementine, you look troubled," Ida said, her kind eyes filled with concern. "Is everything alright?"
Clementine sighed, offering Ida a weak smile. "I'm fine, Ida. Just a lot on my mind, I suppose."
Ida nodded, understanding dawning on her face. "It's about Mr. Elvis and Miss Katie, isn't it?"
Clementine's eyes widened. "How did you know?"
Ida chuckled softly. "I've been around long enough to notice things, Miss Clementine. And I can see the way you look at Mr. Elvis, and the way Miss Katie looks at him too. Frankly, I’d look at him that way too if I were younger,” she chuckled.
Clementine felt her cheeks heat up. "I don't know what you're talking about, Ida."
The housekeeper smiled knowingly. "It's alright, Miss Clementine. You don't have to pretend with me. I know it's not my place to gossip, but I feel like you should know the truth about Mr. Elvis and Miss Katie."
Curiosity got the better of Clementine, and she found herself leaning in closer. "What truth, Ida?"
Ida glanced around to make sure they were alone before lowering her voice. "Mr. Elvis and Miss Katie were engaged once, years ago. They were young and in love, or so they thought. But then Miss Katie got it into her head that she wanted to see the world, experience life beyond the ranch. She left Mr. Elvis behind, broke his heart into a million pieces." She wrung her hands. “Oh, it was pitiful!”
Clementine's heart sank. "I had no idea," she whispered, her voice trembling.
Ida patted her hand reassuringly. "Mr. Elvis was never the same after that. He threw himself into his work, closed himself off from the world. But then you came along, Miss Clementine. I've seen the way he looks at you, the way he smiles when you're around. You've brought light back into his life."
Clementine felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes. "D-do you think he still loves her?"
"Miss Clementine, you listen to me. You are a smart, strong, and beautiful young woman. Any man would be lucky to have you." Ida shook her head firmly. “And just between you and me... if I were Mr. Elvis, I’d tell Miss Katie to go on and git.”
Clementine nodded, blinking back her tears.
The housekeeper smiled warmly. "You’re gonna be just fine. Now, why don't you go and check on him? I'm sure he could use some company."
Taking a deep breath, Clementine squared her shoulders and made her way back to the house. She climbed the stairs to Elvis' room, her heart pounding in her chest. She raised her hand to knock on the door, but hesitated when she heard voices coming from inside.
"Hold still," Katie's voice was soft, almost tender. "This poultice will help with the pain."
There was a moment of silence, followed by a sharp intake of breath from Elvis. "Ouch! Careful, Katie."
"Don't be such a baby," Katie chided, her tone playful. "You've had worse."
Clementine's stomach churned as she imagined Katie sitting close to him, her hands gentle on his skin. She knew she shouldn't be eavesdropping, but she couldn't seem to make herself move.
"Why are you here, Katie?" Elvis asked, his voice strained.
"I wanted to see you," Katie replied, her words measured. "It's been a long time, Elvis. Too long."
There was a pause, and Clementine could picture Elvis looking away, his jaw tight. "Things have changed, Katie. I've changed."
Katie laughed softly, the sound making Clementine's skin prickle. "Have you, now? The Elvis I knew would never have let a little thing like a flesh wound keep him down."
"The Elvis you knew is gone," he said, his voice firm. "I'm not the same man I was back then." He paused. "I mean it, Katie," Elvis was saying, his voice strained. "I can't do this with you. Not anymore."
"But Elvis…" Katie pleaded. "Don't throw it away for some city girl who doesn't understand you like I do."
Elvis scoffed.
Katie laughed bitterly. "You're a damned fool, Elvis Presley. She'll never love you like I do."
The sound of footsteps approaching the door made Clementine jump back, her heart racing. She quickly ducked into a nearby room, pressing herself against the wall as Katie stormed out of Elvis' room and down the stairs.
Clementine waited until she heard the front door slam before exhaling shakily. Her mind was spinning with everything she had overheard. Did Elvis really mean what he said?
Shaking her head, Clementine decided to focus on the one thing she could control—her work. She made her way downstairs and out to the barn, determined to throw herself into the daily chores and put all thoughts of Elvis and Katie out of her mind.
As she mucked out the stalls and fed the horses, Clementine found herself falling into a comfortable rhythm. The physical labor was soothing, allowing her to clear her head and focus on the task at hand. Before she knew it, she was hours deep into her tasks, the sun was setting, and it was time to head home.
As Clementine climbed the stairs, she heard voices coming from the kitchen. Slim’s reedy, high pitched one and... Elvis’ baritone drawl? Clementine crept closer to feed her curiosity, staying out of sight.
"I don't know what to do, Slim," Elvis was saying, his voice strained. "Katie showing up here has thrown me for a loop."
"You still got feelings for her, boss?" the wiry man asked, his tone sympathetic.
There was a pause, and Clementine held her breath, waiting for Elvis' response.
"No," Elvis said finally, his voice firm. "What I had with Katie is in the past. But having her here, stirring up old memories... it's messing with my head."
"What about... Clementine?" Slim asked, and Clementine's heart skipped a beat at the mention of her name.
"Clementine..." Elvis said, and there was a tenderness in his voice that made her pulse race. "She's special, Slim. I ain’t never met anyone like her. But I don't know if I'm ready for something new, not with all this baggage from my past."
Slim clapped Elvis on the shoulder. "You gotta do what's right for you, boss. If you ask me, don't let a good thing slip away because you're too scared to take a chance."
Clementine skulked away before they could discover her, her mind reeling with what she had overheard. Her heart was heavy. Somehow, she had expected Elvis to say that he loved her; that he was ready for a relationship. That he recognized how she felt, and he felt the same. But...
She was so absorbed in her thoughts that she didn't hear the sound of hoofbeats approaching the front yard until a familiar voice called out, "Clemmie!"
Clementine popped her head through the window, her eyes widening in disbelief. There, sitting astride a beautiful chestnut mare, was Bonnie, her fiery red curls blowing in the breeze and her green eyes sparkling with mischief in the golden hour.
"Bonnie!" Clementine exclaimed, dropping her pitchfork and rushing forward to embrace her friend. "What are you doing here? I thought you weren't arriving for another week!"
Bonnie laughed, hugging Clementine tightly. "I couldn't wait that long to see you, darling. I hopped on the first train out of New York and made my way here as fast as I could."
Clementine stepped back, taking in the sight of her best friend. Bonnie looked radiant, her cheeks flushed from the ride and her smile as wide as the sky. "I can't believe you're really here," Clementine said, shaking her head in amazement.
Bonnie grinned, linking her arm through Clementine's. "Well, believe it, darling. I'm here, and I'm ready for an adventure. Now, show me around this ranch of yours. I want to see everything!"
Clementine laughed, feeling lighter than she had in weeks. With Bonnie by her side, everything seemed brighter, more manageable. She led her friend around the ranch, introducing her to the horses and the cattle, showing her the sprawling fields and the cozy bunkhouse.
As they walked, Clementine found herself pouring out her heart to Bonnie, telling her all about Elvis and Katie and the confusion she felt. Bonnie listened intently, her brow furrowed in concentration.
"It sounds to me like you're in love with this Elvis fellow," Bonnie said finally, her tone matter-of-fact.
Clementine sputtered, her cheeks turning crimson. "What? No! I mean, I care about him, of course, but love? That's ridiculous."
Bonnie raised an eyebrow. "Is it? Clemmie, I've known you since we were in pigtails. I've never seen you this worked up over a man before. And from what you've told me, it sounds like he feels the same way about you."
Clementine sniffed, wiping away a stray tear. "You really think so?"
Bonnie nodded firmly. "I do. And I think you need to talk to him, Clemmie. Tell him how you feel. Life's too short to let love slip away."
Clementine took a deep breath, letting Bonnie's words sink in. She knew her friend was right. She had to talk to Elvis, had to tell him how she felt. Even if he didn't feel the same way, at least she would know.
"You're right," she said finally, squaring her shoulders. "I'll talk to him. Tonight, after dinner."
Bonnie grinned, squeezing Clementine's hand. "That's my girl. Now, let's go find some trouble to get into. I've been cooped up on that train for far too long."
Clementine laughed, feeling a rush of affection for her friend. "I think I know just the thing. How do you feel about a little horseback riding?"
Bonnie's eyes sparkled with excitement. "Lead the way, darling. I'm ready for anything."
As they made their way to the stables, Clementine spotted Red and Slim leaning against the fence, deep in conversation.
Red's eyes widened as he took in Bonnie's fiery red curls and sparkling green eyes.
Bonnie smiled, holding out her hand. "I’m Bonnie, Clementine's friend from New York."
Red took her hand, holding it a beat longer than necessary. "New York, huh? What brings a city girl like you out to our humble ranch?"
Bonnie laughed, her eyes sparkling. "Oh, you know. Adventure, excitement, the chance to see my best friend in the world."
Red grinned, leaning in closer. "Well, I can certainly promise you adventure and excitement, Miss Bonnie."
Slim rolled his eyes, elbowing Red in the ribs. "Ignore him, Miss Bonnie. He's all talk and no action."
Red chuckled, his cheeks flushing slightly. "I don't know about that, Miss Bonnie. I do my best to make all our guests feel welcome."
Bonnie raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. "Is that so? Well, I guess I'll just have to see for myself."
As Bonnie and Red continued their flirtatious banter, Clementine felt her spirits lift. It was good to see her friend getting along so well with the ranch hands.
Suddenly, a shout rang out across the yard. "The fence is down! The cattle are escaping!"
Clementine's heart raced as she saw the herd of cattle stampeding through the broken fence. "We have to round them up!" she cried, running towards the stables.
Red and Slim were already saddling up their horses. "Miss Clementine, you and Miss Bonnie take the north pasture," Red called out. "Slim and I will head south. Rusty, Billy, head east. We'll meet up at the old oak tree."
Clementine nodded, swinging herself up into the saddle. Bonnie followed suit, her face set with determination.
They rode hard, the wind whipping through their hair as they chased down the errant cattle. It was a minor crisis, but it forced everyone to work together to resolve the issue. Finally, after several hours of hard work, they managed to herd the last of the cattle back into the pasture.
Exhausted but triumphant, Clementine, Bonnie, and the ranch hands made their way back to the house for a very late dinner. As they entered the dining room, Clementine was surprised to see Katie sitting right next to the head of the table, where Elvis always ate.
"Katie!" Miss Ida exclaimed, setting down a steaming pot of stew. "I'm so glad you could join us for dinner."
Katie smiled, her flaxen hair gleaming in the candlelight.
"Thank you for the invitation, Miss Ida. It's been far too long since I've had a proper home-cooked meal from someone skilled such as yourself."
Bonnie leaned over to Clementine, her voice low. "Who's the blonde?" she whispered, her eyes narrowing slightly.
Clementine sighed. "That's Katie Hawthorne, Elvis's ex-fiancée. She's came to visit today while he recovers."
Bonnie raised an eyebrow, her expression skeptical. "I see."
As they sat down to eat, Clementine found herself seated directly across from Katie. The blonde gave her a saccharine smile, her blue eyes glinting with something like malice.
"So, Clementine," Katie said, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "How are you finding life on the ranch? It must be quite a change from the big city."
Clementine forced a smile, determined not to let Katie get under her skin. "Well, my first year here has been really great even though I’m not used to small towns. It's been an adjustment, but I'm loving every minute of it. Everyone here has been so welcoming and kind." Bonnie squeezed her best friend’s hand for encouragement.
Katie's smile tightened, her eyes flicking to Elvis' empty seat. "Yes, well, that's the thing about small towns. People can be so... provincial. They don't always know what's best for them."
Clementine bristled at the implication. "I think the people here are perfectly capable of making their own decisions," she said, her voice cool.
Katie laughed, the sound grating on Clementine's nerves. "Oh, you poor thing. You really think you know this town, don’t you? I’m the one with history here." The implication was clear. “I’m the one who’s always been here for hi—this town.”
Clementine felt her temper flare, but she refused to rise to the bait. "Well, maybe the townsfolk are looking forward to the future."
Katie's eyes flashed with anger, her pretty face twisting into a sneer. "You have no idea what you're talking about," she hissed, leaning forward. "He—the people out here don’t want change. They like things the way they’ve always been."
Clementine's heart clenched at Katie's words, but she refused to let the other woman see how much they hurt.
Just as Bonnie was about to give Katie the what-for on behalf of her best friend, the door creaked open, and Elvis stepped into the room. He was still pale and wan, but there was a newfound strength in his step.
Clementine's heart skipped a beat as Elvis's gaze met hers. “Oh, Elvis! You’re feeling better! Look who came to see us, my best friend Bonnie—”
His gaze landed on Clementine, and a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. But then his eyes shifted to Katie, and the smile faded, replaced by a look of wary concern.
Katie immediately stood up, rushing over to Elvis' side.
"Elvis, darling, you shouldn't be out of bed," she cooed, slipping her arm through his. "Come, sit down and let me take care of you."
Clementine watched as Elvis allowed Katie to lead him to the table, her heart sinking as he sat down beside his ex-fiancée. She knew it was foolish to read too much into it, but she couldn't help the twinge of jealousy that twisted in her gut.
Bonnie, never one to let an awkward moment pass, leaned forward with a mischievous grin. "So, Elvis," she said, her voice carrying across the table. "Tell me, what's a handsome cowboy like you doing running a ranch all by your lonesome?"
Elvis choked on his stew, his eyes widening in surprise. The other ranch hands snickered, their faces red with barely suppressed laughter. “Nice to meet you too, Bonnie.”
“Do pray tell,”Bonnie grinned.
"Well, I... uh..." Elvis cleared his throat, clearly taken aback by Bonnie's forwardness. "I'm not running it alone, y’know. I have a whole team of hardworking folks helping me out."
Bonnie nodded, her expression serious. "Of course, of course. But still, it must get lonely out here sometimes. Don't you ever wish for a little companionship?"
Clementine kicked Bonnie under the table, her face flushing with embarrassment. But Bonnie just laughed, clearly enjoying the effect she was having on the usually unflappable Elvis.
As the dinner wore on, Bonnie kept up a steady stream of witty repartee, peppering Elvis with questions about life on the ranch and his plans for the future. The other ranch hands could barely contain their laughter, choking on their food as Bonnie's New York City directness clashed with Elvis's stoic cowboy demeanor.
Finally, as Miss Ida brought out a steaming apple pie for dessert, Bonnie cleared her throat and made an announcement. "I've been thinking," she said, her eyes twinkling with excitement. "I'd like to stay at the ranch for a while longer, if that's alright with you, Clementine."
Red, who had been hanging on Bonnie's every word throughout the meal, sat up straighter in his chair. "That's great news, Miss Bonnie," he said, his voice eager. "I'd be more than happy to show you around the ranch, if you'd like."
Bonnie smiled, her cheeks dimpling. "I'd like that very much, Red. Thank you."
As the evening wound down and the ranch hands began to disperse, Clementine found a moment to slip away from the table. She stepped out onto the porch, taking a deep breath of the cool night air.
"Clem?" a voice called out softly from behind her.
She turned to see Elvis standing in the doorway, his face illuminated by the warm glow of the lanterns. "Elvis," she said, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "I wasn't sure if you'd be joining us tonight."
Clementine couldn’t take her eyes off him. The soft light seemed to dance across his chiseled features, accentuating his rugged good looks. Though he had been bedridden for weeks, his strength was coming back, broad shoulders filling in and his color no longer ashen.
He stepped out onto the porch, his heavy boots echoing on the wooden boards. Her breath hitched in her throat. She’d cared for him devotedly during his recovery, never once believing he’d succumb. And now here he was, the picture of vitality. His piercing blue eyes met hers and he gave her a smile that made her heart skip a beat.
"I couldn't miss Bonnie's grand debut," he said, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "She's quite the character, ain’t she?"
Clementine laughed, nodding in agreement. "That she is. I hope she didn't make you too uncomfortable with all her questions."
Elvis shook his head, leaning against the railing beside her. "Not at all. It's refreshing to have someone around who speaks her mind so freely. Reminds me a bit of you, actually."
She felt her cheeks flush at Elvis’ words. She couldn’t deny there was something between them, the way his eyes seemed to see into her very soul. Being so close to him did strange things to her insides. She glanced up at him shyly through her dark lashes.
“I'm not usually so outspoken,” she murmured. “Something about this place brings out my wild side.”
Elvis grinned, his white teeth flashing against his tanned skin. “No need to apologize. I like your wild side.” His voice dropped lower as he leaned in. Her breath caught in her throat. Elvis found it hard to look away from her upturned face. There was an alluring earnestness about Clementine that called to him. He knew he should restrain himself for propriety's sake, yet he couldn't help but envision what it would feel like to kiss her rosebud lips.
"It's a rare quality in a woman," Elvis murmured. He leaned in slightly, drawn in by her floral scent. Clementine's breath caught, but she did not pull away. The air between them simmered with possibility. One kiss could change everything.
Clementine felt a blush creep up her cheeks at the compliment. "I don't know about that," she said, ducking her head. "Bonnie's always been the brave one, not me."
Elvis reached out, tilting her chin up gently with his finger. "You're braver than you give yourself credit for, Clem," he said, his voice low and earnest. "Look at everything you've accomplished since you arrived at Windy Creek. You've taken on challenges that would make most people turn tail and run."
Elvis leaned closer. Close enough for Clementine to feel his heartbeat thrumming. He shivered. “And... and you saved my life. I never said thank you."
Clementine's heart raced at his touch, at the intensity of his gaze. "I couldn't have done it without you," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly. "You've been there for me every step of the way, even when I didn't deserve it."
Elvis shook his head, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "You've always deserved it, Clementine. You're an amazing woman, and I..."
He trailed off, his eyes searching hers in the dim light, causing a shiver to run down her spine. Her heart raced as she silently hoped for his lips to meet hers.
But then, the sound of a throat clearing behind them broke the spell. They turned to see Katie standing in the doorway, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her eyes were bright with hurt and anger.
"Oh, I’m sorry. Did I interrupt something?" she asked, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "Just wanted to say goodnight before I turned in."
Clementine felt a pang of guilt at the hurt and anger in Katie's eyes, even as a small, petty part of her rejoiced at the other woman's obvious jealousy.
"Not at all, Katie," Elvis said, his voice cool and distant. "We were just getting some air."
Katie's gaze flickered between them, a bitter smile twisting her lips. "Of course you were," she murmured. "Well, don't let me keep you. Goodnight, Elvis. Clementine."
With that, she turned on her heel and stalked back into the house, leaving Clementine and Elvis alone once more.
Clementine sighed, rubbing her temples wearily. "I'm sorry about that," she said, her voice apologetic. "I didn't mean to cause any trouble between you two."
Elvis shook his head, reaching out to take her hand in his. "You ain’t got nothing to apologize for, Clementine," he said, his voice firm.
Clementine's heart leaped at his words, at the unspoken promise in his eyes. She opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, the sound of footsteps behind them made them both turn.
Ida stood in the doorway, a letter clutched in her hand. "I'm sorry to interrupt, Miss Clementine," she said, her voice apologetic. "But this just arrived for you. It's from New York City. Looks important."
Clementine's brow furrowed as she took the letter, her eyes scanning the familiar handwriting on the envelope. As she read the contents, her face grew pale, and she felt a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach.
"What is it, Clementine?" Elvis asked, his voice concerned. "Is everything alright?"
Clementine swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry. "Y-yes," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
But it wasn't.
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Chris Redfield: personality
This is my psychological analysis of the character, which includes important details of the story, an analysis of the decisions they made and the concept of the phenomenon of «Guiding Fear». Contains spoilers!
Even if you know lore 100%, you will be able to learn something new from my thoughts
I did this to practice analyzing personalities and reliably prescribe my own characters.
[These are all my personal reflections that I have been accumulating and analyzing for six months. You can see the same analysis with Wesker here. In Chris' case, I want to dispel the myths that he is unstable and stupid. Thanks to everyone who reads this, I really appreciate it and it's nice to know that my thoughts are of interest to someone!]
Chris devoted his life entirely to the fight against bioterrorism, renouncing normal life so that others could have it. We don't know much about his thoughts and feelings, as it's in Chris' character to hide such things deep within himself so they don't interfere with his work, but his kind and honest nature shines through. His probable motto is «If not me, then who?»
The main theme of Resident Evil is the struggle with fear. We can speculate endlessly about which characters struggle with which fear, but I'm pretty sure Chris embodies the «fear of loss».
In his 48 years of life, he has lost many partners and squad members, as well as family and friends. Death follows Chris, and he is unbearably afraid of his curse. But who is Chris? In the eyes of many he is a hero, famous for his impulsive character and unbending sense of justice, because of which he is ready to argue with his superiors to prove his point. But behind the legend is a sensitive, respectful and careful man, able to recognize the best qualities in people and guide them.
«I'm not a hero» © Chris
Because of his fear of losing his loved ones, Chris needs control and order in his life, he avoids and minimizes any risks. For this reason, in re8 organized his own squad, separated from the organization, to have full control over the situation. This obsession to control his environment and outcomes to avoid the pain or disappointment that he has experienced in the past is a defense mechanism.
Chris is not an overly sociable person or someone who is eager to make new friends. Although he is easy to communicate, Chris still refrains from frequent socializing with people to avoid forming attachments that could potentially lead to losses in the future. He is used to formal communication between subordinates and colleagues, and informal communication only with those close to Chris who have been with him for a long time.
But let's go his way.
Chris and his younger sister Claire lost their parents when they were children, they died in a car accident. Since then, Chris has taken responsibility for his sister and they have become very close. The first major loss in his life.
At the age of 17, Chris joined the United States Air Force, where he stayed for 6 years. From there he has flying skills, and he is also good with various weapons and is known for his hand-to-hand combat skills, which will not once help him in life. A capable man who was fired for disobeying senior officers, because he didn't agree with them. Barry Burton, a friend he met in the Air Force, recommended Chris to S.T.A.R.S. (elite special forces division under the jurisdiction of the Raccoon Police Department), and that's how his fateful meeting with the Alpha and Bravo teams happened. On the team, Chris was valued for his versatility and was assigned as a point man.
There Chris won at least one award as the best shooter and also met Jill Valentine, who later became his good friend and partner.
His desk in S.T.A.R.S.'s office stands out with its perpetual clutter, scattered folders and disks. He tends to bring things from home, decorating his place with them. For example, next to his desk, Chris put a guitar and also hung a jacket with "Made in Heaven" written on it, which is a reference to a song by the band Queen. Did he risk using the guitar in the presence of the Captain?
On holidays, he would often go to the suburbs with his teammates to drink, which sometimes caused riots. At that point, Chris was chaotic, but because of a difficult fate in the future, he had to tame his inner chaos.
All good things came to an end when contact was lost with Bravo's team in the mountains near Raccoon City. Alpha, meaning the team Chris was on, went to investigate and stumbled upon the Spencer's Mansion. But it wasn't an accident, it was just part of the plan of Wesker, their Captain. The mansion was only a cover for the Umbrella lab beneath it. All the inhabitants of the place had become mere shadows of their former selves, turning into zombies. In order for Chris to explore the building more safely, Wesker left supplies for him in some places, which may not be canon, but only a game convention. But this is quite normal for Wesker, he maintained the image of the captain until the very end.
When Chris caught Wesker off guard in the lab, he was finally convinced that his fears were correct... the captain was a traitor. But even knowing that, realizing how many squad members he ruined, when Wesker was mortally wounded Chris didn't hide his excitement for him. In the re1 remake Chris twitches in his direction, but then recoils. Chris has compassion even for those who betrayed him.
Chris lost many friends, including Wesker, during this assignment. And that day left a strong imprint in his mind. It was later dubbed «Mansion Incident». Something that divided the lives of many into «before» and «after» and began an endless nightmare.
Chris, Jill, Barry, Brad and Rebecca survived and took it upon themselves to figure things out. Upon their return, Chris reported the horrific incident to anyone who was willing to listen, but Police Chief Irons hushed up all the gossip, being under the thumb of Umbrella, not to mention that even the government refused to listen to what Chris had to say. Umbrella had too much influence for it to be that simple, but that only fueled the fire of Chris's fighting spirit. He went on «vacation» to Europe to do his own investigation without saying anything to Claire. Chris wanted to keep his sister out of danger, but there were consequences. Concerned about her brother's disappearance, Claire found herself drawn into the chaos of the fall of Raccoon City, where she met Leon Kennedy (events re2).
During his time at S.T.A.R.S., Chris saw his sister often and taught her shooting and combat skills. Thanks to her brother's attention, Claire learned the skills she needed to survive.
When Claire learned enough information about her brother and left the infected city, she traveled to Europe to continue her search for Chris, but found herself caught by Umbrella. She was sent to Rockfort Island prison, which was more like a concentration camp. (Code: Veronica). Thanks to information from Leon, who Claire managed to contact, Chris set out to help his sister. On the island, he encountered a few revelations - Wesker was alive for some reason, and he was also after some Alexia.
The former captain who got Chris's friends killed. The one who was presumed dead has once again cast a shadow over Redfield's life. Their fates intertwined.
Since Wesker's presence has been causing disasters as of late, Chris decided not only to find his sister, but also to investigate the situation on the island to prevent his new enemy from giving him what he was looking for. Upon meeting him, he discovered that the former captain was no longer human. Chris was only able to defeat him by stealth, suffering greatly in the process.
He eventually saved Claire, and they left the place together. Deep in his heart, Chris realized that Umbrella must cease to exist so that people like Wesker would disappear. So that unfortunate people would not repeat the fate of Steve (Claire's dead friend) and the people of Raccoon City.
In 2003, he traveled with Jill to Russia because of reports of infected people in that region. Their visit to a biological weapons factory ended with a victory over a new enemy, T-A.L.O.S., as well as the collapse of Umbrella, because now Chris and Jill had all the evidence against them. It was not without the help of Wesker, who had contributed to this collapse, because he wanted the same thing. Since then, Chris had become very attached to Jill, as if he was responsible for her life.
However, bioweapons and viruses have affected civilians many more times. That's why Chris and his partner joined the young BSAA organization to prevent the disaster in Raccoon City from repeating itself. In 2005 they were drawn into a conflict with the terrorist organization Veltro, in the investigation of which revealed unpleasant information about traitors in their (BSAA) ranks. There, by the way, Chris becomes the partner of a certain Jessica Sherawat, who is clearly partial to him, but he pretends that he does not notice the hints, softly rejecting the feelings of the future traitor. Inside BSAA, the leadership had to be changed, and that was the first seed of doubt that settled in Chris's mind. The first feeling of distrust for the place he was involved with.
Life continues to put Chris on the spot, forcing him to go on various missions with little or no time to rest. Thanks to the huge number of things, he has dedicated himself to, Chris is at the top of the organization. His endless hard work is summed up in his own phrase: «I'm Not Going To Stop Until I'm Dead».
Let's travel back to 2006. DLC for re5 «Lost in Nightmares». Chris and Jill go in search of Spencer, the last remaining bit of Umbrella, its founder. This man is responsible for many things and deserves to be punished, and could help them find Wesker. But when the partners arrive on a tip-off at his mansion, they find only a bloody corpse with their former captain standing over it. The latter in turn was displeased with the intrusion and immediately attacked them, during the fight Chris was caught off guard. A couple of seconds separated him from probable death. But Jill intervened and pushed Wesker through the window, she falling with him into the cliff. Chris could only watch helplessly as they fell, realizing that once again he had lost someone dear to him. Here Chris wonders for the first time if his struggle is worth it.
Jill's body was never found, and neither was Wesker's, so the former was pronounced dead. The empty grave with the headstone that had been erected in her honor was not deprived of Chris's attention. He probably went there often and grieved. What he swore over Jill's grave was unknown to anyone, but it made Chris investigate even more and put himself through even more training.
Since 1998, his body has changed a lot. Knowing that one day he would meet Wesker again, Chris diligently grew stronger, pushing his body to the limits of human capability so that he would be ready for anything.
What follows are the events of re5. In 2009, he travels to Africa to stop a bioweapons deal, where he meets his new partner, Sheva Alomar. Although they don't have the reliving of the past that they had with Jill, they hit it off well, thanks to which they accomplish a lot together. At the very beginning they encounter a new enemy, Majini, the same Ganados that Leon once encountered in re4, only from an improved version of the Plaga parasite. They also meet a virtually immortal mutant created thanks to the new Uroboros virus. After defeating him, Chris gets the data and learns that the deal was rigged to test this virus. In doing so, he lost several more of his men and painfully realized that if he had arrived on the scene a little earlier, his corpse lay with them. The data also contained a picture of a woman who looked strangely like the dead Jill, but with blonde hair. Chris secretly believed that maybe his old partner was alive.
Sheva was disappointed by the deaths of her comrades and frightened. Not wanting to put anyone else in danger, Chris asks her to leave him, but Sheva refuses. She assures Chris that they are partners until the end. Somewhere out there, her people are dying, so she can't drop everything and turn back and leave Chris alone. Then Chris tells her that he's on this mission for personal reasons. His former partner Jill may be alive and she needs his help, so they need to hurry before it's too late. To which Sheva agrees, not doubting her new partner's theory.
Eventually, after going through many trials, they came face to face with Wesker. He revealed that Jill had been with him the whole time, but was under a mind-altering drug. Jill, being zombified, fought on the same team as Wesker against Chris and Sheva. One of the dearest people to Chris had been enslaved for two whole years, which was beyond his mind with horror and sadness. He had almost buried her, almost given up looking for her, but Jill was literally under his nose, in a terrible situation. Struggling with his best friend and partner, Chris never stopped trying to get the truth into her head so she would recognize it, and he's succeeding.
Running away on urgent business, Wesker leaves Jill alone, forcing Chris and Sheva to fight her. During the fight, they remove the injector from her chest that was controlling her mind.
A disoriented Jill repents that she realized everything but couldn't control herself, to which her partners reply that they understand. Jill is back in action and off to the «Desperate Escape» DLC, while Chris and Sheva continue the main plot and head off on Wesker's trail. For Chris, this was already a personal vendetta. Having suffered so much loss through this man's fault, he would no longer be able to look Jill in the eye if he didn't stop him.
While searching for Wesker, the team encounters an Uroboros mutated Excella, Wesker's his ally, on whom Wesker decides to test the virus, to see if Excella will prove to be the «chosen one».
After an exhausting battle, the partners find the man they came for and decide to use the serum stolen from Excella. It is an injection that, under the right conditions, stabilizes Wesker's powers, but when overdosed makes him weaker. A weakened Wesker tries to flee to his plane, refusing to be confronted any further. His partners, who managed to climb with him, cause the plane to crash into an active volcano, where their final battle takes place.
Wesker, having lost most of his powers, finds himself in a difficult situation and decides to resort to overdosing on Uroboros. Against him, Chris and Sheva are once again at odds, but the fragile rock in the volcano plays into their hands, and Wesker falls ridiculously into the lava as the ground beneath him collapses.
This allowed partners to take advantage of his helplessness and fire the rocket launcher twice at the target. Although not shown, it is assumed that Wesker was killed.
After that, Chris finally realized what he was fighting for, realizing that his fight was worth the lives saved. Jill was sent to rehab after everything Wesker had done to her and didn't get back to normal until closer to 2015, causing Chris to change partners again. Chris wrote in his notes, «Defeating Wesker's undoubtedly a turning point for me. Due to this battle, I found the meaning behind what I'm fighting for».
In 2012, during the events of re6, Chris and his new partner, Piers Nivans, were sent to Edonia to prevent the spread of another bioweapon, but things didn't go quite as they expected. Another mission, another loss for Redfield.
At some point, he learns about Jake Muller and the fact that his life is in danger. After learning that he was Wesker's own son, Chris thought deep down, probably about the fate that has been intertwined with this man since the days of S.T.A.R.S.
At the very beginning of the mission, Chris loses almost his entire squad, once again convinced of the curse he carries behind him. And amnesia during the trauma incapacitates him for six months and Chris becomes an alcoholic.
In 2013, Pierce brings his captain back into the service, forcefully reclaiming unpleasant memories in order to continue the mission. The losses that Chris has suffered have affected him greatly, and he worries for the lives of every member of the squad, making foolish and rash actions that put him in danger. It is only after talking with Piers that Chris comes to his senses and becomes his old self again, because being gripped by fear you can't save anyone. And he really couldn't save anyone again, only the two of them survived.
After meeting Jake again, Chris confesses that he killed Wesker, his father, which leads to an argument in which Jake pulls a gun on him. Chris at this point says, "Go ahead, shoot. You have every right to. Just promise me you'll survive. The world depends on it." Jake shoots past and declares that there are more important things at stake than their problems. Chris probably feels guilty about him.
On a mission to protect Jake and many others, Chris and Piers have to face a new bioweapon, HAOS. Piers, sacrificing himself, becomes infected with the C-virus and forces Chris to save himself by being alone with HAOS. In doing so, he became another wound on Redfield's heart. Another loss on the account. Chris had planned to retire, lay down his weapons and turn everything over to Piers, but now he is forced to continue his service, thus honoring Piers's memory. Chris once said he would fight to the end, and he doesn't throw words to the wind.
2017, re7 events. Bakers and Mold incident, which Chris was unlucky enough to be involved in. He once again tragically lost all of his people. Once again, fate has struck a sore spot. And that seed of doubt that had settled in his mind back in 2005 finally blossomed. After this incident, Chris became even more distrustful of the BSAA, because they had hidden the incident from the public, which had never happened before. He formed his own Hound Wolf Squad, gathering people he could trust, and spent the next three years tracking down a certain mother Miranda, with absolutely no authorization from headquarters. He became an outcast in BSAA for this cause and for justice.
As Chris got older, he stopped acting impulsively and began to act more uncompromisingly, clearly following the plan regardless of any interference. He saw no obvious reason why he was obligated to inform Ethan of his next course of action before shooting his «wife» during dinner in 2021. He believed that Miranda would realize that Ethan knew something, so such sacrifices had to be made.
Ethan thought until the last minute that his wife was gone and the baby had been taken away. What loss and stress Ethan went through Chris didn't even take it upon himself to imagine. In the end, it turned out that it wasn't his wife at all, but Miranda, who had pretended to be her, changing her appearance at the expense of Mold's abilities. Chris's plan had gone awry from the start, but it could hardly have been worse if he had prematurely informed Ethan. From now on, Chris tried to keep random people out of his plans to minimize any potential casualties.
On this mission, for the first time, Chris didn't lose anyone from his squad, but he did lose a friend. Ethan died to protect loved ones, and it hit Redfield and his fear once again. He experienced grief and anger at the realization that he would never be able to save those whose lives he held dear. Perhaps he chastised himself for the mistakes he had made during this assignment. Blamed himself for not telling Ethan the whole plan beforehand. He had plenty of reasons to hate himself.
But this small victory over Miranda doesn't mean victory in the never-ending war against bioterrorism. On the way back, one of his squad discovers that the body of the BSAA soldier on their plane was a bioweapon. This is the last straw for Chris, and he decides to look into everything, which will most likely lead to a coup in the organization.
To summarize, Chris is sometimes hard to understand, as he hides his emotions and feelings under a meaningful silence. The kindly man who was the soul of the company, by 2021 looks as if he has lost all hope, but it still burns in him. Every dead person he failed to keep safe feels like they destroyed his heart. Christopher is a huge wound in the fandom that is not easy to heal. His storyline is likely coming to an end, which makes me sad to see Chris meet his old age in sadness and loneliness. At the time of re8 (2021), he's already 48 years old, which is a lot considering he's been fighting bioterrorism since he was 25. Has Chris ever thought of his own wants and needs since then? He has such dedication and concern for others that it seems as if he is completely oblivious to himself. With his endless responsibilities, it would be impossible to take a vacation, but there are indeed moments of calm, does Chris never rest?
On a more personal note, he has always treated his squads like family, "I know it is not any of my business, but I want you to think of us as a family... no matter how this all ends" (Philosophy University Incident 2010). Nothing is known about Chris' relationships, except for one non-canonical instance of dating a girl in «Viral Campaign». Apart from his living friends, he has no one else. It wasn't until Ethan's death that he found something resembling a normal life. Chris helped Ethan's wife raise and educate their daughter Rose, becoming an uncle and father figure to her. It is unknown if Chris ever returned to alcoholism after his amnesia, but I can assume it is unlikely. A lot of things happened to him during that period of his life that affected his view of the world. Surely he no longer allows himself to behave so recklessly, even in the most stalemate situation.
Interesting detail, Chris is constantly contrasted with Wesker, as if he's a better version of him. Both were Alpha squad captains, both have blood type 0, and were once the same weight class and same height. Probably the same eye color, as well as great weapons proficiency. Their encounters in re5 don't look like a fight, it's more like a dance between two people with equally good fighting skills. Sure, Wesker is much stronger than Chris due to his situation with the virus, but he never let himself use more strength than necessary to keep Chris fighting him, prolonging any fight with him. It's possible that Wesker's attempt to kill Chris in «Lost in Nightmares» is just a ruse, and he was going to toss him aside somewhere, as he never seriously intended to hurt him enough. Chris' age at the time of his last official appearance in re8 is 48, which matches Wesker's age at the time of his supposed death. Their conflict isn't over yet, so it's fully expected that Wesker survived and will once again surprise Christopher with his presence. They need to finish what they started, as adults and having already been through a lot. Without the pointless fights that the current Chris is unlikely to get into. There's no telling what the modern Wesker might be like, but if he's stayed in the shadows for so many years, it's not like he's planning to be too reckless either.
-------------------
Due to a misunderstanding, I would like to supplement my text. This analysis is only my personal interpretation and my personal view of the character and his story. I do not claim that it is 100% canon, because canon is so vague and disjointed that it is impossible to fully assemble it objectively. Everyone is entitled to have an interpretation different from mine. Best wishes to all!
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DRARRY FIC REC
Drarry x Fandom
I have made many fic rec lists, almost always at someone's request, although I don't often post them publicly. However, there are fic rec lists I compiled simply because I like a particular troupe. I often keep copies of these lists in the notes in my phone so that I can respond quickly to a request for fic recs. Long story short, the notes pile up and now I need to delete some before I can't find anything anymore. But I don't want to just let those rec lists disappear, so I decided to share them.
The list I want to share with you today is Drarry fics in which fandom plays an important role.
- Draco Potter and the Day the World Ended (G; 3,2k) by gracefully_slytherin
Draco Potter (nee Malfoy) was known for many things.
He was a Death Eater who was acquitted of all his war crimes; he was the first Mind Healer that St. Mungo's had hired; he was the Savior of the Wizarding World's husband; and he was the popular fanfiction author sassysnakeprince on Archive of Our Own.
And life was peaceful until his beloved fanfiction website stopped working overnight. The world, it seemed, had chosen to die that day.
I'm pretty sure this is a very relatable story to many of us 🤣
- Pass the Chocolate (T; 1,6k) by @romaine2424
Harry writes a fanfic for Draco, but it doesn’t quite work out the way he planned.
- Pass the Ogden's (T; 660) by @romaine2424
Harry has the blues about h/d fandom. He thinks they're getting old.
This story is a continuation of 'Pass the Chocolate'. Once again, Harry is having problems with fandom and Draco tries to help.
- The True Veela Story (PG; 700) by Faith Wood
Draco is a veela. He has to mate with Harry or die. Naturally, he chooses to die.
- Harry Discovers Slash (E; 907) by @astolat
The obligatory the-characters-learn-about-slash story. (Harry/Draco)
- Draco Malfoy: Fangirl ( M; 3,7k) by pir8fancier
Harry discovers that Draco is a fangirl.
- Fanboy series (?; 2k) by scudeliwu
Draco is caught coming back from a fan-convention.
- Draco Malfoy is a Stupid Wanker (M; 6,8k) by @emmagrant01
During the course of HBP, Romilda Vane's crush on Harry Potter evolves into a slashy obsession with Harry and Draco. (Harry/Draco, if only in Romilda's mind...)
I would love it if you can spare some time to check these fics out and leave kudos to the authors. Honestly, some of these are so underrated even though they are so good.
Anyway, have fun reading!
#drarry#drarry fic#drarry fic rec#drarry rec list#rec list#harry potter x draco malfoy#hpdm#hpdm fanfic#fandom#drarry x fandom
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