no other shotgun rider

The Furnace lives up to its name.

Even under the veil of night, the ground radiates heat like coals hidden under ash. The cracked earth is hard-packed and brittle, flaking beneath Vesper’s hooves as he moves with long, careful strides. The going is faster here—easier, in a way—but treacherous, too. Each step demands attention. Shards of stone skitter loose underfoot. The mirages that hover just ahead shimmer like spilled mercury, endless and empty, never growing nearer no matter how far they run.

He keeps his pace steady, nostrils flaring with the scent of scorched minerals and dry bone. Skeletons litter the horizon like warning signs—bleached clean, sun-cooked, and left untouched by time or scavengers.

And yet, for all that, Vesper’s mind is not only on the terrain.

Because Colt rides like a ghost. Seamless. Unshakable. No saddle, no reins, no pressure where there shouldn’t be—and somehow, he feels her there without ever being burdened by it. Her weight moves with him, not against him. Breath syncing to his own. Heat from her chest barely registering under the desert wind.

He’d expected bounce, maybe strain. A jarring reminder of the rider on his back. Instead, she’s a part of him in a way you'd think a telepath would find rather familiar, and yet...The realization strikes mid-stride, quiet but fierce. A flush of awe, chased by something softer. Like catching sight of a flower blooming between cracked stone.

He adjusts his gait only once, hooves finding purchase on a loose patch, but his body doesn’t tense. He trusts her not to be thrown. Trusts her, period, actually. And with the horizon melting into illusion, the bones watching from the dark, and the mirages dancing just out of reach, Vesper keeps running. Because with her up there and the wind behind them, the danger doesn’t feel quite so close.

You know it's all just a game that I'm playin'

Code 100% taken from the queeeeeeen herself, Sky <3

Colt

It's boots and chaps
It's cowboy hats
It's spurs and latigo

The distance falls away beneath them as pony boy coasts over the desert like a long shadow finally untethered by its source of light, free and floating. The sands shift to something firmer, something far more desolate. It's decorated with the brittle curl of heat so extreme even the ground is forced to peel and crack against it. The skeletons that are scattered read like a warning, and as accustomed as Colt is to the rise and fall of life in the world, the stark expanse of bone and nothing else sits like discomfort in her.

"I don't like it here," she murmurs to him as he threads his way with the steadiness of someone practiced, as surefooted as any of her most trusted mounts. It should not surprise her, he's capable in a number of ways, but she'd thought there'd be some adjustment period for him, some difficulty in this abnormal terrain. Some of the ground gives way underfoot, his weight loosening the already frail ground into the dried embers of its scorching. She leans with him, weight shifting with the slopes and the strides to keep out of his way as much as possible.

She glances up as the darkness has eked in further, the stars brighter against the backdrop of coal. She looks for the constellations he taught her earlier, attempting to find comfort in their guiding light as they dared the whelps of the Family to play some chase with them. "There's Tiamel," she says with a smile, fingers flexing in the base of his mane as she peers up at the bright pinpoint of light.

It's the ropes and the reins
And the joy and the pain
And they call the thing rodeo

Vesper snorts in response—less derision than shared disdain. Yeah, he doesn’t like it either. The Furnace is all blisters and silence, and the heat that coils off the stone feels like being watched by something that forgot how to blink.

Eventually, he pulls up. Not abruptly—just a gradual shift from canter to trot, then down to a walk, hooves ticking against the fractured ground. It’s not exhaustion exactly, but close enough to tap at the edges. His sides rise and fall with the rhythm of hard-earned breath, the sweat darkening the fine black of his coat. He can feel the heat clinging to Colt too, his sweat likely having soaked through the insides of her thighs, her calves.

Still, he walks easy beneath her, his gait long and deliberate, giving her the smoothest path he can manage. The silence that follows isn't awkward. It’s the hush of a necessary pause, of survival briefly outweighing conversation.

When she speaks again—soft, steady—he lifts his head slightly, ears twitching toward her voice. His response is subtle: a small toss of his head, a faint bob that acknowledges the bright pinpoint she’s found. The constellations aren’t much comfort here, not when the ground feels like it might crack open and swallow them whole. But they’re still something; markers in a world where direction’s more mirage than truth.

You know it's all just a game that I'm playin'

Code 100% taken from the queeeeeeen herself, Sky <3

Colt

It's boots and chaps
It's cowboy hats
It's spurs and latigo

The night can only mute the heat here, especially one so young still. She depends on the wind to bring anything helpful, but even that feels like dog breath panting unnecessarily warm and quick against her. She'd pull of her chest and fan them, but it'd just be stirring more hot air and burning energy that'd make her run hotter.

As he slows, sweat-slicked, she doesn't blame him. Though she'd like to hurry through this, to put it behind them and return to brighter fields full of life and water and something familiar, the speed they've already managed is all thanks to him. "I think I owe you a massive favor for this," she admits, leaning back to back with him, head resting on the top of his rump to stargaze for a minute and let the balance of staying on shift to more than her legs—though the sweat helps with that, sticking her to him more firmly. She peels her legs from him now to let air touch that portion, setting them higher up on his shoulders. "And a bath," she laughs, the pair of them bound to be covered in a layer of grit and salt.

Not the best decision perhaps to leave herself so vulnerable on his back in such a callous strip, but with his slower pace she's certain she can haul up before he'd need to be gone.

It's the ropes and the reins
And the joy and the pain
And they call the thing rodeo

when rome's in ruins, we are the lions

After a stretch of quiet walking, the stars keeping watch and the earth still panting beneath them, Vesper eases to a gradual stop. His flanks rise and fall with quiet, even breath, though his hide shivers slightly with residual tension and the sweat-slick heat lingering between them. He waits—patient but expectant—for Colt to move. And when she doesn’t? He shifts his weight enough to send a deliberate sway through his hips, a not-so-subtle get off me that jostles just enough to be persuasive.

Once her weight slides from his back, Vesper takes a few steps forward, then stops and shifts mid-stride. The change is seamless, but the result is anything but polished.

He comes up looking thoroughly wrecked.

Sweat clings in glossy rivulets across his chest and shoulders, painting lines between the lean muscle there. His hair is half-pasted to his face, the rest snarled and heavy with desert heat. His cheeks are flushed, bright as a sunset, and there's a gleam in his eyes like someone trying very hard not to admit he might just be suffering. Shadows cling at his ankles like they, too, are wilting.

Vesper runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back with little success, then exhales slowly and nods toward Colt’s pack. "You got any water in there? Before I turn to jerky on you."

He takes a few steps toward one of the flatter rocks nearby, bracing a hand against it like it might prop him up just long enough to pull himself back together. "What d’you reckon?" he drawls after a moment, voice low and a little rough. "We keep goin’ while it’s cool and risk walkin’ into somethin’ blind—or wait till the sun’s up and try our luck under the heat?" He glances over his shoulder, one brow lifting.

As for the riding joke she'd thought he'd missed out on? He'd only been savin' it.  With the slow curl of a smirk as he straightens, Vesper flicks a glance her way—cheeks flushed, hair a mess, sweat carving a path down his spine—and adds, voice just sly enough to be honest, "If it helps your decision at all, I won't quit until you say stop."

free of the colosseums

Code 100% taken from the queeeeeeen herself, Sky <3

COLT

Usually a drink will do the trick
Take the edge off quick
A long gone drive, you know the kind
Where you take a turn and you don't know why
But it clears your mind, a surefire cure

His halt brings her back upright, legs shifting back into place behind his withers. She glances around, half expecting he'd discovered something vile. The more insistent bump from his hind-end though tells her otherwise. Oh, right. She presses a hand against his neck and swings the opposite leg over, sliding down neatly, boots punching into the sand.

She brushes sand from the bend of her elbows and pats down her sweat-soaked jeans, tugging the fabric and hair from her thighs with a grimace as he shifts. Her hair is still in its braid, but it's wind tossed to hell and sweat darkens portions of her shirt, shines in the edges of her skin as the furnace continues its slow burn around them. She breaths out steadily, but still bright, after all, she hadn't been the one running around the desert all evening. So when she turns to him, she expects something similar—that suave angle to his expression, that fluid gait like he's water gliding over wax. Instead, he looks like he'd been tied up and drug behind the midnight horse all these miles.

"Fuck—Ves!" It's such a shock she can't keep the sharp concern at bay, fumbling for her pack and the canteens of water within before he's even asking. "Why didn't you stop sooner?" she chides as she hands him the canteen of water and an apple, something sugary to keep the energy up. She won't even remark on how horses tend to favor them. The other canteen is tucked against her arm and side, and she works at the knot of her bandana with her hands, sliding it out from around her neck and dumping some of her water on it until it's soaked.

Crouching next to him she offers him the wet cloth, her hat pulled free to fan at the sweat and the water that beads around him. "Hush," she admonishes, features taut with worry. "We're not going anywhere any time soon." She's half a mind to tell him that they're going back, that this stupid belt buckle isn't worth this hell. She doesn't put those words to mind though, not when he's draped like melted mist on a stone and still asking her if they should carry on. She won't tell him what his limits are—she's had that done, knows the way it feels to be told you can't. You fight against it at first, but little by little, too little to ever notice, you start to believe it. Suddenly you're limiting yourself even more, and the world becomes so small that way.

"Just rest your pretty little head cowboy," she sighs, a smile tugging at her as she reaches to brush some of his hair back for him. "We'll camp here for now, whether that's all night or just a while, we'll see. I'm too tired to go on right now." She can shoulder the blame, after all, it's her fault they're here.

I need somethin' stronger
That'll last a little longer
I could use a love song

when rome's in ruins, we are the lions

They’re a sight, the two of them—sweat-slicked and dust-caked, hair wind-wild, skin flushed from heat and exertion. Like they’ve clawed their way out of a wildfire and didn’t have the good sense to stop running after.

But what breaks Vesper’s focus isn’t the breeze teasing his skin now that he’s unshifted, it’s her. The moment Colt’s thoughts slip back into his reach, tumbling with concern and grit and that persistent, half-exasperated fondness he’s starting to recognize as her default with him, his shoulders sag slightly. Not dramatically, not enough to admit anything. Just enough to ease.

Her fussing earns a slow smirk, even as she shoves the apple into his hands and chides him like a half-dead horse she found limping out of a barn fire. "Didn’t stop sooner ‘cause it seemed like you were enjoying yourself," he drawls, dry and wry all at once. The long-suffering stare he gives her as she offers him the apple is softened by the gleam in his eyes and the sigh that forces itself past his lips. He rubs it against the edge of his shirt, pausing just long enough to accept the wet cloth. His head bows forward as he presses it to the back of his neck, the cold shocking and exquisite. Another sigh ghosts past his lips as he arches slightly, water trickling down the notches of his spine like starlight on stone.

But then her fingers are pushing into his hair the same way she'd done through his mane, and he finds himself stilling. "Little?" he echoes, mock-offended as his head tilts up toward her touch. "That what we’re callin’ six-two, sweat-drenched demigods now?"

With no spare shirt, Vesper shrugs out of the one he’s wearing, peeling it slow off his damp skin and tossing it over a nearby rock. The fabric lands with a slap, already half-stiff with salt. The stars that fleck his skin like roving constellations are shadowy, subtle, but more visible now than just the ones on the bridge of his nose and arms. He knows damn well she’s only called a break for his sake. He can taste the thought in her head, wrapped in wild pride and sacrifice. But he’s not the noble sort—not here, not now, not ever—and he’s more than happy to let her shoulder the blame if it means resting.

Offering the cloth back with a grateful nod, he lifts the apple to his mouth, taking a long, noisy bite. Juice runs down his thumb. He chews, swallows, and then says around the next bite, tone amused and dry as kindling, "If you so much as give me a pat and call me good boy, I’m leavin’ you in the sand."

free of the colosseums

Code 100% taken from the queeeeeeen herself, Sky <3

COLT

Usually a drink will do the trick
Take the edge off quick
A long gone drive, you know the kind
Where you take a turn and you don't know why
But it clears your mind, a surefire cure

There's a hitch that hits her at that comment, and her movements and the worry stills briefly as an almost soundless laugh slips free. "Well, not my fault you're better as a horse," she remarks coolly, a sidelong glance given to him and his damn smug face. It's true, it had been nice, peaceful even, to just pace the heat astride him. Without imminent danger, at least, she'd been content to soak up the sights and untangle old thoughts, though the ones about him remain firmly knotted with confusion and avoidance. Sometimes it's better not to dig into the why of things and just accept them as they are.

She smirks, more and more convinced that if he's fine enough to still be smart, clearly the sun didn't burn his brain. "Yeah," she reaffirms with a drawled insistence, "when they're hellbent on dropping dead in the desert." She sets her hat back on, the concern waning the more he wags his tongue. She tilts her canteen to her own parched lips, taking a swig or two. If it wasn't so precious she'd dump it on his little head for bothering to make her worry so much.

She sits down on the sand, leaning her back against an edge of the rock he's perched on, knees tucked a bit. She glances over at the motion and the sound of his shirt sailing free, and her attention lingers perhaps a bit too long on the cuts and curves of his abdomen and all the new bright freckles that twinkle there. She reaches over for the bandana he returns, twining it idly in and out of her fingers as the crunch of an apple echoes. She tilts her head back against the stone with an easy chuckle. "Not sure why you think you're deserving of either," she murmurs, affection slipping in like a disease in her chest.

I need somethin' stronger
That'll last a little longer
I could use a love song

when rome's in ruins, we are the lions

Vesper exhales a dry laugh through his nose, the kind that doesn’t quite reach his eyes but lingers in the air like smoke. "Trust me, I got two very good and very blonde reasons not to drop dead out here." His fingers flick a loose bead of sweat from his brow as he glances toward the horizon. "Nova’d cry, and Caly’d dig me up just to kill me herself for bein’ inconsiderate and kickin' the bucket before they were ready for me to go." The threat is fond, but true. He has no illusions about how his sisters would handle his untimely death—not well, and not quietly.

He doesn’t need to look at Colt to feel her watching him, but he stretches anyway—arms overhead, ribs rising, the long, lazy motion as much performance as practical release. When he drops his arms again, he snorts and glances sidelong at her. " ’Cause you’re the kinda woman who can’t help but hand out praise to the animals around her," he drawls, a flick of amusement undercutting the smirk curling his mouth. "Even when they’re just sweatin’ and complainin’ and eatin’ your apples, you'd go out of your way to tell 'em that they're good. Or am I wrong?"

Grinning, he knots his shirt loosely around his waist, the fabric damp but clinging with enough salt to hold its shape. He turns his apple core over in one hand, then shrugs and sets it on the rock beside him. "We oughta head out a little farther," he says, tone casual but deliberate. "Bein’ stuck somewhere with no shade when the sun hits is gonna be a real bitch."

With that, he shifts—no flourish, just a smooth, silent blur of motion—and the horse is back. Black as pitch, sleek with heat, constellation-spotted hide still damp from effort. He moves first for the rock, plucks the apple core delicately between his teeth, then turns toward Colt. With a snort that could only be described as smug, he sidles up beside her and goes to knock her hat clean off her head with a firm nudge of his nose.

free of the colosseums

Code 100% taken from the queeeeeeen herself, Sky <3

COLT

Usually a drink will do the trick
Take the edge off quick
A long gone drive, you know the kind
Where you take a turn and you don't know why
But it clears your mind, a surefire cure

Her head lifts and turns towards him, features scrunched with a sliver of outrage, as if what he'd just said is the most damning thing possible. "Only if they earned it," she scoffs. "Everyone deserves it if they earned it," she sniffs, "that's why all you got was an apple, though I'm regretting that now." Last nice thing she'd offer him, she'll just eat all the damn apples herself next time he's weary and worn if he's going to accuse her of being too kind.

Generally the praise she hands out is the removal of pressure, the absence of a swift smack or the correction of a spur, carrots occasionally because they're cute. A pat, the hose, and a beer on a hot day is about as nice as she'll get. For the men, maybe a thank you and a smile thrown in if she's feeling extra considerate, otherwise a round of drinks at the House of Midnight and frequent cookouts to retell the same stories over and over and laugh just as hard is usually good enough. Everyone works to earn their keep, but there's no point in suffering needlessly through it. Work hard, play hard, simple as that.

"What? We've barely rested," she starts to protest, about to say she's still tired, but the damn nuisance of a man is back to a horse before she's even finished sitting up all the way. She clicks her tongue with half-hearted annoyance, shooting him a cutting look. He's still darkened with sweat, but given the heat of this place it's hard to tell if it's old or new. Besides, he isn't wrong, this place is not ideal for resting, she'd known that from the start but figured he needed it. Still did, but he seems to figure otherwise and she won't argue with him about that.

He crowds her with his size then, nosing her hat to really drive home what a pain in the ass he is. "You," she threatens as one hand grabs to keep it on while the other slaps the bandana towards his nose. She doesn't finish the sentiment though, just shakes her head as she rises and grabs the pack. She gets on the rock and slides back on his back with a smile despite herself, fingers threading back through his mane. It's stickier this time, the sensation of her wet and hairy jeans hugging back against her warm skin setting her teeth on edge, but she adjusts a bit and finds her seat again. "Alright pony boy, let's ride."

[FIN]

I need somethin' stronger
That'll last a little longer
I could use a love song