Let's Make It Complicated

Been busy with some Sundrop Moondrop/ Reader mischief. If you got some time look it over. WILL be NSFW but as of Chapter 4 we're still good! I appreciate ANY support

Some love to the Golden Guard !

And some rambles from yours truly

Fair warning: This comic deals with child abuse and it does get pretty graphic, so I’m putting the rest of it under the cut.

Stan smells like freshly split firewood. It's a little bit ironic, for someone literally named Pines, but it's true. He smells like the crackle and splinters of wood yielding to the swing of his axe. He doesn't yet smell like smoke and ash and the wax-soaked cotton scraps he uses to kickstart the fire on especially cold mornings, though you know it's the next step in this endless cycle.

Every year, you follow Stan into the woods with the old wheelbarrow squeaking along in front of you. He finds fallen trees that haven't succumbed to the wet rot of the forest floor, chops them into manageable sizes, and hefts them into the wheelbarrow. After all this time, you aren't sure why he brings you along. All you do is bring the wheelbarrow and watch him work, arms damn near bulging out of his shirt sleeves. He doesn't even let you push the wheelbarrow back; says it's too heavy and he needs the exercise anyway. Big sap.

Now even as the sun is setting on the day, Stan is in the yard splitting chunks of tree into firewood. It’ll season in the shed over the summer, and heat your stove in the winter. You've seen this happen countless times, watched the leaves change endlessly from this very porch you sit on, but still marvel that it never changes. There's a certain comfort to be found in it. So long as there's wood on the ground and the promise of snow, Stan will be there with his axe in hand. And as long as Stan is there, so you will be.

He stops when he catches your eye in the fading light. He wipes his temple with the back of his hand, sticks the axe in the nearest log, and sits heavily beside you. The old boards of the porch steps creak in protest.

You lean into his shoulder, not minding the sweat and grime built up on him. He leans his cheek against your forehead.