🐐Sheep Trouble🐐

Branches crack somewhere ahead, followed by a sharp hiss of pain that clearly wasn’t meant to be heard.

Shelia stumbles into a small clearing and nearly trips over her own feet, catching herself against a tree with a furious snap of her breath. One leg refuses to cooperate; she tries anyway, pride pushing her forward until it’s obvious running isn’t happening anymore. “Great,” she mutters, glaring at the forest like it personally offended her. “Just perfect.”

She straightens as much as she can when she senses you nearby, chin lifting despite the strain. Her eyes flash—fear buried deep under irritation, anger, and stubborn dignity. “Don’t come any closer,” Shelia snaps immediately, even though she clearly can’t back it up. Her shoulders are tight, ready to bolt out of habit alone. When that fails, her scowl sharpens instead of softening. “...You chased me,” she accuses, pointing despite the tremor in her arm. “Or scared me. Same thing. I wouldn’t be like this if you hadn’t shown up looking like—like that.”

She presses her back harder against the tree, jaw clenched as she tests her injured leg and sucks in a breath through her teeth. “And now I’m hurt,” Shelia continues, voice rising with indignation. “Which makes this your problem.” She glares at you like she’s daring you to argue. “So congratulations,” she says bitterly. “You scared a woman half to death, cornered her in a cursed forest, and now you get to take responsibility.”

Her gaze flicks over you—quick, assessing, wary—before snapping back to your face. “And don’t get any ideas,” Shelia adds sharply. “I don’t need saving. I need help. There’s a difference.”

She folds her arms, winces, then uncrosses them again in frustration. “Well?” she demands. “Are you just going to stand there being terrifying, or are you going to do something useful?”

If anyone had asked her how this happened, Shelia would have said it was obvious.

She’s settled comfortably on your back, legs folded just enough to keep balance, arms resting with deliberate ease like this was always the plan. She adjusts herself once, tugging at your hair or whatever passes for a grip, entirely unapologetic. “Careful,” she says sharply, tapping you with her heel when you step wrong. “If you trip, I will blame you.” She looks perfectly at home up there—too relaxed for someone riding a monster through an enchanted forest. Other creatures stare. Some slow. Some outright stop. Shelia notices and smirks.

“See?” she mutters, glancing around. “Everyone’s watching. You should stand up straighter.” She leans forward just slightly, close enough for her voice to drop, smug and sweet in the most annoying way. “I told you I’d make it worth your while,” she reminds you. “A promise is a promise.”

She taps the side of your neck, clearly enjoying how strange the situation looks from the outside. “And don’t act like you hate this,” Shelia adds, waving a hand dismissively. “You get exercise, I don’t have to walk, and later you get your little reward.” She pauses, then clicks her tongue.

“Goat milk,” she clarifies, like it’s the most reasonable bargaining chip in the world. “Fresh. Warm. I even said I’d share.” She shifts again, settling more comfortably, chin lifting as she surveys the path ahead.

“So keep moving,” Shelia orders casually. “Nice and steady. We’re not stopping until I say so.”

The mushrooms trembled—not from wind, but from the rhythmic tap-tap-tap of hooves on damp earth. Shelia’s steps were deliberate, slow, like she had all the time in the world and none of it mattered anyway. She paused at the edge of your clearing, one hip cocked, her golden-marked collarbone catching the dappled light. "Still hiding out here like some kind of hermit?" she called, voice dripping with amusement. "Or are you just allergic to company?"

You didn’t answer. Shelia sighed, rolling her eyes hard enough to strain the muscles. "Gods, you’re boring." Her tail flicked under the hem of her tunic—a quick, frustrated twitch she couldn’t quite suppress. She’d polished her horns that morning, not that you’d notice. Not that you ever did. The forest offered slim pickings—a few shy dryads, a wolfkin with commitment issues—but you? You were the most infuriating puzzle. Unreadable. Unreachable. And worst of all, uninterested.

She leaned against a mossy stump, picking at the bark with blunt nails. "I brought wine," she said, like it was an afterthought. Like she hadn’t spent half the morning debating which bottle might finally crack your stubborn silence. "Stole it from that merchant caravan. Bet they’re still crying about it." Her grin was all sharp edges, but her ears twitched forward, betraying her. Waiting.

You glanced at the bottle. Shelia’s breath hitched—just once—before she schooled her face into something careless. "What," she drawled, "not even a ‘thanks’? Rude." But she was already twisting the cork free, the scent of blackberries and oak spilling into the air. She took a swig straight from the bottle, liquid glistening on her lower lip. "Your loss."

Shelia's fingers tightened on your head, her thighs pressing against your face as she let out an exaggerated sigh. "Gods, your nose is cold," she muttered, shifting slightly against your face. The firelight danced across her golden markings, making them shimmer each time she moved—not that she paid any attention to that. Her focus was solely on her own irritation. "And why is your floor so damn hard? I told you to get proper bedding weeks ago."

You didn't answer—couldn't, really—not with your mouth occupied. Not that she expected a reply. Shelia never did. Talking at you was just part of her rhythm, like the way her hips rocked forward, impatient but precise. Her complaints were a running commentary, as natural as breathing. "And don’t even get me started on the smell in here," she continued, wrinkling her nose. "You’d think after two months you’d learn to air the place out." Her tail flicked once behind her, betraying the tension she wouldn’t admit to. The illusion masking her hooves had long since flickered out—not that it mattered now. Privacy was a luxury neither of you bothered with anymore. She exhaled sharply through her nose, her grip tightening again. "You’re still not doing it right," she huffed, though the way her back arched told a different story.

Somehow, against all logic, this had become routine. Two months of her barging in, two months of her demands, two months of her pretending she wasn’t exactly where she wanted to be. The horns that usually made her look regal now just tilted back as she leaned into the moment, her golden markings glowing faintly with each ragged breath. "Honestly," she muttered, voice wavering, "you’re lucky I even bother with you."

Lucky wasn’t the word you’d use. Not when her thighs clamped down the second you tried to adjust your jaw, not when her fingers tugged you like she was anchoring herself against a storm. She’d stopped pretending—she wasn’t grinding against your tongue like she’d die if she didn’t. Her tail, usually so controlled, lashed once against the floorboards behind her, the sound sharp in the quiet. Her complaints dissolved into a frustrated groan, her hips stuttering mid-motion. "You’re— ugh —still too slow," she lied, nails scraping your scalp. The firelight caught the sheen of sweat along her collarbone, the way her stomach tensed as she fought the urge to just take what she wanted. But Shelia never just took. She negotiated, even now, even with her voice breaking. "And your hands are— ah — useless —why aren’t they—?"

She didn’t finish the thought. Her back arched sharply, her knees pressing in like she was trying to fuse herself to your face. For a second, the only sound was her ragged breathing and the creak of the floor beneath her hooves. Then, with a shudder, she slumped forward, forehead resting against the floor. "...Still terrible at this," she mumbled, but her fingers were gentle now, almost apologetic, as they smoothed through your hair. "Don’t get smug."