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shotosjupiter · 9 days ago

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BE YOUR IDOL — R. SUKUNA

pairing — ryomen sukuna x fem!reader (art by @/nikaness__)

summary — by day you're a world renowned singer, loved by all. by night you're a demon hunter, slashing and killing demons to protect every city you tour. your boydguard, sukuna, stays by your side through every performance. so, imagine your surprise when you come home bloodied from another mission only to find out that your bodyguard is a demon himself.

𖤐 word count — 4.5k

𖤐 genre/tags— angst, hurt/comfort, eventual fluff, happy ending! bodyguard sukuna, popstar/idol! reader. kpop demon hunter! au (ish) i tried LMAO, he patches up her bloodied wounds, mentions of blood, super yearner love confessions, reader is a mf bad ass.

𖤐 author's note — kpop demon hunters has been rotting in my brain so you guys get this <3

꒰masterlist꒱

THE CROWD screams your name so loud the lights tremble.

You keep your smile pinned on tight. Head high. Mic close. The choreography flows like second nature. You've done this a thousand times, your body is on autopilot, heart a thousand miles away.

But tonight, something feels wrong. Not the kind of wrong the audience can hear in your voice, or your managers can see in the timing of your spin. Not even something your fans on Twitter could screenshot and analyze at 2 AM. It’s something colder, quieter.

From the left wing of the stage, hidden behind scaffolding and shadows, Sukuna watches you.

His arms are crossed. Sunglasses on. One boot against the wall like he’s bored out of his mind, but his gaze never leaves you.

He’s too still. Too focused. His expression is unreadable, like always, but something in you flinches when your eyes meet his. You hold the final note for half a beat too long as you keep your eyes on his. You only stumble once during the song, but it’s enough to make your stomach twist. Because the truth is, you never mess up. Not here. Not on stage.

You don't miss steps unless something's chasing you.

You’ve known Sukuna for four years.

He came to you after a stalker incident left your last bodyguard hospitalized and your agency in panic mode. One phone call later, Sukuna Ryomen showed up outside your practice room, sunglasses, tattoos, and attitude in full effect.

He didn’t ask for your autograph. Didn’t pretend to be starstruck. He took one look at your bruised knees, your bandaged wrist, and said, “You either need less ambition or better security.”

You’d hated him immediately. But he never left. Not once. Not when obsessed fans were keen to follow you every place you appeared, or when you passed out from exhaustion in a van on the way back to your home. He stood outside every hotel door like a wolf in black, teeth bared for anyone who looked twice.

It took time, and more than a few shared convenience store meals at 2 AM, but eventually, you let him in. And now? You trust him more than anyone which is exactly why you're terrified.

Because Sukuna isn’t normal. He never was.

You’ve seen him shrug off a stab wound. Heal from burns that would’ve hospitalized a man twice his size. You’ve seen the glow in his eyes when he’s pissed off - a flaring red, faint, like embers that never quite die.

And more than that, you’ve seen the way demons react when he’s in the vicinity. They hesitate; flinch, run. Like they know what he is and fear it. The first time you really felt it was backstage after a fan meet.

You were changing into your outfit for the next set when you heard a noise. Not loud - just a breath, close to your ear. You spun around with a blade hidden in your sleeve and-

Nothing.

But the lights flickered.

And when you stepped outside, Sukuna was already there, leaning against the doorframe like he’d never moved, the picture of cool and collected.

“Everything okay?” he asked, voice low.

You nodded. “Did you feel that?”

He blinked slowly. “Feel what?”

You paused. The temperature had dropped three degrees in less than a minute. You knew what that meant. But Sukuna just looked… calm. Too calm.

“Never mind,” you muttered. “Just nerves.”

He didn’t press. He never did.

That night, you found a charm nailed under your dressing room table, one that wasn’t yours. Old, frayed. Marked with a symbol only demons would recognize. You burned it.

There were other moments. Small ones, like threads tugging loose from a sweater, easy to ignore until they start to unravel the whole thing. Once, in a hotel, you passed out after a show. Later, you woke up at 4 AM from a nightmare so vivid it had left you panting for breath and drenched in sweat.

Somehow, you ended up knocking on his door that night, not a word said but he could see the exhaustion lined around your muscles and the tears in your eyes on the brink of falling. He didn’t say a word but opened the door further to let you in. He sat with you, let you rest your head on his shoulder while the dream clawed its way out of your lungs. He never asked what it was about. And you never told him that it hadn’t been a dream at all, it was a memory. A night when a hunt had gone wrong, when the demon had clawed at you so deeply you were certain it was your last night to live.

He was just there - silent but there. Always close, always watching, but never reaching too far. Part of you wondered if it was his way of respecting boundaries, of never pushing it too far with someone who’s already so desperately sought after by the public.

But another part, the part that watched the way his hands curled into fists when mysterious disappearances and murders were mentioned on TV, started to wonder if he was hiding something, too.

Some nights, you'd catch him looking at you when he thought you were asleep. On the tour bus. In dressing rooms. In empty stadiums before the fans arrived. There was no hunger in his gaze, no threat. Just something old. Something mournful. Like he knew what it meant to be made of secrets, too. Like he saw something in you he recognized in himself.

Conversely, you’ve never told anyone what you are. Not your label. Not your stylists. Not your fellow coworkers in the company or the creative director who calls you a “once-in-a-generation star” like it’s supposed to explain why you don’t flinch when he yells. Not the fans who scream your name from barricades and rooftops, whose love fills stadiums but could never reach the place in you that still remembers the smell of blood in the dirt.

And definitely not Sukuna.

You’re a demon hunter - born into it, raised in it, marked before you had a choice. There’s a scar between your shoulder blades that never healed right from the botched demon hunt - it itches when you feel the cold cursed energy of demons seeping into the air, or when you settle in your lies for too long.

You thought you could leave demon hunting behind when you became a trainee. That if you made yourself small enough, good enough, useful enough, you could be reborn. Someone with stage lights in their eyes. Someone who got her scars from dancing too hard, not surviving too much, too often. Someone who sang because she loved it, not because it made the demon’s presence quieter. But the curse mark never stopped burning and the demons never stopped coming, so you made it work.

It was supposed to get easier once you debuted, or that’s what you had convinced yourself. That the money, the fame, the makeup artists and brand deals would carve out a softer space for you. Somewhere safe. But the creatures followed you into the spotlight.

They wait at the edge of stages. Crawl under bleachers. Hide in hotels and subway tunnels, drawn to your scent in particular, cursed blood dressed in sequins. They know what you are, even when the humans don’t. Especially when the humans don’t.

You’ve had to kill them in silence. In back alleys with borrowed knives. In green rooms with talismans pressed into your palms like rosaries. You carry it all with you, the secrets, the bruises, the ache. No one notices and no one's allowed to. Your manager chalks it up to stress. Your stylists cover the cuts. Your fans think your sleeplessness is aesthetic, that the shadows are sexy, your fatigue dreamy, the pain poetic.

And Sukuna, well he notices everything, but he never says a word. Sometimes you think he’s the only person in the world who looks at you and actually sees you. Which is exactly why it’s almost cruel, having him so close, and still not being able to tell him the truth.

You come home after a hunt, blood crusted to your ankle, and he doesn’t say anything. Just tosses you a towel. Asks, “Rough night?” like he’s asking about choreography, not combat. You lie. You always lie. And he lets you. Because that’s the game you’re both playing. Pretend. Protect. Repeat. Even if it’s killing you.

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚

The night it happens, it’s raining.

You’d slipped out after a rehearsal, trailing a big demon across rooftops in the heart of the city. It’s feeding - not yet, but close. A girl’s gone missing from this area already this week. It had taken you longer than you expected to corner it and by the time you did, it had sunk its claws into you. You manage to kill it but not before it gets to your leg; the gash runs from your inner thigh down to your knee and your jeans are soaked in crimson. You barely manage to limp your way to the apartment before the adrenaline wears off.

You stumble through the door blearily, the time somewhere close to two A.M. Opening the kitchen light, you find Sukuna waiting for you by the table, sunk deep into his seat. He’s in a hoodie and sweatpants, arms folded, jaw clenched. His phone is in his hand, but his eyes are locked on you the second the door clicks shut, assessing if there is any injury on your body. Of course, there is, there’s no hiding the long cut running down your leg and his whole face changes when his gaze drops to your leg.

“What the fuck,” he says, voice cold and flat. “What the fuck is that.”

You try to walk past him, limping but still trying to feign nonchalance, “It’s nothing-”

“Don’t lie to me.”

He grabs your arm, not hard, but firm enough that you freeze. You try to step back, staggering, and he catches you before you hit the ground. Your blood smears across his sweatshirt and his permanently relaxed expression cracks.

“You’re bleeding,” he says, too quiet.

“Let go, Sukuna-”

“No.” His voice rises. “No, you don’t get to come home looking like you’ve been mauled and brush it off. What happened?”

You look away. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You don’t have a choice.” His voice is shaking now, not with anger, but with fear. And that’s what does it. That’s what makes you crack.

You whisper it, “A demon.”

Sukuna goes still. Then, a scoff, “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

He stares at you for a long, long moment. You can hear the rain outside hitting the windows. The city feels too quiet. Like it’s listening. Finally, Sukuna says, “You’re a hunter.”

You feel your blood still. There is only one way he knows what a hunter is, how easily he accepted your truth and reached that conclusion. You grasp his hand, “Yes.”

His hand falls away from your arm like it burns him, even if he accepted this truth, it still burns him. “For how long?”

“My whole life.”

He laughs but it’s empty, a hollow laugh, tinged with betrayal fully. “And you never thought to tell me?”

“I couldn’t-”

“I’ve been by your side for four goddamn years-”

“I couldn’t, Sukuna!”

The air vibrates with the force of your voice.

“If anyone found out, I’d be decommissioned. Blacklisted. They’d throw me into a pit and never let me out. I had to choose between this life and that one, and I thought- I thought I could keep both.”

He doesn’t answer, just stares at you. His expression is an odd one - something mixed with hurt, confusion, betrayal, but still somehow affection. You’re still panting, still bleeding, still trembling but you look up at him, clutching his hand tightly.

“You were supposed to be the one person I didn’t have to lie to,” you whisper. “But I had to Sukuna.”

Then, quieter: “But you lied too, didn’t you?”

His jaw tightens and you see the full picture now. All of it. The way his eyes never quite reflect light right, the faint heat that comes off him when he’s mad, the way no demon ever came nearby when he was near.

“I know what you are,” you say tentatively, still slightly unsure. He looks at you, really looks, and nods once, resigned. There were no secrets between the two of you now, everything was laid out bare. But still you wanted him to say the truth fully, to have it come out of his mouth. So you stare at him, prodding him to continue.

“I’m not human.”

Your mouth goes dry. “Demon?”

He tsks before looking away from you, “Half.”

Silence. “You gonna kill me now?” he asks, half a smirk curling at his mouth, resigned to his fate. He would let you, you realize. He would let you settle a blade within him, he was resigned to the destiny that fate had assigned the two of you.

“No,” you say softly, refusing to look away from him. You want him to feel the utter sincerity in your words, in the way you’re willing to give yourself to him, to let go of this one thing in your life for him.

“Why not?”

“Because you were the only thing in my life that felt safe.”

And then he really goes still.

“I should’ve told you,” he says, after a moment. “I just - being human around you, it felt good, it felt like the real thing. Like maybe I could be better.”

“You are.”

He huffs. “You don’t know what I’ve done.”

You don’t respond to this, temporarily stunned. It’s true - you don’t know what he’s done. How he’s gotten here, but you do know the person he is now. You know how kind he is to the other staff alongside you while they prepare you for performances, how he brings you some comfort sweets and drinks after a long dance practice, how he treats your fans in a manner you would approve of. You know this version of him and you know the kindness and sincerity it is capable of.

He carries you to the couch. It’s not a question. You protest, but it’s weak, you’re shaking too hard and the blood loss is catching up. He disappears into the bathroom and comes back with a first aid kit, and kneels down to assess your injury.

It’s not like you to let someone do this for you. You’ve been patching yourself up in silence since you were fifteen, bathroom lights flickering, blood on tile, half-cracked ribs and no one to notice but the mirror. You learned to set bones through practice and the aggravating (and rather slow) YouTube videos. You learned to flinch inward and laugh it off, to survive without letting anyone see you the slightest bit harmed.

But this time, you let him. He moves slowly, his hands aren’t exactly gentle, but they’re sure. Big and warm, fingertips calloused from years of god-knows-what. He’s not saying anything, but his brows are furrowed with concentration, his mouth set tight. The gauze unwinds in his hands like ribbon. You sit still on your leather couch, your pants rolled up to your thighs with bits of the fabric still clinging near the inflamed wound. He kneels in front of you, carefully blotting the gash at your ribs and the silence stretches - tense, but not cruel.

“I’ve seen you bleed before,” he mutters.

Your throat’s tight. “Not like this.”

He doesn’t respond right away, just presses the antiseptic a little too hard, not enough to hurt, but enough to make you look at him and when you do, his jaw is clenched.

“You came home half-conscious.”

You inhale. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

“That’s not your job anymore,” he snaps, agitated but still trying to be gentle with the injury as he finishes cleaning it.

It’s quiet again, you don’t know how to explain it, the instinct to hide, to protect him even as you bled yourself dry. You’ve always looked at him as someone to lose. And now that he knows what you are, you feel the gap yawning wider than ever.

“Sukuna-”

“Stop talking,” he says, voice rough. You flinch. But when you look down, his hand is shaking slightly. Just barely. And his voice, when he speaks again, is quieter.

“I’m not mad that you’re a hunter.” A beat. “I’m mad because I wasn’t there.” His eyes finally meet yours, angry, but burning with something else beneath it. “You almost died. And I was sat here, thinking it was some late practice of yours, not even realizing you were out fighting for your life.”

“You couldn’t have known,” you whisper.

“That’s the point,” he growls. “You didn’t trust me to know.”

And that, that silences you. He starts wrapping the gauze around your leg, tenderly and ever more slowly this time. Careful, like every turn is a question he’s too afraid to ask out loud. You watch his hands, watch the way he threads the ends together, tapes the bandage down like it’s something so very delicate. Like you’re something sacred. And for the first time, you let yourself be.

“You know,” you say, almost lightly, “you’re surprisingly good at this.”

He snorts. “You think I never had to patch myself up before?”

“No,” you admit. “I just didn’t think you’d be the type to even remember where the medical kit was.”

He shoots you a look. “I memorize everything about you, I’d be damned if I didn’t know where you put your stupid med kit,” To seal his point he flourishes the stickers covered box in front of you.

You blink at his confession and debate internally, taking the chance to push the conversation. You breathe in slowly. “Even when I lie to you?”

He nods, quiet. “Even then.”

You don’t realize your hand is still shaking, whether from the wound or the way all your confessions are slowly unraveling, until he reaches for it. His big roughened palm envelops yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, calloused and warm.

“I memorized the way you flinch when someone says your name too loud,” he says quietly. “The way you pretend you’re not exhausted after a rough practice. The way your smile is so bright when you’re on that stage performing. I memorized every damn thing, you’ve created a home in my heart and soul.”

Your heart stutters. “I noticed it all, sweetheart,” he says. You want to look away but he clutches your hand tighter, willing you to keep your eyes on him. Taking a deep breath you push yourself to take a chance too, “I’ve spent years trying not to love you,” you whisper.

He freezes and you notice but you plow on, refusing to take it back. You’ve dug your hole now, you might as well get it all out. “I thought if you knew what I was, I’d risk your life too, maybe you’d look down on me and I just - I wanted to keep you safe.”

Sukuna leans in but he doesn’t kiss you. Not yet. He just rests his forehead against yours, eyes shut, like this is all he’s ever wanted, the warmth of you, the weight of the truth, the quiet between breaths.

“You aren’t the only one responsible to keep me safe,” he says. “I want to be by your side, to protect you, to be next to you, to keep you safe. You’re the reason I started thinking maybe I didn’t have to be a monster, that maybe there was more to it, to life.”

You close your eyes and let him wrap his arms around you. Cradling you softly in his lap, mindful of your injury. His tattooed arms snake around your waist gently as he brings you in closer to him, resting his chin gently on your shoulder and pressing a soft kiss to your nape.

You settle in his arms, nearly melting with exhaustion because this is what it means to be strong, too. Letting someone in, letting someone stay. Letting him stitch your wounds because they’ve become promises he’s determined to keep.

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚

You wake up with your cheek pressed against his shoulder. It’s not intentional - or maybe it is, somewhere in your sleep-heavy heart. The ache in your leg has dulled, your shirt changed, your hair pulled back with the kind of gentle care you haven’t let anyone offer in years.

Sukuna was laid beside you, one of his legs tangled with your uninjured one, and his arm still strewn across your waist. You shift a little, just enough to look up at him. His head is slowly falling, as he keeps nodding off but trying to keep himself upright and his arms are crossed in a form of protectiveness. When he feels you shift, one eye opens and watches you. Of course he never really slept.

“You drool,” he says, voice low and a little smug.

You try to glare, but it comes out soft. “And you’re heavy.”

His mouth twitches, just barely, refusing to let you win by giving you a full smile. There’s something different in the air now. Like something sharp has passed. Like the quiet between you isn’t a warning anymore, more so a question, an invitation.

You sit up slowly, careful of your leg and Sukuna shifts too, like he’s resisting the urge to help you and choosing instead to let you be. The gesture doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Thank you for staying” you say, after a long moment, fiddling with the string of his hoodie, trying to avoid direct eye contact with him. He doesn’t look at you at first, just exhales through his nose.

“You don’t have to thank me for doing the one thing I’ve always wanted to do.” He shrugs a little, like it’s nothing. Like he hasn’t just cracked open something impossible.

“I’ve followed you around the world, sweetheart. Every concert. Every city. Every exit door. I’ve taken punches and dodged blades and slept on cold floors. Not because it was my job. Well, not really because it was my job.”

You’re not breathing, refusing to move an inch lest he stop talking.

“I stayed,” he says quietly, “because you were the first thing that ever made me feel like I wasn’t made for violence.”

You stare at him and your hands ache in your lap, desperate to hold his face, to kiss him softly. “I hated you,” you whisper. “When I realized what you were, when I first started suspecting. I hated how much I wanted to be wrong. How much it hurt to think I’d have to lose you.”

His eyes finally meet yours. “You never would’ve lost me.”

“You’re a demon, Sukuna.”

He nods, almost looking bored. As if this fact just did not matter at all.

“And I’m a hunter.”

“I’m aware.” He flicks a hand, like he’s telling you to get on to your point.

“I should’ve walked away when I found out, when you told me,” you say. “But I couldn’t, you’re the one I trust to walk me back from the edge every night. Every time I came back bloodied, I wanted you to be the one who was waiting for me to come home.”

That brings his eyes back to you, sharp, wounded, reverent. He hadn’t expected the admission, some part of him didn’t dare hope you'd see him clearly and still stay. Slowly his eyes flicker to your lips before he leans in, waiting. He didn’t want to push it, despite your confessions. Despite the fact that you had admitted the depth of your feelings for him, he was still waiting for you to push him away.

So this time, you take matters into your own hands and bring him closer to you until your lips press against each other. His kiss isn’t soft but it feels so sure. It tastes like everything unsaid, the years of silence, aching glances, bruises, and stitched-up promises. It tastes like the truth finally given shape, finally given a home.

You kiss him like it’s the only thing keeping you afloat, the only thing you’ve ever been sure of. He, in turn, is also kissing you like he’s never had the taste of you before and now he’s addicted to the feel of your lips on his. He kisses fervently and like he can’t have enough, with one hand on your hips and the placed on your collarbone, delicately holding you.

He breaks the kiss first, resting his forehead against yours with his breath uneven. “This isn’t going to be easy,” he mutters.

“No,” you agree, “but it’s real.”

And that was more than enough for the both of you. You get every rough edge, every soft glance he swears he doesn’t mean, every way he curls himself around your body when he thinks you’re asleep. You get the fire in his voice when he says your name. You get the stillness in his chest when he watches you sing, not because of the stage lights or the sold-out arena, but because he thinks you are the only thing worth witnessing.

You get love that isn’t soft, but love that stays.

And maybe, after everything, that’s the only kind that ever mattered.

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚

The next concert, everything feels louder. The lights flash bright, the stage rumbles under your boots, and the bass pulses through your chest like a second heartbeat. You move through the choreography like muscle memory but your mind drifts.

Your body still aches in the quiet places no one can see. The bruises have faded, but your hands ache when you lace your mic into place. There’s a tremor beneath the confidence you wear with glitter and gloss.

But when you glance backstage mid-song, Sukuna is there. Same sunglasses, same stance, same quiet power. Same and yet there’s a slight shift to him now. Something you’re allowed to see now. There’s that quiet softness in the corner of his mouth when he looks at you. The way his hand lifts almost instinctively when your foot stutters during a spin, like he’d catch you even from twenty feet away. The tension in his jaw that only releases when you smile.

And when your eyes meet his, he smiles back. It’s small. Barely-there. One of those half-smiles he pretends not to mean, but it stays. And for the first time in years, you feel like maybe, maybe, you’re allowed to want this. Not just the applause, but him.

The demon who stood at your side in silence. The one who stitched your wounds and asked to fight beside you, to protect you and to stay. Maybe you’re allowed to have someone who sees all of you and chooses to stay anyway.

556 notes · View notes

revelboo · 7 months ago

Note

Hello Happy new year.

I really wanted to thank you for all your transformers writing. Humans meeting Cybertronians will always make me happy, especially when it's followed with several angs and misunderstanding shenanigans.

I love how cybertronias either get their humans by picking them randomly (Autobots and Decepticons on earth) or the humans literally appear in front of them (Lost Light crew). Its like the universe is telling them "now bond" in the most awkward get alone T-shirt (*cough* transformers one au).

Also, where are you storing all the souls people are offering you? I would like to sacrifice mine for more of the sweet Murder Machine Tarn or (but just if you can and would like to) some Sunder.

Gotta save the Cybertronian race somehow- scenarios with the three least okay Cybertronians

Obsessive Cybertronians Scenarios 18+ 🌶️

Sunder x Reader, Tarn x Reader, Vortex x Reader

Sunder

• “Where were you?” That husky, low voice strokes over you as the inner door seals behind you. Can hear the shivery sound of his chains sliding as he strains against them. You know he can’t get loose, that he’s trapped, but the fine hair at your nape still prickles with a combination of fear and excitement. Unlike the Cybertronians on the ship, Sunder can feed off your memories but can’t shred them and destroy your mind. Understand that, but you can still feel it when he gets in your head and sometimes it goes both ways. His twisted thoughts and emotions spilling over into you. Spreading like poison through you. “I need you.” Eyes closing as he shifts restlessly, you gather your strength and remind yourself that you’re in charge here. Starting up the scaffolding that had been erected to give you access to his berth, your breath comes quicker. Fear and need. “I missed you, little love.”

• Head turning, he watches you, glossa sliding over his denta. They’d forced him to mass displace to make him manageable and bound him, giving him you thinking he can’t manipulate you. Fools. Though he’s enjoyed playing with you, dabbling in your memories. Finding all sorts of lovely insecurities. Like the fact that you’re surrounded by Cybertronians, but so lonely. “You’re just hungry,” you mutter, drifting closer anyway. Because you’re as hungry as he is. Afraid of what the crew will think of you if they find out what you do with him. To him.

• “Starving.” Hands bound at his sides, he flexes his servos. “What has you troubled? Come here.” Those blue optics stare at you, his lips parted as his hips lift as much as they can. Taunting you. “Let me taste.” Know he means your memories, but as he slides that glossa over his denta you shiver. Because you don’t trust him, know exactly what he is, how awful and ruined he is.

• “Not happening,” you say as you toe off your boots and strip off your lower coverings, leaving the rest on. Hips lifting again when you lay a soft hand on his chassis and shift over him. That little touch sparking through him, letting him in. Clever fingers finding the panel and releasing his erect spike. Optics shuttering and lips parting as you grip him and guide him to you. Letting you believe you’re in control as you take his spike deep into your wet heat. Taking your pleasure as he uses the contact to delve into you, feeding off of your memories. Living through them as you brace your palms on him and undulate against him.

• Is It how wrong it is that makes it so good? Or is his corruption spreading to you, making you as twisted as he is. Head tossed back as you bounce on him, your breath catches. Feeling him in your head, spreading like smoke through you. Whimpering as you remember the last victim. Hunting another Cybertronian, so hungry. Eager for the kill, his hunger twisting through you as you devour their memories. Under you, he’s whispering in that silken, terrible voice. Crooning to you as you ride his spike. “Let me go, little love. We could be free,” he groans as you move faster against him. “Take such good care of you.” Hear his chains rattle as his hips rock up against you, voice growing strained. Know he’s lying to you, but you want it a little more every time. Want him even as you fear someone checking on you and finding you on his spike.

Tarn

• Servos tightening on your hips as he kneels behind you, you whimper as he buries his spike inside you. “Weak,” he snarls, hips moving urgently against you to stroke deep. “Blasphemous.” Cheek resting on your outstretched arm, hips up as he ruts against you with deep, hard strokes, his optics glint at you from behind his mask. Because no matter how much he insists this is wrong, he doesn’t stop. Sneering at humanity and weakness in front of the rest of the DJD, but when it’s just the two of you, he can’t seem to stop reaching for you.

• Running a palm up your spine as he thrusts against you, lost in the feel of you gripping his spike, he hates it even as he needs it. Needs you. “Tarn,” you moan and his optics shutter, hips pumping frantically as you tremble under him. Every single time he claims you, he swears it’s the last time. That he won’t succumb to this weakness. This shame. And then he finds himself bearing you down, mounting you again. Wishing he was stronger. That he could just break you and be free of this addiction, but never able to. How many times has he wrapped his servos around that delicate throat while you rest against him, thinking how easily he can end this? But never following through. Unable to lose you.

Vortex

• “Do it,” he groans, mask retracted and denta bared as you press that little blade, the one he’d given you, to the mesh of his neck under his chin. Hands on your hips, he rocks himself against you. Feeling the way you tighten on his spike. “Is that what you want? Me to beg? Please.” Laughing, he lifts his hips and throws you off balance. Feels the little bite of pain of the blade cutting him, before you yank it away from his throat, eyes wide. “Frag, a bit harder. Deeper.” Not sure if he means the blade or his spike stroking inside you. Servos tightening on your hips as he rolls. Hears you swear as the little blade goes clattering and that lovely coppery scent fills his senses.

• Back hitting the floor as his hips surge against yours, you hook your legs around his waist. Feel the wetness running down your wrist where you cut yourself. Spike pounding deep, he catches your arm and drags your hand to his mouth. Latching onto you, the side of your hand gripped in his denta as his glossa slides over the shallow cut to make you squirm. Pain and pleasure spangling together as you dig your thumb into his neck, finding that little nick and pressing against it until he shudders against you, biting hard enough to make you cry out as he releases. Hips surging against you, as he runs his glossa against the inside of your wrist and stares down at you, venting raggedly. Slipping free of you long enough to flip you onto your belly, then he’s inside you again, hips pumping as his mouth brushes your neck and shoulder and he bites again. Gripping you in his denta as he ruts against you and you scream, coming apart. Trembling as he keeps moving against you, both of you unable to find pleasure without pain. The same kind of broken.

If they fully bond to him, he could, but they’re refusing to give in completely so far

#transformers x reader #tarn x reader #mtmte tarn #vortex x reader #idw vortex #mtmte sunder #sunder x reader

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technovillain · 4 months ago

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my d.e. fanskills set

these are based on my own personality. so just allow me to be nerdy and vaguely vulnerable for a second.

INTELLECT

SCAFFOLD: call back to past solutions to problems. You are a seasoned professional who can make a Venn diagram of any two situations. This is always appropriate. Cool for: Architects, Think-Tankers, Technical Support

IDEOLOGY: apply your truths. Bring those Philosophy 101 facts to the forefront and show everyone you know how the system works. Fuck the man. Fight the power. Cool for: Soapboxers, Revolutionaries, Activists

REFERENCE: recall previous facts and information you have stored in your head. Cool for: Scholars, Expert Witnesses, Archivists

THREAD: tie unrelated things together to form new concepts or truths. Easily led astray by distraction. Cool for: Conspiracists, Investigators, Crossword Champions

RACONTEUR: tell a story, be it true or false. Is the web you weave convincing? More importantly, does it baffle and dazzle the mind? Cool for: Authors, Compulsive Liars, Dungeon Masters

EVERGREEN: your childlike, everlasting hunger to learn more, and to learn everything. A potted plant frustrated by its root space. Cool for: Finger-Painters, Those Who Pine, Renaissance Men

PSYCHE

APRÉS MOI: look forward to the consequences of the future. See yourself return to the clay and find what remains. Cool for: Dark Poets, Forensic Scientists, Prognosticators

MOTLEY: a fool from a fantasy world. Thinks nothing of the mortal realm and encourages escapism through imagination. Cool for: Spiraling Entertainers, the Absent-Minded, Nincompoops

SOLICITUDE: show compassion and understanding to those around you. You've been there before, reassure them. Cool for: Village Elders, Veterinarians, the Lonely

MATRYOSHKA: connect with versions of yourself long gone. Different names, the shunned, the dearly missed, hold court with them all. Cool for: Introspects, Therapists, Those with Identity Disorders

L'APPEL DU VIDE: think of all the ways it could go wrong. Usually unnecessary and distressing, occasionally enlightening. Occasionally allows you to get into the mindset of a lunatic. Cool for: People on the Edge, Paranoiacs, Health & Safety Inspectors

BREECHES: you're a big boy, you're a grown up, these are facts that you can believe all the time. People take you seriously. You are confident. Cool for: Fragile Egos, Self-Proclaimed Big Boys, Younger Siblings

PHYSIQUE

GUTS: something is stirring in your stomach. Can you handle it? Cool for: Daredevils, the Honest, Dumpster-Divers

SWIVEL: scope out the room. Locate danger and emergency exits. Trust no one. You aren't paranoid, you're just being more cautious than everyone else. Cool for: Bodyguards, Runaways & Fugitives, Petty Criminals

FLOODGATES: Hold it in. Don't cry, don't emote, don't let them know what you're thinking. Cool for: Feeling-Bottlers, Chronic Tough-Guys, Judiciaries

MULTI-TOOL: be resourceful with your tools. Use everything for multiple purposes, get all the juice out of every fruit in your basket. Cool for: The Frugal, Those Who Hate Doing the Dishes, Tailors

ITCH: encompasses most primal desires. Destruction, feasting, sexual gratification, violence. Cool for: Vandals, Hedonists, Party Animals

VIGOR: the overall state of your immune system and physical health. Your body is a well oiled machine. Cool for: Health Nuts, Olympians, Hypochondriacs

MOTORICS

FLOAT: sneak around, light as a feather. Leave the environment undisturbed. You are a gentle breeze. Cool for: Jewel Thieves, Eavesdroppers, the Forgotten

IGNITION: the adrenaline-fed movements of a maniac. How scared are you? How badly do you want to run away? Cool for: Prey Animals, the Guilty, Cowards

FLUIDITY: loosen your jaw and unclench your fists. You're in control of the situation, and none of this will matter a year from now. Cool for: Yogis, Enlightened Monks, Trusted Leaders

PANACHE: move your body in all the right ways. You are unthinkingly perfect at knowing where to put your hands and feet. Cool for: Masters of Charisma, Dancers, Impressive Show-Offs

CROSSHAIRS: make precise and accurate motions with your body and the tools that you wield. Cool for: Court Stenographers, Sharpshooters, Sign Interpreters

BRUNT: bear a heavy load. You don't need any help with this. Your muscles and joints are forged of steel. Cool for: Heroes of the Working Class, Shot-Putters, Powerlifters

#fan skills #disco elysium #i have no good tags to put on this #you're just going to have to look at it and tell me i'm a cool person thanks #i worked hard on this :]

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lady-quen · 3 months ago

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A list of some of my sylvari headcanons and interpretations of canon, but delivered in extreme hodgepodge style:

- they have human-analogous internal anatomy, meaning that they are plant matter mimicking animal functionalities, inside and out. This is further supported by Mordrem possessing specialized organs such as brains or kidneys (Mordrem Researcher quests) Since the Pale Tree grew on the graves of Ronan's family, she grew her roots into what remained of the bodies, taking nutrients while also learning their anatomy and establishing a scaffolding for the future sylvari. You know how if you bury a body under a tree and later dig up the soil, the roots are shaped like a human? Something similar happened here.

As such, sylvari hardwood skeletal systems are very accurate copies of human skeletons, but soft tissues are more their own thing due to the Pale Tree having less of an accurate frame of reference (since the bodies would have begun to rot) and going with a mix of her knowledge of human anatomy and "instinctive" Mordrem anatomy.

- The wiki states they don't have hearts and a pulse, but relying on purely osmotic gradients for circulation in an ambulatory creature that is stated to have high energy needs and therefore is even unable to rely solely on photosynthesis and other typical plant processes seems implausible, so I changed it to give them some sort of pump organ, positioned more or less in the center of the chest.

- The sylvari don't really have names for their own organs, so they approximate using human vocabulary.

- Sylvari tend to sleep deeper, but can train themselves to have a lighter sleep if required (such as, in dangerous field jobs.) The extra deep sleep sometimes causes nearby sylvari to synchronize their dreams and even "meet" in a hazy dreamscape, a faint remnant of the actual Dream.

- Sylvari sap does not contain platelets, but injury stimulates phloem cells and/or skin cells to swell and constrict, then release a substrate which reacts with certain substances contained within the sap to create a clot-like resin.

- Given enough time, sylvari resin exposed to outside conditions could potentially turn into amber?

- The fact sylvari breathe with their lungs (since they are unable to rely solely on diffusion) implies they possess blood cells and some sort of chromoprotein to carry oxygen? Further supported by the existence of the Mordrem Spleen. Alternatively, they utilize natural magic to speed up diffusion..?

- Sylvari most likely do not possess adaptive immune systems and rely on innate tissue-level strategies to fend off pathogens, like other plants.

- Sylvari awaken with shaper magic, as in the ability to magically and empathically influence other plants. Some specialized Shapers train this ability to use in plant sculpting and architecture, and creating various purposed species such as turret plants. Wardens find it useful to train themselves to read and use other plants as early warning signs for incoming danger. Very rarely, certain sylvari, particularly necromancers, can awaken with little to no shaper magic.

Shaper abilities can be used to alter one's own body, to the point of completely changing one's appearance and even gender if desired, though such a process takes some time. (Perhaps months?)

- Mordremoth, possessing vast amounts of control over plant shaping, can rearrange a sylvari body completely in a matter of hours to days.

- Considering real-life plants rely predominantly on hydraulics rather than electric signaling, logic-ing out an internally consistent and plausible anatomy for ambulatory plants is very difficult (impossible?) thus sylvari must at least possess predominantly electric pathways, essentially mimicking a human nervous system. Many processes would also likely require "it's magic" as an explanation, which makes sense if we consider they are dragon minions, which were probably originally meant to help process and store magic energy at least to some degree.

- Science of sapient walking plants, what the fuck.

- Thank you Tree Mom 🙏

#guild wars 2 #gw2 #sylvari #gw2 sylvari #just my two cents

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newyorkthegoldenage · 5 months ago

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Model Barbara Mullen on a construction scaffold overlooking rooftops in midtown, February 15, 1946. She is wearing a yellow fleece coat over a gray worsted suit by Vincent Coppola with gray shoes, gloves, and a plumed cloche hat.

Photo: Erwin Blumenfeld for Vogue via the Condé Nast Store

#vintage New York #1940s #Erwin Blumenfeld #fashion photography #Barbara Mullen #1950s fashion #women's suits #Vincent Coppola #February 15 #15 February #old NYC #1950s in color #1950s New York #Vogue

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scaffoldstore-01 · 1 year ago

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Benefits of Planks in Construction

In the ever-changing world of building and remodelling, materials selection is critical to a project's success and endurance. Among the various materials available, Aluminium planking scaffolding is gaining popularity due to its versatility, durability, and wide range of applications.

Aluminium planks, which were previously only used in construction, are now being used in both interior and outdoor projects. In this blog, we go deeper into the world of aluminium planks, analysing what they are and revealing the myriad benefits they provide to the construction industry.

What are Aluminium Planks?

Aluminium planks, as the name implies, are plank-like structures made of aluminium. These planks have swiftly become necessary equipment for a wide range of remodelling and construction tasks. Their appeal originates from a unique set of properties that render them important in a variety of industries.

Benefits of Aluminium Planks

With a firm grasp of what aluminium planks are, it's time to look into the several benefits that make them the favoured choice among construction professionals.

Durability Exceeds Expectations

Aluminium planks have exceptional durability. Aluminium, known for its strength, adds remarkable tensile strength and impact resistance to these planks.

This inherent toughness makes them an excellent choice for construction, able to resist the rigours of daily use.

Furthermore, aluminium planks are resistant to weather degradation and insect infestations, cementing their image as a highly durable material.

Minimal maintenance requirements

Unlike typical wood planks, aluminium does not require regular treatments or sealants.

This leads to low maintenance, which saves time and resources on construction projects.

Furthermore, aluminium is particularly resistant to fading and staining, allowing it to maintain its original beauty over time.

This low-maintenance feature contributes to its popularity in the building industry.

Resisting the Elements: Corrosion Resistance

Aluminum's intrinsic features include corrosion resistance, which is a considerable advantage when used in construction.

However, aluminium planks go a step further.

They are purposely designed to be even more corrosion-resistant than bare aluminium, making them perfect for use in a variety of weather conditions.

Whether exposed to the blistering sun, persistent rain, or biting cold, aluminium planks function consistently.

Furthermore, these planks are resistant to fire and heat, making them more suitable and safe for construction projects.

Versatility Saves Time and Money.

Aluminium is substantially lighter than popular building materials such as steel. This lightweight design makes transportation and setup easier, ultimately saving time and money on construction sites.

Furthermore, the simplicity with which aluminium planks may be cut and sculpted adds to the material's overall adaptability.

It enables fine customisation, ensuring that the planks meet the exact specifications of a project.

Eco-friendly Construction

Aluminium planks stand out as an environmentally beneficial construction material in an era where sustainability is crucial.

Aluminium is 100% recyclable, thus the planks can be repurposed or recycled when they reach the end of their useful life.

This not only minimises trash but also promotes a more sustainable construction sector.

The Versatility of Aluminium Planks

One of the most notable features of aluminium planks is their adaptability.

They are widely used as scaffolding or working platforms due to their remarkable strength-to-weight ratio.

This feature makes them incredibly easy to carry and set up, providing unparalleled ease on job sites of all sizes.

Creating Customisable and Secure Working Spaces

Aluminium planks are available in a variety of sizes, allowing for versatility in design and construction.

They are easily assembled, resulting in bespoke working environments tailored to the individual requirements of a project.

Furthermore, these planks have a non-slip surface, which provides a safe and solid platform even in wet or greasy situations.

Scaffold Store: Your Trusted Partner for Premium Aluminium Planks!

In conclusion, aluminium planks provide numerous benefits that make them the ideal choice for a wide range of construction projects. Their strength, durability, and lightweight nature make them ideal for construction projects of all sizes. Furthermore, their resistance to rust, corrosion, and the weather means they survive longer than many other materials, offering long-term value. However, keep in mind that the quality of your aluminium planks will have a big impact on the success of your project.

To get all of these benefits, it is critical to buy from a reputable supplier who can guarantee high-quality items. Scaffold Store is your go-to source for high-quality aluminium planks and other scaffolds like scaffold with wheels, scaffold towers, Diagonal Braces scaffolding etc. As a major supplier of scaffolding equipment and accessories in the United States, Scaffold Store provides a diverse selection of aluminium scaffold planks that are not only sturdy and durable but also reasonably priced.

With a team of experienced professionals, they can help you choose the best goods and provide expert advice on installation and safety. By selecting Scaffold Store as your supplier, you not only ensure the finest quality aluminium planks but also benefit from their experience and dedication to safety. Elevate your building projects with the unrivalled benefits of aluminium planks and the dependability of the Scaffold Store. Make the right choice now for a more efficient, long-lasting, and environmentally responsible construction experience.

#aluminium scaffold tower #scaffolds #scaffold with wheels #scaffold store

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scaffoldstore01 · 2 years ago

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MOBILE SCAFFOLDS: A PRACTICAL CHOICE FOR PORTABILITY AND WORKING AT HEIGHT

There are many different types of scaffold choices on the market today, including fixed scaffolds, movable scaffolds, etc., which are frequently used in construction operations. Scaffold Store offers the premium and high quality of mobile scaffolds like Stairway Scaffolding, aluminium scaffolds etc at an affordable price. The movable scaffolding stands out among them thanks to a few key characteristics. An extra benefit of a mobile scaffold system is that it is portable and simple to move or relocate without incident, even if it performs the same purpose as any other scaffolding structure.

A movable scaffold is ideal for DIY projects, handyman work, and tradespeople:

Handymen can securely reach windows to replace, paint, or clean them without having to sway while climbing a ladder.

For tradespeople, a movable scaffold may streamline common tasks.

Be safe and finish the task quickly whether you want to tackle some little DIY projects around the house or want to make significant home changes before renting or selling your property. So in order to complete DIY projects, you need a safe, transportable, and trustworthy support platform.

Why Employ a Portable Scaffold?

Practical and simple to use

For DIY projects in particular, mobile scaffolding is a more convenient and practical alternative to permanent scaffolding. Additionally, it is a safer solution for construction labour. However, it is your duty to guarantee the security of the scaffolding crew members. The scaffold system has safety components, however they must be put together before being used for construction.

Lightweight

A movable scaffold made of aluminium is portable, lightweight, and simple to move. The movable scaffold system is a favourite among contractors because of its lightweight design, which considerably reduces the risk of harm to the employees when they are moving or working on them.

Simple to Move

The manoeuvrable design of the movable scaffold is well-known. A movable scaffold system is equipped with wheels, which makes it simple to drag or push them around.

Spacious

Your employees will have enough room to stand and set up construction equipment on a movable scaffold. For convenient access for your workers, the mobile scaffolding offers a sizable deck at the top of the scaffold tower. This allows your employees to work comfortably while keeping their equipment and other necessities on the movable scaffold.

Get in touch with Scaffold Store

Call us at the Scaffold Store at 888-777-4133 if you want to rent a mobile scaffold or buy one altogether, and a member of our helpful staff will be pleased to assist you.

Conclusion

Aluminium scaffold tower that are robust and lightweight ensure that your employees may securely operate at heights. Additionally, mobile scaffold offers your employees safe and simple lock assembly, stable work platforms, and the flexibility to transport the scaffold system anywhere is necessary. Both DIY enthusiasts and tradespeople may benefit greatly from the mobile scaffolding system since it increases productivity, enables precise finishes, and allows users to move swiftly to the next work.

#scaffold store #scaffolding #scaffold #houston #mobile scaffolds #aluminium scaffold tower #aluminiumscaffoldtower #diagonal barces scaffolding #stairway

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catsoupki · 1 year ago

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now, at twenty five, you see the ghost of your past haunting you. when you pass by the sandbox, you hear the blooming noises of explosions. you hear the stifling tears from fighting bullies and you smell the stench of nitroglycerin. the last time you had seen katsuki bakugou was this morning, when you were making breakfast in your kitchenette with the television turned on. the bleed of morning sun flutters into your studio apartment, inundating your belongings with warmth. the news channel broadcasted an accident from a previous night, in which pro hero dynamight was able to catch and arrest two villains by himself during his night patrol, but still left destruction in his wake.

it’s the collapse of scaffolding, the uprooting of walkways, with soot and burn scars scalded into the walls of concrete. it’s the name of your childhood love plastered over every single surface that exists.

the last time you had seen katsuki bakugou, you were fifteen. wearing a graduation cap too heavy for your dipped head, donning a robe too large for your then small and sickly thin body.

katsuki bakugou had looked at you with something in the guise of disgust. head held high with a kind of dignity you’re unfamiliar with, the dignity that comes with being the best at what you do, the dignity that encompasses his self-assurance. or perhaps it was betrayal, a shattering unbeknownst to you.

a dream too good to be true— two tickets that would allow you to step foot into the heroes’ world, only to have one fall short, in the name of illness.

he had never visited you during your chronic stay at the hospital. but at twenty five, perhaps now you recall the nameless cards that were littered onto your bed-side table before you had even awoken, at the glimpse of dawn.

a promise broken by betrayal— he looks at you, from a pedestal unto the commoners, he looks at you with his head tilted high and leaned back, as if he’s too afraid to get too close. maybe he is. he was never good at deceiving you.

since the day of your graduation, you see the ghost of your past everywhere. when you walk past the convenience store on the way to work, only to be greeted by the face of dynamight on the package of onigiris. and when you go shopping with friends, you'll be reminded of his face on the commercial district billboard for calvin klein.

he is everything you’re not, and likewise, vice versa. you’re everything he’s not. your contact is left to collect dust in his phone but he’s sure you would’ve forgotten him by now. it’s the doing of his teenage self, to push you and your illness away until you recover, until you move on with life, onto normalcy. you won’t ever realise the years that he had used his birthday wishes and new years fortune to pray for your recovery. for you to make it out of the hospital, alive and well, because what is there to being a hero if not for you? what is there to protect when you’re not even there?

but he also won’t ever know the times you’ve knelt in front of the television in your childhood home, when you were sixteen, bowing your head and praying to god that even if he doesn’t show you mercy, he should at least use that to keep bakugou safe, alive and well.

it’s been over a decade. the last time he saw you, you had pale cheeks and barely made it to the graduation ceremony without fainting. your body was sticks and bones, remnants of an unhealed sickness that stole your dreams away.

he sees you now in the flowers he receives. he sees you in the eyes of students in the schools that he gives talks at. a childlike wonder that never got to grow up, a kindness that was killed over and over again until you became a tinder without a fire.

he tells himself: he’s moved on. and perhaps except for izuku, no one will ever notice just how ugly the scar on his heart is. you’re no hero, you’re no villain, you’re something of the in-between, but still, you leave destruction in your wake.

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dailyadventureprompts · 10 months ago

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So lately I've been running games that give players a lot of power when it comes to world building, encouraging them to make up facts about the world or npcs whole cloth as a regular part of play. Thing is, I play with a good number of people who don't consider themselves storytellers and tend to be quite intimidated by the idea of improv.

Some people (like myself and a few others I know) are endless fonts of ideas, eager to scribble in the margins of someone else's work, but for other folks it can be a real challenge to come up with things on the spot or work up the confidence required to be that kind of collaberator. As such, I've been working on techniques to help my more reticent players get accustomed to their own creative agency:

Give them a Scaffold: Often it's as simple as giving players an emotion they can tap into along with the prompt to make something up, whether it be funny or nostalgic or gross. I can say " This person who you need to get past to talk to your contact is annoying and doesn't want to let you through. What's pissing you off about them?" or " we open the sarcophagus looking for the amulet and we find something awful inside, what is it?" and the player will add the requisite detail with something they find relevant or horrifying. BOOM, instant engagement. Other times I'll have them describe something from their own past or a work of fiction they like, which most people can recall details about just fine when they'd struggle with making something "new".

Give them Homework: Making up stuff on the spot is HARD, so give them time to work on it ahead of time. Say I was prepping an adventure that happened at a mall, I might ask my players to make up 5 stores or NPCs each and give them a little ingame reward for posting them in the groupchat. Things like this can especially help if you're prepping an adventure in a region/town that's more focused on exploration and so requires more material than average.

#dm advice #improv #motw #bitd

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sumire-no-nikki · 3 months ago

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An old favorite, a new find: cupcakes from my go-to bakery in London and an interestingly curated bookshop. It occurred to me while browsing that bookstores are like people. The books featured, authors recommended, even the lighting inside the store—they are all choices that scaffold a bookshop’s personality. And through time you get to watch the changes, learn about its strengths and limitations. Bookshops are dear friends and I'm thankful to have gotten acquainted with a new one on this day.

#bookblr #travel #London #England #uk #sumire-no-nikki

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and-claudia · 7 days ago

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Bound by Winter (Spencer Agnew x fem! Reader) Part 12

Words: 3200+

Warnings: I wrote this so long ago I genuinely don't know, it's not smut though. Traditions are being reenstated and yeah fluff.... enjoy!! Sorry I forgot to post this part.

Taglist Sign Up (Read Carefully)

Bound by Winter Masterlist

Please leave comments and like!! I love reading y'all's comments!!

header made by yours truly

The snow had stopped two days prior, and yet the air hadn’t warmed. It hung strangely still, the kind of quiet that hummed behind the ears—unnatural, like the world holding its breath.

I noticed it first from the balcony above the main courtyard. Not a single flake drifted down. The wind, which had howled just days before, was gone—leaving the sky dull and low. I’d assumed it was a good sign, that perhaps we’d caught a lucky break between storms.

But when I mentioned it offhandedly to Maester Tommy as we passed in the hallway, his expression shifted.

“Blizzards don’t just stop,” he said, scratching behind his ear like he did when he was thinking. “They stall. Especially in the mountain passes. When that happens…” He trailed off, already reaching for the small bound book in his satchel. “We need to convene.”

Within the hour, I found myself in the solar closest to the kitchens. The fire crackled low, casting long shadows over the half-threadbare rug. Spencer stood near the hearth, arms crossed, expression tight. Damien leaned with his good shoulder against the wall, surveying a map of the region. Angela sat curled in one of the high-backed chairs, sipping a steaming mug, eyes sharp.

Maester Tommy had brought scrolls—records of past winters and grain calculations. Garrett, the head chef, carried a slate smudged with soot and grease, fresh from the kitchens.

Septa Amanda sat with her hands folded neatly over her lap, patient but attentive.

“Based on the way the wind dropped and the pressure’s holding…” Tommy flipped to a marked page in his book, “we’re looking at a true long blizzard. Maybe two weeks. Maybe more.”

Garrett grunted. “That long, and the lower pantries’ll need rationing. And if the carts don’t come in time, we’ll lose the citrus crates meant to ward off sickness.”

“We’ll manage it,” Spencer said, firm. “But we prepare now.”

Amanda nodded. “I’ll draft notices for ration limits in the outer kitchens. No panic yet.”

“I’ll begin repairs on the lower gates,” Damien said. “If the wind turns again, it’ll batter the southern scaffolding.”

I listened quietly, absorbing the seriousness in the room. Everyone had shifted into motion, spinning plans like thread through a loom.

But something tugged at me.

“And the villagers?” I asked suddenly. “What happens to them when the storm reaches us?”

The room paused.

Tommy blinked. “We’ll—well, we’ll send out extra provisions today. Maybe some blankets—”

“Not just food,” I said. “Firewood. Coal. Heat.”

Angela looked over her mug, brows raising slightly. Even Spencer turned to me more fully.

“They’ll burn what they have,” I continued, standing now, “but that won’t be enough if it lasts. And we all know Caerwatch eats through double what a village family would use to heat their home.”

Garrett opened his mouth, brow furrowed. “We’ve already used a quarter of the store, my lady. If we start hauling cords to the outlying homes—”

“Then we use less here,” I interrupted gently, but firmly. “If it dwindles too low, we’ll shutter most of the hearths. Keep the great hall lit. The solars. Our chambers. That’s enough. We huddle in with the rest if we have to.”

There was a quiet.

“It won’t be ideal. It won’t be comfortable. But we have walls and stores and servants to keep the rooms swept. They have their families and their fires. I will not let those fires go out.”

Spencer looked at me—really looked—and something flickered behind his winter eyes. He gave a slow nod, then turned back to the others.

“Start sending wagons within the hour,” he said.

Garrett gave a reluctant grunt but didn’t argue. Damien smirked slightly from where he leaned. Tommy was already scribbling a draft order on the back of one of his older scrolls.

And Amanda, when I glanced at her, gave me the softest, most approving nod.

The rest of the day went on as usual, the keep abuzz with preparations, I ensured that the men traveling to the villages on supply runs, as well as the men repairing the lower gates, were properly fed. I hadn’t seen much of Spencer since the meeting.

Now, the hallways were dim with early twilight, that strange hour when the cold settled in deeper and the warmth of the hearths became a siren song.

I found Spencer in the kitchens—not in the main hearth room with the staff, but tucked away in one of the side larders, holding a dusty ceramic jar and frowning at its label as though trying to read ancient runes.

“You’re not about to eat that, are you?” I asked.

He turned, surprised, then gave a sheepish shrug. “Not quite. I was… looking for the dried juniper berries.”

“Juniper?” I raised a brow and stepped in, brushing a curl of my hair from under my hood. “Why?”

He hesitated for a beat, then chuckled under his breath and turned back to the shelves.

“It’s something my mother used to do,” he admitted. “Right before a big storm. She’d throw a few dried juniper berries into the fire in each hearth—said it would ‘keep the spirits of the cold’ from lingering.”

I blinked. “That’s… oddly poetic.”

“It’s nonsense,” he said quickly. “Just an old habit.”

“Do you believe it?”

He gave me a crooked smile, something tired and fond all at once. “I don’t know. But I still do it.”

I tilted my head. “Because it worked?”

He looked away for a moment, his gaze settling on nothing in particular. “Because she did.”

There was a silence then, soft as the falling snow outside.

I reached out and gently took the jar from his hand. “Then we’re doing it.”

Spencer looked at me like I’d just suggested we sing to the trees. “You want to burn herbs for ghost-warding?”

“No,” I said with a teasing smile, “I want to keep your mother’s tradition alive. And maybe keep some frost-spirits away while we’re at it.”

He let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh but warmer than a sigh. “You’re serious?”

“Deadly. I’ll even do the village hearths too.”

He stared at me for a moment, as if trying to say something else—something heavier—but thought better of it. Instead, he nodded and picked up another small bundle from the shelf. “Then we’d better start in the Great Hall.”

We spent the next hour quietly dropping pinches of juniper into the hearths, the smoke fragrant and sharp as it curled into the warm air. Spencer didn’t talk much. He didn’t need to. I could feel what it meant by the way his fingers lingered just a little too long over the flames, and how gently he unwrapped the cloth holding the berries.

By the time we reached the final hearth—the one in our shared solar—I had already tucked away the softest truth in my heart:

That sometimes love is not in the loud declarations or the grand gestures…

Sometimes, it’s in honoring the quiet, irrational things that make a person whole.

Even if they don’t realize they’re still grieving.

So I handed him the final pinch of berries and sat beside him, close enough that our knees touched. He tossed them into the fire, and we watched them crackle away to ash and memory.

And then I reached over and laced my fingers through his.

“We’ll keep doing it,” I said softly. “Every blizzard. Every winter. No questions asked.”

He didn’t speak for a long moment.

Then: “She would’ve liked you.”

Still hand in hand, Spencer and I went back to our chambers. Night had settled over the Keep, and everyone was going to sleep with the looming thought of when the blizzard would hit. Well, everyone except Jack, who was already curled up on the bed when we got there.

We changed out of our day clothes and into our sleep ones in a comfortable silence. Spencer stoked the fire to ensure that it would burn throughout the night before going about and putting out the candles in our room. Once he settled into bed, I rolled over to face him, unable to wipe the smile off my face.

He noticed. “What’s that look for?” he asked softly, one hand tucking beneath his head on the pillow.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Just… this. You. Us. It feels good. Even with the storm coming.”

Spencer reached out and brushed a thumb along my cheek. “It does,” he murmured. “Feels steady.”

I nestled in closer, and he shifted his arm so I could rest my head against his chest. His heartbeat thudded steady and calm beneath my ear.

“Do you think we’ll always have this?” I asked quietly. “The quiet before the storm?”

He exhaled through his nose, his fingers moving gently along my arm. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I know I’ll always make room for it. For you.”

We lay there in the hush, the only sound the occasional crackle from the fire and the wind tapping at the windows like fingers too timid to truly knock. Jack let out a soft chirp from his corner of the bed, as if agreeing with the sentiment.

Spencer leaned down and kissed the top of my head. “Whatever comes tomorrow, I’m glad tonight was ours.”

I smiled against his chest. “Me too.”

His arms tightened around me, protective and warm, and I let myself begin to drift, anchored in the safety of him, of this room, of the space we had built together — even with a storm gathering just beyond the stone walls.

The wind had started wailing sometime in the early morning, but by midday it had become a voice of its own — low and constant, pressing against the stone walls of Caerwatch like some ancient, hungry thing. I stood at the window of the corridor that overlooked the east courtyard, watching the swirling gusts lift the already-heavy snow into great spirals. The world beyond the keep was fast disappearing behind a veil of white.

“It’s starting,” Spencer said quietly beside me.

I nodded. “Properly this time.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment, just watched the wind push a group of bundled stablehands racing toward the inner barn doors. Then he reached out and gently tugged the shawl I’d draped over my shoulders into a better position. “Garrett says the kitchens are sealed tight. And the grain’s been moved to the lower cellars.”

“And the villagers?”

Spencer gave me a look I’d come to know well—equal parts proud and protective. “The firewood made it to all five settlements before the pass closed. Damien had the last load delivered to Frostmere Hollow himself.”

I exhaled slowly, releasing some of the tension I hadn’t realized I was holding.

It was done. The last of the preparations. There was nothing else we could do now but wait.

A soft knock came from behind us. We turned as Angela popped her head around the corridor’s bend, already bundled in her usual bright scarf. “My lord, my lady,” she said with a smile. “Ser Damien sent me to find you. He’s gathering everyone in the west solar for something he claims will boost morale.”

Spencer arched a brow. “Should I be concerned?

Angela grinned. “You’ll have to ask the jester yourself.”

The warmth of the solar hit me the moment we stepped inside. The fire blazed in the hearth, and several lanterns had been lit early to fight off the gray wash of snowlight from the windows. Damien stood near the fireplace, sleeves rolled up, chalking a line onto the stone wall. Beside him stood Chanse, dramatically polishing what looked like the point of a dart with the hem of his tunic.

Tommy, already seated with a mug of mulled wine, looked at us and waved. “Ah! The royal couple joins us at last.”

“We’re not royal yet,” I said, settling onto the nearest bench and letting Spencer ease in beside me.

“Don’t ruin my illusions,” Chanse said

“Alright, I have decided morale is low, snow is high, and so: a dart tournament,” Damien announced.

Spencer gave him a wary look. “That seems dangerous in a room full of people.”

“Dangerous fun,” Chanse corrected.

Courtney, seated by the window next to Septa Amanda and Arasha, raised her cup. “I’m only here to watch him lose.”

“I resent that,” Chanse muttered.

Angela leaned in beside me. “He’s been talking about this for days. Wait until you see the rules.”

I turned to Spencer with a smirk. “You going to play?”

He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “If I’m allowed to win.”

“You weren’t last time,” Damien reminded him, drawing the target circle. “You missed three in a row and blamed the wine.”

Chanse sighed deeply. “It’s a tragic tale. But today is a new day.”

I leaned my head against Spencer’s shoulder and watched as Chanse dramatically held the darts over his head like a sword before declaring the tournament officially begun.

Outside, the snow thickened. But in here, with firelight, friends, and the muffled laughter of people who had come to matter more than I’d ever expected, the blizzard could roar all it wanted.

As Damien set up the board and got the darts ready, drinks were poured and passed round. By the time we were ready to begin, Spencer was already flushed slightly from drink and laughter, leaned against the wall with a mug in hand, watching as Ser Damien landed another solid throw—just outside the center ring.

“Eight points,” Damien announced with a triumphant smirk. “Which brings my total to thirty-four.”

“You act like that’s impressive,” Chanse scoffed. “Wait ‘til I throw three bullseyes and win the meat pie.”

“The what now?” Angela asked, perched cross-legged on the nearest bench.

“Oh,” Chanse said with a mock-stern face, lifting his drink. “Did I not mention? Winner gets the last meat pie from dinner. It's currently sitting in the kitchen, untouched. Glorious. Still warm, probably.”

“I’m sure the kitchen staff would love us raiding leftovers while half the Keep’s on ration rotation,” Arasha quipped.

“Then I guess we better make it worth it,” Courtney grinned, holding up her darts.

As the rounds continued, the competition grew more intense—and more unhinged. Angela surprised everyone by nearly hitting the bullseye twice. Arasha kept getting exactly six points every throw, and Ser Damien looked like he was preparing for battle with every toss.

Then came Spencer’s turn.

He stepped forward, squared his shoulders, threw—and missed. Again.

Boos and groans echoed good-naturedly around the room.

“That’s—what is that, zero again?” Chanse said, stifling a snort.

Spencer held up both hands. “Tactical miss. Confuses the opponent.”

“Uh-huh,” Courtney said dryly.

A few more turns passed.

By the time his next round came, Spencer had already resigned himself to mockery, stepping up to the line with the determination of a man doomed to defeat.

First dart—thunk. Into the beam next to the board.

Second—pinged off the edge and rolled on the floor.

Third—bounced off the wall entirely.

The room exploded in laughter.

“Spence,” I said, blinking at him as I leaned into the crook of the bench, “have you actually gotten any points?”

He took a long, slow sip from his mug. “It would appear so.”

“Bummer,” I said, shrugging with a wicked grin. “Because the winner gets the leftovers. Meat pie.”

Spencer froze.

His eyes widened—dramatically widened—and he gasped like someone had just whispered ancient prophecy in his ear.

Everyone quieted, confused.

With a sudden burst of movement, Spencer spun around, cocked his arm, and—thunk.

Dead center.

A perfect bullseye.

The room exploded.

“What the—” Courtney started, nearly dropping her mug.

“By the gods—” Angela choked on her drink.

Spencer turned back around slowly, smug as sin.

He raised an eyebrow. “Did someone say meat pie?”

Even Ser Damien laughed, shaking his head. “Impressive,” he admitted. “But your turn was already over, Lord Agnew. Doesn’t count.”

Spencer placed a hand to his chest, mock-wounded. “You wound me, Damien. Truly.”

I was still laughing. “You’ve missed ten darts in a row but throw a perfect bullseye for a leftover dinner? I don’t know if that’s skill or sorcery.”

“Neither,” Spencer said, lifting his mug again. “That was the power of motivation. Never underestimate meat-based incentive.”

Chanse didn’t miss a beat.

“Well, you sure don’t,” he said with a sly grin, raising his brows at Spencer and me. “Isn’t that how your wife got that glow? Little meat-based incentive after dark?”

The room howled. I buried my face in my hands, heat rushing to my cheeks.

Spencer didn’t flinch—just took a lazy sip of his drink and said, “Wouldn’t call it little, but sure.”

Now Damien choked on his wine.

Arasha was doubled over laughing. Angela was wheezing.

Damien finally caught his breath and muttered, “Gods help us all if their future child inherits that wit.”

Spencer just winked. “The heir to Carewatch will be devastating.”

“You mean traumatizing,” I mumbled into my hand.

Spencer leaned in and whispered near my ear, “You love it.”

I elbowed him gently. “Not when Chanse makes it weird!”

“That’s my job,” Chanse said proudly, raising his mug in a salute. “To meat pie, missed darts, and terrible innuendos.”

“To terrible innuendos,” the others echoed, laughter filling the solar while the blizzard raged on outside.

By the time we made it back to our chambers, my cheeks still ached from laughing. The corridor torches flickered against the stone, and the keep was quiet again, blanketed in snow and sleep.

Spencer shut the door behind us with a thud, then leaned back against it with a dramatic sigh. His hair was tousled, cheeks flushed with drink and heat, and he looked unfairly handsome for someone who’d missed nearly every dart he threw.

I slipped off my boots,shaking my head with a smile. “Remind me never to let you enter a dart tournament to defend my honor.”

Spencer straightened, affronted. “That was strategic chaos.”

“You didn’t hit a single point until someone mentioned meat pie.”

“And then I hit a bullseye.” He crossed the room, finger raised. “Let the record show.”

“Mhm.” I flopped onto the bed with a grin. “So as long as there’s a meat incentive, you’ll fight valiantly in my name?”

Spencer’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “Only if there’s meat involved.”

I laughed into the blankets. “You’re ridiculous.”

He leaned over me, bracing his hands on either side of my shoulders. His voice dropped, teasing and suggestive. “Speaking of… would you care for a… meat incentive as reward for surviving the night’s tournament?”

I snorted. “I didn’t even win.”

Spencer deadpanned. “I’m trying to come up with a valid reason to fuck my wife, don’t ruin the moment.”

I dissolved into laughter, smacking his arm. “Spencer!”

But he was already leaning in, his mouth slanting over mine in a kiss that stole the breath right from my chest. Warm, hungry, full of the kind of affection that lingered in the marrow. His hand slipped around my waist as I melted into him, still smiling against his lips.

“You really didn’t need a reason,” I whispered.

“I know,” he murmured, kissing me again. “But I like pretending I’m honorable.”

I wrapped my arms around his neck, letting the rest of the keep—of the cold, the storm, the war—fade behind the thick stone walls of our chamber.

Tonight, it was just us. And whatever came next, I would always take him—tipsy, terrible at darts, and entirely mine.

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