#tag: trouble within the skies | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

konigbabe · 9 months

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steal the thunder - I -

Pairing: Hajime Kashimo x fem!sorcerer!reader Word count: 5.8k Tags/warnings: no y/n; unhinged reader; manga spoilers (Culling Games + Perfect Preparation arcs); fight description; canon-typical violence; there will be eventual smut in the later parts fyi Summary: There's murder in the air – with the Culling Games underway, a simple task of finding an angel turns to a fight for life when you meet a certain, static and 400 years old sorcerer with cyan hair and wicked intentions.

Artwork by poro (poro06625649) on Twittter [source]; divider by @skylightlantern [source] For a better understanding of the reader's CE and CT, visit this Tumblr post.

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There's murder in the air – an unsettling undertone that pollutes the atmosphere. Gentle breeze carrying the metallic fragrance of blood within its currents.

The dockside keeps quiet. Sky clear, devoid of seagull calls. Walking by colossal steel shipping containers, stacked high, the scent persists. Clings to the air like a persistent specter. Each step accompanied by the gentle lap of waves against the pilings, their rhythmic cadence a stark contrast to the horrors you've seen.A soothing lullaby in the midst of chaos.

The maze-like layout of the quayside comes to an end when your muscles strain, lifting off the ground and landing atop the steel structure.

A giant panda comes into view. Its relaxed posture, perched on hindlimbs, contrasts with its impassive countenance as it gazes your way.

"Panda," you address what some might believe to be an actual animal; innocent, cute and completely harmless. Except for this Cursed Corpse – your subordinate – is none of those things.

He fixes you with your very name; a disturbing familiarity in his eyes, then the words escape his lips.

"The smell of blood's so thick," he voices as you draw near, words cutting through the tension. "There must be about three people dismembered here–"

You hold up two fingers, the other hand nestled in your pocket.

"Two actually," you intervene, voice a measured interruption, "walked past a man with a hole the size of a soccer ball in his chest."

The memory resurfaces – the sight of the man, head drooping, neck bent at an unnatural angle. Eerie web-like burns sprawled across his bare flesh. The smell of singed skin and ozone hangs in the air, a pungent reminder. Yet, it's not just that which jolts your senses. It's the residual static of someone's cursed energy, an unsettling presence that lingers.

"But that's not what troubles me," continuing, you stand next to Panda, arms now crossed as both of you watch the lifeless skies, "something bad's here. I tried following the remnants of the cursed energy of the perpetrator but it was very faint."

"Could be an expert who can turn their cursed energy on and off at will…" Panda thinks out loud.

You let the idea sit for a second. Could it be the case? Could someone in this colony be capable of doing it? Known, registered sorcerers are absent here. The majority are newly awakened, scarcely equipped to comprehend a sophisticated notion like this. And why would they feel the need to hide their cursed energy?

No.

Dismissing your doubts, you shake your head and stride toward the edge of the shipping container.

"Don't think so. Nevertheless, we're here to find that angel girl and negotiate with her." Stepping onto the container's edge, unfazed by the high drop; balancing skillfully, you extend one leg over the edge, about to step into empty space. In a seamless motion, you touch down on the solid concrete ground below.

Panda follows suit, rolling off the shipping container with agility, landing right beside you. Then he stands, an odd combination of human-like stance and panda appearance, more akin to a person in a panda costume than an actual animal.

"Our safest bet is to leave the docks. Fast. Just play pretend, avoid any unnecessary conflicts and make it out of this colony in one piec–"

The sentence's left hanging as a sudden shift in the atmosphere catches your attention. Panda falls on all fours, frozen still.

"Ah," a deeper, resonant voice rumbles from your right, the words echoing as the familiar sensation washes over you. A sudden buzz inside your mind, an abrupt surge of awareness regarding another sorcerer's presence. Heart mirroring the rapid flutter of a startled bird's wings.

Their cursed energy, concealed and latent, manages to evoke an almost primal response within you. A sense of fight or flight.

You pivot to face the uninvited presence before you.

A cascade of hair, vivid as a robin's egg and kissed by the hues of a clear summer sky, is gathered into twin buns atop his head while tendrils of untamed locks dance freely in the breeze, resembling a stormy sea. Longer bangs frame the contours of his face, softening his visage.

He stops when his eyes – the same uncanny shade as his hair – bore into yours. Carrying what you'd guess is a Nyoi staff slung over his shoulder, he stands at a slight angle. Excludes casual confidence, a sense of poised readiness.

"Another one," he breaks the silence. You stand your ground in response to his observation.

"Not interested in a fight," you remark, hands risen in a defensive gesture. Yet you don't dare take your eyes off the sorcerer. Ready and composed.

Panda, ostensibly cautious, inches closer to you, fur bristling in sync with his unease towards the newcomer's presence. The air tightens, charged with the unspoken potential for violence.

"Kogane," he calls out to the shikigami, summoning it like a wisp from the aether; the small creature materializes, its hue the shade of a serene lake, light and amicable as it floats near his head, "is the panda a player too?"

The shikigami screeches its answer, its words setting everything in motion.

"Indeed!! A player! Yep!!"

"That's a function," your pondering voice meets a forced silence. The state of perturbed ambiance vanishing as your thoughts are cut off.

A flesh of white. Empty space occupies the spot where the sorcerer was standing less than a second ago.

You sense his presence before your eyes even settle on his countenance; his eyes, framed with short zig-zag lines reminiscent of lightning bolts underneath them, a furious cauldron of murderous excitement as they lock onto yours. They widen with a manic intensity. An undertone of madness lurking deep within their depths.

A predator's gaze fixated on its prey.

In a heart-stopping moment, time stands still. The world around you fades into a blur as a primal instinct takes over. Your body reacts; a precision born of pure reflex – muscles coiled like springs, you counter his attack with a swift and calculated movement.

His volatile energy crackles in the air. Your hands snap up. Fingers attempting to curl around his bandaged forearm. Channeling your cursed energy to your clavicles, the place where his palm lays flat against you –

But your reactions prove inadequate. You're too slow. A shocking speed and heavy push; a surge of force is sent through your body, catching you off-guard. The ground beneath you becomes a temporary adversary. Your balance disrupted as you're sent flying backward.

Back colliding with the hard, metal steel of a shipping container – you watch in horror as the sorcerer mercilessly attacks Panda. Using his staff as a weapon. With unnatural speed and agility, Panda struggles against him; his valiant resistance a testament to his determination, his form a blur of motion as he evades the sorcerer's attacks and manages a few good blows of his own.

Your body feels light. A tingling sensation surging through your veins. Electric current's rushing beneath your skin, setting your pulse racing and your focus to a razor's edge. The metallic taste of blood floods your mouth. Mingles with the adrenaline in your body. Every nerve firing in response to the raw energy pulsing through your body.

It hits you then–

"Heh, electricity," you mumble, the word slipping from your lips as you raise your palms, clenching your fists. Feeling the tingling in the tips of your fingers. The slight buzzing in your ears.

–his cursed energy has a special trait. One certainly hard to defend against.

Barely seconds have passed since your body was forced to rest against the ground. It still feels too long with Panda barely matching the man's speed and force.

Gritting your teeth, the urgency of the situation anchors you, overriding any pain or disorientation as you fight to regain your footing. A sense of pride fills you when you watch Panda use his technique, striking the sorcerer with enough force that'll easily knock him out cold. One of Panda's winning moves.

Except it doesn't.

"Nice one," the man's voice rings out. A taut smirk playing at the corner of his lips. Your teeth clench, disbelief intertwining with unease as you watch. With a predominated precision, the sorcerer maneuvers his staff, entwining it with Panda's arm in a smooth motion that catches you off guard.

Exerting a forceful pull, he forces a grimace from Panda. Right arm caught in the vice-like grip, a sickening crack underscores the moment. Followed by the nauseating sensation of Panda's arm being torn from his body. Violently. And mercilessly.

Panda stumbles. Pain and agony escaping in a cry. The sorcerer doesn't waste a second. Hurls the arm back at Panda, using the momentum to charge forward. Palm aiming flat against his chest, he sends Panda flying backward – the same way he did to you. Causing your junior to experience a similar sensation to yours.

The cyan-haired man straightens, seemingly relaxing, already content with winning the fight.

"But I'm not impressed," he taunts, words an ominous echo of the violence just unleashed, "It's too ordinary."

Feeling the concrete beneath your feet, you take deliberate steps forward. With an inkling of Panda's potential strategy, you expel the pooled blood from your mouth, spitting it onto the ground.

"...Sukuna, you know where he is?" The man's words flow, attention diverted, ignorant of your presence.

A fortunate circumstance.

"No clue," Panda responds. His reply burdened with weariness and defeat; yet his gaze remained fixed on you, a silent exchange of understanding passing between you as you position yourself, tension radiating from his weary form.

The sorcerer scoffs; a contemptuous tilt of his head, a gesture laden with superiority. "Sounds like you know something, then," he snarls, his grip on the staff constricting as his fist clenches, "Spit it out. I'll be merciful."

With the sorcerer's back turned you raise your arm. Your gaze remains fixed upon the convergence point of the two delicate lines, their path crossing at the very heart of the expanse that's the upper part of his broad back.

"I won't be," you declare; voice carrying a firm tone. A deft flick of your wrist – the current of cursed energy takes the desired shape before it's hurled toward your target. Slashing the air in front of you, aimed right at him.

His gaze veers to the side. And in a fraction of a heartbeat, he moves; executing a skillful sidestep. Body positioned to face you from the side, both hands now gripping his staff, aiming it at you; a glint of fervor ignites his eyes as they widen, locked onto the shipping container stationed behind Panda. The unforgiving force of your attack rends the shipping container apart, leaving two gaping slashes that could bisect a man.

You don't give him time to react properly.

The moment blood begins to stain his white robe crimson red from the nick on his shoulder, you lunge forward. Like a bull being waved a red flag. Feet imbued with your cursed energy, reinforced to ensure protection.

As you close the distance at a breakneck pace, you sense the distinct composition of his cursed energy. With your fingers curled around the staff, your eyes meet his, a faint grin playing at the corners of your mouth as you tug on his weapon with your full body weight. Lifting your legs off the ground, you use the staff as a fulcrum. His body feels resilient, akin to forged steel, against the soles of your shoes.

With the potency of your cursed technique coursing through your strike, the man is propelled backward, his body hurtling through the air. The Nyoi staff clings to the concrete. Left untouched upon the impact.

Flying through a shipping container, he quickly finds his footing. Stance shifting in response to your aerial maneuver. Legs splayed to establish a firm foundation, you focus your intent on targeting his jaw. Fists charged with cursed energy, you hit once; knowing how troublesome the push-and-pull effect of your technique feels once your flesh makes contact–

"Not bad," he manages to spit out, the corner of his lip stained red. A smile tugs at the corner of his lip as you sprint toward him.

The surroundings blur into a muddled backdrop, irrelevant in your unwavering concentration. The sorcerer becomes the sole axis, a focal point in a world that seems to slow to a crawl, even though only a fraction of a second has passed.

The tip of your foot touches his; a mere whisper of contact between two opposing forces.

"Not bad at all."

–he counterattacks. Hand darts forward. Grabs your wrist. With an economy of motion, he employs your own momentum against you. His grip becomes a pivot, briefly throwing you off-balance, diverting your forward surge into an unexpected spiral.

Fluidity. That's how you'd characterize his movements. A seamless transition from being a passive target to an active agent.

His chest brushes against your back as his right hand remains locked around your right wrist. Single-handedly swinging your body like a marionette, you exploit the vulnerability of your position. Using his grip as leverage to move backward, simultaneously grabbing hold of his bandaged left forearm and pulling. Crashing your body into his, redirecting the movement into a collision.

With a potent surge of intention, you force the prepared rejection and attraction effect within your clenched fist, propelling it like a bolt toward the rear of your skull. Teeth gritted, you throw your head back.

Crack.

He stifles a groan, a step taken back but footing resolute. A red trail paints his nose as you swivel to confront him. Pausing briefly to charge your energy again, you grant him a moment to speak. His expression freezes as he locks eyes with you

"You," he speaks up, his voice textured with the tang of iron as his tongue grazes his lips, "Have we met before?"

With your hand still tingling, the ripples of sensation spread up your arm, an electric current tracing a pattern beneath your skin. Your head sways subtly, dispelling the notion of a previous encounter. "Unlikely. You'd be history."

A chuckle dances from his lips, a response to your retort. "What's your name then?"

You share it deliberately, each syllable a measured beat in your dance around one another. He nods, his head tilting with self-assured grace. It's then that he takes his stance – feet planted firmly, palms outstretched, a grin playing on his lips.

"The name's Hajime Kashimo."

The words hang, a telltale echo–

Hajime Kashimo.

–recognition snaps into place when you repeat his name in your mind.

The Hajime Kashimo, the sorcerer whose score reaches a hundred points; a mark that sets him apart from any other Culling game player (except for the intricate Hiromi Higuruma). Hakari's elusive target.

And here, right before you, stands the man himself.

"Hey," you call out, a new determination blossoming, your stance embracing the challenge; retreat is no longer a consideration, "if I beat you, can I get your points?"

The corners of Kashimo's lips twitch, smile fading like a wisp of smoke carried away by the wind. Expression blank, with only his brows furrowed as he responds, "Sure, but you tell me everything y'know about Sukuna," his voice lowered to a dangerous undertone, a velvet threat veiled in words, "that is–if you're still alive."

He charges then. Doesn't spare a single consideration. The air crackles with tension as his presence engulfs you. His hands make contact – not with fists or strikes – but with the calculated pressure of his open palms. You feel the weight of his touch on your skin. Pressure on your left, then on your right ribcage.

"Don't disappoint me now," breath tickles your ear, voice a tantalizing, dangerous melody. His fingers anchor firmly onto your right shoulder, an assertive grip that both commands and unsettles, while his other hand exerts a calculated force on your left shoulder guard, propelling you into a spin.

Your training surges forth, a symphony of muscle memory and instinct harmonizing within you. With the resilience born of countless battles, you swiftly adapt your stance, shifting your weight to face him.

An annoyed huff leaves your now-bruised lips. You channel your own cursed energy, a torrent of power surging through your veins.

Detain an attack when it comes,–

Knees bending, body swaying to evade the incoming fist; your left hand grips his left wrist, fingers tightening with determination, followed by your right driving into its intended mark.

–and send it away when it retreats.

Your palm meets the solid plane of his chest with a resonant thud; pushes and then pulls him back to you before sending him away again; successfully pushing back against Kashimo's pressure. It's a momentary reprieve. One that sends the sorcerer tumbling back, makes him roll on the ground, lending on one knee.

"Here I thought we were just getting started," you quip with a hint of playfulness amidst the dance of combat. Moving swiftly towards the target. As Kashimo's force ebbs, you seize the opportunity, your muscles coiling like springs.

"You're getting me–" he barely makes it back to his feet before you're at him again. With enough cursed energy imbued into your foot, utilizing the momentum of your motion, leg rising up in a calculated kick – only for Kashimo to shift; a fraction of movement that proves decisive. His arm weaves beneath the arc of your thigh, a sinuous and serpentine maneuver that seeks to entwine and subdue. As his grasp tightens, his fingers snake around your throat, lifting you from the ground, suspending you momentarily.

"–quite excited," he concludes, his voice tinged with an eerie excitement.

Once the hand is freed from contact,–

A heartbeat's pause feels like an eternity. With your legs rendered weightless and no stable ground beneath you. Despite the vulnerable position, your mind remains steadfast, honing in on Kashimo's Achilles heel. His hands are preoccupied, his grasp unwavering but his neck and face exposed.

–carry out a strike with it.

Seizing the opportunity, you make the most of the opening. Your palms press against the sharp contours of his cheeks, each hand finding its place on one side of his face. In one swift and deliberate motion, you channel the wellspring of cursed energy that resides within you into your technique. The currents of your energy converge between your palms, weaving a tapestry of arcane force that manifests as a palpable vacuum, centered precisely where his head rests.

It's an intentional manipulation. One – if done right, that is – could even lead to a cataclysmic implosion. A violent severing of life from the body. But you don't want to kill him; not yet at least. You need the points. And so, you temper your approach, exerting only the necessary amount of energy to induce a sensation of compression.

As the feeling envelops him, Kashimo's expression shifts, a flicker of realization that dances within his eyes. He instinctively withdraws. Bandaged forearms push at your body, sending you hurtling backward; a testament to his strength and strategic finesse.

"You cheeky little thing," a bead of blood traces a path from the corner of his eye. At the same time, another droplet emerges from his nose.

This time it's him who doesn't let you regain enough control as he charges at you. His approach swift and unrelenting. The tables are constantly turning – now being his time to dictate the tempo.

Another dance of offense and defense plays out as the two of you clash once again. Each move a deliberate response to the other's actions.

Chase the movement of the opponent–

As the flurry of his strikes slices through the air, you find yourself navigating the ebb and flow with a synchronicity that borders on the sublime. With a hawk-like focus, you track the trajectory of his hand, your senses attuned to his every motion.

While his hits continue to swing through both empty space and meeting your body, a fleeting opportunity presents itself. With the precision of a seasoned sorcerer, you follow the path of his hand with your own, fingers closing around his forearm as it narrowly misses your cheekbone, the other digging into the open slash wound on his shoulder.

–to continue the attack.

It earns you a hiss. A "Tsk," coming from his damaged lips.

One fluid motion; one that belies your strength. You capitalize on the momentum of his own swing, utilizing your grip to exert control. Your foot surges forward with unbridled force, the sole of your shoe connecting with the vulnerable juncture of his knee.

Kashimo's reflexes kick in as he instinctively leaps back the moment your foot makes contact with his leg. His visage bears the marks of battle, a canvas adorned with streaks of red, the vestiges of blood from the prior exchange. A mirror to his appearance, your own face likely reflects a similar narrative. Marked by the intensity of the confrontation. By his pure, physical prowess. One that, even if you use all your cursed energy, you're certain you couldn't match.

The shadows of weariness begin to cast their subtle touch on you. A weight that tempers your movements and shadows the clarity of your thoughts. Each calculated step, each strategic strike, seems to bear an additional burden now.

Still, resolute, your unwavering determination fixated on Kashimo, persevering in the face of creeping exhaustion.

Then you take off.

With a surge of action, you propel yourself into motion. Pivoting on your heel, you sprint toward the towering container crane a mere few meters behind. Kashimo's quick thinking registers in the corner of your vision—a flash of white on your right, drawing nearer.

"Running so soon?"

His taunting words reach you.

"Just limbering up," you reply. Muscles tensing, you feel his energy almost brushing against your own. So, with a leap, you vault into the air. Fingers curling around your ankle.

Time seems to slow as Kashimo's grip tightens around your ankle, his fingers like a vice attempting to anchor you to the ground. The world spins around you, the crane's towering structure becoming a blur as your body is abruptly yanked back, denied the freedom of flight.

Instinct kicks in, your mind racing to find a solution. With a swift twist of your body, you channel the energy within, your cursed power surging to your fingertips. A burst of force courses through your arm, the concentrated energy propelling your free leg forward in a powerful kick. Your heel connects with Kashimo's face, the impact forcing his grip to release.

In the split second of regained freedom, your body soars toward the container crane.

Muscles strained, you manage to grab hold of a protruding metal edge, fingers gripping with an iron determination. The harsh clang of metal meeting metal reverberates through the air as your body comes to a halt, swinging slightly from the momentum before you propel yourself higher onto the structure.

A smirk tugs at the corners of your lips. The distance between you and Kashimo now a tangible reminder of your evasion. His frustrated gaze meets yours, the tension between you electric and palpable.

"Nice try," you retort, voice laced with a mixture of weariness and defiance. There's an undeniable satisfaction in defying his grasp, in proving your prowess even amid exhaustion. Without wasting a moment longer, you hoist yourself up more, using the crane's structure to propel your body upward. Your form melds with the steel as you ascend, a maneuver to gain the vantage point.

Gotta limit his movement to the minimum.

Kashimo's expression shifts, a glint of admiration piercing through his irritation. "Impressive," he concedes, the words carrying an unexpected note of respect, "but you can't run from me."

He follows your lead. The two of you ascending the crane in a synchronized rhythm

"I told you, Kashimo–," you declare, your voice echoing between the steel beams as you reach the crane's zenith, standing face to face on the narrowest edge.

Now standing face to face on the crane's uppermost beam, the narrow back reach providing only small support. Your breath heaves, each inhalation a reminder of the intense exertion. Across from you, Kashimo's gaze remains fixed upon you, his expression deceptively relaxed.

"–that I'm only stretching."

His eyes, however, tell a different story – a depth of focus that cuts through your form. Anchoring onto you with an unwavering intensity.

A mournful melody weaves through the metal lattice, the wind's haunting whistle creating an eerie harmony with the tension in the air. The gusts playfully tousle both your hair in the process. You steady yourself into a stance, your body a testament to both resilience and purpose.

"Plus I want those points," you remark, a hint of determination coloring your words.

It's then that you charge — cursed energy flowing through your body like currents of compressed emptiness. A void. Unyielding. Relentless. And pneumatic.

With a flick of your wrist, you send it slicing through the air. A blade of nothing. A thin line etches across his chest, traversing from ribcage to his already wounded shoulder — a mark of your earlier endeavor. Nowhere to dodge now that he's standing between two metal beams.

Or so you thought.

Kashimo charges. The white of his robe tainted with scarlet. The cut isn't deep.

He must've reinforced his cursed energy.

"Tsk," you utter. A flicker of irritation crosses your features. Agitated. With waning stamina, the dwindling reservoir of cursed energy depleted by your previous usage; this could've been your last-ditch effort.

The final move.

And it failed.

It makes him smile. A sinister twist of lips that morphs into a grin. Moving fast, his expression resembles one of a predator closing in on its prey. The ruby stain on his robe seems to accentuate his aura of danger, a stark contrast to the pristine white it once was.

As your body contorts and arches backward, you skillfully evade the incoming fist aimed at your face. Your unwavering gaze remains locked onto his intense stare. With your palm pressed flat against the ground of the crane, you swiftly raise your leg, delivering a targeted strike to the meat of his thigh.

But before your maneuver can fully unfold, his hand seizes your ankle, pulling you towards him and locking your leg in place as he maneuvers over your body. Kashimo's grin widens, a predatory glint in his eyes that triggers a ripple of unease down your spine.

As his fist whizzes past your face, you seize the opportune moment to mount a counterattack. His fingers, still harshly locked around your right ankle, you push and pull against his grasp. Leg successfully moving to close over his thigh, the other hooking around his hip.

Legs now firmly encircling his waist, you use every ounce of your strength to push. Destabilize the sorcerer. Break his foundation. Disrupt his equilibrium.

The outcome? Both of you soaring through the air and down the crane. Kashimo's form aligns perfectly with the approaching solidity of the dockside concrete.

A rapid free fall, gravity's pull unrelenting.

If you're not getting the points, he's not getting his answers either.

His eyes momentarily flit to the ground below. Unspoken recognition of the shared peril that binds you both. The realization dawns in his eyes, widening them momentarily, before his gaze settles onto your face once more – unimpressed. Jaded.

"Oops," you jest under your breath, fingers finding purchase on the fabric of his torn clothes. An unhinged smile on your lips, eyebrows lifting in a mix of audacity and exhilaration. The wind sweeps through, rustling your hair with a cool caress that contrasts starkly with the warm stickiness of blood on your skin.

"It's accumulated enough."

That's the only forewarning you get. In an instant, the atmosphere shifts; an electrifying tension that dances along your skin. You sense the already familiar tingling as the static charges from the man beneath you. Kashimo's cursed energy now gaining intensity.

His open hand thrusts towards your face, a surge of energy gathering at his fingertips. Only to get countered by your own palm. Flat against each other. Forcing a focal point of energy converges and resistance to form. As the push effect comes into play just in time with waves of electricity.

The crackling intensity escalates, its tendrils reaching out with an insatiable hunger. Only to be pushed back by your own manipulation acting as a steadfast wall. It's a symphony of sensations — the tingling of your skin, the hum of power in the air, the gradual crescendo of pressure between your palms. The vortex throbs and pulses, a living embodiment of the forces you both wield.

The thing is – The conductivity of the vacuum…depending on how you look at it, it behaves in two different ways:

Firstly, when you examine the motion of charged particles with a constant velocity within a vacuum, you encounter an interesting phenomenon. Unlike in other mediums, there is no opposing force acting against these particles. Consequently, maintaining a steady current across any surface within a vacuum demands no additional effort.

However, a contrasting phenomenon manifests when we consider the existence of free charges within conductors. When an electric field, denoted as E, is imposed upon a conductor, it triggers a flow of electric current. This internal charge movement gives rise to a current density described by the equation: J = σE, where σ symbolizes the conductivity of the material. Notably, within a vacuum, σ assumes a value of 0; hence, electric fields lack the capacity to spontaneously induce current flow.

In this context, the vacuum departs from the role of a conductor. Even materials known as insulators, which typically restrict the flow of current, possess conductivity values that are low but not completely absent.

As a result, the resistance exhibited by a vacuum effectively amounts to infinity—particularly when you define resistance through the lens of how charge carriers in a substance respond. Viewed from this perspective, you could liken the vacuum to an insulator, given the absence of charge carriers that are essential for the propagation of electric current.

So in the end, your innate ability functions like an antistatic force.

It should be enough to counter his attack. Neutralizing his endeavor and ricocheting it back to him. Only if his other hand, clenched into a fist, suddenly hasn't entered your line of sight, aiming for your jaw.

The controlled push-only effect falters. Then crumbles. The void's pull reclaims all that Kashimo had imparted, drawing it back with an insatiable greed.

"Damn you." It now comes down to the last aspect of your technique.

Implosion.

The energies within your vacuum field converge, collapsing inwards with a blinding intensity. A jarring impact against the back of your head – or it might be the ending of your fall. Everything's just confusing. Everything blurs into a disorienting haze of continuous events.

The unforgiving touch of concrete grates against your scraped back. Each breath, now shallow and ragged, causes pain.

Above, the sky stretches wide and boundless. Until the sight is blocked by a mop of cerulean blue hair. Two buns somehow still in place. Same-colored eyes staring at your form. Arms folded and a countenance marred by bloodstains and scrapes. Each leg positioned on either side of your hips before one presses against the flat of your clavicles.

"You're quite durable," Kashimo retorts, pushing his weight down on you, "that should've killed you right there."

"Heh," you manage a wry chuckle, your voice strained but defiant, "guess I'm full of surprises."

He raises an eyebrow, a flicker of almost-amusement dancing in his eyes. The world around you seems to blur at the edges, the strain of the plummet combined with the failed attempt of your innate technique taking a heavy toll on your senses.

"It's been a while since I've encountered someone who can keep me on my toes this long. Now tell me," your name rolls off his tongue in a taunting lilt, "where's Sukuna?"

The distant sounds of the dockside begin to fade, replaced by an eerie emptiness. Despite your unwavering determination, a tide of dizziness threatens to engulf you, and you struggle to maintain your focus on Kashimo's face.

"On vaca–"

The weight on your chest vanishes abruptly. Kashimo's foot makes fleeting contact with your cheek before returning to its original place.

"Don't play with me. Spit it out."

"Oi," a voice calls to your right. A voice you know; Hakari's, "It's not very chivalrous to strike a lady like that."

From here, everything dissolves into darkness.

The world sways, a disorienting dance of shadows and sensations. Light pressure settles on your stomach with sounds echoing faintly in the distance. A gentle, steady rhythm envelops you as if you're being cradled in a cocoon of safety. Your limbs feel weightless, as though the ground beneath you has transformed into a soft cloud that carries your burdens away.

Your mind struggles to tether itself to the present, grappling with the fragments of consciousness that slip through your grasp. Colors blur, merging into a hazy kaleidoscope of fleeting images. The arms that encircle you exude warmth thought. One that lulls you back to sleep.

Yet you manage to summon the strength to part your heavy eyelids. Through the haze, you see a blur of black and white on top of you. Head resting upon something firm and solid – a breastplate, you realize. The rhythmic cadence that envelops you is accompanied by the subtle rise and fall of breath, a heartbeat that resonates beneath your cheek.

"Panda," you murmur, voice a tentative whisper as you attempt to comprehend whether or not you're dreaming, considering the creature on you is now a size of an actual teddy bear.

The toy-sized Panda remains seated on you but looks your way, emitting a surprised yelp at the sound of your voice, before swiftly turning his gaze forward again, "Hakari, she's awake!"

Your vision – still blurred – manages to trace a figure walking at the edge of your peripheral sight – left arm missing, shirt gone (he's shirtless, you discern), and crowned with purple hair. Hakari. But if Hakari's walking in front of you. Then…

Lifting your eyes, you suddenly lock onto a fleeting sight of vibrant cyan hair. The once-pristine white attire now soaked and marred with splotches of vivid red, creating an unsettling contrast. Your heart skips a beat as the realization dawns upon you.

It's Kashimo who bears the weight of your limp form.

"She's gonna pass out soon again," his voice carries vibrations that travel from his chest to your cheek with his gaze fixed upon you.

And he's right as your body, weary and battered, succumbs once more to the embrace of slumber.

#moni writes #hajime kashimo #hajime kashimo x reader #kashimo x reader #hajime x reader #jujutsu kaisen #hajime kashimo x y/n #hajime x y/n #kashimo x y/n #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk x y/n #jjk imagines #jjk fanfic #jujutsu kaisen fanfic

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floral-force · 1 year

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Of Brown Eyes and Desert Skies

cowboy!din djarin x f!reader - old west/western au oneshot

summary: When a new man storms into the saloon you work at, you're instantly terrified--and captivated. But as he lingers in town and stirs up trouble with every step, you question who the brown-eyed man is underneath the poncho, and if he really is just a bounty killer at his core.

words: 10.7k+

warnings/tags: EXPLICIT. 18+ ONLY. smut (rough, fingering, oral, riding, doggy style, spitting, spanking), period-typical violence (not graphic) and sexism (not from din), the helmet hat comes off, din is morally gray and not always nice, barmaid!reader

a/n: This is heavily inspired by Sergio Leone's Dollars Trilogy and the Man with No Name. Please mind the tags.

read on ao3 | masterlist

When he stormed into the saloon, you knew he was trouble. You had an eye for these things, a sixth sense for danger.

A hush fell over the crowd of people when the swinging doors opened. The stranger’s eyes narrowed under his black Stetson hat, and a cloth covered his face below them, the plain beige fabric laying over the earthy green poncho draped over broad shoulders. The brim of his hat cast a shadow over the few inches of exposed skin. You nearly dropped the glass you were drying when he started to walk over to you in those stiff, dark denim pants, the bottom of a brown leather holster bouncing on his thick right thigh, heavy with a hidden weight.

Something within you stirred, scorching your skin. He sat down on a stool right in front of where you worked and conversation within the saloon picked up again. His severe gaze burned a hole through you, and you took a step back, suddenly conscious of the sweat on the back of your neck and the heat coiling low in your gut. The sweat starting to dot your forehead certainly wasn’t from the heat of high noon, the sun hanging in a cloudless blue sky.

“Can I get you somethin’, sir?”

“Whiskey,” he said, his voice gravelly but smooth at the same time. Seductive and sultry.

You nodded and turned around, pulling a bottle of amber liquid off the bar shelf and grabbing a low glass. You could feel him staring at you as you poured, heat prickling your ears. You told him the price and he shifted to the side, digging money out of his pocket.

“Keep the change.”

“Thank you, sir.”

You gave him a smile and walked over to the register, entering the sale. You stashed the change in the jar you kept next to it, happy to see it slowly getting filled to the brim. You didn’t make too much here, but you had no other choice. It wasn’t a bad job, but it came with its problems—drunk men getting handsy or bold being the overwhelming one. When you’d arrived here all those years ago, it was either working as a barmaid or a laundress. You chose the former, and you didn’t regret it. It just meant you ran into interesting people, and this man was no exception—he’d made that clear when his brown boots stomped across the old wooden floor.

“‘Scuse me, miss?”

The man called out to you, and you quickly walked over to him, spreading your arms out and leaning forward. He was swirling his glass in a lightly tanned hand, a blue cuff settled over his wrist. You wondered if his hands felt rough, how they’d feel on the soft skin of your waist.

You swallowed thickly. “Yes, sir?”

“You know if the sheriff here has any bounties out?”

Oh, shit. He was one of them. “Mm-mm.” You shook your head. “I haven’t heard or seen anythin’.”

He nodded and set his glass down, leaning forward and staring into your eyes, his brow set. He was close enough for you to see the sweat under his eyes, staring you down, making your heart thrum in your chest and throat go dry. The chestnut eyes gave you a once-over, slowly trailing down your body and stopping where the bar top hid the rest of you from sight. They jumped back up to your widened ones, and the corners crinkled with a hidden smirk.

“That’s a damn shame, ‘cause suddenly, I find myself wantin’ to stay a bit longer,” he husked, pulling the cloth away from his face and slugging the rest of the whiskey back. You caught a glimpse of his jawline as he tilted his head back and noticed the scruff covering it.

You raised an eyebrow and innocently asked, “Oh, really? How come?”

“Found myself somethin’ a bit better than a money,” he said, tipping his hat back slightly. “And she’s standin’ right in front’a me.”

His smooth compliment nearly made you forget he was a bounty hunter. The way he eyed you up and down almost covered up and dulled what your head was telling you. This man was trouble through and through, and you’d known it from the moment he swaggered through the doors. He’d caught your eye like no other man just passing through ever had. You wanted desperately to comb your fingers through the dark brown curls peeking out under his hat, to kiss the lips hidden under the cloth, to know him like nobody ever had.

You must’ve been staring a bit too long because you heard a low chuckle and felt a finger tap your forearm. You shook your head and chuckled nervously.

“I’m sorry, sir, just thinkin’ too much.”

He hummed. “I like a woman who thinks too much. Makes it even better when I make her go quiet.”

The purred innuendo made your lips part and eyes go wide. You wanted that. And he knew it. The clever cowboy was already playing you and pressing all the right keys; it was as if he’d already snuck under your skirt and made you go limp.

He looked over his shoulder at the stairs climbing up the back wall facing the doors. “You stay around here?”

“Up-upstairs,” you stuttered. “I got my own room.”

“Good.”

“It-it doesn’t hide noise all that well.”

He stared at you and snickered. “Darlin’, you really think I give a shit?”

And he really didn’t. He had you howling as he rammed into you, completely unforgiving as his cock filled you to the brim. The man growled and grunted your name as he fucked you from behind, rough hands gripping your ass and spreading your round cheeks. He burned like sand at noon, more punishing than the summer heat. You gave in to him, letting him burn you as much as he wanted.

You were drooling into your worn mattress with tears in your eyes. The man held your wrists behind your back in one large hand. The other was kneading the fat on your hip as it recoiled with each slam of his hips.

“This th’best pussy I ever had, darlin’, god damn,” he rasped.

“G-good,” you panted between his brutal thrusts.

“Listen t’yourself.” He laughed, the sound mirthful and deadly. “Can barely fuckin’ speak. Told you I’d fuck ya til you couldn’t speak, darlin’.”

Your eyes squeezed shut and you moaned at his dirty words. You should have never doubted that he’d have your mouth going dry, feeling his cock dig deep inside of you and choke something in your throat. He humbled and punished you for doubting him with his unforgiving pace. His tongue lavished you with dirty praise and raspy groans, the sounds making your cunt throb and suck him in deeper even as your walls started to get raw from his roughness.

He’d proven his tongue was filthy only moments ago as he licked circles around the sensitive bud between your legs. You were entirely naked—garments in a heap on the floor—but he still wore all his clothes except for the poncho and cloth. Even his worn denim shirt was still on, only the first four buttons undone—his hands were too busy yanking your clothes off to be bothered with his. The man was impatient and hungry, and you didn’t dare deny him.

He still wore the black hat as he worked his mouth on your sex, tonguing between your folds and teasing your slick hole. But you didn’t mind it, not when he moaned into your cunt with each broad lick of his tongue. He gave in to your whiny pleas for his thick fingers, obliging you with two right away. The digits stretched you open, made you throw your head back and clamp your legs around his head, the brim of his hat bending into your shins.

He clicked his tongue and placed his free hand on one of your knees, gently pushing it down as he muttered, “Spread those legs for me, baby. Need ‘em open for me.” You did as told and he hummed in approval. “Atta girl.”

He praised you by sucking your clit and rubbing his fingers against a soft spot within you. You were twitching and mumbling nonsense, an utter mess for the scoundrel between your shaking thighs. Your cunt pulsed around him, your peak suddenly rising with the motion.

“That’s it, darlin’,” he’d coaxed as you panted and gripped the sheets. “Need to get you nice’n ready for my cock.”

It only took a few more moments before you came with a sharp cry, legs shaking and a foot twitching. A fire blazed within you, one he had started and intended to keep burning. He worked you through it, sucking in a breath as he felt you pulse around his fingers.

“Good fuckin’ girl,” he crooned. Then, he flipped you over, not even giving you time to recover from your high.

He’d barely tugged his pants down, only undoing his belt and dropping his holster to the floor. He growled and grabbed your ass, lifting it into the air and forcing you to arch your back. When he pushed into you with a groan, you felt the fabric scratch against you as he sheathed himself in your still-sensitive cunt.

You hissed and squirmed and cried out “Fuck, I’m—I’m still sens—”

“Don’ care,” he grunted. “I fuckin’ need you, darlin’.”

You nodded and moaned at his harsh affection. You were ashamed that you loved it, that it made you throb. A sharp slap on your ass made you jump, the tingling sensation left behind sent your head spinning. He rubbed it and soothed the tender skin, rough hands suddenly soft.

And now, he fucked you without mercy. Any trace of tenderness was gone with the wind. The man with brown eyes filled you more than anyone ever had, made you see stars when others had only made you see specks. When you begged him to spit on himself, that your cunt was getting raw, he pressed his sweaty chest against your back and gently tapped your cheek with his knuckles.

You opened your eyes and saw his open hand in front of them.

“Spit.”

Your pussy ached at his demand and you opened your mouth for the brown-eyed man, lifting your head as much as you could. Saliva dripped off your tongue and landed on his calloused palm. He took his hand back and you set your head back down, taking a deep breath when he pulled himself out of you to stroke his cock. His free hand grabbed the meat of one of your cheeks, his thumb kneading close to the tight ring of muscle hidden between them. The wet sound of him stroking his cock with your spit made you smile and shudder.

There was something satisfying about this cowboy using you. All rough edges and dry desert heat. He was as ruthless and unyielding as the western terrain you called home. You nearly screamed when he rammed himself back inside of your aching hole, silencing yourself by burying your face into the mattress. The man carved a canyon through you with brute, relentless force and praised your wild howls and whines with a slap on your ass and one slow rock of his hips. He teased you over and over, quickly learning where to drag the fat head of his cock to make you shiver and shake.

“P-please,” you begged, your eyes squeezed shut. “Don’t fuckin’ stop!”

The man chuckled at your desperate cry. You felt yourself shiver when he ran his hands up your thighs before kneading your plump cheeks again. Any pride you felt at hypnotizing him with your ass was quickly washed away when he landed a sharp smack against your right cheek, immediately following it with one on your left, another landing back on your right. You arched your back even more for him and wiggled one of your hands down to rub sloppy circles on your clit. The thick member filling you to the brim was driving you to the edge, and the added sparks of pleasure from your sensitive nub was pushing you even closer.

He started fucking you with something even more feral than before, his groans loud and strained. Your moans melted into his with each burning stroke and every needy rub against your clit.

“God, I can feel you fuckin’ pulsin’ around me, baby,” he growled.

“Y-you feel so fucking good,” you answered, mouth open so your hoarse moans could slip into the air.

“Yeah? This th’best cock you ever had?”

He stole your answer with a punishing slam of his hips. Your free hand clawed at the sheets, and you tried to squirm up away from him. There was a low growl as you were yanked back, his fingers digging into the fat of your hips. The man chuckled mirthfully when you gasped, impaled on his cock yet again.

“Don’t try to run from a bounty killer, darlin’,” he rasped, his thrusts getting needier, reaching deeper and lingering longer within your quivering hole. “’Specially when your cunt feels this fuckin’ good.”

His breathing began to match your frenzied pants, the pace of his thrusts as frantic as your fingers on your sensitive clit.

“I’ll ask ya again,” he gave you a sharp thrust, keeping you in place with his strong hands. “Is this the best cock you ever fuckin’ had?”

“Fuck—yes, baby, yes!” You howled into the mattress as you felt your walls start to spasm, a sudden heat starting to take over you.

“C’mon, darlin’, that’s—fuck—that’s it.” The brown-eyed man’s hips slapped against your ass, the sound echoing, and he started growling—the feral and primal bounty killer finally taking over. “Fuckin’ c-come for me—fuck, I feel it—good fuckin’ girl—”

You came around his length with a scream, your legs shaking with the force of your orgasm. A white-hot fire burned from your aching, quivering hole to your fuck-drunk head. You couldn’t feel anything other than your walls clenching around his cock, couldn’t hear anything other than your desperate whines.

“F-fuckin’ come for me, you fuckin’ scoundrel,” you growled, voice shaking as you continued to ride the crest of your climax. You drunkenly smiled when you heard a low groan and whined when the head of his cock kissed something deep within you, leaving its mark on you forever, guaranteeing you’d never feel this good ever again.

“Fuckin’ God—darlin’, I could bury m’self in your delicious cunt forever—fuck!”

The brown-eyed man gave your spent hole one final, cruel thrust. He pulled out of you with a groan, and you hissed at the feel of him leaving you; he left you raw and empty and gaping. You quickly forgave him when you heard the squelch of his fist jerking himself to completion with your juices. You smiled and sighed as he covered your ass in hot ropes of his seed, reveling in how fucking needy he sounded when he reached his peak. He sucked in air through his teeth, slowly loosening his grip on your hip. You jumped when he slapped your ass, shaking your head when he smugly chuckled.

You scooted forward and dropped your aching legs to the mattress with a groan. You didn’t care about the cum he left behind; right now, you needed to catch your breath after the divine beating he’d just given your pussy. The floor creaked under his boots as he started rustling around—probably putting that poncho back on—and humming to himself. You jumped when something wet stroked across your painted ass, quieted by a low hush.

“Just cleanin’ up my mess,” he rumbled. “I may be a scoundrel—” he mocked your voice— "but my mama taught me manners.”

You chuckled and turned your head to the side, eyes fluttering open to stare at the wall and your two measly pillows. “You’re a true gentleman.”

He shrugged, then gave the tender spots on your cheeks a soft massage with his fingers and then tapped your hips and helped you roll onto your back. You melted into the mattress with a blissful sigh, not bothering to think too long about how someone so brutal could be so tender.

“I wouldn’ call myself that, darlin’.”

His eyes met yours and you bit your lip. Even though the cloth was covering his face again, you had a hunch that what hid underneath it was handsome. You could see the corners of his eyes gently crease with the whisper of a smile as he stared down at you, running a warm, calloused hand up and down your sweaty skin.

“I’m just as rotten as the rest of ‘em.”

The next day, the owner was with you, standing behind the bar all the way down on your left and chatting with an old regular. Mr. Daniels was middle-aged, stout and balding, with skin as leathery as a saddlebag and always dressed in a white shirt. He was constantly mentioning his wife and daughters and boasted about them to anyone who would listen; he seemed to extend that fatherly protection your way sometimes. He was a kind enough man—letting you live in the attic above the saloon for free, paying you a decent wage—and you had no complaints.

You weren’t surprised to see the brown-eyed man slamming into the saloon the next day, the patrons a little less rattled by his presence than they were yesterday. When he stomped over to where you stood, Mr. Daniels gave you a quick glance, and you responded with a smile and tilt of your head—I’m alright.

“What’ll it be, sir?” you asked.

You could feel your sore hole throb when he looked up at you under that wide-brimmed hat, a ray of sun lighting up his golden skin and making his chestnut eyes glow. He leaned against the bar, resting a bent arm on it. Relaxed and certain of his place in the small saloon, not a hint of fear in his posture.

“I think you already know, darlin’.”

He winked at you, and you felt heat rush to your cheeks. You turned and grabbed the whiskey you’d poured him yesterday with a nod. His eyes looked you up and down as you grabbed a glass and poured out his drink with a coy smile on your face.

He handed you money for the drink and said, “Thanks, darlin’. Keep the change.”

You smiled. “You’re too kind, sir.”

He tipped his hat. You walked over to the register, entered the sale, and dropped the change into your jar. As you moved back to where you’d been standing, the man straightened and walked down the bar to where Mr. Daniels and the old man were talking. You watched as he pulled a scroll of yellowed parchment out from under his poncho and spread it on the dark wood counter. Out of curiosity, you took a few small steps in that direction, acting busy with organizing the liquor shelves.

“You seen this man?” he inquired.

“No, ‘fraid not,” the old man replied with a smack of his lips.

You turned around and picked up a glass and a cloth, drying it and looking around the saloon. At table in the far corner, two men sat playing cards, smoke curling out of their mouths, the brims of their hats tipped down and hiding their faces from prying eyes. A few other tables were scattered around the small saloon, more hatted men nursing their drinks at them. Their soft chatter filled the air and was speckled with the occasional sounds of a horse trotting down the road. It was a slow afternoon, but you didn’t mind if it meant you kept yourself occupied with eavesdropping.

“And you?”

“Can’t say I have,” Mr. Daniels responded.

The man hummed and started to roll the yellowed paper up. You squinted, trying to see what was printed on it. You swallowed when you read the word “WANTED” in big black letters before he rolled the edge back up. The man leaned back and shoved it back under the poncho, nodding. He knocked the rest of his drink back and set the glass on the bar top and turned to look at you with narrowed eyes before pushing it down your way. Something vicious lurked within those brown eyes, keeping itself hidden under the brim of his hat and only revealed now that the afternoon sun didn’t reach them.

You extended your arm to reach and pick the glass up, immediately bending over and dunking it in the bucket of soapy water at your feet. You bit your cheek, ashamed that you felt heat pulse between your legs at his darkened stare. Being the target of his gaze was either thrilling or terrifying; right now, you weren’t sure what it was for you. It made you wonder how he had looked at you while he was ramming his cock into you. Ultimately, whatever his gaze was didn’t matter if it made you burn just from the thought of it.

The sound of someone cursing and a stool being pushed across the floor made you snap up to stand again; your eyes widened when you saw the man’s fist wrapped in the fabric of Mr. Daniels’ shirt, pulling him against the bar with only one arm. The old man was standing back a few feet away on the poncho-clad man’s right, his long gray eyebrows knitted together.

“You sure?” He growled.

The cantina had gone silent, all eyes focused on the man and his hold on Mr. Daniels. You were staring too, your heart racing in your chest and threatening to break your ribs.

“Even if I did,” Mr. Daniels said through gritted teeth, “I wouldn’t know where to find him.”

He glanced over at you, eyes lingering before meeting the man’s stare again.

The man tilted his head. “You wouldn’t know?”

Mr. Daniels shook his head again. “I told you, I just wouldn’t—” his eyes landed on you— “know where—” back to the man—“to look.”

You took a step back when Mr. Daniels looked at you one last time, then back at the man. His brow was set, but you glanced down and saw his hand shaking below the bar. The man let go of him with a push and conversation in the saloon resumed as he started to stalk towards you. His dark eyes were stormy as he set his sights on you and squinted, the spurs on his boots jingling menacingly with each step. You braced yourself for impact; muscles tensing, heart racing, teeth sinking into your bottom lip, fingers curling into your palms and nails digging in.

The collision never came. His poncho swept past you and he came to stand at one of the two small square windows at the front of the saloon. You doubted he could see much with how dirty the glass was; the sun must’ve scorched the dust and grime into the aged panes before you’d even blown into town. Frankly, you were relieved that you weren’t on the receiving end of his threatening, squinting stare.

However, you couldn’t deny the way something in your gut fluttered when you thought you’d be the one pulled against the bar by his leather-rough hands, his fingers catching the low neckline of your blouse and skimming over your hot skin, your shallow pants gently waving his bandana. But you reckoned that the haunting flutters were probably just lusty leftovers from your tryst the other night.

He looked over his shoulder at you, still squinting and heavy with frustration. Your lips parted when he held your wide eyes with his stare, the flutters growing into a rumble and shaking you from within. Or maybe that sensation was just his heavy footfalls across the floor echoing under your skin as he turned to the left and stomped out the doors. You watched him with eager eyes as he walked to the inn across the street, beige dust kicked up with every sinister step. Before he unleashed his storm on the inn, he turned over his shoulder to look at the saloon.

You squinted, moving closer to peer out of the windows. No, he wasn’t looking at the weather-worn building—he had his burning gaze focused on you.

With a tip of his hat, he slid inside, and you leaned back. You placed a hand on your chest and felt your heart beating hard and fast underneath it.

Mr. Daniels clicked his tongue, announcing his arrival at your side. You looked back at him, the man’s stare set on the inn.

“Some fuckin’ fella,” he grumbled, ivory face red with anger.

You nodded slowly and walked back to the soap water bucket, picking up the forgotten whiskey glass and shaking it off before drying it with a rag. You pursed your lips and tried to forget how his suntanned hands had dwarfed the glass, and tried to wipe away the memory of them digging into the meat of your thighs as he slurped up your juices with a deep moan. Despite your best efforts, they didn’t fade away, and neither did a smudge on the glass.

Everything in this town was filthy, you figured, shoving the glass to the very back of the cupboard so it could be forgotten. Even the drifters that passed through were coated in grime.

The brown-eyed man was lucky your boss needed business, because the look Mr. Daniels gave him when he walked into the saloon the next evening could scorch anything within ten miles. He skulked through the doors at dusk, eyeing up the loud crowd before making a path to where you stood pouring out four shots of whiskey. Of course you’d instantly noticed him—you’d felt the air become charged as if it were about to storm as soon as he’d arrived. The men you served paid you with paper bills and winks, knocking back the shots as you walked over to where the man stood. Without a word, you turned and grabbed a glass; you didn’t need to ask what he or any other man in a hat wanted to drink tonight. As you avoided his eyes, he stared you down. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed a golden hand already pushing coins and a paper bill your way as the amber liquid gurgled into the glass.

You finished and gave him a practiced smile, scooping the money into your hand as he told you to keep the change yet again. The bottle was nearly empty, but you still placed it back on the shelf before walking to the register. You avoided looking in his direction at all costs; the most you allowed yourself to see was the brim of his hat and the poncho fabric that fell over his left arm. Instead, you gave your best performance to the other patrons—chatting with the town regulars and smiling at the men passing through—and got caught up in the large crowd, the early purple of the night still settling over town.

You heard a few raps on the wood above the chatter and lively piano. When you looked up at the man, you choked on your breath.

“Long time, no see, sweet thing,” he drawled, a cigarillo in the corner of his leering mouth. Blue eyes pierced you and his fair cheeks were tinted with a whiskey-induced blush.

You cleared your throat, smoothing your plain black skirt. “Can I get you somethin’?”

“Other than your ass in my bed? Whiskey.”

You brushed off the lewd remark, thankful there was a clean glass and whiskey on the bartender’s counter you’d must’ve forgotten to put back earlier. John, your old beau, kept his icy gaze fixed on you and puffed smoke to the side. Blond hair coated his head underneath the beige high-crowned hat, and you fought back a wince at remembering the times you shared with him. You told him the cost and he made a slow show of placing the money in your waiting hand, pressing his palm against your fingers and closing them around the money. You guessed you did a poor job of hiding a shudder, because he gave you a mirthful chuckle.

“What, sugar? You missin’ the way I’d fuck ya?”

You didn’t acknowledge his vulgar comment. You’d never been spoken to like that, even from the drunkest of men. It was just understood that men didn’t curse in conversation with ladies; even the gnarliest and dirtiest of them knew that. You could smell the liquor on John’s breath and had no interest in indulging his drunken idiocy. Instead, you bit the inside of your cheek, shoved the money in your waist apron’s pocket, turned to the left and walked a few steps down the bar, plastering a smile on your face as you greeted a new patron. The brown-eyed man still stood where you’d served him, and you caught him pulling the cloth covering his face back with pinched fingers as his other hand lifted his almost-empty glass.

After you’d finished serving a gray-mustached man, thanking him for the tip as he walked away, your red-faced old flame slapped his palms against the wood and leaned into your space, blue eyes hazy.

“I was talkin’ to you,” he hissed. “An’ I ain’t done yet.”

Your heart sped up and you gulped, your mouth dry and body cold. He’d only been like this with you once before—when you’d ended things with him back in your old town the day before you left. It was a cruel twist of fate that he happened to be passing through your new town a few years later. He obviously hadn’t forgotten about you, much to your dismay.

“Is there a problem here?”

The brown-eyed man was looming behind John, his eyes narrowed. You hadn’t even noticed him move; he was like a shadow. John turned his head over his shoulder, keeping his hands planted on the counter as he eyed the man up. He scoffed and curled his fingers under his palms.

“Ain’t your business, saddle bum,” he snarled.

The man slowly stepped forward and came to stand in front of John, sweeping the front of his poncho over his right shoulder. Your eyes widened when you saw his chestnut-colored leather belt, the holster heavy with a pistol.

“It is now.”

John’s head swiveled back to you, his face smug and eyes cloudy. “I don’ remember talkin’ ‘bout this fella. Do you, sugar?”

You didn’t respond, opting to look over his shoulder and watch as the man turned John around by his shoulder. He pushed John against the edge of the counter, chestnut eyes fiery. From where you stood, it was hard to tell if he was using more force now than he had yesterday with Mr. Daniels; your gut told you he was. Something was different tonight, and it wasn’t the whiskey.

“Keep talkin’ and see what happens,” the man threatened, his voice low.

John laughed and shook his head. “What, did’ya have this soiled dove?” he asked loudly, drawing the attention of those who hadn’t noticed the stranger’s physical threat.

The derogatory term made you gasp and take a step back, your skin hot under your off-shoulder blouse. The man’s eyes flicked over to you for only a second before squinting at John again. He shook his head, his beige cloth covering shifting slightly with the movement.

“Don’t do it,” the brown-eyed man warned.

You could barely see John toss the butt of his cigarillo on the floor, but you did see his head turn to the right and heard him spit. The people around them had moved back and gone silent, turning their backs to avoid being dragged into a fight that didn’t concern them. You didn’t blame them—you wouldn’t want to be in the path of this desert storm either.

There was a low growl and then the poncho-clad man was dragging John across the floor to the doors, tossing him out of them. There was a heavy thud when his body hit the ground, and you watched the man push the doors open and tilt his head down to look at the ground, presumably where the drunkard still sat. His hands gripped the tops of the doors, his stance wide and menacing. He shook his head, and you fought your better judgment, running to the end of the bar at the windows and then pushing through the patrons. They let you pass and then you were standing behind the cowboy at the doors, your blood cold but skin hot at the same time.

Night had fallen, and the two yellow lanterns mounted outside the saloon cast a weak glow on the porch. John was scrambling to his feet and backing away, abandoning his hat and stumbling down the two wooden steps, almost falling on the dirt road. The man looked back at you; the side of his face visible to you darkened from the lack of light. You could only see the whites of his eyes; for once, he wasn’t squinting. Your breaths were shallow, and you pulled at your fingers.

“This bum bothering you, ma’am?” His voice was softer now, the edges smoothed, so unlike the threatening tones you’d heard only moments prior.

You swallowed thickly, but you caught John starting to rush at the stranger and you shouted, “Look out!” instead.

He wasted no time, immediately taking a step forward out of the doorway and planting his back foot before throwing a punch, his fist connecting with the bone of John’s nose. A sickening crack elicited a cry from you and a few of the other saloon girls that had seen or heard it. John dropped to the wooden porch again with a howl.

You cautiously pushed the doors open and let them hit you on your way out. A sick pleasure filled your chest when the man kicked John down to the dirt road, his spurs jingling.

“Go to the inn and leave her alone,” he enunciated. “I’m not gonna tell you again.”

His voice and words were clearer than you’d ever heard them before. A part of you thought you heard something protective underscoring his firm warning, but it was just a delusion. It had absolutely nothing to do with you; the man clearly just didn’t want to have a scrap with John. It wasn’t because he couldn’t do it—he was obviously capable if he was a bounty hunter—but because he didn’t want to waste his time with it.

There was a dark, sardonic laugh. “Oh, she got you real good, didn’ she?”

You stiffened, covering your quivering lips with a hand, and the pair of brown eyes met your wide ones. His targeted vulgarity was starting to get to you, and it was becoming hard to hide. You felt embarrassed to be tearing up in front of the mysterious man, but you heard a sharp exhale as his eyes searched yours, the blast of air disturbing the cloth on his face. It was as if he was looking at you for permission, awaiting your orders and at your command—your own personal soldier, a bounty hunter tied only to you and the open land ahead of him.

“I don’ blame ya,” John sneered. “Best whore I ever had.”

Silence fell across the crowd; any lingering conversations had gone cold after that. You choked back a cry, your eyes flitting between John rising to his feet and the hunter in front of you. You noticed his fists clench before he finally took his eyes off you and stormed down into the street. He cut off the drunken cackles that filled the air with a swift punch, and you could barely see his knuckles connect with John’s jaw. He stayed upright this time and tried to swing at the man, but John’s sloppy form left him open to a punch in the gut that knocked him a foot backward. You stepped further out onto the porch, the sun-bleached wood creaking underneath your feet as you watched the stranger give John another kick before bending over to yank him up by the collar with both of his hands.

“You say one more goddamn word and I’m sendin’ you into that desert and tossin’ your canteen,” he seethed between gritted teeth.

John’s eyes landed on you, and he laughed. “That slut ain’ wor—”

He was cut off with a growl and a punch, falling to the ground. John was limp and unresponsive when the stranger nudged him with the toe of his boot. The man spat on him, then turned around to face the stunned crowd. Tears were streaming down your face, both of your hands over your nose and mouth.

“Which horse is his?” he asked, his voice deep and loud.

Only a few seconds later, he nodded; someone must’ve pointed it out. You watched him stalk over to a brown horse on his right, rifling through John’s belongings and pocketing cash and valuables he found. The man found his canteen and tossed it to the ground, then walked back over to John and dragged him to the horse. He heaved John up on his shoulder and tossed him over the saddle, then took the reins off the horse to loosely tie John’s feet together and then lead it under the horse’s belly to bind his hands together, making sure to keep the makeshift restraint taut. Finally, he led the horse to the right and out of sight; there was a shout and a whinny, then the frantic sound of hoofbeats as the horse galloped away.

The man came back into view as he approached the saloon again. The only sound filling the nighttime air was the jangling of his spurs and your sniffs as you calmed down. He made his way up to the porch, standing in front of you, his poncho still over his shoulder and revealing his brown leather vest and faded denim shirt. His eyes looked you over, lingering on your wet cheeks.

He had just sent a drunk, unconscious man into the desert without water on a spooked horse at night. It was one of the cruelest things a man could do. And yet, here he was, his eyes soft under a furrowed brow. The yellow lamplight showed that the storms in his eyes had settled, but his forehead would bear the evidence of it in deepened lines.

“You alright, darlin’?”

The term of endearment didn’t make you squirm. Coupled with the gentle, low rumble of his voice, it made you feel…comfortable. “Comfortable” certainly wasn’t something you should feel around a man like him, and yet, you found yourself wanting to fall into his chest and let his arms support you and his warm hands sink into your flesh.

But all you could do right now was nod and wipe the backs of your hands over your wet cheeks. You gave him a weak smile. “I’m rattled, but I’ll live.”

You paused, looking down and then meeting his strangely soft eyes again. You wished you could see the rest of his face and not just imagine it based on how it had felt between your legs.

“Thanks,” you said meekly. You shakily exhaled and repeated yourself. “Thank you, Brown Eyes.”

You swore you saw a smile creasing the corners of his eyes at the nickname. He waved off your thanks, tipped the black brim of his hat, and turned around to walk over to the inn. The shadow slunk back into the night.

You were pulled out of your thoughts when your boss yelled and dispersed the crowd, then called your name. Mr. Daniels stood in front of you, his face worried as he looked you over, thick fingers gripping your biceps. The concerned and protective father inside of him was taking over, and you found it to be quite comforting and nice; you never complained when he treated you like one of his daughters. He asked you a dozen questions at once but trailed off after noticing your voice waver and bottom lip quiver. Mr. Daniels guided you to the stairs in the back of the saloon and told you to take the rest of the night off despite your protests—he’d hear none of it.

All you could think of as you lay in bed curled up under your thin blankets was the mysterious, brown-eyed stranger. How could a man so violent have such kind eyes? It just wasn’t fair, you thought to yourself as your eyes fluttered close and you drifted to sleep, the lively chatter of the saloon below a background to the memories of the stranger’s dulcet voice.

You thought that would be the last of Brown Eyes. You thought he’d be gone without a trace, a shadow haunting conversations for a while, another dusty drifter wandering the desert as if he were Moses. Just another man as wild as the terrain he traversed. You hadn’t expected to see him again unless it was in your dreams. He’d kick up dust there, then vanish with it when you opened your eyes.

You really, truly thought his stunt last night would be the last one he performed in this town, and part of you wished it had been when he threw his shadow into the saloon the next afternoon, the sun at his back.

He leisurely strolled over to a table nestled in the back-right corner of the saloon. Three men sitting around its circular wood top playing cards. The jangle of his spurs accompanying each cocksure step of his boots alerted them to his approach, the decorative threads on the edge of his poncho fluttering gently. Finally, Brown Eyes stood with his back to you at the right side of one of the men, his black hat tilting slightly to look down at him. The other two men leaned forward and glanced at each other.

You took a few steps to the right and angled your head a bit to see what was going on. You caught the two men slowly placing their cards on the table and trailing their hands to the edge of the circular table. The man looking up at Brown Eyes was red in the face and spoke quietly enough for his words to slip underneath other conversations in the saloon and go undetected by your ears. Your eyebrows knitted together as you watched the interaction from afar, then raised when the cowboy’s poncho flew over his shoulder.

“Christ almighty,” you murmured as his hand twitched at his thigh.

You looked over to the left at Mr. Daniels, and he gave you a sideways glance. He and the regular in front of him were focused on the altercation; a few of the patrons in the bustling afternoon crowd had noticed as well. Despite the attention, you knew that nobody would intervene. This wasn’t anyone’s business except for the men in the corner.

As you watched one of the seated men reach for his pistol, you swore under your breath. Out of instinct, you dropped to your feet, crouching behind the bar just as the sound of gunshots pierced the air. The sharp blasts made you cover your ears, and then they suddenly stopped. Instead, a wounded groan filled the air, then the crack of a fist against bone and the thump of a body hitting the wooden floor to punctuate the statement. There was a curt jingle of spurs and an oof, signals of a sharp kick.

“Alive or dead, your choice,” a familiar gravelly voice stated.

It was flat and indifferent, so unlike the man who had come to your aid and who had cleaned you up after ruining you with the relentless thrusts of his hips. Yes, he’d been violent last night, but there was something gentle in his eyes hidden within their storm clouds. It almost made your heart ache, but then you remembered what he’d done to Mr. Daniels and how he’d sentenced a man to death without a second thought. You remembered who Brown Eyes was at his core, and the warm ache in your chest withered away.

“You son of a bitch!” A man yelled. “I’ll fuckin’ strangle you!”

A mirthful chuckle. “I’d like to see you try.”

There was shuffling, a shout, a gunshot, then silence. The bounty killer had won again.

When your boss stood, you followed suit, your heart racing. You knew that the customers you served weren’t all honest people with honest jobs. Hell, it was naïve to think that about anyone you met out on the frontier. You’d just never experienced a gunfight inside the saloon. You’d seen a few unfold on the dusty main road splitting the town in half, but no bullets had ever blown holes through the saloon’s grimy windows; the sharp smell of gunpowder had never tainted its air. You took a few deep breaths and tried to steady your shaking hands. Even after all these years out west, you still had wild experiences waiting to shock you.

Brown Eyes holstered his revolver with a flourish, then walked to the bar.

“Here, for the trouble.” He placed a few bills and some coins down in front of a glaring Mr. Daniels, then tipped his hat at you. “Apologies, miss.”

He walked back over to the dead man then crouched down and lifted the body over his left shoulder. You heard him mumble under his breath and turn towards the doors to leave. You caught his eyes and swallowed when you saw how dark they were under his hat’s black brim. He silently left the saloon, the doors swinging and clacking behind him. All that remained were two dead men splayed out in their chairs, arms out and hats tipped back.

You looked at Mr. Daniels. He shook his head and sighed.

“And that, my dear, is why God destined some men to be carpenters.”

He wiped off his hands with a frayed cloth and tossed it on the counter. Mr. Daniels shuffled behind you and down the bar with a huff as the patrons’ chatter began again. He quickly walked to the saloon doors and gave them a sharp push, stepping into the hot afternoon sun.

“’M leavin’ at dawn t’morrow,” Brown Eyes said into your cunt.

A hot lick of his tongue made your hips buck. He swiped it side to side over your clit as he planted his hands on your hips and forced them into the mattress. You clawed at the sheets underneath you, your head thrown back in ecstasy. Another obscene slurp and moan from the bounty hunter sent you reeling and added to the growing tension in your belly. You forced yourself up to recline on your forearms, looking down at the hatless man hungrily eating you out as if it were his first meal in weeks.

You choked out a breath when the tip of his tongue swirled itself around your hole and then pushed inside of it. Lusty eyes met yours, and you felt his lips curl into a smile against your spit and slick-drenched center. He held your gaze and sucked on the hardened nub, squeezing the meat of your hips when you moaned.

“You like that, darlin’?” he asked, gently sucking again and chuckling at your gasp.

You nodded emphatically. “Fuck, yes, I do, Brown Eyes,” you panted, the muscles in your gut tightening when he groaned at the nickname, your legs starting to tense. “I really, really do.”

When you closed your eyes and let your head fall back with a whine, he shook his head and nipped at the sensitive bud, making you jump and look back down at him. He was staring up at you, something menacing in his eyes. It made your walls flutter, it thrilled you, it made your heart race even more. He was reminding you that even though he was serving you, he was still in control—he was always in control, no matter where he was.

He licked a slow, broad stripe up your cunt, then pulled back. You groaned in frustration at the cruel loss of contact, the heat and tension within you backing away from the glorious peak he’d gotten so close to pushing them over.

“You’re so mean,” you whined.

You heard him suck in a breath between his teeth. “You’re breakin’ my heart, baby.”

His room at the inn had a few lamps to combat the dark desert night, but only one was lit. The lamp on the bedside table to his right cast a little light on him, but the curve of your thigh and the bend of your knee had shrouded him in black shadows while he knelt on the floor and ravished you with his tongue. Now that your legs had dropped to rest and bend over the edge of the mattress, you could see the corners of his brown eyes creased with a smile that he hid behind your dripping cunt. He dipped one thick finger inside of you and snickered when you gasped and startled. Your pussy was still throbbing and aching for release, and it wouldn’t stop until he pushed you over that heavenly edge.

Warm hands massaged your flesh and trailed down to grip the underside of your thighs. His fingers dug in and lifted them a little bit so he could turn his head and press wet kisses on your inner thighs. You felt the ridge of his nose as his lips worked. Delicate eyelashes fluttered against tan cheeks. Brown Eyes gave you one last kiss and a playful nip that made you giggle.

“See, darlin’?” he murmured into your sensitive skin, opening his eyes again. “I can be nice.”

When you raised your eyebrow, he dramatically rolled his eyes. He turned around and stood up with a grunt that made you bite back a chuckle. Yellow light flickered on his bare back and revealed a few scarred splotches; you’d convinced him to take off his shirt and vest earlier, and now it was time for the rest. You swung up to sit on your knees as Brown Eyes hummed and took off his dark denim pants and underdrawers in one motion.

He walked over to the chair next to a short dresser beside the door, meticulously folding the clothing and setting it underneath his folded shirt. His poncho and vest were draped over the back of the tiny chair, his hat resting on top of the shirt, a beige cloth peeking out beneath it. Dusty brown boots waited on the floor. The brown leather holster weighed down the poncho. A rifle leaned against the dresser—“A Winchester 73, m’favorite”—to finish the cowboy’s closet.

Brown Eyes cleared his throat and ran a large hand over the back of his head, fingers teasing his soft brown curls. He turned around to face you, striding over, his thick cock hard and bouncing with each step. It nearly distracted you from his face—his bare face, the handsome one he’d been hiding all this time.

He lifted your chin with two fingers and you nearly melted into the mattress. Your eyes wandered all over his features, greedy for every detail. You were finally seeing the curved nose you’d felt against your thighs and folds. A neat mustache lay above the pink lips that had brought you to shambles. Scruff lined the jaw you’d stolen a look at a few days ago and crept up his cheeks. You noticed a bare patch in the scruff to the right of his chin, and your eyes traced the thin canyons on his forehead left behind from years of erosion and desert sun.

“My mama told me it’s rude to stare,” Brown Eyes chastised, the corner of his mouth quirking up a bit.

“I didn’t think it was rude to stare at art,” you quipped back, leaning forward a bit more when he brushed his thumb over your lips and massaged one of your breasts in his hand.

Your heart sped up when he bent down, his face only inches from yours. You could feel his steady exhales heat the air you inhaled through parted lips, his handsome face stealing every bit of sense from your head and making you weak.

He clicked his tongue. “She also told me lyin’ is bad.”

Your eyebrows knitted together. “Why would I lie to someone like you? I’ve seen what happens. I’ve seen what you can do, Brown Eyes.”

You trailed off, biting your lip when he sharply inhaled. Damn, he sure loved when you called him that. He hooked his thumb into the corner of your mouth, his lust-blown eyes watching it as he swept it across your lower lip and your cunt ached with want.

“You’re right, darlin’,” he acquiesced. “Didn’ take you for the lyin’ type anyway.”

He gave you a soft smile you didn’t think bounty killers were capable of and you simpered. Brown Eyes pinched your chin before sitting next to you and laying back, pumping his cock in his fist. You adjusted yourself so you could trail your hands across his hot skin, explore its ridges and softness, soak in its warmth. Your hands graced across it until they cupped his jaw, startling him with a sensation he probably hadn’t experienced in years.

You bent down with half-lidded eyes and gently parted lips. Chestnut eyes locked with yours right before you crashed your lips into his and let one of your hands reach and grasp his cock. The interruption made him moan into your mouth, the sound desperate and low in his throat. You shared a whine with Brown Eyes when his right hand forced itself between your thighs and shuddered when his fingertips stroked up and down the seam of your folds. He smiled against your lips when you began rolling your hips to steal more of his scalding touch.

He pulled back from your lips and whispered, “You wanna go for a ride, darlin’?”

You bit your lip and nodded. Brown Eyes grinned at you—this man was full of surprises tonight—and turned himself to lay in the center of the mattress. You moved and knelt between his slightly spread legs, your feet touching the wooden footboard as you stared down at him. He was biting his lip and let them part when you massaged your tits before bending over, making sure to arch your back, your lips hovering near the fat head of his cock. You looked back up at him coquettishly—you were in control now, teasing him with hot exhales and smiling after he gave you a few needy groans.

When you swirled your tongue around the head of his cock, you felt him tug the sheets with a hiss. A lick from the base to the tip made him swear; he was finally getting a taste of his own medicine. You planted your hands on his hips and held his gaze for a few more seconds before closing your eyes and wrapping your lips around him, slowly bobbing up and down, working lower and lower as you went. Your brow furrowed, spit starting to dribble down your chin, and you opened your eyes just in time to see him throw his head back and curse.

“Fuck, baby, god damn,” Brown Eyes rasped, groaning when you pressed your tongue against him as you slid back up again before twisting your head back down, just over halfway down his throbbing length.

He choked when you took every inch of him, your spit-covered lips pressing against the curls at the base. You could only hold it for a moment—his girth and length pushed you to the limit—and then you bobbed back up and swirled your tongue around the bulging head before releasing him from your mouth with a wet pop. He looked down at you as you licked up a few beads of liquid leaking from his cock, wrapping a hand around his shaft before sucking him back into your mouth, wildly working your tongue around the head as you stroked. Your pussy throbbed when he whined, one of his hands coming to clasp your forearm as you snaked your free hand up his torso, splaying your fingers out for stability.

He’d grown even harder somehow, and your hand trailed down to give his balls a quick, light squeeze, eliciting an even louder whine; you hoped that nobody occupied the room next to his. Your hand went back to work his shaft, but he tugged your forearm and his other hand held your cheek. You looked up at him and slowly let his cock fall out of your mouth, watching his eyes scrunch closed and eyebrows knit together, his plush pink lips falling open. His chestnut eyes opened again as you straddled his torso, your ass bumping against the leaking length, making him hiss and smile.

“Baby, if you kept that up, I would’a come down your throat.” He panted and shook his head. “But I wanna see you painted in it.”

You giggled when his large palms clapped on your cheeks, grabbing the meat of them and spreading them.

“Go ‘head, darlin’,” he urged. “Ride this cowboy’s cock.”

“Don’ have to tell me twice,” you chuckled, giving him a kiss before sitting back on your knees.

You started to slowly lower yourself onto his cock, lips parting as his fat head notched inside of your slick and needy hole, already splitting you open. His hands traveled up the curve of your ass and over your hips to rest on your thighs, low groans coaxing you further down. You planted your hands next to his ears and stared into his eyes as you slammed your ass against him, hissing as he filled you to the brim. His eyes squeezed shut and he whined, hands moving back to your ass.

“You take me so well, darlin’, fuck,” he growled. His eyes bore deep into yours, and he gently squeezed your cheeks. “Now, c’mon, baby girl. Move those gorgeous hips.”

You slowly rolled your hips back a few times, feeling your ass shake and letting your cunt adjust to his size. When you started to speed up, the man nodded and grunted along with your pants. The tension inside of you had returned with a vengeance, your walls already fluttering after only a few minutes of riding him. You picked up the pace and added another movement, sliding up and down, hammering back down with a filthy, wet sound. You threw your head back and shifted to rest on your knees, sinking down to the base and holding his gaze as he groaned. You began massaging your breasts and circled your hips, remaining fully seated on his cock.

“F-fuck, feels amazing, Brown Eyes,” you moaned, your index and middle fingers landing on your clit and rubbing small circles around it.

You lifted your head to look at him when he swatted your fingers away. Brown Eyes gave you a sly smile. “Allow me, darlin’. You keep on ridin’, and don’ stop ‘til I say so.”

You nodded and then moaned when he pressed his thumb against the sensitive nub. You fell forward and planted your hands next to his ears again, your face twisted in ecstasy as he pushed you to the peak he’d denied you earlier. You kept pounding your ass back, picking up the pace when his pants began to grow louder, riding towards his own climax along with you.

“Oh, fuck—fuck—Brown Eyes, I’m gonna come,” you gasped, something white hot threatening to scorch you from the inside out.

“Do it, darlin’, come for me,” he growled, his thumb working your clit frantically as the roll of your hips became erratic. “Clench my cock, soak me—”

You cut off his encouragement with a cry of pleasure, your entire body shaking and burning, your cunt pulsing around him and drenching him in your juices. You slumped forward to rest on your forearms, and he went to work, thrusting his hips up into you, grunting and growling into your ear. You stared at him, your head heavy as you basked in the afterglow of your white-hot climax. When you sloppily kissed his lips, spit still wet on your chin, Brown Eyes growled and pushed you onto your back, bending your sweaty legs and forcing your knees towards your ears as much as they could. You whimpered when he fucked into you with feral grunts and growls, your slick-coated walls letting the head of him push deep inside of you. The force was pushing you towards the footboard, and he placed his large hand on the top of your head to shield you from it and hold you in place for his cock.

“Fuck—your pussy feels fuckin’ incredible,” he opened his eyes, and there was a familiar dark storm brewing in them, his pupils blown as he gritted his teeth and increased his pace.

“Come on me,” you whispered, still drunk with pleasure, eyes brimming with tears from his brutal strokes. You reached your hand up and cupped his jaw with pleading eyes.

Your touch sent him over the edge, and he pulled out of you with a moan. You let your arms fall back and bend behind your head, watching him give his cock one final pump before thick ropes of his spend painted your body. You closed your eyes and smiled listening to his choked moans, then opened them again to see his head thrown back and cock throbbing as his body started to come down from his climax.

Brown Eyes stared back down at you and smiled, eyes trailing up your torso from your hips to your breasts. You blissfully sighed and smiled, and he flopped down at your right side with a huff. You looked over at him, his head propped up on his hand, his handsome face and body masked by a little darkness with the light behind his back.

“You look mighty lovely covered in my come, darlin’.” He gave you a gentle kiss and smiled against your lips. “Prettiest thing I ever seen.”

“Surely I can’t be prettier than a bunch of money in your hand for a bounty,” you half-teased.

He pulled back and furrowed his brow, shaking his head. Your eyes fluttered close when his hand cupped your cheek—it was trembling against your skin—and you leaned into his warm touch.

“Darlin’,” he said sternly. You opened your eyes to meet his again, the storm in them suddenly gone. “Didn’ I tell you my first day here that I’d found somethin’ better than money?”

You furrowed your brow. “I..I think so,” you responded hesitantly.

“I know I did, darlin’,” he confirmed, brushing his thumb across the apple of your cheek. “An’ didn’ I tell ya I’m not a liar?” You nodded and he pressed a kiss against your sweaty forehead, then pulled back and murmured, “You’re lovelier than any sunset I ever seen.”

The compliment made you shyly smile and giggle, but it quickly faded as you stared into his eyes. A question weighed on your chest, and you worried your lip between your teeth. You’d covered it up and hid it, and now you couldn’t hold it back any longer—especially since he was leaving town tomorrow.

“Brown Eyes, will you ever come back?” you asked meekly. You quickly added, “Here, I mean. To the town. Not to me.” Your skin warmed with embarrassment.

He hesitated, glancing at the sheets before looking back into your eyes. “Well, you want me to?”

Did you really want him to, even after all he’d done since he stormed into town and held it—and you—captive in his fury? The man with a revolver on his hip and a Winchester 73 and a belt of bullets? The one who’d sent John to his death, who’d threatened Mr. Daniels, who’d killed three men without blinking? Did you really want the bounty killer to return and shroud you in his stormy shadow again?

“Yeah,” you smiled. “I want that.”

He smiled against your lips as he kissed you, and you wondered if he ever smiled after killing a bounty as you tangled your fingers in his hair.

masterlist a/n: whew! thank you for reading all of this! it really ran away from me. please let me know what you think with comments and reblogs !!

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genshinimpactlife · 1 year

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Hi there! Could I request some sfw x reader headcanons of Al-Haitham, Cyno and Tighnari getting caught in a surprise rainstorm with reader? Thank you very much!

Getting Caught In A Rainstorm

Alhaitham had to run a few errands today for the Academia, and as an assistant to the scribe, it was only natural that you would go with him.

It was a cloudy day, but neither of you had thought it would rain. But as the two of you walked through the city, the clouds only got darker and darker.

The rain was sudden, going from just a few drops to a torrential downpour.

You were carrying some important documents that you were desperately trying to shield from the rain with your body. You were unsure what to do when Alhaitham grabbed your arm, dragging you out of the main road towards a shop's awning.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes, I managed to keep the documents safe."

"No, I asked if you were okay. We can always get another written copy."

You were taken aback by his question, but a warm grin crossed your lips as you nodded.

There was quite a lot of snickering and comments being made about the two when you returned to the Academia, both of you still dripping wet from the storm.

You and Cyno were out on official business for the Academia, tracking down some bandits that had been causing trouble.

It had been such a clear and sunny day when you started, but the skies had become dark and grey within a few hours.

Neither of you acknowledged the droplets that started falling, continuing with your work in the rain.

It wasn't until it became a downpour that Cyno sighed, leading you to a small cafe within the city you were investigating.

"We might as well take a break here and eat something."

Cyno ended up paying for your snack, and a glare from him shot down any comments you may have had about it.

The two of you sat by the window and ate your snacks, looking out at the rainstorm.

"How did you know to come here?"

Cyno didn't say anything immediately, looking out at the downpour for a minute before speaking up.

"I had some business here a while ago, and the woman who runs the place gave me a free hot meal… Been coming back ever since."

This was the first time Cyno had told you something about himself, as he was quite reserved at work.

You talked for quite a while until the rain slowed down, both of you leaving the cafe much more relaxed.

You and Tighnari were out on patrol in the forest. Usually, Collei would have tagged along, but she wasn't up to it today.

It was a cloudy and dreary day but peaceful deep within the forest.

You and Tighnari hadn't spoken much, focusing on your surroundings as that peace could change at any moment.

But once a few droplets started falling from the sky; you finally spoke up.

"Do you think we should start heading back?"

"A little rain never hurt anyone."

You playfully rolled your eyes at Tighnari's comment, but within a few minutes, that gentle ran had turned into a downpour. It was so bad you could hardly even see a few feet in front of you.

"This way!"

Tighnari took your hand, leading you down a hill behind a huge rock that turned out to be a cave entrance.

Once inside, the two of you started trying to wring out your clothes, getting as dry as possible.

"What was that about a little rain never hurting anyone?"

"Okay, maybe I miscalculated."

You gave Tighnari shit about this for weeks to come

This request was so cute! I hope you enjoy <3

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zeciex · 20 days

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A Vow of Blood - 77

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 77: Haunted by the Daylight

AO3 - Masterlist

Aemond quietly made his way into the council chambers, his footsteps barely echoing in the vast, solemn room. There, he found his grandfather, the Hand of the King, situated in his usual seat at the King’s right hand. His posture conveyed deep thought, his elbow resting on the armrest, fingers tapping a rhythmic beat against his temple as he seemed to be contemplating weighty matters.

The King’s chair, along with the others, stood vacant, save for the wine cups scattered about–an indication of an adjourned session. Only Aegon’s cup showed signs of use, its contents gone save for a few drops at the bottom.

Near one of the stone columns, his mother stood noticeably isolated from the center of the room. Her posture rigid, the tension in her frame palpable. She fidgeted with the ring on her finger, her actions betraying her inner turmoil. Her brow was furrowed, her lips pressed tightly together in a clear sign of discontent. As her eyes lifted to meet Aemond’s, they revealed a mixture of dejection and concern, reflecting the gravity of the situation that weighed heavily upon them both.

Aemond positioned himself in front of the council table, his hands clasped behind his back, his posture radiating a sense of annoyance. He felt sidelined, his exclusion from the council meeting stinging particularly after he had spent hours patrolling the skies on Vhagar. The scent of smoke and dragonfire lingered on his clothing, and his hair bore the wild, windswept look of a dragonrider freshly descended from flight.

Otto Hightower looked up from the letter he had been scrutinizing, his expression marked by discontent. “Your mother’s attempts at diplomacy appear to have yielded no results.”

At these words, Alicent’s expression tightened further, her jaw shifting as if she were biting the inside of her cheek in frustration. Her fingers, previously twirling her ring anxiously, now shifted to absentmindedly pick at her cuticle.

The sight of his mother’s distress stirred a protective urge in Aemond; he wanted to reach out, to take her hand and gently stop her from picking at her skin. However, he remained motionless, his single eye fixed intently on his grandfather, maintaining his composed demeanor despite the turmoil swirling within him. His jaw clenched tightly, his frustration mounting.

Otto delved deeper into the troubling news, his voice steady but grave. “We’ve received a report from Gwayne that Rhaenyra has been crowned and has gathered her nearest allies at Dragonstone. We presented our terms to her…”

Otto held up a small, rolled piece of parchment, flicking it onto the table, letting it roll over its surface. “She has refused our offer of peace, and instead presented her own terms for our surrender.”

Otto's demeanor grew more serious as he reached for a small, rolled piece of parchment. With deliberate motion, he flicked it onto the table, letting it roll across the smooth surface as it slid towards Aemond. He reached for it.

“She has rejected our offer of peace,” Otto announced, his voice resonant with a note of expectancy. “Instead, she has had the audacity to present her own terms, dictating the conditions of our surrender.”

Aemond unrolled the parchment, his eye scanning its contents carefully. The implications of this defiance were clear, setting the stage for a conflict that seemed increasingly inevitable. With a flick of his wrist, he let the parchment fall back onto the table, its message clear and its consequences unavoidable. He then folded his hands behind his back, adopting a posture of readiness and contemplation.

“And what are we do do about it?” Aemond questioned, taking a deep, steadying breath, his jaw setting in a firm line–a telltale sign of his mounting resolve. His shoulders squared, reflecting a sense of determination and readiness to confront the looming challenges.

He was keenly aware that each passing moment brought them closer to the brink of war–a prospect he not only welcomed but felt thoroughly prepared for. This was a battle he saw not just as a duty but as an opportunity to demonstrate his valor and leadership. The weight of this realization settled on his shoulders, yet he carried it as a warrior would his armor, with a resolve as firm as the iron gates of a fortress.

Prepared for war, Aemond embraced the prospect of battle and the pursuit of glory that accompanied it. Like numerous men and second sons before him, he would carve his name into history through the crucible of war. He saw the impending conflict not merely as a challenge, but as an opportunity. It was his chance to prove his mettle, to earn honor and respect, and secure himself a place in the annals of history–to be remembered. He was ready to make his own indelible mark and ensure that his name, too, would be remembered alongside great king’s and warriors.

Otto sat up straighter in his chair, his posture aligning with the gravity of his next words, eyes as hard as the stone that made the foundation of the Red Keep.

“As Rhaenyra consolidates her power and allies, we must do the same,” he stated with a clear decisiveness. “Hence, I am sending you to Storm’s End.” Otto’s directive was sharp and unyielding, outlining a strategic move designed to strengthen their position and extend their influence. “There, you will secure a marriage alliance for Daeron with one of Lord Borros Baratheon’s daughters.”

Alicent’s response was a quiet murmur of disapproval, her head shaking subtly as she glanced down at her hands, visibly troubled by her father’s directives yet restrained in her dissent.

Despite this silent protest, Otto remained resolute. “It’s imperative that the Baratheons do not align themselves with Rhaenyra and her cause. We cannot afford to lose the Stormlands, do you understand?”

“I do,” Aemond responded, his nod firm and his expression serious, fully aware of the critical nature of his mission.

“There can be no mistakes in this,” Otto emphasized, standing up with an air that suggested the discussion was concluded. “You leave at dawn.”

He began to collect the letters and various parchments, his movements quick and precise as he readied to leave the council chambers, no doubt heading to his office to continue his preparations.

As Aemond turned to follow suit, Alicent called out, “Aemond.”

Her voice echoed softly across the room, her gown whispering against the stone floor as she approached with a measured grace befitting her status. Her footsteps clicked in a steady rhythm, yet her shoulders bore a trace of weariness, tension evident in her frame–and more so on her face.

Otto, who had been halfway out of the room, paused at the sound of her voice. He turned to cast a narrow, penetrating glance back at them, his eyes sharp with a cold discernment–a silent warning. Lingering for a moment in the charged atmosphere, he finally exhaled and continued on his way, the door closing soundly behind him.

Alicent stood before Aemond with a dignified grace and authority expected of a queen, her hand poised gently on her bodice, signaling both composure and concern. He watched her carefully as subtle expressions played across his mother’s face–her eyebrows slightly furrowed and raised at the inner corners, her mouth downturned at the edges–each minute change painting a clear picture of her inner turmoil.

“As the Hand has emphasized, there’s no margin for error,” Alicent asserted, her voice conveying a calm yet urgent resolve. She reached out, her fingers delicately smoothing the fabric of Aemond’s doublet in a comforting, maternal gesture. “It would be naive to think Rhaenyra won’t also be sending her envoys. You must reach Storm’s End before they do.”

Her eyes, large and earnest, met his with an intensity that underscored the seriousness of her words. “She will surely try to persuade Borros Baratheon to honor his father’s old commitments, but remember, we have more substantial offers for him. Ensure you present our terms convincingly and secure his alliance.”

“You needn’t worry, Mother, I will secure a Baratheon alliance,” Aemond assured her firmly.

“Lord Borros might not be…” Alicent began, her voice wavering as the lines of worry deepened around her mouth. “He may not readily accept your betrothal and subsequent marriage to his brother’s widow. It is crucial that he remains unaware of any past… dalliance between the two of you, and he must never suspect your involvement in his brother’s death.”

Her hand came to rest gently over his heart, her touch laden with concern. In response, Aemond covered her hand with his own, his gesture offering reassurance and a silent promise to heed her caution. “I will be careful. I promise.”

“Despite Rhaenyra’s rejection of our terms, I am adamant that we should not be the aggressors in this conflict,” Alicent declared resolutely, her words imbued with a sense of urgency to make her son understand. “We should not be the ones to draw first blood, nor will we be the ones to start this war. Let them reveal their true nature to the realm.”

Aemond gave his mother a nod of acknowledgement.

Laying in her bed, Daenera shifted, her eyes drawn to the flickering flames in the hearth. The room was dimly lit, the fire casting dancing shadows across the walls, which were adorned with faded tapestries depicting dragon’s in flight. The scent of burning wood mingled with the faint traces of yellow chrysanthemum-scented candles, creating a soothing ambiance to the night. Yet, despite the calm setting, a restlessness pulsed within her, her skin tingling with alertness as she exhaled a weary, frustrated sigh.

Nearby, Lady Mertha, her nominal lady-in-waiting, slept soundly in a chair. Her chestnut hair, streaked with silver, was neatly tied in a bun that served as a makeshift pillow against the wooden back of the chair. An unfinished embroidery project lay in her lap, the needle halted mid-stitch in the fabric of a delicate blue iris. The soft, rhythmic snores emanating from her seemed to chafe at Daenera’s frayed nerves.

As she lay there in bed, listening to the endless snoring, her thoughts drifted to a darker place. She imagined rising, seizing her pillow, and pressing it over the face of the old hag until she ceased to struggle, and then holding it just a moment longer to ensure the silence was permanent. Yet, she resisted, even as the thought tantalized at her fingertips, urging her to rid herself of the woman who veiled cruel remarks and poised insults under the pretense of servitude. Indeed, Mertha was a faithful servant–to the Queen Mother and the Faith, not to Daenera.

However, she knew that murdering her keeper would bring nothing but fleeting self-satisfaction. It would label her a murderer, likely leading to even stricter confinement, stripped of the few luxuries and freedoms she still enjoyed. Moreover, Mertha would surely be replaced by someone even more intolerable. With Mertha, at least, Daenera knew her adversary’s ways and how to navigate them.

Despite these rationalizations, the relentless itch of frustration remained, gnawing at her as she lay awake in the quiet of the night.

Restlessly, Daenera turned onto her other side, squeezing her eyes shut in a futile attempt to block out the tumultuous thoughts swirling within her mind–thoughts that always seemed to simmer beneath the surface of her consciousness. Her jaw clenched as she willed herself towards the elusive relief of sleep, but it eluded her, slipping through her grasp like wisps of smoke. Instead, her mind was besieged by the relentless storm of memories and anxieties, holding her captive in her own turbulent thoughts.

Her thoughts spiraled in a tempest, replaying the recent calamitous events that continued to haunt her. Each replay brought fresh pangs of what might have been, had her plans not crumbled into despair. The bitter taste of betrayal lingered acutely on her tongue, a poignant reminder of her misplaced trust in Larys. She chastised herself for the naive assumption that their unacknowledged familial ties could serve as a dependable foundation for trust.

As the night stretched on, Daenera lay awake, tormented by her choices and their fallout, each scenario playing out in her head like an relentless echo of what could have been–a cacophony of could-haves and should-haves that offered no solace, only the sharp sting of regret.

The betrayal by Aemond cut the deepest, its sting harsh and relentless as he forced her into a corner–into a marriage she had no choice but to accept, effectively chaining her to the Greens, to him. While Daenera could understand the political motives behind his actions, understanding them did little to mitigate the sharp, persistent ache that throbbed within her heart every time she saw him.

And despite her best efforts to banish him from her thoughts, he weaved his way into her mind–how he had wrapped his arms around her to restrain her from running to Rhaenys, and, in some convoluted way, to protect her. She recalled the way he had positioned himself between his mother and herself. She remembered the tenderness with which he held her, the way his head tilted towards hers, resting against her, allowing his warmth to envelop her–his hand on her stomach, protecting and claiming.

Yet, amidst the turmoil, a distressing truth gnawed at her–a truth she hesitated to acknowledge even to herself. Under different stars, freed from the shackles of duty and deceit, Daenera knew she might have chosen Aemond willingly. This, perhaps, was the most excruciating betrayal of all–the betrayal of her own heart against her better judgment.

Yet, it was not just betrayal that haunted Daenera’s sleepless nights.

The shadows of the departed loomed large in her thoughts, each name a heavy echo in her heart. Viserys, Joyce, Darvin, Edam, Kevan, Sithric–each memory a sharp stab of grief.

The circumstances of their deaths haunted Daenera, each loss made a specter in the back of her mind. The image of Joyce’s lifeless body, harsh ropes suspending it in a cruel mockery of peace, was permanently etched into her memory, alongside the horrific scene of decay that had befallen the bodies suspended in the inner courtyard. It seemed as though the ghosts of the dead lingered in the shadows of her room, their cold, dead eyes watching her relentlessly.

The dim light from the dying hearth cast eerie shadows on the walls, enhancing the surreal and ghostly quality of her restless contemplations. Most haunting, however, were the ghosts of those not yet dead. Her thoughts strayed to her family, wondering if Rhaenys had managed to reach them with the news of the usurpation and whether they were not rallying their forces, preparing to retaliate against the injustice that threatened to engulf her.

Dread and longing intertwined within Daenera whenever she thought of her family. Her mind churned with questions about how they were handling the usurpation–whether they had received the coerced letter she had been forced to pen. Above all, she harbored a fervent hope, almost a prayer, that they would recognize the letter for what it truly was: a fabrication, filled with nothing more than hollow words dictated by her captors.

Her brothers would have undoubtedly been the first to rally for her rescue. She hoped that Daemon would temper their fiery spirits, preventing them from taking rash actions that might endanger their lives. She imagined her mother, consumed with worry, possibly even considering conceding to the usurpers’ demands just to ensure her safety. However, Daenera clung to the hope that Daemon, or Jace, or Baela, or Rhaena–someone, anyone–would persuade her mother against it.

She had to remind herself that her mother was strong. Despite the gnawing fear and the strategic considerations that might tempt a less resolute soul, her mother would not yield; she would not bend the knee to the usurpers. Daenera clung to this belief, drawing a measure of strength from the imagined resilience of her family, despite the distance that separated them.

The ache of missing them was a constant companion.

The horrifying thought that they might meet the same grim fate as Joyce and the others–that their lives might end at the end of a rope–stirred a deep well of fear within her.

Tears prickled behind her closed eyelids as she wrestled with these fears, her body lying motionless on the bed yet her mind trapped in a tortuous cycle of apprehension and despair. The night offered no reprieve, with each haunting thought acting like a specter at the periphery of her awareness, ensuring she continued to remain awake.

There was no solace to be found in sleep, it seemed.

Her eyes snapped open once more as an especially loud snore shattered the fragile silence that enveloped her. Frustrated, Daenera sat up abruptly, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders in disheveled waves as she scowled at her sleeping warden. With a huff, she pushed the covers away, resigning herself to the sleeplessness of the night, and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. The cool touch of the stone floors greeted her bare feet as she stood, moving with a silent grace that conflicted with the clamor of her heart.

Daenera walked purposefully to where her slippers lay discarded, slipping her feet into them before wrapping herself in a yellow silk robe–one of the few pieces of her own clothing she had been allowed to keep. She then draped a blue shawl, adorned with intricate patterns, over her shoulders, the fabric providing a slight warmth against the chill of the night air.

Daenera approached the chamber doors, their imposing frames seeming to beckon her forward. With a delicate yet determined touch, she pushed them open, a faint creak escaping despite her efforts to be silent. As she peered into the corridor beyond, her gaze locked with that of the guard stationed outside her door–a man whose name she neither knew nor wished to learn. His face shifted from a look of wariness to one of surprise upon seeing her.

“I can’t sleep,” Daenera declared, her voice imbued with the weight of a demand rather than a mere request. Her eyes met his, asserting her intention. “I wish to take a walk.”

The guard hesitated, his lips parting as if he were about to refuse, but Daenera cut him off before he could formulate his objection.

“You’ll be with me the entire time,” she continued firmly, her voice dictating terms, not seeking permission. “I’m merely in my robe and nightgown; I’m not planning an escape. Besides, a walk has to be better than standing there all night, staring at the walls, wouldn’t you agree?”

His brows lifted slightly as he processed her words, and after a brief pause, he begrudgingly nodded in acceptance.

With a slight, mischievous smile, Daenera stepped through the threshold into the hallway, leaving her behind her slumbering warden, who would undoubtedly be in for a shock of surprise upon discovering her bed empty–if she woke at all. The smile on her lips grew at the thought.

The hallways of Maegor’s Holdfast were eerily quiet at night, deserted except for a lone servant who glided silently through the corridors, making scarcely more noise than a ghost. The shadows in the hallway seemed to challenge the flickering torches that staved off the darkness, creating a play of light and shadow that danced across the tapestries that littered the stone walls. Despite the deep shadows that clawed against the dim light, Daenera was not afraid; rather, she found a certain solace in the cloak of night and the solitude it offered–similar to the many nights she had spent with Aemond, seeking the solitude of a world of darkness to shield them from the days judgments. The night seemed to grant a type of freedom, a respite from the watchful eyes of the day, and she embraced this fleeting liberty with open arms, even as the guard’s footsteps echoed behind her, a constant reminder of her constraints.

They descended the grand staircase of Maegor’s Holdfast and made their way through the courtyard. Daenera paused in the middle of the open space, her gaze fixating on the banisters that were now clear of any ropes. The only remnants of their grime presence were the faint traces of rot that seemed to linger in the air.

Since Aegon’s crowning and the hanging of her men, Daenera had spent her days standing resolutely in the middle of the courtyard. This act of defiance–or perhaps self-punishment–served as a reminder of the injustice of the situation and a means to honor the lives that had been so brutally taken. She had stood vigil, watching their faces until they became indistinct, the flesh turning a disturbing, discolored hue. She watched as their bodies began to bloat, their features becoming near unrecognizable, their fingers turning an unnatural black as flies swarmed their orifices. The process of decay was relentless, and soon the stench permeated the entire courtyard.

The heat of recent days had only exacerbated the situation, intensifying the smell rather than diminishing it. The air, thick with the stench of death, made the courtyard almost unbearable as the process of rot quickened unnaturally under the oppressive heat. Flies had then taken to swarming the bodies, obscuring the men’s faces.

Mertha had tried to coax her away from the gruesome sight, but Daenera had refused to move. To endure the overwhelming odor, the old hag had resorted to carrying a small pouch of herbs to hold under her nose, trying to mask the scent.

Daenera couldn’t deny the impact the sight and smell of decay had on her. Even now, when she thought of their rotting corpses, the scent of putrid flesh seemed to haunt her nostrils.

In an effort to mitigate the grisly aftermath, the Hightowers had finally removed the bodies the day before. They had placed several braziers and bowls of incense throughout the courtyard, attempting to cleanse the air of the pervasive stench of death.

Drawing in a deep breath of the now fresher air that swept through the open courtyard, Daenera turned her face upward, gazing at the vast expanse of stars. It was a clear, beautiful night. With a momentary pause to appreciate the serene sky, she then made her way towards the doors of Maegor’s Holdfast, the night air providing a small reprieve from the heaviness that lingered around her.

They made their way to the Red Keep, their footsteps silent, ghost-light as they glided through the veil of night. They ascended the stairs and moved through the intricate, labyrinthine corridors of the Keep. The silence was punctuated occasionally by the servants, recently released from the dungeons following the coronation, who bustled about their duties. The soft echo of their hurried footsteps and their hushed exchanges briefly infused a sense of life into the otherwise sober environment.

Rather than returning to the relative comfort of her chambers, Daenera pushed open the towering doors to the throne room. She and her guard stepped into the vast expanse, enveloped immediately by the encompassing darkness. The room seemed to swallow them whole, its shadows stretching out like living entities, reveling in their dominion over the space. The throne room, usually a place of power and ceremony, now felt like an immense void that echoed with the quietude of the night.

As Daenera and her guard moved deeper into the throne room, a chilling sensation enveloped her. The fine hairs on her arms stood on end, and an involuntary shiver ran down her spine. Moonlight seeped through the tall, narrow windows, casting weak rays of pale light through the overwhelming darkness.

The Formidable stone columns rose around them like silent sentinels, their towering forms casting judgment on all who tread within. If the Hightowers allowed it, Viserys might one day find his place among the kings of old, becoming another sentinel within this grand space. Tradition dictated that kings were etched in stone, immortalized in the heart of the Red Keep to serve as eternal reminders of the past. Yet, the Hightowers, seemingly intent on reshaping the legacy of House Targaryen, might allow this tradition to slip into the shadows, consigned to be a footnote in the forgotten annals of history, much like their attempts to obscure the rightful line of succession with their lies.

In the absence of any living presence, Daenera felt neither solitude nor solace. Instead, she felt profoundly lost–adrift in a vast ocean of emptiness, floating beneath a starless sky. She was surrounded by an endless expanse of darkness, while foreboding, unseen waves churned ominously below.

Pausing before the imposing Iron Throne, Daenera wrapped her arms tightly around herself, seeking warmth and some semblance of comfort as she faced the highest seat of power. The pervasive chill of the room seeped deep into her bones.

She sensed his approach not by sight but through the soft resonance of his footsteps echoing ominously in the vast space. She hard the subtle command he issued the guard, a quiet authority that prompted the guard to discreetly retreat to the entrance of the throne room.

Aemond’s footsteps echoed as he neared, each step resonating through the cold stone floor, sending shivers down Daenera’s spine and raising the fine hairs on the back of her neck. As he reached her side, his presence seemed to envelop her, a tangible force prickled uncomfortably beneath her skin–prickled with a familiar, comforting sense that she forced out of her mind.

“Can’t sleep?” Aemond’s quiet inquiry sliced through the stillness of the night. Daenera felt the question encroach upon her, the words prickling against her skin like the cold that clawed at her bare legs.

Within the hushed, expansive confines of the throne room, Daenera’s response was a mere whisper, each syllable heavy with the burden of their fraught circumstances.

“How could I when I am being held hostage?” Her tone was sharp, yet the night’s quiet seemed to soften the edges of her anger, smoothing the usual bite of her words. “Rest doesn’t come easy when an injustice has been committed–less so when my warden snores.” A trace of cold humor laced her voice, a fleeting attempt to lighten the gravity of her situation. “I see them when I close my eyes…”

“Is it so strange that you see them, after you’ve spent days staring upon them?”

Daenera’s gaze snapped towards Aemond, her eyes narrowing sharply. “They were good men. Honorable, and they deserved someone to stand vigil for them.”

Aemond’s voice carried a challenging tone as he responded, “They were good men, perhaps, but your vigil wasn’t solely about honor. It was as much an act of defiance.”

She met his gaze with an icy stare. “It worked, didn’t it?”

There was a brief emergence of a cruel smirk on her lips–a fleeting expression that quickly faded as her ire fell to the wayside. Her vigil had been a calculated display of defiance as much as it was a way of honoring them. The spectacle she created by standing vigil was minimal enough to avoid direct punishment, yet potent enough to unsettle those in power. The bodies, which would likely have remained hanging in the courtyard for a day or two more, had been taken down sooner because of the discomfort her actions had caused. She had effectively forced the Hightowers’s hand.

In the stillness of the night, there was a peculiar vulnerability, as if the moon’s light allowed them to cast aside some of the hostility and animosity that cloaked them during the day. It was just her and Aemond, alone in the shadows of the night, which provided a strange sort of solace, a temporary escape from the day’s harsh realities.

Within this nocturnal reprieve, Daenera found herself easing into the moment, her demeanor softening into a semblance of playfulness.

“It brings me a strange sort of solace, imagining the discomfort that Aegon must endure while seated upon the throne,” Daenera mused, her gaze remaining upon the imposing seat. “I can’t fathom how anyone might find it comfortable, with the sharp edges of those blades and the sheer coldness of hard iron…”

Her words floated in the air like delicate wisps as her eyes traced the sharp points of the throne. The swords protruded from the high back of the imposing seat, resembling a deadly crown forged from steel and iron and blood, melded together through dragonfire and sheer will.

“It doesn’t need to be comfortable,” Aemond responded, his voice echoing a sentiment he had expressed what seemed like ages ago. “It’s a symbol of power–a testament to the might of House Targaryen and a stark reminder to any who would dare oppose us. It represents a promise, not a mere threat.”

Indeed, the menacing spectacle of swords, twisted and contorted into unnatural shapes, emerging from the base and ascending into the air, was undeniably imposing. It served both as a warning and a vow that the same fire which had warped the metal could inflict even greater devastation of flesh and bone. It was a grim, brutal thing.

“I suppose I can only hope for Aegon to miss his step and impale himself upon one of those blades,” she said lightly, allowing herself an amused smirk at the dark thought. “It’s rather surprising that it hasn’t occurred more often.”

Aemond’s reaction was close to a laugh, a rare, and she caught the slight upturn of his lips out of the corner of her eye. “As far as historical records go, only Maegor has met that fate.”

The faint smile on her lips remained. “Well, history isn’t beyond adding a few more names to that list, is it?”

Daenera couldn’t help but envision it–Aegon impaled upon the throne he had usurped and claimed. How profoundly symbolic. Alternatively, perhaps Otto Hightower should meet a similar fate, impaled by the very symbols of the power he coveted. The thought filled her with a grim satisfaction, yet the existence around her remained unaltered, with both men still very much alive and their steps sure and unfaltering.

“And yet, despite the inevitable discomfort that the Iron Throne may bring to one’s rear, it remains the most coveted seat of them all,” Daenera mused, ascending a step. She turned slightly and found their eyes nearly at level, though he still held a slight height advantage. “The seat on Dragonstone is carved from the very rock like the castle itself. You might think it’s a cold, unforgiving seat, but the stone retrains a subtle warmth. It’s not particularly comfortable, but a strategically placed pillow can alleviate that, and, most importantly, it doesn’t pose the risk of impalement due to pointy swords jutting up from the ground surrounding it.”

A sharp retort seemed to form on the tip of Aemond’s tongue, a wave of biting cruelty that Daenera could sense preparing to crash down upon her. But instead of unleashing the words and letting them rake against her skin, he swallowed them down.

She could still feel the lingering sting of his unspoken thoughts, resonating like an echo in her mind: That if that throne is indeed more bearable to sit, then maybe her mother should do well to embrace it and remain on Dragonstone, instead of seeking this seat. His words might have been sharper, more volatile, and destructive if he had allowed them to break free, but she felt the sting nonetheless.

Breaking the silence, Daenera spoke again, her voice carrying across the echoing expanse of the throne room. “And the Driftwood Throne is just made of that, driftwood.”

Aemond’s reply was slow and deliberate, his tone tinged with a hint of amusement as he engaged in the verbal dance. “I imagine driftwood offers a more forgiving seat than that of cold, hard stone.”

Under the pale moon’s glow, Daenera regarded him with a blend of caution and intrigue. The moonlight illuminated his features sharply, casting one side of his face in light while the other melded into the shadows of the night, giving him an almost dual nature–sharpness like the edge of a blade, yet possessing a certain softness that hinted at tenderness as much as danger. The moonlight draped over him, accentuating the severe lines of his face, each angle casting a shadow that seemed to hint at both promise and peril. His expression was impassive, resembling the hard lines of a statue, yet the slight twinkle in his eye suggested a depth that Daenera found both perplexing and compelling.

A trace of wry amusement lingered on his lips, and he tilted his head slightly, almost imperceptibly, as if inviting her to continue this dance of words, “And what of the seat of House Baratheon?”

After a brief, contemplative pause, Daenera turned to face him completely, her response imbued with a subtle curiosity. “It’s made of stone.”

She maintained her position on the stone step, her eyes locked on his as he approached–prowling towards her like a predator stalking its prey. Each step he took resonated more profoundly within her, stirring a blend of apprehension and anticipation in her stomach. As the distance between them lessened, she felt a palpable tension building. Instinctively, she pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders, not just against the night’s chill but also as a shield against the way he looked at her.

“It’s cold, hard stone, with no comfort of a pillow,” Daenera answered, her mind drifting back to her time at Storm’s End. “It’s simple.”

Aemond halted his advance a few steps from her. His gaze seemed to cast a delicate web of sensations across her skin, as if he were trying to decipher her thoughts simply with his stare. “So, it’s plain.”

Daenera nodded, her eyes catching the interplay of shadows across his features, the darkness melding seamlessly with the eye patch that obscured part of his face–and in turn seemed to etch the scar even more into his skin. With a soft breath, she answered, “Yes.”

As he drew near, Daenera felt the rhythm of her heart quickening, and she silently cursed herself for it. Despite everything, he still had the power to stir such emotions within her, a fact she found both infuriating and unsettling. With a calculated move, she took a step back, ascending another step on the dias.

With that single step, Daenera rose slightly above him, gaining a modest height advantage. Yet, this small elevation appeared to change little in their dynamic. Aemond tilted his head slightly, his gaze intense and unwavering as he continued to watch her closely.

“Have you ever seen the seat of House Hightower?” Daenera found herself asking, her voice a soft murmur, as though fearing that speaking too loudly would draw him closer.

Aemond’s gaze briefly scanned her face, his eye sharp and discerning. Each glance seemed to dissect her expressions, parsing the subtle shifts for underlying messages or potential challenges–a mirror to the way she had scrutinized his words earlier. The intensity of his scrutiny was unnerving, as it always was, as if his gaze could penetrate beyond the facade and unearth her innermost thoughts.

“I have, once,” he responded, his voice low and contemplative, with a hint of something deeper lurking beneath the surface. “The seat is rather unpretentious, crafted from plain wood.”

“Perhaps the grandeur of the Tower negates the need for an ostentatious throne,” Daenera mused aloud, her tone thoughtful, tinged with a touch of irony. She held back a more pointed remark that hovered on the edge of her tongue–about his and his family's ambitions for a grander throne. Opting for a subtler jab, she continued, “Besides, with the Tyrells as their liege lords, I’d imagine wood is preferable to the bed of thorns and roses they must sit upon.”

A flicker of amusement briefly animated Aemond’s features, subtly lifting the corners of his lips further that the smirk he always wore. This small but perceptible change in his expression sent an unexpected flutter through Daenera’s chest, intertwining with the sensations of apprehension and intrigue that stirred deep within her.

Continuing her ascent, Daenera climbed another two steps, her movement embodying grace and poise. Each step she took was measured and deliberate, echoing softly in the vast, hollow expanse of the throne room. Aemond, perceptive of the distance she was creating, followed her, yet consciously remained two steps below her. Over her shoulder, Daenera cast a sly, inviting smile back at him.

“The realm’s second most pointy seat, I presume,” Aemond commented with a languid drawl. His words, light and teasing, floated through the cool air between them, sparking a bright, bell-like laugh from Daenera. The sound of her laughter filled the expanse around them, a rare echo of warmth that momentarily cut through the usual solemnity of the space.

Daenera turned to face Aemond fully, shifting the conversation towards another prominent noble house with a playful tilt of her head. “And the Lannisters?”

Their eyes locked, and a spark of shared amusement passed between them. Almost instinctively, they both said in unison, “Gold.”

Her laughter continued, richer now with an undercurrent of deeper amusement. “Indeed, crafted of gold, no doubt extravagantly adorned with their iconic lions and encrusted with jewels.”

Aemond’s response was smooth and tinged with humor, “Subtlety was never a trait the Lannisters embraced.”

With a hint of playful irony in her voice, Daenera responded to Aemond, “I remember Jason Lannister claiming that with wealth like theirs, subtlety is hardly a necessity.”

As she nonchalantly brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear, the motion seemed to catch Aemond’s attention. His gaze lingered on her, soft and all too gentle. His stance relaxed, the previous stiffness in his spine giving way to a more natural posture. His hands, previously clasped behind his back, now hung loosely by his sides, his fingers subtly twitching, betraying a hint of restlessness.

Aware of the dangers of Aemond’s restlessness, Daenera deftly steered the conversation towards another noble house, her pulse quickening as she felt his eye on her. She sought to maintain a veneer of casual interest as she said, “And what of the Tullys’ seat?”

Aemond’s eye twinkled with amusement, a hint of mischief playing at the edges of his demeanor, even as he spoke with an air of casual disinterest about the subject. His amusement appeared to be fueled internally by Daenera’s reaction to him, prompting a playful smirk to curl at the corners of his lips. He leaned slightly forward, his posture relaxed yet commanding, as he drawled, “It’s wood, replete with ornate carvings that resemble fish scales, similar to the Lannisters and their lions. Perhaps it even boasts a grand trout emblem overseeing it all.”

Daenera’s response came with a tone rich in appreciation, slightly correcting him, “I imagine the Tullys would prefer a more refined elegance–ancient wood, exquisitely carved, no gaudy fish scales involved.” She took another step up, and he followed that one step. “And the Arryns, with their thrones of venerable weirwood. What of House Greyjoy?”

Aemond matched her step, maintaining a distance that always left him two steps below her, subtly conceding the height to her. His voice rose with a clear note of certainty, echoing slightly in the grand space around them. “The Greyjoys preside over the Seastone Chair. According to Maester Theron, it is hewn from the same mysterious, black and oily stone found at the base of the Black Stone Fortress of the Hightower, artfully shaped into the form of a kraken.”

“And House Stark?” Daenera probed further, her curiosity undiminished, her words tinged with a genuine interest in his thoughts.

Aemond’s reply carried a hint of disdain, almost a scoff, as if the simplicity of the answer amused him. “Unremarkable wood, draped with furs.”

Daenera’s lips curled into a knowing smile, her eyes momentarily shifting away from Aemond as she stepped onto the final landing before the throne, her tone laced with both reverence and irony. “And yet, among them all, this throne remains the most sought after.”

Their interaction flowed with a natural ease, as if the cloak of night granted them a brief escape from the relentless scrutiny of daylight and its politics. In the realm of night, they could temporarily cast aside the heavy mantle of court intrigues and machinations. Despite the tranquility of the night, Daenera was keenly aware of the impending dawn, which would soon expose the harsh truths and intense demands of the day.

She sensed Aemond’s presence drawing nearer as he ascended the last of the steps behind her. Turning to face him, Daenera caught a fleeting expression in his gaze–something deep and enigmatic–before she deliberately shifted her attention away from his intense gaze.

Her eyes were then drawn to the menacing iron swords that jutted out from the stone floor around the throne. The blades, like savage fangs, seemed poised to tear into flesh at the slightest misstep. Moonlight casting its pale glow through the tall windows bathed the swords in a ghostly light, while casting deep shadows that stretched between the blades, giving them a sinister appearance akin to pools of blood.

Power had always been an ugly affair, Daenera mused, yet it seemed everyone desired it. The thought of ascending to the Iron Throne had once been a childhood fantasy of being queen–as all children had, oblivious to the consequences. It had been a daydream she entertained with the innocence of youth. However, she soon came to understand the grave implications: to claim the throne meant stepping over the bodies of her family–her mother, Daemon, Jace, Baela, and any of their descendants. Claiming power by force would brand her a kinslayer, a title she never wished to bear.

Her ambitions had thus been reshaped early on; she envisioned herself as a dutiful daughter in support of her family, perhaps earning a place on their council, offering counsel and securing their reign.

Yet, as she gazed upon the throne now, a sinister stir twisted within her. It was as if something dark and menacing from the recesses of her soul watched her, whispering seductions of power and dominance from the shadows of her conscience.

“It could have been you,” she mused softly, the hint of a challenge in her tone as she turned her eyes upon him–as she watched the familiar tightness snap at his lips. Her words seemed to find their mark, visibly rattling Aemond as she intended. He was inching too close for comfort, and despite the part of her that yearned for the solace he seemed to offer, she couldn’t afford to lower her guard further–it had already been a mistake to lower it this much. Her anger towards him remained–fueled by the ire of her captivity, the usurpation of her mother’s throne, and the tangled web of emotions his proximity evoked. She continued, “All you’ve ever wanted, within arm’s reach, yet you did not seize it. It could have been you–”

“No, it never could have been,” Aemond countered, his voice a dark murmur as he advanced a step closer–a note of bitterness sharpening his words.

She instinctively edged backward, her retreat bringing her alarmingly close to a sword protruding menacingly from the stone floor surrounding the throne, its edge seeming to thirst for contact. The air between them was charged with an unspoken tension, a mix of unresolved conflicts and the harsh realities of their present circumstances.

As Aemond’s head tilted slightly, his eye caught a sliver of moonlight that filtered through the tall, narrow windows of the throne room. The pale light transformed his blue eye, making it shimmer almost as silvery as his hair–echoing the metallic gleam of steel. “It had to be Aegon.”

Daenera was acutely aware of the political machinations at play; she knew it had always been about Aegon. The Hightowers had long schemed to secure the crown for Viserys’s firstborn son–it had to be the firstborn son, not the second born. Even if Aemond had allowed his brother to escape, Aegon’s mere existence was a looming threat–an obstacle should Aemond claim the throne. Even with Aegon gone, his firstborn son had the claim before Aemond–though he was still but a child. For the Hightowers, Aegon was essential, the foundation on which their usurpation was built on.

Daenera used Aemond’s ambition and desires as a shield against him–a necessary defense, and one she needed. It served as a barrier of cruelty to remind her heart not to flutter in his presence, to stay guarded despite its desire to be free.

“I have gained something from this,” Aemond whispered, now standing so close his breath could be felt on her skin. Daenera tensed, her heart beating rapidly within her chest, and her nails digging into her palm to ground herself.

His voice dropped to a low, drawling murmur, thick with insinuation, as he reached out towards her. Instinctively, Daenera raised her hand, deflecting his touch before it could graze her jaw and ignite a dangerous warmth.

Her gaze turned steely, “What was that old saying about touching before marriage?”

“I believe we’re past that,” Aemond remarked, a wry smile playing on his lips.

Daenera’s eyes narrowed. “I suppose we are… and it will remain that way… in the past.”

Daenera deliberately turned her attention away from him, her movement a silent act of defiance. Aemond’s gaze lingered on her, dark and contemplative, as if he were weighing whether she would act upon her declared intentions. Ignoring his scrutiny, she forced instead on the swords jutting up from the floor around the throne.

Tentatively, she extended a hand, allowing her fingertip to skim along the edge of one of the blades, cautious not to press too firmly against its still-vicious edge. The swords retained their lethal sharpness, as if the very act of forging the throne had permanently imbued them with a relentless edge.

The silence that had enveloped the throne room, thick with the weight of unspoken thoughts, was abruptly shattered by Aemond’s voice. His words cut through the still air like a Valyrian steel blade, clear and decisive.

“I’m leaving for Storm’s End in the morning,” he announced, his statement slicing through the delicate veil of their nighttime truce. This declaration signaled a stark shift back to the pressing realities that awaited in the daylight.

Daenera’s head whipped around sharply, her eyes widening in shock and a profound sense of betrayal settling heavily in her heart at Aemond’s sudden announcement. Her startled movement caused her to press her finger too firmly against the blade, and the sharp edge bit into her skin mercilessly. The pain was nothing more than a small jolt, insignificant compared to the emotional turmoil that was stirred by his words.

A hiss left her, and her eyes fell on the bead of blood welling on her skin. This seemed to catch Aemond’s attention, and as if on instinct, he stepped forward and grasped her hand. His touch was gentle, yet insistent as he drew her closer for a better look. His eye lingered on the small crimson welling, and for a fleeting moment, she anticipated that he might bring her finger to his lips–the thought was too much, too intimate, and before he could succumb to any such impulse, she swiftly withdrew her hand, her eyes flashing with indignant fire as she met his gaze.

“My mother refused to bend the knee,” Daenera stated, not a question but an acknowledgement. A wave of relief briefly swept over her, only to be swiftly replaced by a surge of apprehension as thoughts raced through her mind–who would support her mother’s claim? Were Daemon planning to advance on King’s Landing? What did it mean for her as the Hightowers’ hostage? Slowly, it seemed, they were teetering ever closer to the brink of outright war.

With a scornful scoff, she added, “Why ask me to describe the seat of Storm’s End when you’re going to witness it yourself?”

The decision to send him to Storm’s End to negotiate with the Baratheons for their support ignited a fiery rage within her. She could feel it burning in her chest, seeping into her lungs and heart, spreading throughout her boy like wildfire. Any semblance of peace between them was scorched by the sting of betrayal. The burdens and circumstances of the day seemed to crash in around them, harsh and unyielding, even as the soft moonlight continued to bathe the room in its ghostly glow.

“Daenera…”

Daenera swept past him, descending the steps with swift, deliberate strides. She felt the brush of his fingers against her wrist, a desperate attempt to restrain her, but she twisted away sharply, breaking free from his grip. As she turned she fixed him with a withering look. “I suppose you plan on sealing the alliance with a betrothal. Finally, your mother gets her wish–marrying you off to a Baratheon girl.”

Her heart was a battleground of conflicting emotions–relief clashed with profound disappointment. She struggled against the unsettling churn in her stomach as it twisted, and the oppressive weight that seemed to crush her chest. Bitterness surged through her, and despite her resolve, tears threatened to break free, her lower lip quivering with barely restrained emotion.

Aemond’s reply came through clenched teeth, frustration palpable in his strained voice. “I’m not going to Storm’s End to negotiate my own betrothal, but Daeron’s.”

A surge of relief pierced through her heart, and she immediately scolded herself for feeling it. Aemond descended the steps, moving towards her with a face that was impossible to read. He reached out, his hand almost tender as it moved to brush under her hair and cradle her head, but Daenera swiftly knocked his hand away, refusing the attempt. Part of her knew that if he managed to touch her, to hold her, her resolve might falter.

Daenera’s voice sharpened with accusation. “You’re stealing my alliance–”

“Daenera,” Aemond cut in, his voice mingling exasperation with a plea for understanding, as though trying to mend the rift that widened with every word they exchanged.

“No, you’re stealing it!” She shot back, the bitterness etching deeper into her expression as she battled the urge to cry. Her voice trembled as she continued, “I endured a marriage to Boris Baratheon for the sake of that alliance. I endured his cruelty and humiliation. And now, you claim it as if it were nothing, as if my suffering meant nothing!”

Aemond’s reply was sharp, his words slicing through the air with precision–cutting through to her very core. “I’m not to blame for your unfortunate misalliance. The alliance you suffered so much for was always weak, fated to end as it did. You cannot lay claim to an alliance that was never going to endure–Daemon should have seen that. He should have never sold you off to a man who humiliated you.” Aemond stepped closer. “Your alliance with the Baratheon’s ended the day your husband died.”

Aemond closed the distance between them with deliberate steps, towering over her as he continued. “Your alliance with the Baratheons ended the day your husband died.”

Despite Daenera’s desire to trust in Borros Baratheon’s vow to her mother, she was acutely aware of the harsher truth of their situation. Borros, known for his pride, might have stayed true to his word if his brother were still alive and she remained his wife. But with his brother’s death, the fragile threads of their alliance hung in peril, vulnerable to being cast aside for a move advantageous alliance. Her heart beat with the cadence of dread, each beat a heavy thud resonating within her chest, echoing her deep-seated fears.

Her gaze sharpened as stared up at him, biting the inside of her cheek.

“You understood the consequences,” he murmured, his voice barely more than a whisper–the unexpected gentleness in his tone worse than had he sneered at her. “You knew that Boris’s death would unravel the alliance, and yet you proceeded.”

Daenera’s eyes remained on his, the sudden softness in his approach unsettling her as much as it drew her attention. Her voice, sharpened by bitterness and deliberately hushed to contain its echoes, shot back in a sneer of thinly veiled accusation, “Let’s not forget whose hands sealed his fate.”

Aemond’s response was measured, his tone now as incisive as hers, “At your behest, if I recall. You were as complicit in his end as I.”

“And what of Lord Borros reaction when he learns you intend to marry his brother’s widow?” Daenera snapped, her heart beating wildly against her ribs.

“I imagine he’ll be indifferent, so long as he get his marriage alliance,” Aemond answered dryly. Borros Baratheon, grappling with the burden of having no sons and having recently lost his only brother, would likely insist on nothing less than a marriage alliance to secure himself. It would only be a welcome addition that the marriage alliance would offer House Baratheon more royal blood and a dragonrider at that–more than she could ever give them.

Daenera pressed on, “What if he rejects the alliance? Will you exploit my involvement in his brother’s death to secure the alliance at any cost?”

Aemond’s jaw visibly tightened, the muscles beneath his skin rippling with restrained emotion. His lips formed a narrow, exasperated line as his gaze flicked away from Daenera’s penetrating stare. He seemed to search for words amidst the roiling shadows among the stone columns, or perhaps he sought refuge from the weight of her accusation.

Unyielding, Daenera’s voice sharpened, even as her eyes stung with the threat of tears. “And what if he demands my head? Would you acquiesce to such a demand?”

Aemond’s reaction was visceral, his eye snapping back to meet hers with a steely resolve. The dark pupil of his eye seemed to swallow the blue iris surrounding it, burning with something fierce and dangerous. His lips pursed almost imperceptibly as though tasting the words that lingered on the tip of his tongue.

A shiver traced Daenera’s spine as Aemond brushed her hair gently aside, cradling her face and tilting it upwards with a familiar, scorching touch that unleashed a storm of emotions within her.

“If he asks for your head,” he murmured, his voice a low, raspy drawl, “I will present him with his own instead.”

“You wouldn’t,” Daenera countered softly, her words laced with a sad resignation that hung heavily in the air. Her fingers instinctively curled around his wrist, a silent plea for understanding. Deep down, she knew the bitter truth; despite his assurances, Aemond would likely resort to whatever means necessary to secure the alliance. He might not want to sacrifice her, but she harbored no illusions that he wouldn’t exploit her involvement in her husband’s death to his advantage, tarnishing relations with Borros to serve his own ends–and should he do that, it would cost her her life.

Daenera gently removed Aemond’s hand from her, warmth lingering on her skin where his touch had been. Stepping back, she reclaimed her space, wrapping her arms around herself for a sense of solace and protection.

With a deliberate effort to maintain her composure, though her throat tightened with emotion, Daenera spoke. “Borros Baratheon is a man driven by pride and ambition, and he is desperate for a male heir. He will accept the marriage alliance you offer, but make no mistake–he’ll be a fickle ally, who will wait and see whichever way the wind blows.”

She turned from him and began her walk down towards the doors, her steps resounding with the solemnity of thunder through the silence of the throne room. She had only covered ten paces when Aemond’s cut through the stillness, its timber on the verge of desperation–a plea.

“Wait…”

At his call, her stride faltered, her feet unexpectedly rooted to the cold stone floor. Despite her strong impulse to continue, she found herself inexplicably unable to move, held by some invisible tether. The echo of Aemond’s approach filled the vast space around her, each step amplifying the rapid beat of her heart as he drew closer, and a prickling sensation crawled up her spine, the hairs at the back of her neck standing on end.

In that charged moment, darkness seemed to deepen within the room as a cloud veiled the moon. The shadows around them thickened, swallowing the edges of the room and casting everything into a more profound stillness, almost as if time itself had paused.

Then, Daenera sensed his presence just behind her. Aemond’s head came to press gently against hers, his body molding to her back, as his hand tenderly wrapped around her waist, stretching across her lower abdomen with a gentle but firm pressure. The warmth of his touch enveloped her, offering a relief from the chilly air of the night.

Her eyes fluttered shut as a surge of tears threatened to break free. Despite the inner chaos and the resentment she harbored towards him, Daenera found herself leaning back into his embrace, drawing a momentary solace from his closeness–she would curse herself for it later, but in the moment, it offered her a refuge.

In the near-total darkness of the throne room, they stood frozen for several heartbeats, the silence around them thickening, almost tangible in the vastness of the space–a sea of darkness, a world of its own. His grip on her waist steadied, his head now resting gently against the side of hers, his breath warming the curve of her neck as his fingers softly caressed her skin.

As Daenera’s eyes fluttered open, she steeled her resolve against the seductive comfort of his touch, her heart constricting with a mix of longing and resistance.

With her voice steady and edged with a blunt sarcasm, Daenera spoke, “If you’re looking for a woman to warm your bed, I’d suggest you cast your eye towards a more agreeable bride – maybe one of the Baratheon girls, or even a whore would suffice.”

She resumed her walk towards the door, Aemond’s chuckle echoing behind her, a resonant sound that filled the silence and slowly dissipated into the quietude of the room.

Daenera pushed out of the doors and met her guard outside. As she stepped into the grand hall, the guard's voice rumbled deeply, reminiscent of stones grinding against each other. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

His question caught her off guard and she was momentarily startled by it. Her gaze met his, eyes narrowing as she was unsure of what he was implying.

“Did the walk tire you, I mean,” he clarified.

“Yes, I’ve become quite… weary,” Daenera responded, her voice catching slightly as she acknowledged the deep-seated fatigue that seemed to finally pass over her. She could feel it in the stiffness of her muscles and the heaviness that seemed to weigh down her entire body. “And cold.”

In shared silence, they continued back to her chambers.

Upon entering, Daenera was greeted by the moderate warmth of her room–a sharp relief from the chill that pervaded the hallways. Her feet, icy against the stone floor, carried her silently across the room. She shed her shawl and robe, both faintly stained with the blood from the cut on her finger, and draped them over a chair before advancing further into her bedchamber.

Her fatigue was more than physical; it was her heart that bore the heaviest burden of exhaustion. As the residual heat of anger dissipated, weariness was all that remained to her–weariness and dread. She felt the stiffness in her muscles and instinctively rolled her neck in an attempt to loosen the persistent tension anchored between her shoulder blades.

Closing her eyes briefly, Daenera could not escape the ghost of his touch that lingered on her skin. Without thinking, her hand drifted to her stomach, tracing the path where his had once lain. With a deep, weary sigh, she moved towards the bed.

The room was filled with the soft, rhythmic sound of Mertha’s snores–despite the woman’s claim that she did not snore. Daenera cast a glance at the old woman, who was dozing in the chair, her lips parted in what seemed like peaceful slumber.

Sitting on the edge of her bed, Daenera slipped off her shoes, her movements slow and deliberate as she prepared to crawl beneath the covers. Just as she was about to recline, a particularly loud snore erupted from Mertha, shattering the room’s quiet. This was swiftly followed by Mertha’s sharp, groggy voice slicing through the stillness.

“Where have you been?” She demanded, her eyes narrowing with suspicion.

Feeling a wave of exasperation wash over her, Daenera rolled her eyes and climbed into bed. She drew the covers over her cold feet, casting a withering glance at Mertha, who had straightened up in her chair, as though she had never fallen asleep to begin with. The flickering firelight played across Mertha’s features, deeping the lines on her face and intensifying the scornful expression directed at Daenera.

With a tone matching the sharpness in Mertha’s gaze, Daenera retorted, “Should I disturb your diligent watch whenever I need to visit the chamberpot?”

Her voice dripped with sarcasm. “Perhaps you’d like to inspect the contents of my bladder as well?”

Mertha responded with a profound huff, her lips forming a tight line as she reclined back in her chair. She picked up her needlework again, focusing her attention on the delicate stitches, glaring up at Daenera every time the needle punctured the fabric.

Meanwhile, Daenera snuggled deeper under the covers, pulling them right up to her chin. She closed her eyes, fervently wishing for the sweet escape of sleep to envelop her, to carry her away from the weight of her thoughts and the complexities of her reality.

*yellow chrysanthemum: Loyal Love *blue iris: Faith

#a vow of blood #hotd #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #aemond fanfiction #hotd aemond #aemond one eye #aemond x reader #aemond x oc #hotd fanfic #aemond targaryen x oc

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jungle-angel · 1 year

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The Skydancers (Bob Floyd x Reader)

Summary: You were once a mortal woman, loved unconditionally by a god of the sky. Yet when he took you as his wife, no one told you that your tasks in the heavens would be easy....yet for the two of you, it’s always worth it.

Notes: Inspired by the Greek God moodboards of @lewmagoo and @ryebecca, you guys are some of the most amazing content creators and I wanted to write a little story to go with them.

Tagging: @sebsxphia @nobody7102

Somewhere in the clouds you waited, completely unbothered by the other sky deities and creatures that flitted past you with hardly any heed or concern as to where they were going. The sun was shining brightly, the air warm as you walked along the clouds, waiting for your beloved to return from wherever he was.

The shimmering little dream dragon with big, blue green eyes, suddenly lifted its little head, his tail twitching as he sensed the arrival of a familiar family member.

A huge, broad grin suddenly grew across your face as you ran across the clouds, the winged sandals on your feet carrying you as far as they possibly could and the shimmering skirts of your light bronze chiton cool against your legs and ankles. You would have crashed right into Bob’s arms, save for the little bundle he carried in his arms.

“I missed you my sweet,” he cooed as he pressed a sweet, airy kiss to your lips.

“Where were you this time?” you asked him rather cheerfully. “Earth? The Otherworlds? Perhaps a little call from your uncle Hades?”

Bob had opened his mouth to say something, but you could readily tell that something troubled him deep inside. Even the gentle, loving little touches of your fingers running down his exposed bicep didn’t do much to dispel what troubled him.

Very gently, Bob revealed what lay within the blanket, the tiny little face of a newborn with little wisps of dark blonde hair. You were afraid to reach out and touch the delicate little face, fearing that the baby would wake and startle some of the creatures. But oh the little one was adorable! You wanted nothing more than to take them in your arms and hold them as your husband wrapped his arms around you......just as he had done when he fell in love with you.

“Where did he come from?” you asked, the curiosity gnawing at your brain.

“Palace was sacked,” Bob answered sadly. “The little one was an orphan and.....(Y/n) it was awful. Uncle Hades he....he’s seen suffering, but not like that. He said he’d take the grown ones to Elysium, but the little ones are to be in our domain.”

A pang of sadness and excitement all at once welled within you. You knew what it had been like to live a mortal life until Bob had taken you as his wife. You knew how precious life itself was, a gift that you hated to see squandered or cut short by the blade of a sword or bloodthirsty murderers who thought themselves better than the gods. You and Bob had wept tears of liquid gold for so many, even the lowliest slave who didn’t have a coin to their name. Yet there had been far greater joys as you had both seen, joys which made you both sing and kick up the wind just a little harder.

Bob very carefully placed the little one in your arms, his little fist covering his mouth, a sign you knew a little too well from your mother-in-law, Hera.

“Something tells me he’ll be awake soon,” you chuckled.

“Hopefully not too soon,” Bob half laughed.

You and Bob snuggled the little one until the skies had begun to turn all shades of rosy pink and lavender. All the creatures of the air had begun to turn in for the night, many of them curling up and settling into the clouds that turned into their warm little beds.

You and Bob had just begun to settle into a rather large patch of clouds, the skies having turned a heavenly shade of dark blue velvet with the calming light of the full moon, when a squeaky little cry had caught you both off guard.

You could instinctively feel it deep in your chest as you saw the little one’s tiny fists all balled up. You lifted him from his cloud cradle, unpinning one side of your chiton and letting him root before you felt those long, familiar fingers and those soft lips brushing against your exposed shoulder.

“So much for sleep,” Bob chuckled.

“He’ll sleep,” you hummed, your body buzzing as you felt Bob’s gentle fingers brushing against your sensitive, exposed breast. “It’ll take him time to get used to it, but at least he has us.”

When the baby had finished, you and Bob kissed his little cheeks as his eyelids drooped shut, the two of you drawing up the clouds over you and the little one to keep warm in the night while one of Bob’s perfectly white wings covered the three of you like a bed canopy. Your little dream dragon curled himself up like a cat, his soft little trill almost like a purr as the two of you had begun to count the stars and the constellations that moved across the sky. Soon, the two of you had begun to drift off into your own dreams, happy and content with the world around you as the sounds of the heavens carried you into a deep and restful sleep.

#top gun maverick #robert bob floyd #bob floyd x reader #top gun greek gods au #dagger squad #dagger squad au

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umbracirrus · 3 months

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WIP Whenever 💛

Work is quiet (it's barely 9am though, so unsurprising), and so, I'm posting a WIP... Got a busy few days coming up that I forgot about so this is probably the best opportunity that I've got!!

I was tagged by @thequeenofthewinter, @oblivions-dawn, and @bostoniangirl21!☺️ I'll catch up on all of yours later!

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How had she forgotten just how cold it was here?

Elyse felt a shiver go down her spine as she wrapped a woollen blanket she had been given around her shoulders. Her cloaks, her coats, her gloves, her scarf - all of it was in Dragonsreach still. It wasn’t as though she could go back to get them either... She couldn’t bring herself around to doing that. Not yet. Her emotions were still too heated to face anyone there – Balgruuf in particular.

How could he have done such a thing without so much as consulting her? Or even telling her of his intentions, of the risks which her personal decision was entailing?

Perhaps what hurt her most was the promise that she would be safe. From the moment that she had read those words from Ulfric, and learned of what Balgruuf had done... She had stopped feeling safe. An important decision had been taken away from her, and following on from her journey to defeat Alduin... One thing that she learned about herself was that the ability to make her own decisions was sacred to her. Those who took them away from her... Took away her autonomy... Many of those people she now deemed either unsafe, or an enemy. In some cases, both.

Thankfully, the Greybeards were neither. Their words – or at least the few which were not of the thu’um – were of guidance or wisdom.

Elyse quietly thanked Master Arngeir as he placed a bowl in front of her as he decided to keep her company in her silence, steam radiating from the pale-looking broth within.

“Something troubles you, Dragonborn.”

She didn’t respond as she kept her hands on her lap, lightly bandaged fingers digging into her trousers. Following her hasty and anger-fuelled exit from Whiterun, it head turned out that she had caused quite some damage to her hands. Bloodied scrapes from hitting the wall dusted her knuckles, and though not quite frostbitten from the midwinter chill and the death-grip which she had of Odahviing’s scales as they flew through the skies, they had needed to be slowly and carefully brought back up to a normal temperature. She hadn’t bothered with casting a spell to try and patch them up, the stinging and soreness helped with reminding her that this was real. Kept her grounded. “I’m just... considering my options. That’s all.”

Arngeir gave her a discerning look, it being obvious that he knew that she was tip-toeing around the exact truth of her situation. However, he didn’t press on the matter. That was one of the things that she quite liked about High Hrothgar... For that matter, Balgruuf – because of course it would have been him – had articulated the exact reason in a way better than she ever could have done over three years earlier.

A peaceful place, very disconnected from the troubles of the world.

The perfect place for reprieve.

#meg has done some writing #dragonborn oc elyse #skyrim #skyrim fanfiction #fic - the perfect storm #in summary - grumpy dragonborn runs away from her problems by hiding with her mountain grandpas

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svthub · 1 year

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svthub presents: december prompt challenge

svthub is hosting an open prompt challenge!

the word list is typed out under the cut for those who have trouble reading the graphic!

how does it work?

each word represents a day (example: "snowman" = day 1 = december 1st)

write something! it should be somewhat inspired by that day's word, but you can make any interpretation of the word! be creative!

you can write sfw or nsfw!

you can participate in as many or as few days as you want!

your fic does not have to be posted on the specific day (example: you can post day 1's prompt on day 10), but be sure to state which day it's for.

there is no minimum/maximum word count!

who can participate?

this daily prompt challenge is open to all nsfw writers, not just svthub members!! however, since we are a nsfw network for svt, we are limiting who can participate to authors who write nsfw and write for seventeen.

your fic can be sfw or nsfw, but anyone who participates must be an nsfw writer

you must write about seventeen (you're welcome to use the prompts for other groups! we won't reblog it on the network, but tag us anyway, we'd love to see what you come up with)

this is a writing challenge! so, no gifs/gfx will be reblogged. but again, you're more than welcome to use this list for inspiration, even though we won't reblog :)

how do i join?

when posting, tag your fic with "svthub: prompts" within the first five tags

mention us in your post (tag @svthub) and state which day you're writing for! example: "this is for day 1 of @svthub's december prompt challenge: snowman"

misc. info

here's a list of major holidays/events in december if you'd like to tie them in with a certain day!

dec. 18: first day of hannukah

dec. 21: winter solstice

dec. 24: christmas eve

dec. 25: christmas day

dec. 26: boxing day

dec. 26: first day of kwanzaa

dec. 30: joshua's birthday

dec. 31: new year's eve

this idea was inspired by @caratober's october prompt challenge!

we look forward to seeing what you create!

svthub december prompt challenge 2022

snowman

candy cane

hot cocoa

evergreen

snowflake

gingerbread

fireplace

ice skating

sweater

eggnog

blizzard

carol

peppermint

mistletoe

bow

apple cider

mittens

family

blanket

cold

winter

reindeer

jolly

nutcracker

north pole

candle

wreath

ski

bells

present

champagne

#svthub #svthub: prompts

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tsarinatorment · 2 years

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20 Tsari Fics

So no-one asked, but I did one anyway because I got myself thinking about it and life is not great rn so might as well think about things I'm good at rather than dwell on what I'm apparently bad at. So.

As always, only complete fics (with one exception but that's a short story compilation so technically all the stories within it are complete). Various fandoms represented here!

And because I'm curious: if you have a favourite of my fics, either one listed here or another one, feel free to let me know :D

(Please Don't Let Me) Fade Alone Riordanverse (TOA) Teen. Family/Romance. Will, Apollo, Nico. 8k Please. Don't let me.

A Tradition of Pride Mortal Instruments Gen. Friendship. Clary, Raphael. 2k When designing the new symbol to represent the Council, Clary struggles to find a symbol to represent the vampires.

Black Widow Naruto Teen. Angst. Rin, Obito. 2k Rin was Obito's best friend. Always there for him with a smile and kind words, no-one ever doubted her intentions towards him. Maybe someone should have done.

Choke Thunderbirds (TAG) Teen. Family. Scott, Tracy Family. 2k It's common knowledge that Grandma's cooking is a hazard to health. This was just one of the many occasions that proved it.

Criminals and Kindness Thunderbirds (TAG) Teen. Friendship. Mechanic, Parker, Scott. 2k The path to redemption is full of bumps, but it's not as impassable as it might seem.

Dawn Rises From the East Riordanverse (PJO; TOA) Teen. Family. Michael Y., Will, Apollo, OCs. 16k During the Battle of Manhattan, Michael Yew fell into the East River; his body was never found. Two years later, a homeless kid known only as Ferret has a chance encounter that changes everything he knows.

Divided, United Thunderbirds (TAG) Teen. Family/Hurt/Comfort. Scott, Virgil, Kayo, John. 6k Waking up bound in a dark room is never good news, but the absence of the brother he saw shot in front of him just makes it worse.

Flood Team Fortress 2 Teen. Hurt/Comfort. Scout. 2k A storm has left the canyon at Double Cross a raging torrent, but the Announcer decides to proceed with the mission nonetheless.

Freeloader Detective Conan Gen. Family. Kogoro. 1k Kogoro muses on the exact nature of his newest family member.

Grounded Thunderbirds (TAG) Teen. Family/Hurt/Comfort. Scott, Virgil, Kayo. 21k Scott didn't enjoy the trash mine rescue at all, but he enjoyed the consequences of it even less.

Help Me (Keep My Head Above Water) Thunderbirds (TAG [AU]) Teen. Family/Hurt/Comfort. Scott, Gordon. 4k The water is no place for a man who thrives in the skies. Luckily, he has a brother who’s the opposite.

In Your Shadow Thunderbirds (TAG) Gen. Family. Scott, Gordon. 2k "Tomorrow, they're not gonna say 'that's Gordon Tracy, the Olympic Champion!' Tomorrow, they're gonna say 'that's Scott Tracy's little brother!', and I'm gonna say 'damn straight I am.'"

Night Out Thunderbirds (TAG) Teen. Family. Gordon, Scott. 5k Gordon learnt two things that night: Scott was an affectionate drunk, and sometimes people throw bar stools for no good reason.

Outsider Thunderbirds (TAG) Teen. Friendship. Mechanic, Scott. 3k He’s not a member of International Rescue, but when someone ends up in trouble, he can’t walk away.

Seven Days and Seven Nights Riordanverse (TOA) Teen. Family. Will, Apollo, Apollo Cabin. 5k A warning, a storm, and Will’s world gets flipped upside-down.

Symbol of Despair Captain Scarlet/Thunderbirds (CSatM/TAG) Teen. Friendship. Scott, Captain Blue, John, Lieutenant Green. 23k Spectrum’s job is to attempt to foil each and every Mysteron threat made in the ongoing war of nerves. The threatened parties vary - politicians, military leaders, even strategic locations - but this time, it’s different. This time, the target is International Rescue, and Spectrum’s first hurdle is finding out where they’re supposed to be protecting in the first place.

Take A Chance On Me Thunderbirds (Movie) Teen. Family. Alan, Scott. 9k Thirteen. Scott, John, Virgil and Gordon had all had their first flying lesson when they turned thirteen, but when it was Alan’s turn, Dad said no. On a completely unrelated note, Scott is the world’s best big brother.

Tales From the Heart One Piece Teen. Friendship. Heart Pirates. 260k A series of short stories surrounding the Heart Pirates and their captain, with occasional guest appearances from other characters.

The Stolen God Riordanverse (MCGA; TOA) Teen. Friendship. Will, Magnus, Apollo. 107k Python is defeated. The prophecies are restored, and Nero has fallen. Apollo has not been seen since. His trials are over; why isn’t he back on Olympus?

You Can Be Whatever You Want To Be Riordanverse (TOA) Teen. Family/Hurt/Comfort. Will, Apollo. 9k After Will overworks himself, he finds himself receiving a difficult task from Apollo.

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not-the-apple-pie-please · 2 years

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Headcanons for Utah

Whoop!!! I'm back again. Headcanons for the Best Snow on Earth, Utah (their words not mine)

(below the cut because it's longer and I feel bad for people's dash.)

Utah was born in the summer of 1850, a month or so before he became an actual territory. He was called Deseret at the time and was nonreligious, lived on a small cattle ranch.

I have a personal headcanon that the LDS church has had a separate personification since the 1830s when they started preaching full time.

LDS himself is the white pressed shirt man with the elder tag and the hate for using "The Lords name in vain". Utah picked it up from him. (LDS lived in New York, Ohio, Illinois, and Missouri before going to Utah.)

Utah was brought up by the LDS church, and as such joined the church when he was still a new being.

He attempted to go on missions to outposts within the state but was shot down because he wasn't "good enough". Basing this completely on the team spirit idea that a personification can't be away from their people for too long, and that they didn't know quite the reach of said territory. (Cred to @icestarphoenix)

During the Utah war and following conflicts with polygamy, Utah himself was not part of the decision. The LDS church had an iron grip on the guy and was calling shots for him.

Utah met The Army in fall of 1857 when he joined the Nauvoo Legion to meet them

Between the 1850s and 1890s was when I HC Utah as taking most of his mission trips.

Utah met his first wife in 1869 after the completion of the transcontinental railroad, a woman named Emma Bradshaw.

Not making a headcanon for her, but Utah was always monogamous. He only had about 3 kids with this union, 1 of which died shortly after being born.

Utah drinks his respect women juice sometimes (has had women's suffrage since the 1870s) (but outlaws abortion so he's been slacking)

Utah became a state in 1896 and his first meeting with the other states was held that same year. I'm inclined to think he was probably excluded from meetings before then because a lot of Mormon policy was seen as Un-American and I have a feeling Gov didn't like the religion controlled territory all too much.

Utah and the National Park Service became good friends in the 30s during the depression, with the creation of the Mighty Five parks.

Utah is a big outdoors person, and likes snowboarding, hiking, rock climbing, and skiing.

During WW2 he managed to join the army and stormed Normandy. Frequently had to go back to his state because of Team spirit stuff.

In the 70s Utah got in trouble with Gov about his racist policies concerning the church, and that is when I headcanon Utah to start to fall away from the church.

Utah never really liked computers all that much when they were being created, but loves the GPS. He doesn't really need it thanks to the grid system, but he holds a certain fondness for the automated voice.

Utah met his second wife, Ilithiya, in November of 2006 and were married in May of 2007. The states were all invited and only like 20-ish came.

All of my headcanons on Ilithiya come from @firsttraintovictoriaville 's work Worth Praying For because she is beautiful and I love that work

Utah's six kids were born as follows: Jaxon(March 21st, 2008) Kayleigh(March 21st, 2008 +3 minutes) Kingsley (September 9th, 2011) Kayden (December 2nd, 2013) Jayden (August 16th, 2015) Brayden (July 30th, 2016)

Utah and the LDS church have weird strained relationship. The LDS (not typing out church every time) has a lot of say in what does and doesn't happen in the state. I see their relationship as a teacher and a student, LDS being the teacher and Utah being the student.

Utah has a lot of issues with church doctrine, mainly on the books of Abraham and JST.

When Utah approached LDS with these issues in the early 70s. LDS was quick to come up with excuses and reasons as to why those concerns were silly and Utah was just being a bad Mormon.

From then on Utah was more of a laid back Mormon, obvi didn't quit the church because he still has the suit and tie, but he doesn't follow every guideline to a T now.

Personally, I don't see Utah as the super ultra "Do you know Jesus loves you?" Guy, but more of a guy who was raised with really strict parents and struggles to venture outside their standards very often because that was how he was raised.

He has a no alcohol policy because Florida, as well as a no coffee policy because Georgia. No tobacco because Mississippi, and no weed because Colorado.

Utah is a big tea person. Not early gray, but herbal teas? All of about them. As a collection of different fruit teas and caffeine free beverages.

He cannot watch movies with any sort of romance or sexy stuff. Turns away from the screen during kissing scenes because it "feels like a violation of privacy".

The kind of person to say "Hate is a strong word 😃" and proceed to complain about a single person for 2 ½ hours.

Utah strikes me as a big dog person. I think he'd have a good dog for kids, like a golden retriever or an Australian shepherd. Just a dog that would be okay to go on adventures but also sit by the kids when they pass out from playing.

Has a Google phone because he hates Apple.

Yeah! Those are all the headcanons I have stored in my noggin. Would love to hear if any one else has any thoughts, or if I wrote something that is just Straight Up Wrong.

Also apologies to anyone offended by the Mormon stuff, I'm an exmo myself and it's kinda venting on my part with that. Totally willing to edit!

#welcome to the statehouse #welcome to the table #wttt #wttsh #ben brainard #wttt utah #wttsh utah #headcanons #my headcanons

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skymaiden32 · 2 years

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Midnight Inferno

Tagging: @dragonoffantasyandreality @thundergeek59 @janetm74 @katblu42 (Please ask if you would like to be alerted when I update or write new stories)

Chapter 3, which is the final chapter, has also be posted today! ^^

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

Thunderbirds 1 and 2 had returned home in the early morning, and Jeff was tired, but separation made the heart grow fonder, and he missed his sons, no matter how short a time they had been away. Scott came in first, the wall spinning to reveal the serious look of his eldest. Jeff raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He supposed he would know about it soon enough. Scott had asked to have a family meeting called on the way back for a reason, after all.

The rest of his Earth-bound sons were by their brother’s side in front of him within a few minutes. Jeff cleared his throat. “So, what’s gotten you all so worried about lately?”

“This.” Scott gently pushed the newspaper towards Jeff. “I’m honestly surprised you don’t know about it…”

Jeff winced as he read the heading and the article with it. He did wonder why he hadn’t heard a word about it… “This is troubling…” He hummed. “Regardless of how unstable that gas field is, there shouldn’t be that many fires.”

Virgil took over. “Our thoughts exactly.” The two older brothers exchanged a troubled look. “We reckon it may be sabotage, Father.”

Jeff frowned. “That’s quite a big leap, boys.”

“We know, Dad.” Gordon stepped forward. “It’s not a conclusion we make lightly…”

“We’ll help the next rig…” They all looked at Alan, whose famous puppy eyes, which he was currently using, could get him a lot when they were kids. “Right, Dad?”

Their father spluttered. “Well, I’m not exactly comfortable with you boys going out with a possible saboteur around, especially with what happened with Akers…”

“Father.” Scott spoke softly, but his voice still held the same power it always did. “We know there’s a risk, especially with what Penny said recently about more potential counter-agents on the loose.” He folded his arms and shrugged. “But there’s a risk in every rescue we’ve been on and ever will again.” He gestured to his brothers around him, who all nodded. “When another rig fire happens, we’ll be ready…”

There were hums of ascent all around, and Jeff couldn’t help the twinge of pride he felt in his chest. He sighed. “Alright then… International Rescue will attend the next rig fire.” He could feel rather than see their looks of triumph as he downed his coffee in one go. He barely hid his own amusement. “Just be extra wary. If this is a saboteur, this might be their way of pulling us into a trap.”

------

John groaned as the radio blared at him from where he lay on his bunk. He had just started to nod off. Grumbling, the astronaut rolled out of bed and shuffled tiredly over to where the mayday blared across the satellite.

“This is International Rescue, receiving you strength five.” He put on his best awake voice. “What’s your situation?”

“There’s another fire…” The caller sounded halfway between extremely panicked and extremely embarrassed. The words took a few moments to click in John’s mind, but when they did, he inwardly sighed. There went his sleep schedule, not that he really had one at the moment...

He pinched the bridge of his nose. He was going to have to get some much needed shut-eye after the rescue. For now though, a bucketload of coffee would have to do. “Say no more. Give me the details and I’ll have a team dispatched…”

------

They had almost given up on that call from the rigs. Now, Thunderbirds 1 and 2 soared through the skies towards the Southern Ocean. Thunderbird 2 held her yellow submersible sister in the Pod, and Gordon was buzzing with excitement. His last rescue as International Rescue’s aquanaut was the incident with Akers a couple of months prior, and he felt long overdue for some action.

This overflowing energy did by no means go unnoticed by Virgil, who in contrast, was flying with a professional and serious look on his face. The elder of the two sighed as he looked back at his brother briefly, before turning his full attention back to the skies. “Be careful what you wish for…” Virgil muttered, hoping that Gordon hadn’t heard him. A little excitement to go on a mission was good. But it was almost like his family was cursed sometimes. True, it came with the trade, but whenever a member of International Rescue either hadn’t been out for a while, or were otherwise thrilled to be out in the ‘Birds, something always went wrong. No exceptions.

And Virgil found himself praying to whatever creator might be out there that this time was the exception…

#*whispers*#oh if only virg...#if only... >:3 #thunderbirds #thunderbirds 1965 #thunderbirds fanfiction #thunderfam #jeff tracy #scott tracy #virgil tracy #gordon tracy #alan tracy #john tracy #thunderbirds calendar 2022 project

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theofficersacademy · 1 year

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TEAM TAG: #KEBattlefield2023

WEEK TWO: Is It Cold Outside?

On the other side of the Sealed Forest lies your next battlefield: a glittering city whose buildings stretch into the sky, outshining the stars. This is the capital of the last holdout. Sparagmos.

(Not a name, but a word. An ugly word, a violent word. To rend flesh from bone, to tear apart beyond recognition, to seek total destruction by your own hands.)

Amidst the hustle and bustle of your camp, you notice someone new, someone that manages to be both out of place and belonging where she sits. In the center of the camp is an older woman, a prisoner bound in white roots and exhibited like a common criminal in the stocks. And yet no one pays attention to her. An invisible circle marks the boundary between her and the soldiers around you, and none acknowledge her. Or even realize she exists.

(If you take a step within that forbidden space, she looks at you. The wind whips around violently, threatening to topple the barren trees and lift you away. She looks away, refusing to see you, and you’re called away by one of the soldiers.)

(The skies look darker than they did before).

Dream Logic

As in all dreams, you have a vague sense of place and purpose, though they are up to your interpretation.

The army is no longer just a faceless mass of people bearing your enemies’ flags. Now that you’ve lived and worked with them for this long, they start to bear the familiar faces of your own comrades from the wars back home.

The Prince has put up a valiant effort in trying to maintain his kingdom’s sovereignty, but at the cost of his people’s lives. This is the last push you need to unify Rusalka and bring peace to your kind. It won’t be easy, but you will make it happen.

A disheveled middle-aged woman kneels at the foot of a massive ivory spire. Most of her body is consumed by tangling white roots, and her head hangs in defeat.

Trying to talk to her will result in nothing but trouble. Enter NPC “Disheveled Woman”.

Places of Interest

Sparagmos: The capital city of the principality by the same name. A grand city well-known for its “skyscrapers” and strong banks, some of the most influential players in the fight against unification have made their base here. This is one of the last holdouts standing in the way of a unified... a unified Agartha. This city will be sacked.

Goal

From last week: You manage to slide in with last week’s assignment just before it’s due. Your commanding officer doesn’t look terribly pleased with your handiwork, but results are results!

You hand over 1 Deathrattle, 1 Gray Eye, 3 Vulneraries, and 5 Adamantines.

This week, your commander expects more from you! They tell you to have the following in your inventory by next week:

3 Enhanced Deathrattles

5 Enhanced Vulneraries

10 Adamantines.

20 Stone.

Tasks

The first step is to wear down the city’s inner defenses. With your specialist knowledge of infrastructure, command sends you and a few scouts to infiltrate the city and open up more pathways into Sparagmos. You draw sticks and end up with the worst of the assignments: tunneling underground and tampering with their water system. The first whiff should be enough to realize that this is no place for humans.

2d3 Stone per post, participants lose -0.5HP every 2 posts made for the thread.

A local village lays abandoned, pillaged and burned before your allies came along. From what remains, it may seem eerily similar to the village “Teleos” on the other side. It’s likely that the villagers abandoned this place and burned what remained on their way out, but you may be able to salvage something usable from the wreckage.

3d2 Wood per post

In urban areas, chalkos from the earth is hard to simply come by. What used to be here is now stored in a warehouse just outside the city limits, guarded heavily by city watch. A plan is made to raid the warehouse and take what you can for your own stores. But be careful: you won’t be the only mages on the battlefield, and the Chalkos dust in the air will make for an explosive battle.

4d2 Chalkos per post, lose -1HP at the start of each day.

Crafted supplies are harder to come by with the weather being what it is, but you catch a lucky break in the form of an unlucky merchant on his way to the city. He is made prisoner while you and the others pick through his cargo, determining what can be used for the military’s purposes. An officer is here to swiftly pocket any and all Obol you find, but there is plenty of other use things here...

4d4 Herbs per post. In addition, roll 1d20 per post, 19 = 1 Orichalcum, 20 = 1 Vulnerary.

#toakeraselephas2023 #kebattlefield2023

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anestofocs · 5 months

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Welcome to the Nest!

Hey there, We're Aviannst/Anest of Oc!

We're a lil roleplay blog for the Aivan nest System. We're a multi fandom blog with quite a few muses.

Our main muses are: Trudy Murray: A Guild Wars 2 OC turned multiplane traveler.

Yuki Kiyori: A Tekken OC, "The Mocking Demon", A rough around the edges Street Brawler who means well but often finds himself into trouble.

The Bloom System: A Mystic messenger based System oc, Seo-Yun, Eun, Seong and Myung Jun They find themselves torn between Mint Eye and "paradise" and The RFA's offer of freedom and safety.

Beezelbub: The Deadly Sin of Gluttony, here to get this party started and enjoy life to it's fullest. Bee as her friends know her. This demoness is as sweet as say, Cotton Candy?~

See our Carrd for more info.

Tags:

General Tags: Birds behind the curtain: General OOC Tag

Oooh a Friend!: Promo Tag

Nest of Memes: Ask meme Tag.

Yuki:

Bad Decisions in Leather - Ic Tag

Images lost in smokey hazes - Aesthetic Tag

I make bad choices look good - NSFW rp/posts

Crowe:

Light of Justice - IC Tag

Big Sister's notebook - Aesthetic Tag

Love in different places - NSFW Tag

Trudy:

Starlit Wanderer - IC Tag

Within Reason Without Mercy - Aesthetic Tag

Ravenous Mistwalker - NSFW Tag

Bloom System:

A Bloom in the Wind - General IC tag For Bloom System

Picture Perfect Idol - Seo-Yun IC Tag.

Shy Lavender - Myung IC Tag

Relentless Protector - Eun Tag

Laugh before you cry - Seong IC Tag

Loving us is a Mindfuck - NSFW Tag

Mystery Messengers - Aesthetic Tag

Beezelbub:

Queen Bee - IC Tag

Brighter then the skies - Aesthetic Tag

Sweeter then Apple pie - NSFW Tag

#independent rp #into post #birds behind the curtain -ooc

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hopkins60skinner · 2 years

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Holidays enjoyable, soothing and a thing absolutely everyone anticipates. But, the act of traveling to reach the desired destination can often contain heaps of strain. From scheduling rooms and flights to packing ahead of boarding the prepare or aircraft, there are many points that go awry. The following is some valuable advice that can make your getaway travels considerably less demanding.

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#ull #Car Hire Christchurch Airport

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illyaana · 3 years

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credits to the artists who made the fanarts I used!

Dorm Life - Shoto Todoroki

Thanks to @missuga for this collab! Sorry I gave to you late TwT Do check out their collab over here!

Tags: Shoto Todoroki x Reader, Binaural, Fluff, Cursing, Minor Angst, Kissing (escandalo)

Synopsis: A compilation of drabbles of your life during the pandemic, quarantined in the UA dorms.

Word Count: 2734

⋯⋯ ⫍ SFW Masterlist ◍ Navigation ⫎ ⋯⋯

Like my writing? Do you want a drabble specifically made for you about your love life with a character of your choosing? Check out my 50 followers event over here!

CLASSES

The Sun let its light brush against your skin, giving you a warm hug in the morning. You awoke to the pale blue skies that were painted so elegantly it made you stare. The cumulus clouds softly danced on its stage, etching a smile on your face. You looked around the room, checking for the clock to see what time it was currently.

10:00 a.m. - You were supposed to wake up at 8:00.

Worry rushed through you. The fear of you being late for class thrummed as you tried to get out of your bed.

Hint: tried.

You turned to your side and looked at the male beside you. His hands had found their way around your waist, pulling you in. His head was pressed against your shoulder. His twin-colored hair was disheveled thanks to him turning himself all through the night, His long eyelashes framed his closed lids, his lips slightly parted. Small snores came out in intervals as he snuggled into you, his vice grip around your body tightening even more.

You could help but trace his lips with your finger - it was so soft, you had to.

You pressed a kiss to his forehead, then laid your forehead against his.

“Get up, Sho - class starts in 10 minutes,” you said, rubbing his shoulder.

“I don’t want to, this is too comfortable,” he mumbled, rubbing his head on your shoulder.

“What are you, a cat?” You joked, placing your hands on his cheek, “Let me at least get my laptop on - I can tell Aizawa we’re sharing my laptop and we can just join the class here.”

“Getting the laptop means that you move - and you are not moving,” he said, tightening his grip on you.

“You know we’re going to be in trouble if we don’t join the class, right? Oh yeah, it starts in 5 minutes,” you said, slightly annoyed at him.

Shoto sighs in defeat, “Fine - but, hurry up,”

You pry his arms off of you and rush to your table to get the laptop on. Thankfully, you managed to join the class 3 minutes before it began.

“Aren’t you coming back in here?” Todoroki whined, patting the space beside him.

“Are you finally awake?” You question him.

“Kind of?”

“ ‘Kind of?’ “

“Yes, I am awake - I no longer need to sleep,” he groans.

You take your laptop and place it in the space between the two of you as you sit back on the bed. You pressed another kiss on his forehead, making him smile.

“Good morning, snowflake,” he says as he returns your kiss with one on your forehead.

“Good morning, Sho.”

“Now that you both have shown a great deal of affection, Y/N and Shoto,” Eraserhead says from your Zoom call, “Can my class finally begin?”

⁜

LUNCH BREAK

“I got the money from Aizawa for our meals! Can you all go through the menu and tell me what you want on the class group chat?” Momo shouted from the living room.

“Imagine eating great food for free?” Uraraka smiled, enjoying how our meals were paid for by the school itself, “The pandemic is amazing yet so annoying at the same time.”

You chuckle at the brown-haired girl, seeing her awe-filled expression.

“What are you getting?” You ask her.

“Hmm… maybe Udon? It’s been a long time since I ate it, and since it’s not coming from my pocket…” she eyed the menu, “I’m getting the most expensive one.”

“You know he gave a set amount for the whole class right?” You look at her mischievous expression.

“I’m pretty sure we can stay within the budget. Our class generally doesn’t spend much money on food, right?”

You looked across the room to see Kaminari and Kirishima going through the menu.

“You think those two will be reasonable with their spending? Knowing them, they’re most probably buying the whole menu plus snacks,” you say, looking at their joy-filled grins.

You saw Shoto walk beside Iida, heading towards the two males. Intrigued, you and Uraraka walked towards the group of four.

“Hey,” you say as you hug Shoto from the back, “Everything okay?”

“These two,” Iida said, anger laced in his words, “Ordered everything on the menu.”

You held back your laughter, unlike Uraraka.

“Your skills in predicting the future astound me, Y/N L/N,” she says, covering her mouth.

“Hush,” you say, smiling.

“The two of you…” Iida began, looking at the two wrongdoers, “I don’t know how your closer friends handle you two.”

You look at the scene unfolding in front of you, smiling.

Iida was full-on lecturing the two males, his hands moving in all ten directions. Kaminari and Kirishima just stood there, dumbfounded. You could see the two of them slowly spacing out from the ‘conversation’, but Iida kept going on.

“Hey,” Shoto whispered, “Wanna have a mini-date tonight? I’ll order a few things and get them sent here, and we can watch a movie together?”

“Don’t use the money Aizawa gave though - we don’t need a third victim of Iida’s lectures,” you whisper, earning a smile from the stoic male.

⁜

MINI-DATES

You opened the door to Shoto’s room, comfortably dressed in your Axolotl onesie. In your hands, you brought a hard drive filled with movies that you felt that you both would enjoy. Seeing that Shoto wasn’t in the room, you laid on his bed, waiting for the arrival of the owner of the room. Your eyes went straight to his mirror. He had slid multiple polaroid pictures of you and your friends in the corners of the mirror. Each one of the photos had a small remark, reminding you of all the memories you’ve made throughout your years in UA.

Your hands grazed on the photo he kept on the bedside table.

It was a picture of him and his mother smiling.

Your chest panged when you saw it. He had told you the story behind his scar and his life within the Todoroki household. His hatred for his father grew every day, yet he could never hate his mother - the very person who gave him the scar on his face.

“I love that picture, but not as much as I love this one,” Shoto said, pointing at a photo in the top-left corner of his mirror.

It was a picture of both of you visiting his mother with Fuyumi and Natsuo.

“I’ll admit Natsuo was not the most welcoming to the idea of me dating you, but he slowly loved you as a sibling. I did talk about you to Fuyumi a bunch of times, but she had her suspicions - that all changed when she met you, though. Mom…”

He hesitated, “...she didn’t like the idea of me dating anyone. Yet, you managed to make her like you so much, now she only asks about you whenever I call her,” he chuckled.

“My family loves you - except Endeavor, of course,” he groaned.

“He’ll come around, eventually. You, however,” you walk up to him and cup his face, “Need to talk to him properly - no filter, just say everything.”

You lie back down on the bed, patting the space beside you, “Hurry up - the snacks you bought are calling me.”

After multiple small banters, you both finally decided on Shrek and began to watch the movie.

After a while, you found yourself lying on Shoto’s chest, playing with his fingers as you focused on the movie. Shoto, however, stared at your cute expressions, taking mental notes of all the small things you did when a scene disgusted you, made you laugh or made you feel sad.

“Y/N,” he whispered in your ear once the movie ended, “Thanks for loving me.”

You turned to face the fire user, cupping his face in your hands. His fingers found their way in your hair, enjoying the feeling of your soft locks against his calloused skin. Your thumb began to move in circular motions, eager to feel his soft skin against yours. You stared into his dual-coloured eyes, enjoying the brown and icy blue flecks within each eye. He relaxed against your touch, warmth radiating from him to you.

“I love you so much, Sho - and I will no matter what happens later on.”

You shared a kiss under the glow of the pale moonlight, but all you cared about was how perfect the man you were kissing was.

⁜

TRAINING

“Hey Sho,” you say, nudging the male beside you, “You wanna train after this?”

“I can’t,” he said, looking down, “I asked Midoriya to help me with some things. The only time he’s free is after this, so…”

“Don’t worry, I’ll ask Uraraka!” you say, kissing him on the cheek, “Good luck with whatever you’re doing with Mido.”

Soon, both you and Uraraka headed to Ground Beta to train your hand-to-hand combat.

“Luckily all of us are vaccinated, or the training grounds wouldn’t be open,” you say, thinking.

“Okay, okay - you wanted to work on hand-to-hand combat, right?” You nodded.

Both you and Uraraka got into your positions, mentally preparing yourselves. You were ready to move towards her until you heard sounds coming from the entrance.

“Well, well, well - isn’t that two students from Class 3-A?” Monoma snickered.

You groaned before turning to face him.

“Hello, Monoma? Where’s Kendo?” you ask, hoping that the ginger would come and stop him.

“Kendo’s eating right now - don’t want to disturb her. I don’t mind messing with the two of you, though.”

“What’s the difference, Monoma?” Uraraka added, “We usually keep quiet, but Y/N and I would like to train, so it would be greatly appreciated if you either kept quiet or left.”

“Why would you want to train with them, though?” He said, looking at Uraraka, “They’re the weakest bitch in your whole class, aren’t they?”

“The fuck, Monoma?!” you shouted, “That’s going a bit too far, don’t you think?”

“What? I’m just stating facts; you entered the class later than everyone else, you’re quirkless since you depend on your weapons, you need to train with others so that you can win 10% of the time - don’t the facts say it all?”

“Monoma, you might want to - ”

“Stop? Why should I?” he laughed, “It’s about time someone told you the truth; you’re useless, unneeded, a waste of space, and never going to be a hero - not even a sidekick.”

“So, the student who single-handedly served you your own ass in a fight doesn’t deserve to stay, but your weak fucking self can stay?” Shoto chuckled darkly, his hand slowly freezing Monoma’s shoulder, “That’s a lot of self-confidence for someone who hasn’t fought well for 3 years straight.”

“Next time you talk shit about Y/N, don’t expect to leave without losing any limbs,” he shouted, scaring Monoma.

“Shoto,” you begin, “Let me fight my own battles.”

He stares at you and sighs. His vice grip on Monoma loosens as you walk towards him.

You run your sword against his hands, small cuts forming.

“Talk shit about me again and you won’t be standing. Get the fuck out, dumbass.”

Monoma runs out of Ground Beta, making you chuckle.

“Damn, Y/N,” Uraraka says from afar.

“That’s my lover,” Shoto says, smiling.

⁜

NIGHTMARES

You woke up to the sounds of Shoto whimpering in his sleep.

His clothes were soaked by his sweat, trails of tears strung down his face.

He was shaking - shivering.

Small screams of Natsuo, Fuyumi and Rei’s names escaped his lips along with soft sobs.

“Shoto!” You shouted, shaking him, “Wake up, it’s only a dream - they’re okay, they’re alive.”

You heard your name.

You heard his voice become louder, screaming your name in pain.

“I’m here, I’m fine,” you whisper in his ear.

“I’m right here, Shoto - I haven’t left you. I am here, hugging you. Wake up, okay?’

You heard his whimpers stop as he wrapped his arms around you. He nuzzled his face into your chest as you patted his head.

“Y/N…” you heard him mumble, “Y/N… you’re fine, right?”

“I’m fine, Sho. I’m here hugging you, aren’t I?”

He nodded, pressing his head against your chest.

“You want to talk about it?”

“No…” he trailed off.

“Okay, don’t worry,” you say, kissing him on his head.

“You want me to get you something? Milk, water…?” you ask him, slowly prying yourself off of him.

“Don’t go anywhere.”

“Ok then, koala - I’m not going anywhere,” you say, chuckling.

You hummed a song as you rubbed Shoto’s back, giving him warmth. You wiped the trail of tears and pressed kisses on his cheek.

If he needs you to be his haven, you’ll be an oasis from all the bad.

⁜

CLASS FUN

“Ok, so - everyone is here, right?” Mina said as she stood in the middle of the living room.

You looked at everyone in the living room. Everyone was excited - after all, it’s been a long time since you all did something together as a class.

“I think everyone’s here, Mina,” Shouji said, passing you your drink.

Shoto placed his head on your shoulder, groaning.

“What’s wrong with you?” you ask, worried.

“I wanted to just sleep in today…” he said, sulking.

“Come on, it’s been a long time since we did something as a class - who knows? This might be our last little thing as a class,” you retort.

He hummed in agreement, “Fine.”

“Great! Let’s bring back an old classic, shall we? The game that made all the couples in this classroom, the game that made the impossible possible,” she looked at Bakugou and Izuku, “Spin the Bottle Truth or Dare!”

“This fucking game?” Bakugo cussed.

“Relax, Kacchan~,” Kaminari said, teasing the other blonde.

“Shut up, dunce face,” Bakugo said with anger.

“Keep quiet, you two. Mina’s getting angry,” Kirishima said, eyeing the pink-haired female.

“So what if-”

“Kacchan, shush,” Izuku said, glaring at his partner.

“Thank you, my green-haired savior,” Mina said, smiling at Izuku.

“Let me re-explain how the game works; Person A will spin the bottle in the middle of the circle until it stops on Person B. Person A will play truth or dare with Person B. Clear?” Mina said, smiling.

The game soon spiraled out of control, just like everyone expected.

Kaminari danced in a maid dress, Shinsou was forced to call Aizawa and Present Mic ‘dads’ in a call on speaker, Kirishima was forced to scream “I’m hard!” out loud, and Mina sang Baby Shark to her lover - something we never thought Kirishima would enjoy.

In the last round, the bottle landed on Shoto.

The person who spun the bottle was Sero.

You knew he had something planned - you could see it in his eyes.

“Shoto Todoroki, truth or dare?” He said, smirking.

You looked at him, begging him to not choose dare.

“Truth, I guess?” he said, looking at you.

Phew.

“What do you and Y/N do when you’re alone?”

Shit.

“Take dare, take the dare, take the dare…” you mumbled under your breath, hoping he’d listen.

“Can I take the dare?” Shoto said, questioning your actions.

Phew.

“Make out with Y/N right here.”

Shit.

“Give them some privacy, Sero!” Uraraka shouted on your behalf.

“He already evaded the truth question, I’m not modifying the dare,” Sero said, huffing.

“Y/N,” Shoto said, looking at you, “Is it okay?”

You sigh in frustration, “I put us in this situation, Sho. Let’s just get it over with.”

Shoto smiled, looking at your pissed expression.

“Look at me,” he whispered in your ear, raising small goosebumps on your skin.

His hands slowly went to your cheeks, eyeing the flecks in your eyes - how they sparkled just for him and him alone. His thumb reached your lips and parted it - enjoying how you were putty in his hands. His hand slowly went from your cheek to your chin, raising it to make your forehead meet his.

“Geez, Y/N,” he said, lust filling his eyes, “You’re so perfect.”

He softly pressed his lips against yours. He sucked on your lips, enjoying the strawberry lip balm you put just before you entered the living room. Your hands gripped on his dual-colored hair, fingers entangled.

The soft kiss soon turned desperate, needy.

In, out, in, out - the synchronization of your lips.

The need for breath soon came and your lips parted from his.

“Well, that was something,” you said, laughing.

⁜

208 notes · View notes

foli-vora · 3 years

Text

Summary: Signs!AU. It started off in the most bizarre of ways. Crop circles. You mean the bother of cleaning up someone’s stupid prank? But then the lights come—hundreds, thousands—floating menacingly above the cities. The panic starts to settle in.

You don’t let the dog outside at night anymore. Abnormal clicking filters through the aged radio perched in Frankie’s shed, and you see his frown deepen every day, dark eyes locked onto the skies more often than usual. His gun stays out of the safe.

And then they call it—some poor woman on the news sits in front of the camera, eyes watery and hands shaking. She says they’re coming. She says it’s the end, that we should brace for their arrival and pray. You’ve never seen Frankie move so fast.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x f!reader

Warnings: angst galore, drug references, swearing, supernatural themes, thriller/horror, future violence, guns, future blood/gore, future mentions of death/suicide

Word count: 4.4K

A/N: I’m not gonna lie, I’m excited about this one. Tag list is open to anyone who wants to join! I didn’t use my usual permanent one as it is lost on a broken laptop and this might not be everyone's cup of tea lmao. Enjoy, angels! xo

The bed’s cold.

It’s been cold for days, weeks, despite his body hot under the blankets. The chill that lingers in the room seeps into his bones, the air lacking your familiar breath of warmth, of comfort. He can barely smell you on your pillow anymore, his arms crushing it too hard against his chest night after night, drowning what was left of you with his own fragrance.

You’ll come home this week—he’s sure of it.

The house is spotless. There’s not a thing out of place, not a thing you’d have to worry about doing if, no when, you come home. Everything’s just as it should be.

He sends his usual morning text, asking his usual questions, and ending it with his usual I miss you. He worried at the beginning, the day after you packed a bag and left to stay with a friend. He worried that you’d ignore him, that you’d realise he was trouble and not worth the energy. His insecurities churned deep in his gut and kept him wide awake, the voice taunting as it echoes in his ears telling him he was nothing.

But you replied.

Even now, you reply. Every day.

He remembers the wash of tears in your eyes that day. Remembers how it gripped somewhere deep within him with relentless strength, pulling and twisting until he felt physically sick, bile searing as it crept up his throat.

“You lied to me?”

He couldn’t say no. That would be another lie. The burn of shame flooded him, and he couldn’t find the words to ease the pure pain melting into your soft features. You didn’t ask for much—just honesty. He even swore to you, early in your relationship, to never lie, to never hide. You’d been through enough bullshit with previous partners. And then he did.

Another lie, another broken promise.

His nervous pleading didn’t stop you from shoving clothes into a bag, his own tears didn’t break your steely resolve, and he’s glad—proud, even. You knew you didn’t deserve it. You were taking a stand for yourself, and it snaps him from whatever cloud had overcome his mind. He had gotten too comfortable, too lax with your feelings, and now he was paying the price.

The scratch of claws against hardwood drag him from his mind and alert him to the oncoming attack, and he tenses under the sheets just as a weight hits the bed, a head shoving itself under the blanket until a wet nose rubs against his cheek, a tongue quickly following suit.

Frankie’s chuckle is hoarse, sleep still curling in his throat, and then he flings the covers away, wrapping an arm around the furry body that nuzzles into his side. “I’m up, and yes she says good morning.”

Chip whines against his chest, digging deeper under his body until he was comfortably covered by his owner, tongue lolling from his mouth when a hand starts rubbing against that sweet spot along his ribs.

“I know, bud. She’ll be home soon.”

He hopes it wasn’t another broken promise.

The morning feels slow, and it still doesn’t feel right. Music doesn’t fill the kitchen with soft notes while food sizzles on the stove, feet don’t move along the floor in a clumsy sway of dancing with the scratching of trimmed claws against the hardwood trying to keep up - it’s just him, sitting opposite a vacant chair, full plate stark in comparison to the bare plate still sat on the table across from him.

His food’s long cold by the time he eventually gathers the strength to pick up his fork.

—

Chip’s sitting next to the front door when Frankie eventually wanders from the kitchen after meticulously cleaning everything, tail brushing along the floor in eager strokes. He barks slightly in impatience when Frankie makes no move for his boots, his hands instead remaining perched on his hips.

“What do you want?”

He knows what he wants - it’s the same every morning.

Breakfast, and then a walk through to the property a field over to check up on the stubborn elderly neighbour. Harold was a hard heart; lonely, irritable, and seemingly pissed at the world with the way he had a permanent scowl etched into his aged face, but you and Frankie both had adopted him the second he had come marching around in his stained overalls, ranting about fixing the fence the previous owners had destroyed while you were unloading boxes from the truck.

You had waved him onto the porch for a drink, working that charm you denied having, and he had been won over. He left a while after, grumbling with a softened face that the fence didn’t matter — you were both welcome by whenever you saw fit.

A brief wave of worry washes over him that quickly evaporates when his neighbour appears from the corn stretching out between the properties, face creased deeper than usual. He spies Frankie immediately, grunting in greeting while bending slightly to pat the excited dog bouncing around his feet.

“What’s with the cruiser?” Frankie nods to the police car idling in the driveway, and Harold frowns at it, huffing under his breath.

“Those damn kids again.” The man grumbles, arms tight across his chest as his weathered face puckers in the sun. “Destroyed half my crops last night, runnin’ through the fields and flattenin’ everything.”

Frankie frowns, following as his neighbour turns and leads him deeper into the crop with a wave of his hand. The quiet comfort of leaves encase him with the soothing song of insects, and he feels at ease wandering deeper into the familiar greenery, flooded with fond memories going back to his childhood of running through the towering stalks with laughter ringing in the sunlight.

“Look at this, those little shits.”

“Fuck me.” Frankie’s brows disappear into his hairline when he steps around the small hunched frame of Harold, blinking in shock at just how much damage had been done. It spread out easily a mile wide in each direction—a circle. A strangely, unnaturally... perfect circle.

He steps onto the flattened corn, eyes darting along the damage as Chip sniffs along his own path, barking sharply at whatever he finds before moving along, paws light as he tracks along the perimeter.

There was something in the air of the circle, something distinctly... unnatural. Sure, he had made some damage in his younger years, but never this, never to this extent. The force needed to flatten so much—it was more than what a couple of bored kids could do. They’d tire too quickly.

His frown deepens, hands finding his hips as he squints beneath his aviators.

“I don’t think kids did this.”

“You think it was that corporate leech McKinnon? He wants my farm, y’know. Offered me an obscene amount of money, can you believe it? Gloria’s rolling, God rest her. I said no, this my house. I’ll die before any development takes my farm. Told him to go suck on a pigs co—”

“Jesus, Harry.” Frankie grins, shaking his head. “No wonder you don’t have any friends.”

Harolds sniffs impassively, beady eyes narrowing in the harsh sunlight. “I got you, don’t I? And that lovely lady o’yours. This isn’t the only one, either.”

“What?”

“There’s more patches, just like this one. Deputy thinks they connect with that little path through there, but I don’t care what they do. Someone ruined my crops, the bastards. When I get my hands on them, so help me God—”

Frankie steps away, letting the angry muttering of his neighbour melt into the background as he follows where Harold pointed, stepping through the small path of cleared crops until he’s in another clearing. Chip follows quietly, a low growl kicking up in his chest as they step onto the bigger patch of destruction.

It was incredible, the amount of pure damage. He thought the first patch was big, but this was just ridiculous. It stretched further than before, the circle reaching what would be the centre of Harolds wide field, but the middle of the clearing was completely untouched. About a few metres square of crop, still standing, leaves blowing softly in the breeze, untouched by whoever had trampled through the corn.

He doesn’t like it.

The picture of the crop, so carefully, thoughtfully, preserved amongst so much destruction didn’t make sense. If someone was just messing around, finding something to do on a quiet Tuesday evening, why not destroy it all? Why leave a tiny insignificant patch?

The low grumbling from behind him turns violently aggressive, and he spins to Chip, frowning as the dogs heckles rise up as his lip curls over his teeth. He wasn’t looking at anything in particular, from what Frankie could see. There was no one else around, no sounds of strangers echoing through the corn or anything disturbing the peace.

It wasn’t like him.

Chip was hardly ever aggressive, only growling at the strangers that knock on the door after taking a wrong turn somewhere along the highway. It was never like this. It was usually just a warning growl, enough to get the message across to a few strangers that Frankie had backup if anyone ever wanted to try anything, but this? This was danger. This was something that had Frankie’s own heckles rising, the skin along the back of his neck prickling with a sudden urge to get the fuck out of there.

He doesn’t like it at all.

He backs away from the clearing, hand gentle as it smooths over Chip’s soft fur in a silent show of ease, and the pup calms instantly under his touch. Harold’s still muttering to himself when he gets back to the first clearing, kicking the corn on the floor with a grunt.

“What d’ya think?”

“I think someone was very busy.”

Harold snorts, falling in step with Frankie as they leave the clearing.

“She not home yet?”

Frankie swallows, eyes falling to the floor. “No.”

His neighbour grunts, nodding before delivering a firm slap to Frankie’s shoulder in a show of silent support. “Give her time.”

—

“It’s fucking ET, tryin’ to phone home and shit.”

The bustle of patrons around the bar and people conversing over lunch in the booths lining the windows somewhat drown out Frankie’s snort of amusement, his frame bending at the waist to line his shot up on the pool table after shooting a quick playful scowl at the man on the other end.

“Shut up, Benny. The guy’s lost a lot.”

The younger Miller grins, leaning on his pool cue and tilting his head in thought. “Was it McKinnon? Dick’s been trying to get his hands on that land for months.”

Frankie hums in thought as he focuses, snapping the cue forward and pocketing his ball. Standing, he shrugs with a small frown, passing by Benny as he steps around the table. “I don’t think so.”

“Probably a bunch of kids just passing through town. I doubt any locals would do it—that guy’s scary as shit.”

“Harry wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

Benny fixes him with a look of disbelief. “He chased me with a rake.”

“You were jumping all over his tractor.”

“How the fuck was I meant to know that wasn’t your land?! You don’t have any fences! Besides, I said sorry.”

“What?” Frankie laughs, abandoning his shot and standing to fix the Miller with an arched brow. “No you didn’t. You called him a unmedicated fossil, and told him to go back to the nursing home.”

Benny shrugs, reaching for his beer. “And I stand by my statement. He’s like a hundred years old—oh shit.”

Frankie turns, half expecting Harold’s hunched frame to be standing there glaring daggers at Benny, but it’s you. The breath leaves his chest in a sharp exhale. You’re walking closer, fingers fiddling with the strap of your bag, but the nerves fall from your face the second Chip is up and sprinting towards you, paws slipping clumsily on the glossy bar floor.

“Hi baby,” you coo, falling to your knees and letting the thick furry body wiggle into your arms, tail slapping your face as he spins trying to get closer. “Have you been good?”

“He always is.” Frankie smiles, voice suddenly turning to dust in his throat. It’s croaky, catching in his mouth and he clears it quietly, tongue slipping along his suddenly dry lips. He feels a hand gently squeeze his shoulder, but he doesn’t bother looking at Benny as he quietly slinks away.

“That’s right—you’re always a good boy.” Chip makes a low noise of appreciation as you rub his ears, nuzzling into your lips as you kiss his head softly. “I’m sorry to interrupt,” you say quietly, standing.

“It’s just Benny.” Frankie shrugs, lips twitching as you smile.

“Do you... would you be okay with a chat? Now? I can come back—”

“No, no! It’s fine.”

You find a booth and settle down opposite him, smiling at the face that eagerly shoves its way into your lap. Chip calms at your coo, and instead sprawls out along the ground beneath the table, keeping a piece of himself touching both you and Frankie.

“How are you?”

It’s a lame start, but now that you’re here, in his presence, your previously memorised words had vanished and you needed something. He seems to sense your struggle, and smiles lightly.

“I’m okay... you?”

“I’m okay.”

Silence settles over you and you shift nervously, jeans rubbing against the aged leather beneath you. He’s tired, you can see it in his eyes. Has he been struggling to sleep? Or is it... something else keeping him awake? He sees the thought pass along your face, knowing you so damn well, and sighs quietly.

“I haven’t touched it. Not since—” he trails off, eyes falling to the table, and you nod quietly. “I swear.”

It’s out of your mouth before you even think it. “Not like you’d tell me the truth, anyway.”

He flinches, but remains quiet, the frown between his brows deepening as he swallows the sudden lump in his throat. It was a low blow, but in a twisted way, he understood.

You feel the wave of guilt flow over your body and shrink against the booth, hand automatically reaching across to cover his, but it stops halfway, your fingers tightening into a fist before pulling it back.

“I’m sorry, Frankie. That was—”

“No. I deserve that.” His lips twitch up into a small, reassuring half smile, and Chip whines from his position on the floor, soft fur brushing against your ankles as he shuffles closer.

“We miss you.” He continues, deep sorrowful eyes shining with the tears he was fighting to keep at bay. “A lot. Please come home, I—”

“I don’t know, Frankie...”

He’s blown it. It’s done, and there’s no going back. Suddenly the hope he had been desperately holding onto the past few weeks expires in his stomach, and he feels the crushing weight of panic tighten around his chest. He feels sick. He feels... he doesn’t even know. It’s too fucking much—

You see the flood of dread wash over his features, and rush to speak. “I don’t want to give up on us, Frankie.”

His eyes flicker from the table up to meet yours, hands nervously tangling on the cool timber surface.

“I love you—so much... but if I’m going to stick around, I need you to understand that I’m hurt. I didn’t think you’d ever lie to me, and you did. What am I meant to do with that? I should be the one person you don’t want to lie to.”

“I know. I know, baby, I was stupid—”

“I’m not bringing it up for another apology, Frankie. I just want my pain acknowledged, and a promise we can do better if we move forward. No more lies. Thick or thin, I want to be here for you. Please let me.”

He’s nodding as you speak, hands trembling as he reaches across the table to wrap around your own. The warmth of his skin oozes into the chill covering yours, and your fingers part automatically to slot his in-between.

You’d missed his hands. You’d missed him.

“No more lies.” He promises, fingers tightening around yours.

“Are you still in therapy?”

“Every Monday.”

“And group?”

“Every Thursday.”

You nod, smiling softly. “Good. I’m proud of you.”

Self loathing fills his voice. “It shouldn’t have happened in the first place.”

“Please don’t be hard on yourself. You’ll get there. I know you will.”

—

Music. It fills the room. It gives it life.

Frankie couldn’t help the achingly wide grin stretching his face as he leans against the doorframe, watching Chip walk on two legs as you hold his paws gently, singing to the face that nuzzles up at you as you dance around the kitchen.

It had taken another week, but finally... you were home. Your bag had been unpacked, your clothes tucked neatly back in the drawers, his toothbrush was no longer the only one in the cup next to the bathroom sink.

“Come on—”

Your voice snaps his attention on you, and his grin widens impossibly further. He spins you into his arms, tucking them tightly around you as you sway to the song, your own hands winding around his neck and following his lead.

“I have to leave soon.” He murmurs into your hair.

“I know—I’ll be here when you get home.”

His heart hammers at the reminder, the thought that he wasn’t coming home to an empty house anymore relighting the fire in his chest. He holds you closer, laughing at your quiet giggles, and the peace that overwhelms him triggers that ugly thought in the back of his mind—that he didn’t deserve this happiness.

The feeling of your lips pressing playful kisses along his jaw chases that thought away, and he lets himself drown in the familiar warmth you had bought back into the house.

You waved him off as his truck disappeared down the gravel driveway a mere hour later, stomach still rolling with the fresh giddy feelings Frankie could still stir in you over two years later. The settle back into the house had been easy, despite your earlier worries of not feeling comfortable.

The promise of a fresh slate lingered in the air, new promises hanging from the corner of the rooms you walked through. You had complete faith in him, despite what had happened. It was never about the drugs—you knew recovery was hard. It was the lying. The fact that he had looked into your eyes, not a flicker or trace of doubt...

But not this time. You believed it with your heart.

The evening passed peacefully. You saved dinner on the stove, content to reheat it and share it with Frankie when he got home. Chip stayed by you the entire night, only leaving through the door to do his business. It wasn’t until you were mixing food in the metallic bowl with his name stamped onto the side, that you realise.

Where the hell was he?

You take the bowl from the kitchen, standing in the lounge with a look of confusion.

“Chip!”

Your frown deepens the longer you don’t have a bounding ball of fur run at you. It wasn’t like him to not be ready to go for his dinner. And, now that you think about it, he hadn’t even been at the window like he usually would when you made his dinner. He’d usually watch you through the window pane, paws perched on the timber framing with his wet nose smooshed against the glass, leaving wet streaks across the surface.

You abandon his bowl by the back door and walk out onto the porch, eyes straining to see through the darkness. You study each darkened shadow and crevice, unable to see the flash of the white patches of his fur in the moonlight.

“Chippy! Come on, bud!”

Nothing.

Worry starts to churn low in your gut, and you pull your robe tighter around your torso as you walk further out onto the yard, slippers kicking up the condensation resting on the blades of grass. He wasn’t one to wander far, especially at night. He preferred keeping close to you or Frankie in the dark, finding comfort in your familiar presence.

You startle when a yelp reaches your ears, the sound echoing in the pitch black deep in the corn fields, and the worry filling your limbs turns instantly to panic.

“Chip!”

Not thinking twice, you rush into the tall stalks of leaves, brain running at full speed. The fields were filled with potentially dangerous things—old tools, rusted nails dropped from previous machines... he could’ve stepped on anything. Were there snakes here? Coyotes? You hadn’t even asked Frankie—

“Chippy, come on—where are you? Make a noise, baby!”

A rustle to your right.

You turn to it immediately, hands pushing and shoving at the crop that forces you back, desperate to reach him. The longer you struggle forward, the more confused you get. You could have sworn the rustle you had heard was merely a few metres away—you had come further than that now. A lot further.

The darkness suddenly seems less innocent.

It swims around you, your vision blurring along the edges. It was all the same. You didn’t know which way was right, what way was home. Chip. Chip would lead you back. Just get to Chip—

Forcing the nerves dancing along your muscles into bravery, you push forward, jaw tightening the deeper you go and then it startles you out of nowhere, so piercing in the still of the night, and stopping your heart dead in your chest in fright.

Barking.

And it hits you then, your skin prickling at the base of your scalp as the increasing barks hit your ears.

Someone was here. Someone was in the corn.

Chip was on guard... he knew something was wrong. His barks were defensive, furious. He was chasing something, someone. And they had been close, much closer than you had even realised. They had caused the rustling so close to you, not Chip. He would’ve come to you instantly, injured paws or not. Fuck, they had been so close.

And now he was alone in the dark, with a stranger. Is that why he yelped? Was it them? Had they hurt him?

What have they done to him?

You run now, blades of leaves whipping harshly against your cheeks with quick stings, and then suddenly there’s nothing. No leaves, no stalks, just nothing but the pale moonlight, shining over the completely bare clearing.

You take no notice of it, of the bizarre vacancy in the middle of a crop field and the way it’s just so startlingly unnatural, because he’s there. God, he’s there. Your body slackens in relief, stepping quickly, carefully, over the damaged corn and dropping to his side, holding his body close as his low growls vibrate against your chest.

Fingers tangling in his soft fur, you cast a studying glance around the perimeter, feeling slightly braver now that you weren’t alone in the dark. You want to call out... but then you’d be that person you and Frankie both yelled at in horror movies.

“Who’s there?!”

You shriek in the sudden torchlight blinding your eyes before sighing heavily in relief. “Harry.”

He marches to you immediately, standing protectively over you and scowling at the surrounding corn as you stumble onto two feet, Chip whining quietly and pressing into your legs.

“There’s someone out there.”

“I know—followed ‘im ‘ere. They ran. You alright?”

“I want to get out of here.”

Harold nods, rubbing a hand up and down your back. “I’ve got you. We’ll turn back—we’re close to my house. I’ll take you home along the perimeter... don’t want you out in this with whoever’s out there.”

His angry muttering surprisingly keeps you calm as he leads you back through the corn, hand never leaving you in the dark. Chip stays glued to your feet, ears perked up and on alert. The warm light that floods from Harry’s front porch greets you when you emerge from the crop, and you heave a quiet sigh, heart thundering furiously against your chest.

Frankie’s pulling up when Harold walks you home, brows immediately deepening into a frown as he fumbles in his haste to get the door open after cutting the truck off.

“What happened?”

His arms wind tightly around you the second you rush into him, and he can barely make out your words muffled against his shirt.

“The bastards are back.” Harold mutters, nodding to the field. “Heard the boy barkin’ and knew he found ‘em, so I grabbed this and went lookin’. She was out in the middle of it.”

Frankie pulls away, fingers tight around your arms as he holds you at arms length, frowning deeply in disapproval. “You went out there alone? Unarmed?”

“I didn’t know there was someone there—I just heard Chip. I didn’t realise how close they were.”

His eyes harden. “What?”

“They were right there, Frankie.” Tears build along your lash line as the adrenaline that had been pounding through you evaporates, leaving an unsteady panic that had a tremble building in your hands. “Right next to me, and I didn’t even know.”

“Get in the house.”

“Frankie—”

“Get in the house.”

Harold senses the change immediately, wrapping a soft hand around your arm and leading you away. “Come on, love. Let’s grab some tea, calm our nerves, eh?”

Frankie stays put, eyes roaming along the corn, ears focusing on any little thing that seemed out of place. It was deathly silent. Not a god damn sound at all, which meant only one thing.

“Yeah, I know you’re there, asshole. I know you can hear me.” His teeth clench, face contorting into anger the longer he looks into the darkness, and he lets it melt into his voice. “You stay the fuck away from my family, and you leave Harry alone, or I’ll fucking find you. Give me a reason to—I dare you.”

The song of crickets fill the air, and then he knows he’s now alone.

A note on Chip.

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