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ode-to-melpomene · 10 days ago

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hello mel!!! your jason todd x artist! reader is a real gem, so delicious i think i would like to eat it!!! could i possible request a jason todd x famous poet!reader?

Anon, you get me.

I struggled a bit with the plot for this one, but I hope you like it regardless <3

Erato

Pairing: Jason Todd x gn poet!reader Synopsis: Jason convinces you to take a break. Word Count: 1281. Warnings: Established relationship and fluff!

The living room was dark.

Blanketed in shadows, Red Hood stepped off the fire escape and into the apartment. Muscles taut, shoulders squared, jaw clenched tight beneath his helmet, he stalked with a panther’s grace through the shadows. Light on the balls of his feet, his heavy boots hardly made a sound against the floorboards of the creaky old Gotham apartment.

Red Hood kept his hand hovering inches from the gun on his waist as he stepped warily around the furniture. The white film obscuring his eyes trailed over the lamp atop an end table beside the familiar orange chaise sofa.

Something wasn’t right. It was so dark.

Filling the shadows with his presence, Red Hood slunk down the hallway. His broad figure filled the space, looming in the narrow hallway like a beast waiting to lunge from the darkness. His skin crawled with a sense of wrong, wrong, wrong. His teeth inched to sink into something. The scent of copper and gunpowder clung to his body armor, suffocating him as he inhaled it with each breath. His hackles rose.

There, at the end of the hall. The tiniest sliver of pale light filtered through the crack of an ajar door. Red Hood’s fingers twitched beside his gun, itching to reach for the grip that he knew fit so comfortably in the palm of his leather-clad hands.

Said hands, dirty and tainted, slid across the sage green surface of the door. Claws curled around the edge of the door, sliding through the gap. He inhaled deeply, a rumble like a growl deep in his chest as he steeled himself. Something was wrong, wrong wrong-

Red Hood pushed the door open and hovered in the doorway. A hulking, heaving, monstrous figure doused in oil-slick darkness that filled the entire threshold. Sharp eyes and predatory teeth staring down at-

You.

Your eyes jerked away from the dimly lit laptop screen on your desk and landed on the shadowed figure looming at the entrance to your home office.

“You didn’t leave the lamp on,” Red Hood gruffed, his fist clenching and unclenching at his side. You always left the lamp on.

Your eyes widened as you glanced around the dimly lit room, the blackout curtains drawn. “What time is it?” you demanded with a breathy sense of panicked realization.

“Three in the morning,” Jason breathed a sigh of relief and sagged against the doorway. “Scared me, angel. Thought somethin’ might have happened.” His gloved hands reached for his helmet, dragging the metal from his skin with a satisfied exhale. He rolled his head on his neck, stretching the aching muscles. “What are you still doing up?”

“Finally found a groove,” you replied, your gaze again fixed on the dim screen. Your fingers hastened over keys with a swiftness he hadn’t seen in days. He had grown used to the sluggish drawl and frustrated taps, your dramatic grumblings begging for inspiration to strike. “If I stop now, I- I’ve gotta get this done before-”

“The end of the week,” he finished, an exhausted, lopsided grin rising on his lips. He lifted a gloved hand to swipe sweaty hair from his skin. “How many have you written tonight?”

“Six,” you answered quickly, fingers pausing over the keys. The sound of heavy boots crossing the floor drew your attention and you found yourself staring up at Jason as he leaned forward and planted one hand on the desk. His helmet thudded onto the desk next to your hand. Your eyes met his, lips parting slightly at the curious expression he wore.

Jason always seemed like a statue to you. Strong, immovable, broad. Your eyes grazed over the scrawling scuffs and scratches of his suit that spiraled like vines climbing over his marble surface. The red highlights of his armor like maroon clematis, blossoming from the vines that held him together-

“Might have an idea for a seventh poem,” you began as you turned back towards your computer. Your breath hitched at the feeling of leather sliding up your throat and stopping to cup your jaw. Jason’s fingers curled slightly as he turned your head to meet his gaze again.

“When was the last time you took a break?”

“Um…” your tongue felt useless in your mouth as you stared up at him with wide eyes. Green eyes gleamed back at you, brows pinched together in a subtle scowl. Your stare roved over his face–the subtle crook of his nose, twice broken, and the thin scar tracing from his jaw to his cheek, and the wisp of sweat-damp black and silver hair that stuck to his forehead. “Probably… noon?”

Jason sighed. “C’mon, up.”

“Jay-”

“Up,” he prompted, hauling you up from your chair. Your palms flattened to his armored chest as you sought to stabilize yourself. Your fingers fanned out wide against the red sigil scrawled across his chest, then slid down to rest over his ribs. Jason hummed appreciatively and looped one arm around your waist, the other cupping your cheek. “Take a break with me, yeah? Know you need to get this done-”

“- I’ve got the book signing next week, and I need to have my draft turned in to my editor before then-”

“- But you’ll be no good to anyone strung out and exhausted.” Your cheeks warmed and you cast your eyes down. Your hands drifted back to the vibrant symbol across his chest. He was right, of course–he knew better than most how important it was to avoid being overworked… not that he heeded his own advice very often.

You jumped from your thoughts when his gloved hand closed around your wrist. You felt a pop from between your teeth and your gaze shot down to where he pulled your hand from your mouth, nail slightly torn. Oh. You were doing it again, and you hadn’t even noticed.

Jason brought your hand to his lips and laid a kiss on your palm, then trailed down and placed another on your wrist. It was like butterflies gracing your skin. His hands were strong as oak as he tugged you tighter against him-

“Yuck,” you said, jumping as he kissed your forearm and his wet, sweaty hair brushed your skin. You wrinkled your nose in disgust. He chuckled when you tried to pull your arm away.

A squeal escaped your lips when he buried his face in the crook of your neck. You squirmed at the ticklish feeling of Jason pressing open-mouthed kisses to your skin, dragging his damp face against your dry skin. “Jason! Gross!”

You groaned in disgust at the feeling of his damp hair dappling your skin. Your hands pushed at his shoulders, but his arms just pulled you tighter against him. There was no escape from the torment, and you whined pitifully in protest. He returned your frustration with a huffy laugh against your shoulder.

“You’re the worst.”

Jason grinned a crooked smile against your skin as his gloved hand slid into your hair and cradled your head against his chest. “C’mon, take a shower with me. Save some water. I can make dinner after, and we can eat in here while you wrap up.” He pulled away, his hair mussed as he gazed at you with a gentle expression. When he leaned in again it was to press barely there kisses to your jaw, your cheek, your temple, and back down. “Take a break with me.”

Your eyes fluttered shut as a content sigh left your lips. Your eyes felt heavy under his ministrations and you finally acknowledged the weary ache in your bones. You hummed quietly, a wordless reply to his request.

You could spare thirty minutes.

#jason todd x reader #jason todd #jason todd x you #red hood x reader #red hood

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scvrmqueen · 2 years ago

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Tag, You’re It - Danny Johnson

┊ 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐓 ⠀ཾ༵࿇ ˼ — one-shot.

┊ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆(𝐒) ⠀ཾ༵࿇ ˼ — Danny Johnson x afab!reader.

┊ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 ⠀ཾ༵࿇ ˼ — SMUT! dubious consent, descriptions of gore, vaginal sex, use of knife handle for penetration, dirty talk, unprotected sex, no aftercare, Danny is literally his own warning.

┊ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 ⠀ཾ༵࿇ ˼ — 2,982.

┊ 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒 ⠀ཾ༵࿇ ˼ I got this idea after listening to Tag, You’re It by Melanie Martinez. Takes place during Dead by Daylight. I don’t own the rights to Danny or DBD. You’re just trying to survive another trial when Danny proposes a little game.

“Oh, you were so close, kitten!” A mirthless chuckle slipped from the macabre figure perched above you, his hips pinning you to the frigid earth. Your struggles had promptly ceased once his steel blade found purchase against your throat.

“And to think, one more step and you would have been home free,” he tsked, blade digging further into your sensitive flesh to reveal a crimson stream. “Didn’t know you could be so cruel, kitten, trying to leave me on my lonesome without so much as a goodbye kiss.”

“Fuck you, Danny,” you spat, glaring into the shadowy abyss of black fabric that concealed his eyes. “Kill me and be done with it, I’m sick of playing your fucked up games.”

An audible gasp sounded beneath the foreboding mask, a gloved hand - the one not preoccupied with mutilating you - covering his heart in feigned shock. “Y/n you wound me! Where’s your fighting spirit, huh? C’mon, I know you have that ‘I’ll go out kicking and screaming’ final girl mentality.”

You were mere feet from a successful trial, sparing a glance toward the cement hatch. What anger bubbled in your chest was steadily replaced with fatigue, an overwhelming sense of feebleness rendering your fight or flight instinct futile. You pressed your scorched fingertips into the dirt beneath you. A shaky breath pierced through pursed lips, frustrated tears gathering in the corners of your eyes as you realized just how close you had been to besting the Ghost Face.

“Aw, doll. You’re so pretty when you cry for me,” Danny cooed, his blade smearing blood on your cheek as it moved to collect the pearly drops. “Tell you what, I’m feeling generous. Play one last little game with yours truly, and I’ll let you have the hatch.”

Mouth agape, you waited for the inevitable ‘ha, gotcha’ moment. When Danny remained silent - a phenomena in itself, you finally responded, “what game?”

“Atta girl.” He lowered his head until cheap plastic scraped your cheek, his faux mouth resting by your ear. Leather and copper flooded your senses, head reeling at the intimacy of his proximity. “You’re familiar with tag, aren’t you, doll?”

You scoffed, “tag?”

“That’s what I said, Y/n.” You could feel the deep chuckle rumble through his chest. “Try to keep up, sweet thing, you’re smarter than that. Now, if I catch you - and we both know I will - I get to do whatever I want with you.”

“But you won’t kill me?” The question was more breathless than you intended. Whatever he wanted? Your cooperation was founded on the promise of making it out alive. Still, you couldn’t help but hesitate. If Danny’s intention wasn’t to give you to the entity, what did he want?

“Cross my heart hope to die, kitten.” His words dripped with deranged glee, the rough edge to his voice sending shivers down your spine. “I’ll even give you a ten second head start, being the generous fella I am.”

“Fine,” you conceded. “Get the hell off me so we can get this over with.”

“There’s the Y/n I know and love.” A leather clad hand wrapped around your throat, using the leverage to drag you to your feet. You reluctantly complied, attempting to ignore the traitorous heat that pooled in your abdomen.

You sprinted in the opposite direction the moment he released you.

Aside from a guaranteed win, this game hardly differed from the demented reality of every trial. You were perpetually haunted by that damned mask - led to slaughter each time the sanctity of the campfire was torn away. Unlike your counterparts, your penchant for fighting back had earned Danny’s favor from day one. His insatiable obsession blossomed during your first trial, when you drove a jagged plank through his abdomen.

Had you predicted he would save you for last each trial, you wouldn’t have been so damn heroic.

Your lungs burned, legs aching as your pace gradually relented. You spared a glance over your shoulder to determine Danny’s proximity. Though momentarily relieved to be greeted by empty darkness, his absence ultimately proved equally troubling. Ghost Face was synonymous with stealth, often remaining undetected until his signature hunting blade was buried deep in your gut. It was impossible to determine where he prowled now.

Haddonfield offered little room to be chased. Eventually, you would have to loop back to the hatch in order to escape, a feat which would require you to pass through the decrepit homes. Though entering structures always proved to be a precarious gamble, remaining on the street much longer practically ensured your capture.

You bypassed the first few houses you passed with the intention of throwing Danny off your trail. Zig-zagging through abandoned vehicles, you staggered toward the Myers residence in hopes of a momentary reprieve. Hiding in the abandoned building was futile - Danny had prompted a game of tag after-all. The moment you ceased moving he would be there, his merciless shadows ensnaring you. You prayed slipping through the rooms undetected would buy you some time.

Pausing briefly upon entering, you attempted to regulate your rapid breathing in order to detect his presence. Satisfied, you darted into the kitchen to grab a butcher’s knife from the familiar wooden block. Danny hadn’t specified rules regarding self defense - his mistake. Should the occasion arise, you fully intended on making grabbing you a hellish feat.

No sooner had you grabbed the knife did a familiar dark chuckle sound from the doorway to the porch. You turned slowly towards the culprit, as if minor movements would shroud you from his gaze.

“Really, bunny? The Myer’s house? Tsk, never knew you were so cliché.” Well, at least you knew where he was now. Spinning on your feet, you sprinted back toward the main entrance. Knowing Danny, the moment you stepped out onto the porch he would be there to grab you, blade against your throat and arms encircling your waist. Hesitation would cost you precious seconds, leaving you to scamper up the stairway on shaky legs.

“Annndd going up the stairs?” His distant voice only caused you to increase your pace. “Y/n, haven’t I taught you to be better than those horror movie bimbos?”

As you reached the room with a large opening to the roof, you couldn’t resist screaming a hearse, “Fuck you, asshole!” Once on the roof, you would slip into the backyard and make a swift exit back to the hatch. You could taste victory on your tongue, beyond pleased to have outwitted Ghost Face.

Or at least that was the plan.

You hadn’t planned on Danny tackling you mere feet from the roof, his imposing figure weighing heavy on your back. Thrashing beneath him proved futile. He grabbed your wrists with little resistance, pinning your arms by your head. The cold hardwood was pressed roughly against your cheek, and from the awkward angle you watched as his mask lowered to your ear.

“Tag, you’re it.” His deep chuckle reverberated through your spine.

“Let me up, Danny, and I’ll gladly come get you.” Clutching the butcher knife tighter, you wriggled your ass slightly in hopes of providing a momentary distraction. A throaty groan sounded above you, his hips digging further into your own. His grasp loosened, and you used your remaining strength to twist on your back. You were quick to extend the blade toward him in a punishing stab. But Danny was always quicker.

“Feisty,” he growled, his hand encircling your wrist and slamming it to the ground with excessive force. A small yelp escaped you as the knife flew from your grasp.

“But I think you’re forgetting the rules, kitten. Naughty girl.” You were pinned beneath him once more, glare burning through his black mesh. “Let me remind you what happens when you don’t. fucking. listen.”

Danny shifted, capturing both your wrists in one hand, his knife skimming your waist. The cool steel scraped against your stomach as it lifted your shirt. Before you could even comprehend struggling, your hip burned with a familiar intensity. Searing pain crept up your side as Danny sliced into your sensitive flesh - a hiss escaping through clenched teeth in a poor attempt not to scream. The blade curved against you, shallow in its path but agonizing enough to demonstrate his wrath.

“Ah, perfect!” Danny leaned back on his heels to observe his work. Your eyes drifted down to observe a jagged “D” carved into the left side of your hip.

“You sick fuck!” You shouted, all thoughts of self preservation having dissipated. The wound would heal upon returning to the campfire, but it didn’t stop the blinding rage that permeated your senses.

“Oh, Y/n,” he snarled, using the blade to slice through the middle of your tank-top. “You have no idea just how sick I really am.” He traced the steel around the top of your exposed breasts, humming his approval as your breath hitched. The knife slipped beneath the thin fabric in the middle of your bra, exposing your chest to his ravenous gaze. A traitorous moan slipped from your lips - a wanton sound that you attempted to disguise as disgust by struggling beneath him.

“Danny-” his name tumbled from your throat with unintended reverence. Your voice trembled with thinly veiled desire, leaving you to pinch your lips together. You desperately hoped Danny hadn’t recognized your slip.

“Fuck, kitten, I love it when you say my name.” His hips bore into your own with bruising pressure, forcing a haphazard squeal from you in response. Admittedly, this wasn’t the first time that you had been in a compromising position beneath the killer. While the previous instances had ended in your untimely demise, this moment whispered promises of something more - something deep-seated that you could never come back from.

“You know, I can’t count how many times I’ve heard your screams of pain,” he muttered, the deep, guttural sound going straight to your core. “I can’t wait to hear what you sound like screaming for more.” Without further warning, his chilled, leather fingertips pushed past your denim shorts, briefly grazing the hem of your panties.

You didn’t recognize the sound that emitted from the depths of your chest as he slid into you - facing little resistance much to your dismay. His finger curled, stimulating a part of you that hadn’t been unearthed for far too long. Dragging in and out, hitting a spot that made your vision dance with speckles of white, you couldn’t find the strength to resist his ministrations.

“You like this, don’t you? What a dirty little girl you are, bunny.” His voice fractured your lust-fueled haze, attempting to slip your hands from his grasp as you bucked beneath him. Your resistance hardly fazed Danny, earning no more than an amused tsk as he tightened his hold.

“Now, now, bunny. If you’re going to be naughty and not play by the rules, I’m going to have to punish you.” A wisp of fear at the promise of discipline caused your core to clench. Danny groaned as he removed his fingers completely, the sudden emptiness sobering your senses. The reprieve was short-lived, the leather previously working you replaced with the blunt handle of a familiar knife.

“What the fuck -” Your words slipped into an unexpected cry of pleasure as the handle brushed your center with expert precision. Discomfort melded into bliss, your will to fight a distant echo in the recesses of your mind. His concept of ‘punishment’ seemed skewed, particularly as a skilled finger danced along your clit in tandem with the blade’s thrusts. Your eyes fluttered close, walls clenching with bruising force as you reached the precipice - nearly pushed over that delicious edge -

And just as soon as sweet release had been promised, it was stolen.

A pitiful whine escaped you as his attention ceased, robbing you of the peak you so desperately craved. Ah, punishment, indeed.

“Ah, ah, Y/n. Only good girls get to cum.” Danny adjusted his position so his hips were once again pressed firmly between your legs. Much to your dismay, the coarse fabric of his pants caused you to grind against him - desperately searching for friction.

“I might consider being merciful and letting you cum on my cock if you beg me for it.” His deep rasp trailed into a lilting tone, teasing you - humiliating you. Even in all your torturous deaths dealt by Danny’s blade, you had never begged him to spare you. Though your hips chased his, desperate to ease the ache between your legs, you would sooner die than plead for him to fuck you.

“You call that merciful?” You scoffed, attempting to ease the tremble in your voice. “You’re even more fucked up than I thought if you think I want you.”

“Oh, I think you’re pretty fucked in the head yourself, kitten.” Those fingers slid between your thighs once more, gliding up your center to collect evidence of your arousal. “You can lie to yourself all you want. But see this?” He pressed the glistening leather to your lips, forcing your mouth open to taste your body’s betrayal. “This doesn’t lie.”

“So, you’re going to be a good girl, and you’re going to take everything I have to offer. Every. Last. Goddamn. Inch,” he growled, each word only fueling your thinly veiled desire. You wanted to protest - wanted to kick and scream like a good little survivor. But something within you, some deep, animalistic urge only satiated by the thrill of danger, wouldn’t permit it. Maybe Danny was right. Maybe the endless torment of fighting to survive fueled something savage - a ruinous need to be ravaged by the enemy.

Saving you from the false pretenses of your moral obligation to resist, Danny flipped you onto your stomach in a swift motion. One firm arm wrapped around your waist, using the leverage to lift your hips up. With your face and arms planted to the floor, the harsh arch of your figure placed your bare ass on display for Danny.

Without warning, two fingers were buried deep within you, setting a brutal pace that set your body ablaze with burning embers. Just as your walls began to flutter, Danny removed his fingers before delivering a sharp slap to your sensitive flesh. He waited a moment, allowing you to drift further from the promise of release, before claiming you once more. You lost track of time as he continued to edge you - cooing dirty words in your ear and chuckling at your growing frustration.

“You know how to make this stop, kitten.” Your body ached, core pulsing as his touch parted once more. Danny trailed his blade down your thighs, collecting the slick of your arousal. You had been so determined not to beg. But now as you burned with stifled desire, begging for release seemed preferable to continuing this torture.

“Danny,” you whined, aghast at how difficult stringing together a sentence had become. “Please, please, just fuck me already you fucking psychotic -”

You were cut off by your own hoarse scream as Danny pushed into you, forcing you to take his entire length in one fatal thrust. You arched further into the ground, allowing him to reach impossibly deeper as he brushed your cervix. He was so big, feeling as though he would split you apart as he snapped his hips against yours.

“That’s it, Y/n - fuck, you’re so tight. Bet you haven’t had anybody fuck this sweet cunt like this, have you?” You could only moan in response, clenching around him.

A gloved hand fisted your hair, pulling your head back roughly so his mask rested by your ear. “I asked you a fucking question, bunny. Nobody fucks you like this, do they?”

“No!” You squealed. “Only you, Danny - Danny.” His pace increased as you whimpered his name, thrusts intensifying until your looming orgasm was forced upon you. Your body trembled as your release washed over you, waves of fierce pleasure threatening to consume your very existence.

“Yes - yes, that’s my girl.” He didn’t slow down, allowing you no reprieve from the overstimulation that wracked your core. You attempted to pull away, to form a coherent thought that would save you from the onslaught of fervent sensations.

“Danny s’too much,” you slurred. A venomous laugh sounded in turn as he flipped you over again, hands gripping the undersides of your thighs to press your knees to your chest. He resumed his brutal pace, brushing the pad of his thumb against your clit as you writhed helplessly beneath him.

“C’mon, Y/n, you can take one more can’t you?” That familiar pressure was already building. You forced your fluttering eyes to gaze upon his mask, the mere sight of his looming presence causing you to tumble over the edge once more. You screamed his name, overwhelmed by the earth-shattering intensity of your climax.

“Fuck, yes, that’s it,” he groaned. Danny’s pace became frenzied, each thrust forcing brutally past your fluttering walls. “You want me to fill you up, don’t you? You want to be dripping with my cum when you sit around that campfire with your pathetic little friends.”

“Fuck. You,” You managed, the breathy words lacking their usual bite. Your fire only spurred him on as he buried himself to the hilt within you, hot ropes of his cum coating your insides.

As he slipped from you, allowing you to come down from your orgasmic high, the weight of your actions settled in your chest with crushing realization. Danny placed a finger under your chin to return your gaze to him - an uncharacteristically gentle gesture.

Whatever insults you prepared to spew were quickly lost as he moved his mask - revealing a finely sculpted jaw covered in dark stubble. He leaned in close, pouty lips hovering above your own and stealing the breath from your lungs.

“Until next time, kitten. And there will be a next time.”

#danny johnson #danny johnson x reader #Danny Johnson x you #jed olsen x reader #Jed Olsen x you #jed olsen #danny jed olsen johnson #DBD #DBD Ghostface #ghostface #ghostface smut #danny johnson smut #dbd smut #slasher x you #slasher fic #slasher smut #slasher fandom

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the-kr8tor · 5 months ago

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On These Metal Tracks I Lay Myself Bare

Pairing: Cowboy! Hobie Brown x fem! Reader

Word count: 6.5k

Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader, CW food mention, CW guns, TW violence, CW injury, Cowboy AU, wild west AU.

Our Place in the Middle of Nowhere Masterlist

Navigation

CHAPTER 5 >>> CHAPTER 6

The train station is packed with people, all finely dressed, waiting along the tracks, their luggages weighing heavy in their hands. The place smells of iron and steel, sweat soaked wood and rough leather. Your eyes wander around the station, domed ceilings loom above, carvings of horses and birds decorate the chestnut wood. Sunlight filters through the cracks, rays of light acting as a spotlight to the ornate building. It's a busier train station than the town you were in, the city you've stopped in is huge in comparison to the little towns you've passed by. The station is full of ticketing booths, lines stretching a few feet away that are full of impatient passengers. You look across the train tracks, seeing parents chastising their children, hearing hurried murmurs from husbands, holding their wives’ hands even though the luggage in their hand slows them down. You look at Hobie's gloved hand that's resting upon the ticket booth, you stare at it longingly, eyes getting glossy by the minute.

He's taking you home, and just like back home, you have no say in it.

A train whistle echoes, a signal of its metallic arrival. Its steel body creaks as it stops, its copper inlay is slowly turning green, and there's rust around the wheels. Soon, the station fills with smoke, dark tar belching smoke that sticks to your lungs as you cough. You feel a warm hand on your back, in a second you look back, the warmth is gone.

“You alright?” Hobie asks, lighting up a cigarette in-between his lips.

“It's the smoke,” you say, scratching at your throat that he cannot keep looking at for the scar in his neck throbs at the memory from the mundane act.

“Alright,” without a second thought, he takes his freshly lit cigarette from his mouth and then flicks it away from you, embers fly off in the distance just before it lands on the dirt outside.

You feel like the golden light in the summer. “I was talking about the coal smoke from the train. But that works too, thank you.”

He scoffs, a small smile ghosting over his lips. “Right, didn't do it for you, I did it for myself. Heard it kills people y'know.” Nudging you, he doesn't expect for you to shuffle away. Blinking, he avoids your eyes, “that's our train, it's an overnight one so we can rest in our cabin.” He tugs you in by the sleeve of your coat that's tucked in between his middle and forefinger, guiding you towards the waiting doors.

“That's good.” You follow, eyes trained on his back lest you get lost.

As much as you don't want to go home, you still don't want to leave him despite your mind telling you to forget about him and just leave on Cherry and wander around the west like a tumbleweed caught in the wind. You'd probably last a week.

Hobie stops by the doors, waiting in line with the other passengers. You flick your eyes downwards, his fingers wrapped around your sleeve, not taut, just holding you close to him as the crowd grows. So close to your own hands, yet so far from your heart.

“Tickets?” The man clad in a blue uniform asks, Hobie shows the pink papers and the man nods.

You enter the train car, it's a cute little thing filled with blue velvet curtains with golden tassels, and carpeted floors that run towards the end of the car. On your left are filled with little cabins, with clear windows that you can see through inside. It's big enough for at least four people, five if possible, though it would be a tight fit. The hallway is already small enough that only two people could walk side by side, you'd like to walk side by side with him, unlike now that you walk behind him, behind his shadow that gathers around you like dandelions in the spring.

“This is us,” he stops at cabin number three, opening the door with a creak, he leans away to let you enter first. Closing the door behind him, he pulls down all the curtains so that wandering eyes can't watch your every move. It's bad enough that there's a bounty on both of your heads, you don't want gossiping passengers peering inside.

There are four collapsible beds on each wall, all held by golden ropes, bed sheets in rich red cloth, pillows fluffed to perfection and blankets neatly folded. Hobie scooches in between you and the beds to close the top bunks so that there's more space for his tall frame. He has taken his hat off not for politeness but if he wore it inside it'll be squished by the low ceiling. Then there's the large window that sits across the door, before you could take note of the people outside, Hobie shuts the curtains close.

“What do you think?” He asks, taking his jacket off with a flourish. “It's not even close to the ones back home but it'll do for now. We'll be train hopping to get our scents off the lawmen.”

“It's nice— wait, train hopping?” You sit down on one of the beds, the mattress is surprisingly soft under you. “Please don't tell me we'll be jumping from train roof to train roof.”

Hobie chuckles, copying your actions, sitting across from you. Back resting against the wall, comfortably slouching. “Think you can handle it?”

“God, no.” You can't help but rest your tired head upon the goose feather pillow.

“Good, because we're not doin' that, love.” Again, he copies you. Arms tucked under his head, eyes above the ornate ceiling. “We’re not gettin' off at the last station, so we'll be ridin’ with Buck and Cherry for a bit and then to another train station. Confuse the wankers with our brilliant wiles.”

You lift your head off the pillow, and in turn, Hobie turns his head to look at you. “Wait, what about the horses?”

“They'll follow the train.” He smiles.

“Follow? Like they have our scents?” Hobie laughs, not teasingly, no, it's full of endearment, chuckling softly, but it flies over your head.

“Don't laugh. It's a genuine question.” You roll your eyes with slight amusement.

“They're in the back carriage,” he tamps down his laugh but his smile stays.

After that silence prevails in your cabin as the train slowly chugs on, sharp whistles piercing your eardrums, and the hum of machinery bringing you back home. You want to speak to him, to finally tell him of all your concerns about going home, going back to them. But most of all, you want him to speak to you about everything, to tell you how he was faring for the last five years, and how he became such a terrifying figure to outlaws. You want him to just…talk, and make up for lost time. You gather the courage, but just as you were about to speak, he no longer lies across from you. Hobie is sitting on the bed, body facing the door, hands busy with oiling his guns.

“Hobie…I—”

“What is it?” He flicks his eyes briefly to you, his tone was sharp, but he didn't mean it, blaming it for his own worries and fatigue. He'd say something about it but you're already facing away from him. Back turned, blanket shielding you from him.

“Nevermind,” you mumble into the covers, falling into a deep slumber where the conversation happened in your dreams.

This goes on for three days, hopping from train to train, from busy cities to dead empty towns. You barely speak, talking only when Hobie asks you something. It's like you're back at that empty mansion, with only the plants to talk to.

Hobie silently hates it, he doesn't know what to make out any of it. You seem hungry so he gives you a can of strawberries, you look tired so he lets you sleep without him saying a word. When goosebumps appear on your arms he gives you a blanket, when you're nervous, lips bitten until it's bleeding, he leaves you alone to calm yourself down. None of it works, he misses your chatter that has kept him sane the entire journey. The silence gives him time to think though, a situation that he despises since nothing good has come out of all the thinking.

—

The rest of the journey goes without a hitch, except for that one bit where Bucky was stolen by an outlaw while you and Hobie were buying train tickets. You panic while he sits and waits. People look at you like you were a mad woman pacing back and forth, hand petting Cherry, voice whispering your thoughts to the poor hitched horse. And Hobie just…stares. After what seemed like forever, or fifteen minutes, Bucky returns, riderless, still has his saddle on his back, and seemingly chipper. Turns out, Hobie trained Buckeye to throw off would-be thieves, and this time, Bucky found a convenient ledge to throw this particular man off. You and Hobie quickly ushered both horses into the back just in case a sheriff comes looking for a murderous horse.

You've been seeing a few familiar faces in the crowd of travelers, the same children that's tugging at their father's coat, the same old couple that helps each other up on the platforms. Some have taken notice of you too, to which you smile politely at them while they wave kindly at you.

—

It's another warm humid day, another train to ride in. You don't bother to look at the interior this time, only deciding to sit on the cushy seat you were assigned to, sliding inside the booth, eyes already staring longingly at the outside world. Hobie once again tries to speak about something— anything to try to get you to finally speak your mind, but his rapid pulse tells him otherwise. So he clamps his mouth shut, deciding to sit across from you instead of sitting next to you like he wanted to.

He feels eyes on his form as he picks mud off his spurs, raising his head, he comes face to face with a freckled child staring at him curiously with her big blue eyes. Her tiny hands are curled around a teddy bear, her fiery red hair is tied into a neat ponytail. You notice her a second later, smiling softly at the child.

“Hello,” you greet kindly, and the girl scampers back to her family's seat, hiding her blushing face behind her mother's skirt.

“Sorry about that.” Her mother apologizes, round pregnant belly prominent as she tries to coax her daughter out. “This is Clementine, she's a bit shy.”

“That's alright,” you speak on behalf of Hobie. “Hi, Clementine, my name's Y/N, and this is my companion, Hobie.” The second your eyes meet his own, Hobie's breath gets stuck in his throat.

“Say hello, Clem, be polite.” The girl's father playfully pokes her side. Blue eyes hidden behind rounded glasses.

“Hi,” she says in a small voice, giggling when she looks back at Hobie.

“I think she has a crush on your husband.” Clementine's mother chuckles, patting her daughter's back for a job well done.

“My husband?” Panic sets in your chest until you see her gesturing towards Hobie. “Oh,” you chuckle shakily, fists bunched around your trousers.

Hobie notices, he doesn't say anything about it. He takes your reaction as something else, so to keep your embarrassment at bay, he tells the couple otherwise. “Not her husband. Just escortin’ her.”

The air becomes awkward. “Oh,” the mother rubs her belly, smiling gently. “Sorry, you two just look like a good pair.”

Her husband taps her shoe with his. “Just like us, eh, sweetheart?” The wife shakes her head with a bashful smile, bringing a grin to the man's lips. You start to think that this is what marriage is supposed to be. Caring, loving, clinging onto each other in the best way that doesn't stifle or choke, just love in its most natural form. It's unlike any marriages you've seen and experienced back home. “So where are you folks off to? I'm guessing south? We've been seeing you two around since Valentine, it's nice to have some company during the journey don't you think?”

Hobie doesn't sense malicious intent from the parents. “Sure, whatever you say, mate.”

“You're not from around here aren't you?” The little girl listens to the conversation, head moving from side to side whenever someone speaks. “That's alright,” she laughs softly, rummaging for something in her bag. Hobie has his thumb pressed along the side of his gun. “I can tell you'll be good neighbors,” she hands you a small jar of honey, it's bright yellow and clear, you wish you had some tea to go with it. Hobie breathes a sigh of relief. “Here you go!”

“Oh no thank you, we can't possibly take it.”

“Please do.” The husband says, “we used to have a colony of bees, but we had to sell them all before we moved.”

“We have dozens of unsold honey, we're honestly just looking to get rid of it before we get to our destination. They're heavy, y'know.” His wife finishes for him. “Clem, can you give it to sweet Y/N for me?”

“That's so kind of you.” You smile, nodding. “You're moving to the south?”

“Okay.” She happily takes it, walking across the aisle to you and Hobie. Unsurprisingly, she gives it to Hobie instead of you. “Here you go.” She copies her mother.

Hobie takes the jar with trepidation. “Thank you?”

You quiet down a laugh while Clementine’s parents guffaw across you.

“Oh she's in love.” The mother says, arms raised to embrace her daughter who welcomes her touch. You can't help but feel a pang in your heart at her love for her child. “And yes we're going to be living there with my in-laws. Rent has gone too high in the west, y'know.” You nod along, making friendly conversation.

“Wish I had tea,” you hear Hobie mumble. You smile softly at his words.

—

It's been a couple of more trains, and more smoke in your lungs, you start to feel like your hands are starting to smell like the steel that you now know as your temporary home. The scenery outside your window has changed. From grassy dusty plains of tumbleweeds and windmills to rolling mountains that rise up high with large looming trees that shield you from the sun. Soon your view will be full of the southern charm, but you don't look forward to it, being there means that you're closer to getting back to the place you dread.

You've grown quite close to Clementine and her little family, even the other familiar passengers that are heading the same way as you are quite fond of you as well. You eat breakfast with them, have afternoon tea, and have even introduced Cherry and Bucky to the children. They've lovingly named them both ‘horsies,’ to which you'd always giggle at.

Clementine has latched onto you, you teach her about plants and flowers, and have her draw them for you just like you've sweetly described it to her. But when Hobie's near, she opts to be his shadow for the time being, following him everywhere until her mother calls her back. Hobie is half annoyed that he can't find the time to speak to you, but he's glad that there's someone as a mediator between the two of you or he'll start vomiting out words that may or may not make the situation worse.

Your back aches at the lumpy mattress that you've unfortunately landed into. You can't help but give up the assigned cabin for you and Hobie to Clementine and her family since the beds are much more comfortable in that cabin. So you offered to exchange it, citing that the mother, Florence, you've come to know, needs it more because of the growing baby in her. She gratefully gave you another jar of honey for your sacrifice.

Hobie enters the booth, heavy boots thumping against darkened wood, spurs clicking, footsteps rolling along like a thick heavy fog of loneliness.

“Where were you?” He asks even though he's afraid that he'd be overbearing. His worries win over him.

You grip the spine of the borrowed book, knuckles tightening, eyes drawn downwards to the written word that spells out ‘grief.’ “I visited Cherry, I don't want her to be lonely.” You barely look at him.

Hobie flexes his hands not out of anger, no, out of fear of losing you, this time, just like the last time he did, he doesn't know why or how he could even lose you. He sits down across from you, bed creaking from his weight. He tries to play as the nonchalant cowboy like he always had for the past five years.

“Clementine was lookin' for you.” *I was looking for you. “Cherry won't be lonely, she has Bucky with her.”

“Bucky hasn't been much help when all he does is look at her. Not much of a conversationalist.” You flick your eyes over to him, flashes of anger and hopelessness are melted into your irises.

“Maybe Bucky just doesn't have the words.”

“And maybe Cherry just wants to talk to him.”

“That fuckin’ horse,” he laughs, you don't find the humour in his words. But he clearly does. Your anger flies over his head. “that horse is already worth half of your bounty.” His words are a sharp sting in your arteries. “If she actually speaks she'll be worth it.”

“And what if she doesn't? That she's not worth your damned money?” You toss the book aside. Anger seeping out of your pores. “You'll sell her after you bring me in to my aunt?” Your voice breaks, and you hate yourself for it. “Am I just that to you? A bounty?” The dam breaks, and everything you've kept to yourself bursts open.

“That's not—” The heart that he has sewn together breaks at the seams.

You abruptly stand up, tears pricking your eyes. Inhaling, you stare down the man you love. The only man you've ever loved. “You are not what I hoped to find when I escaped on that ship.”

Before he could say something, anything, you disappeared into another train car, and amidst the metallic halls.

—

Another grueling day, another steel cage to get into. The train whistles as it comes to a stop, you've grown acclimated to the smell of burning coal, you let it coat your lungs as you enter the train with Hobie silently trailing after you.

Your eyes are glossed over, red and swollen from the sobs you've let out over the course of the last sixteen hours. Hobie hasn't talked to you since then, always looking at your back, face unreadable. You pass by familiar faces, you don't acknowledge them. You're tired, bones aching, muscles twitching from lack of sleep and water. Head thrumming, you enter your designated cabin like a doe who has lost its way.

There's a sinkhole underneath your feet, slowly it eats at you, up to your shins and up your thighs, coating your flesh in mud and dirt. You don't tug at him anymore, the small ember of hope in your chest has diminished, instead, you let the ground swallow you whole— letting it suffocate you, letting it drown your lungs in soil.

Just like he did on the first train ride, there's four beds on each wall, but instead of an empty space in the middle, there's a little foldable table. You close the top bunks and lay down on one of the bottom ones, head heavy against the soft pillow. You feel his presence behind you, and then a cool steel atop your bicep. You flinch away, thinking it was a barrel of a gun.

“I figured you're thirsty.” He says, hand hovering above your shoulder in an attempt to calm you down. The train whistle rings out, and the engine whirrs and starts up as more smoke bellows outside your window.

You take the flask, sitting up to take a drink. He sits across from you, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped in front of him.

Hobie sees the glow of your ring, he instinctively brings his hand up to his own that has made its home around his neck; hidden behind his clothes, finding comfort in its gilded form, the closest thing he can get to you.

“Why do you still hold on to me? After all these years?” He asks, eyes swirling with unknown emotion.

“Why did you let me go?” You answer, and that was the end of the conversation. Then it hits you, he truly doesn't love you anymore.

—

Night comes, and with it your sadness comes flooding through you, getting in the corners, slithering around every crevice— it has memorized your form and made it its home.

Weirdly enough, Hobie hasn't left the cabin, his lingering presence doesn't stifle you, unlike the man back at home who watches you with piercing glares. Even with your fury, your mind still finds comfort in Hobie.

He hears your almost silent cry, he wants to hold on to you, to brush his palms on your cheeks, to wipe away the tears and press his lips against your own. But he can't, or you'll think that he didn't mean it, that he only did it to make you calm down. It would be a cheap satisfaction for the both of you.

“I didn't let you go, I had to go.” He suddenly says above the quiet cutting of an apple in his hand, leaving pieces of it on your side just in case you want it. His voice doesn't waver, perhaps he has been saying the exact words to you in his mind for the past five years. You still have your back turned facing him as the deep rumble of the train goes on. “I was young and stupid. I was forced—”

You suddenly turn towards him, sitting up on the lumpy mattress. “And I was young and stupid too, yet I knew in my heart that running away with you wasn't foolish. Was it stupid to you? Escaping with me? That you'd rather run away, alone, to another country than be with me?” The memory of a young you waiting for him with your luggage in your grip has you seething.

Hobie matches your anger, hunting knife pausing on the red apple. “Did you hear what I said?” He angrily skins the fruit, slicing and dicing at its flesh. “You have no idea what I've done to survive. I have endured a lot to be where I am now—”

“And what of what I endured?!” You stand up, taking your bag, rummaging through it. “I'm truly sorry for whatever happened to you— but how could I apologize for something that I don't even know?” You toss the letters on the desk after struggling to take it out of the bag. “There! The letters that were sent back to me because I had no idea where you would be! Read them, and you'll know of the things I've endured. Unlike you who would rather look at me with contempt than tell me why I deserve that horrid gaze.” You gasp for air, he lets you speak, his own anger dissipating, fear once again encompasses him. “I thought you were dead, everyone kept telling me you were, but I didn't believe them. It's been years, my hands are raw from— I mourned you.” You pause, watching your golden ring glow in the lampshade. “Do you know how much that hurt? To start to believe their words? To lose hope? I didn't know where you were but you knew where I was and yet, not a single fucking letter went my way.”

Hobie stares at the letters spilled all over the table, apple juice seeping into the yellowed paper. He takes one, the oldest looking one that has its edges burned. Breaking the wax seal, he reads as he listens to your words coated in venom and grief.

“One letter, Hobie, and I would've understood. Then I wouldn't have come after you if you just told me you didn't want to be with me anymore.” You nod, “and now you're bringing me home, to the same people who would rather keep me locked up and tell me lies. I don't know how your letter got in my possession, but now I know that you didn't mean anything you wrote in it.” For five years you've asked yourself, ‘was it me?’ ‘Was I the reason you left?’ you never got the answer to your question, so now you ask him finally. “Was it me?”

Hobie raises his head to look upon your sorrow, his hand shakes at the act they've done to you the second he escaped. He had thought they'd leave you alone, that they'd finally let you go once he was gone and forgotten; but he never thought it would get worse, the hurtful words and slaps on the wrists were nothing compared to what they've done after that night he was almost buried alive— the night you tried to escape with him. His mind draws the scene, blood coating your knees, your pained cry as your aunt jabs your hands with the tip of a fountain pen. And then her words of hollow apologies as she heals your wounds so that it wouldn't scar. You're filled with them, invisible to the eye, but not to you, the only person who has felt every single torturous wound.

‘It's terrible,’ you wrote, ‘not ever seeing you again.’ And he agonizingly read it. No, it wasn't you, it was them, them who would rather commit murder just to mimic what he had. Hobie can't form coherent words at what he just read, anger and sadness piercing his veins like a poisoned arrow of guilt.

You sniff, wiping the tears in your eyes as he just stares back at you. His hands shakes, paper crumpling under his tight grip, he needs to bring you home. But not there, not at the gilded cage he left you in.

The cruelty of memory has plagued you, you try to remember, you reminisce, but did it actually happen? Did all his love for you even happen?

“You don't have to keep reading,” you say solemnly, “it doesn't matter now, we're nearly there.” With a slide of the door, you leave.

—

After the twelfth tear stained letter, with his own tears flowing down and leaving moistened webs on the paper, he has had enough. His eyes always seem to see the same words now, ‘was it me?’ ‘Are you alive?’ and ‘When will you come back?’ Hobie hasn't even made a dent on the letters, barely reading half of the pile of longing you've left. Hobie's mind swirls into different emotions, going through every scenario where he didn't run away, where he came back for you while clutching his still bleeding throat and body covered in moist soil.

He was foolish to try and push you away, to hold you at arm's length, to only look at you like he has let the poisonous words thrown at him by the very same man that gave him the scar curl around him like blackened smoke that stains his clothes. He thought that wanting you back would bring nothing but hurt, especially that he thought that he didn't deserve it. To want is his demise, to have you again in his arms is his folly, but what a wonderful folly it would be.

How could he do all of that to you when his scarred flesh is in the shape of your name.

He pockets the letters, tucking it inside his waist coat, right above his heart just to feel your words through them. The door opens with a click, and he walks towards your direction like a compass built inside him that always points towards you. His fingers glide along the scar on his neck, raised skin felt through his gloves as he walks from carriage to carriage. Where there's open air in between, cool breeze stinging his moistened cheeks. Then he stops at the edge of a crowd, a jaunty tune plays from a traveling musician, playing for a scrap of coins in the corner. People gather around the brightly lit bar, alive and happy, and there you are standing as if you're frozen in time. As if he's seeing you just how he left you.

Amidst the familiar faces within the crowd that gathers in the small bar to converse, he stares at you, and by some miracle, you stare back at him, meeting his jade eyes that are surrounded by a sickened red. There's a soft, ghost of a smile on your lips, even after what you've told him— eyes full of love for the same man who has your heart in the palm of his hands; gentle, caring and yet unknowingly the only person that could truly hurt you the most without the painful slap of a wooden board against your back. It brings him back in time, under the cloudy gas light and the whir of the metal machines whose maw opens and closes to reveal heated metal— His mouth opens and he says the exact same thing that he has been saying every single time his eyes meet yours in secret— ‘meet you back at home.’ He utters, a promise kept under the smell of unlit gunpowder and cheap champagne that your aunt always buys to placate the workers. And you say the same words back without a bated breath— ‘wait for me.’ You almost cry out into the crowd, you'd scream it if it weren't for the forbidden relationship. It has been like that through every cheap congratulatory milestone the factory and your aunt has thrown. You don't speak to him, but your longing eyes do. He doesn't come near you, but his hand would always gravitate towards your velvet clad hand. ‘No one else knows.’ ‘No one else knows,’ those words echo in your mind like a root taking its place. Yet, someone saw, it only takes one good pair of eyes to see the growing love between you— ‘no one knows,’ he mirrors, but one does. It only takes one to set off a domino effect, an effect that would lead to his attempted murder, and to your demise that he isn't fully privy to. ‘No one knows,’ ‘no one knows,’ you whisper to yourself as you pack your bags to escape the life you haven't got a say in. No one knows, and yet, one did, and that one got your love's neck slashed and buried alive in the same soil you once kissed above on, under the same tree that you were supposed to meet in.

He wondered why you didn't show up, but the one that knew did. No one knows, and the one that did lived in your house, ate your food, shared a bed with your aunt— a story told through a letter from a man he once worked with, a man who now has one eye, a man that helped dig him out of the shallow grave they've put him in, waiting to bleed out in the earthbound soil. A dangerous letter that he had burned in the fire from anger. He wanted revenge, but you would be the cost. So he survived and killed, and survived again, always seeing you in the corner of his eye, always hearing your almost forgotten voice when he's on the edge of sleep. He survived and now he's here, meeting with your eyes amidst the crowd once again— with the evidence of his survival curling around him like a heavy rope, and your own hovering above you like a grey cloud that threatens to spill, yet he still utters the same words above the murmuring happier crowd, “meet you back at home.” His throat closes in around the words, almost screaming it to the crowd.

A tear slips from your eyes that are full of woe, and you say the words back, quieter, unsure, yet, the love is still there— “wait for me.”

Hobie breathes for the first time, his feet carrying him around the crowd, weaving through bodies to get to you while you stand still, waiting for him, watching as he desperately trudges to get to you.

You look just like how he remembered, standing by the oak tree, waiting for him even if his hands are stained black from grease— you'd still hold his hand. Now his hands are soiled in crimson that drips onto the floorboards, and yet you still hold your hand out towards him. He would atone for his sins if that's what you'd ask of him, but no one would grant him his penance, he has accepted that fact long ago. Only your touch could mimic it.

Hobie finally makes it to you, now he stands in front of your form, now he notices your hand grasping his own. Featherlight, unsure, if he'd reciprocate, giving him enough time to shake you off. But he doesn't, instead, he holds on to you tighter as he leads you outside of the noisy carriage and away from prying eyes, what he should've done all those years ago.

Hobie tugs you out of the hole that has consumed you.

Silently, you follow him, squeezing his hand twice to let him know that you're right behind him without him looking over his shoulder to inspect. You feel his fingers run along the ring on your finger.

The sound of the metal wheels are loud in your ears, steam rolling off in waves as it warms your back. It's dark out, the moon above guiding his path while he opens the other door leading towards the last carriage that carries horses and baggage.

The moon has always been a comfort to you. You thought in those years without him that he'd be staring at the same moon as you, that at least you've still got a connection with him. Even if you weren't sure he'd be alive to look up at the sky. Arms suddenly envelopes you, hands cradling the back of your head to keep you close to him, face hidden in the crook of your neck.

You're the first one to speak while you tentatively raise your arms to embrace him back. He's warm, warmer than you remember. “Do you mean it?”

Hobie sniffs, diamonds rolling off his cheeks, a promise falling from his lips, “yes, I'll bring you home, my home.” He molds himself to the shape of you once again. An act that you've been trying to attain since the beginning of the journey, now you're both perfectly aligned with each other, heartbeats synching and full. “I'll tell you everything, everything you need to know.”

“Just the ones you're willing to tell, Hobie. I'm so sorry for yelling those words at you.” You hold his head in your hands, gentle, caring, cradling him like you're holding the moon. Guiding it upwards so you could stare at his viridescent eyes that's full of hope for the first time in years. But the gnawing in your mind draws too close to you. “They'll never stop, they will keep hunting us down.” A sob breaks through your throat, “You have to bring me to them.” Tears flow out of you, “or we'll never be at peace. You'll never be at peace.”

The horses neigh behind you, Cherry huffs while Buckeye just stares at the scene. The carriage rattles for a moment before Hobie leans, laying his forehead atop yours, squeezing the soft skin on your nape. He closes his eyes, inhaling you in, you almost crumble in his arms. You've dreamt of this day, dreamt of holding him like this once again.

“You're my peace.” he whispers, “They can try to ruin that peace, but I'll stop them. I'll kill them if I had to.”

“Okay,” you close your eyes, just as he opens his own. “Take me home.”

“‘m sorry,” he kisses your forehead, lips lingering, a heavy kiss that brings you back to life, mending all your doubts. “Let's go home, yeah?” Leaning away, his eyes dart over to a man coming your way, he doesn't find it suspicious, but then the stranger brandishes a gun, raising it over your head. “Y/N—!”

Your body flings off to the side, hip hitting harshly on the corner of a crate. Then a loud cackle of a gun goes off, the sound bouncing off the walls, gunpowder flying over head, hiding Hobie from your vision. You yell his name, but you can't hear your own voice from the ringing in your ears.

Everything happens slowly in your eyes. Smoke spreads as you see Hobie still standing and unscathed, gun raised, barrel aimed at the man's head. Said man runs towards him like a bull, making Hobie miss his shots. Yet the man still shoots at him, slower than Hobie but just as deadly. Hobie leans his head slightly to the side, effectively dodging a bullet. You scamper towards Cherry, lifting yourself up, waiting for the right moment. And then you slap your precious horse, making her kick before he could reach Hobie. Cherry's deadly kick hits the perpetrator right on his back, where a sickening crunch can be heard. The sheer force of the kick has dust flying off his body, and now he lays motionless on the wooden floor.

“Fuckin' hell.” Hobie gawps at you, smile spreading across his lips. “You alright?” He walks over to you, or tries to while Cherry gives one last kick towards the dead man.

“Yeah,” you nod, patting Cherry, Keeping her calm. “It's okay, girl. I'm so sorry.” You coo at her, Hobie goes around the horse to hold you. “Are you—?”

His arms wrap around your waist, lips smashing on yours. You inhale and it's already over. Even if it was quick, it wasn't a cheap satisfaction, it's everything. He pats your cheek affectionately, beaming at you, holding you close. “You're brilliant.” His thumb rubs softly where you hit your hip on the crate, a silent apology.

You smile, heart thumping loudly like an engine. “It was all Cherry.”

“Should I snog the horse now too?” Hobie says smugly, eyebrows raised in amusement.

“No, preferably just me, for now at least.” You tap his chest, bashfulness encompassing you.

“Nah, it's you until the end, love.” He clicks his forehead against yours, making you chuckle.

A scream rings out from the other carriage, hurried footsteps bounding away. “Do you think—?”

Hobie reloads his gun effortlessly, giving the spare one to you. “You're a better shot than me anyway.” He takes one last look at you, as if this is the last time he'd ever set his eyes on you. “Whoever they are, I'll cut through them. Cover my back?”

“Always,” You nod, taking the silver six-shooter, “then we'll go home after this.”

He grins, hope in his eyes. “Home, you'll love it there.”

“Let's cut through all of them then.”

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flowerandblood · 1 year ago

Text

The Impossible Choice (18)

[ Aemond • Targaryen x Baratheon! • female ]

[ warnings: mention of underage sex, violence ]

[description: Aemond comes to Storm’s End to choose his future consort. However, Lord Borros Baratheon presents him with only four of his five daughters. Being attached to his youngest child, he does not want to marry her. The prince, however, thwarts his and her plans with his decision. This is slow burn, with a lot of dark angst and sexual tension. (Anon Request)]

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Previous and next chapters: Masterlist

______

Searching with Ser Criston for Aegon in the inns and brothels of King's Landing made him realised bluntly what kind of man his brother was. He felt an overpowering disgust at the thought; he said to Cole with regret and frustration that they were too decent and composed men to be able to read his steps and find him.

He finally remembered the place that he didn't want to return to and hoped never to appear there again.

However, he had no choice.

They stood outside the brothel, banging on the door with a large steel knocker, the building they were looking at was dingy, recently renovated with white lime plaster. He felt that his heart was in his throat, pounding loudly, he had a feeling that he was about to vomit.

They heard the turning of the key in the lock and a moment later a woman that he recognised immediately appeared in the entrance.

Red-haired, curvy, with a fierce look and a soft body.

He looked away from her, unable to bear the memories that flashed through his mind, while Ser Criston asked her if she had seen Aegon the night before.

"Come, don't be shy." His older brother sneered, throwing his arm over his neck, patting him comfortingly on his back.

Aegon said that he had a birthday surprise for him, and though his gut told him not to, he went with him and already regretted it.

"It's time for you to get it wet."

Aemond had no idea what his brother meant; he had just turned thirteen and already felt like a man. He was paying more attention than ever to his training and had grown considerably, but he still didn't look like he wanted to.

His brother's words filled him with fear of another life humiliation.

Aegon led him to a strange, disturbing place full of mature, half-naked women. He didn't know where to look, trying to keep a dispassionate, indifferent face, but inside he was terrified and felt ashamed every time that a passing girl cast a curious glance at his eye patch and scar.

He didn't want to go any further at all, but Aegon pulled him forcibly and they began to walk through interconnected rooms, separated by translucent red curtains, tables with goblets of wine all around, beds, couches and chairs, an intense smell of oils, sweat and some other, disturbing, strange, bodily smell that he couldn't identify.

What frightened him most were the loud moans and the sounds of wet, sticky bodies slapping against each other.

His brother led him to one of the chambers that was lockable; they went inside and he saw a large bed on which rested a woman, clad only in see-through blue robes, bound around her waist with an ornate copper belt, her red hair partly pinned up in a disorderly bun.

He figured that she was at least fifteen years older than him.

"I'll leave you alone. Lara, I'm handing him over to you." Aegon said amused, walking out and closing the door behind him.

He stood, terrified, fighting the overwhelming urge to run away immediately. He reasoned, however, that then the whole of King's Landing would know that the Prince was not only a cripple.

That he was afraid of women and unable to please them.

He had no knowledge of this mysterious, physical act.

He couldn't move.

He was petrified.

So he stayed.

The woman, seeing his terror and shyness, took his hand and led him towards the bed. She told him to lie on his back, so he did, feeling his heart pounding hard, cold sweat run down his back. He looked away as she lowered her gowns in front of him, exposing her large, shapely assets.

For some reason he felt discomfort at the sight, he wondered how Aegon could be attracted to such things.

He drew in a loud breath and pressed his lips together as he felt her take his hand and place it on her breast, forcing him to knead it, making purring noises that were apparently meant to encourage him.

He felt like he was about to vomit.

He did not want to do this, but her hand held him securely, her other palm with her nimble fingers untied his breeches. As she slid them down, he pressed his lips together to keep from crying.

He didn't want to do this.

He wanted his brother to return and take him home.

But Aegon did not come for him.

It was only the mechanical movements of her hand that made anything begin to happen to him. He felt suddenly hot, tense, still not looking at her.

No one had ever touched him there, in his intimate place, and he didn't like the fact that some complete stranger was doing it now.

"Easy, my Prince." She said sweetly, panting loudly for some reason, her other hand still forcing him to massage her large breast, which didn't fit in his hand. "I'll make you feel good."

As she sat on top of him, as he felt her hot, fleshy insides, he felt discomfort, embarrassment and an urge to pull away from her, to escape. He began to breathe loudly along with her, but not out of pleasure, but because with the rest of his strength he was trying not to sob.

He felt that something was about to happen, that the tension in his lower abdomen was reaching its zenith, but his head was thinking only of yelling out to her to get off him.

He stared out of the window, trying not to listen to the sounds of her and the creaking of the bed beneath him, not to feel her buttocks slapping against his thighs.

He felt a sudden relaxation and clenched his eye, shuddering slightly, swallowing loudly in relief that it was over. A single tear of humiliation ran from the corner of his eye onto the sheet beneath him but the woman didn't notice it, and he wiped his face quickly, pretending to wipe the sweat off his face.

"You were wonderful, my Prince." She lied sweetly, and he felt like slapping her for those words.

Fucking cow.

When she finally got off him and he breathed a sigh of relief, he sat up, fastened his breeches and left without even giving her a glance. He didn't wait for Aegon, who had just enjoyed himself with another whore, despite shouting after him, asking how he liked it.

He returned to the Red Keep alone through the same secret passage as before and locked himself in his chamber. He climbed onto his bed, covered himself with bedclothes up to his head and sobbed quietly all night.

After this event he never again allowed a woman to take the initiative in any intimacy with him and although he began to recognise that he could derive great pleasure from it, he only felt it when he was in control of everything that was happening.

He dictated the pace, the position and the way he would be satisfied.

The thought that his wife was a maiden at the time of their betrothal aroused him incredibly, but it also terrified him.

He didn't want the one he'd chosen to see him the way that he saw that brothel whore.

He wanted her to be able to really enjoy it.

His experience with women was limited, but he had already noticed what touch and where gave them joy, what movement of his fingers made them squirm with pleasure.

During their wedding night he decided to take his time and watch carefully for any signals of her body; he wanted her to look at him, he wanted to see her face, her gaze, watching if he saw a trace of horror or disgust in her eyes.

However, he saw nothing of the sort.

She was afraid of him, but there was also warmth and trust in her gaze, a plea for him not to hurt her.

She was obedient, sweet and polite, her insides wet and moist under his fingers, focused on his caresses.

He sucked on her nipples, her breasts plump and soft, in the shape he loved, unable to pull away from her.

When he opened her on his cock he was surprised by how tight she was; each thrust of his hips sent a wave of wonderful pleasure through him. He couldn't stop the quiet panting that escaped from his mouth at the sight of her half-bare body beneath him, beautifully soft, surrendered to him, her puffy lips slightly parted.

She was so innocent.

As the months passed and their marital relationship improved to the point where he was fucking her almost every day, he let her do more and more; at first he let her sit with her back to him, imposing an intense, brutal rhythm on her, clamping his hands on her hips.

Then he began to notice that he enjoyed kissing and sucking her breasts as she sat on him, all aroused, involuntarily rising and falling on his fat, hard cock, making him tremble with pleasure.

He thought then that he had a grudge against Aegon.

A grudge that he had taken away his first time that he could spend with her.

With his wife.

Sometimes he couldn't help himself and imagined it was her soft, warm, subtle hands that was touching his bare chest and manhood, it was her breasts that his hands touched for the first time. That all night long he would have kissed and licked only her lips and her body, getting to know her step by step, trembling all over with fear and excitement at the unknown.

He imagined that they would both be shy, that they would both be ashamed of what they were doing.

That he would reassure her with the sweet, tender kisses of his lips and she would soothe him with the touch of her hands on his cheeks, with assurances that they needn't hurry, that until the sun rose they could indulge in nothing but soft, calm caresses.

However, the opposite has happened.

What he had experienced and his fear of humiliation made him want to get through it all as quickly as possible.

He tried to show her as much understanding as possible, knowing that she was afraid, to be as gentle as he could, not to rush her or humiliate her in any way, but he couldn't open up to her.

He couldn't admit what he desired the most.

He thought of this as he looked at the woman who had ridden him that fateful day; she had told Ser Criston that Aegon had been seen in a completely different place, known for even more disgusting things.

Child fighting.

Lara looked at him, smiling lightly.

"You have grown so much." She murmured, and he pressed his lips together, swallowed quietly and turned away, following Cole.

More clues led them further, until they came across the twin knights in the Great Sept. Aemond saw his brother fleeing quickly through the main gates of the temple and caught him, throwing him to the ground; they struggled with each other and no one dared disturb them, knowing that this was matters between two brothers.

"Is it true that our father is dead?" Asked Aegon wearily, lightly prodded with shoulder by his younger brother.

"Yes. And they want to make you king." He said amused, but hissed when his brother spat in his face.

Aegon began to scream and begged him to let him escape, to sail away to Essos, to disappear. He struggled against himself, feeling a tightness in his throat.

Aegon's realisation that he was unfit for such a role struck him, as did the thought, once again that day, that he should be king.

He, his younger, well-educated brother, knowing history, philosophy and poetry, understanding the art of war, experienced in battle, attending all the meetings of the Small Council, understanding the politics and needs of the kingdom.

Nothing came out of his throat as he watched with a blank stare how Cole grabbed Aegon and began dragging him towards the Red Keep.

They had gathered in the Small Council chamber with their closest advisors to determine what to do next, prepare for the coronation, discern alliances and decide whose support they would need to ask for.

His grandfather stood up, touching his hand to a statue standing on a large map, carved in the shape of a deer's head at the spot where his wife's ancestral seat was located.

"We need the Baratheon army and the support of Lord Borros. His father swore allegiance to Princess Rhaenyra, but we have his daughter and we need to gently remind him of that." He said lightly, looking meaningfully at his grandson. He furrowed his brow at his words.

"You expect me to threaten her father? What would I say to him?" He asked impatiently, turning his head away with a snort. Otto was not deterred by his words or approach.

"You and your wife will fly to Storm's End to speak with Lord Baratheon. In the meantime, I will personally travel to Winterfell to speak with Lord Stark about the North's support for the Crown." He said, standing proudly, glancing at the lords who nodded their heads. He tapped his finger on the armrest of his chair, looking at his grandfather intensely.

"Let my wife speak on the matter. She knows her father better than I do." He said objectively with a kind of boredom, impatient and tired. Aegon chuckled at his words.

"You're not even able to piss anymore without your wife's permission?" He asked, Lord Lannister grinning under his breath at his words, amused. His expression, however, did not change.

"Our journey there will be a pointless waste of time if it turns out that Lord Borros will support us right away for her sake. Perhaps he will not even consider my whore-sister." He said indifferently, his mother throwing him a surprised look full of pain at his words.

She pressed her lips together and nodded at Ser Criston, ordering him to bring his wife to the Small council chamber.

After a moment his wife stepped into the room, standing before them with an uncertain expression on her face.

He could see that she was pale and that she was afraid, unsure of what was happening.

He felt a tightening in his chest at that thought, but there was nothing he could do.

"Come closer, my love, don't be afraid. We are just discussing what we should conceive after the death of our beloved King. We are preparing for Aegon's coronation, but also to secure our kingdom against the resistance of Princess Rhaenyra. I wish you and my son to fly to Storm's End after the Prince's coronation to remind your father of his arrangements with the King." Said his mother, apparently noticing as much as he did that his wife was terrified.

He saw the grimace on her face and furrowed his brow at the thought that his wife was about to say something that he might not like. She struggled with herself for a moment, looking at the map in front of her, and walked closer to the table.

"My husband cannot accompany me if my father is to support Prince Aegon." She said in a confident voice, glancing at him of the corner of her eye, and he clenched his jaw at her words, enraged.

What was she doing?

Was she playing her own game without his knowledge?

His grandfather laughed at her words, amused, clearly not taking what she said seriously.

"My lady, forgive me, but this is ridiculous. A lady should not present matters of war to a mature men." He said lightly, looking around the room for support on the lords' faces. Several of them giggled, Lord Lannister again seeming most amused.

He saw his wife's face turn suddenly serious and cool, almost stony.

He watched her intensely and thought that he had never seen her like this before.

"My father believes that my husband took me from my household against his will. He has no affection for him and will not welcome the sight of him. However, I can convince him. He is fond of me, I am his youngest child. He will listen to me, but in solitude, in a conversation between daughter and father, not between Prince and Lord." She said slightly impatiently, placing her hands on the table in front of her, leaning over it.

He was surprised by her words and felt a burning shame flow through his veins.

My father believes that my husband took me from my household against his will.

He has no affection for him and will not welcome the sight of him.

He realised that she was right.

When he arrived in Storm's End he was furious and bitter; he lashed out at her father, taking advantage of the fact that he was not in a position to defend himself against him.

He mocked and humiliated him, scolding him in front of his daughters for not being able to read or count, and then took away his beloved child, his treasure that he had tried to hide from him.

He figured that her thought could bear fruit.

Without him by her side, she would be just his child again, and their conversation would take on a different, parental overtone.

He realised that his wife was more reasonable than most of the people in the room around her who were trying to humiliate her.

"My wife is right." He said calmly, and she threw him a surprised, shocked look. The lords around him twisted in their seats, glancing at each other in surprise.

"I defied the lord's will in his own stronghold and I suspect that he still hasn't forgiven me for it. It would be better for me to fly to Winterfell on Vhagar, to show the people of the North who have never seen a dragon what the real power looks like." He added, looking into his wife's eyes.

He felt a squeeze in his stomach as he saw something in her gaze that he couldn't even name.

She smiled almost imperceptibly, full of gratitude, letting the air quietly out of her lungs as if she was relieved.

He thought with satisfaction that his wife was his ally.

That he would make her his Queen.

_____

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@its-actually-minicika @notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess @sweethoneyblossom1 @watercolorskyy @astral-blossoms @randomdragonfires @amirawritespoorly @apollonshootafar @padfooteyes @darylandbethfanforever9 @fudge13 @snh96 @diosademuerte @rwdkarla @echos-muses @ipostwhtifeel @letmeloveyouuuu @yentroucnagol @valeskafics

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setofkitchen · 2 years ago

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#Best Kitchen Appliances #Best Appliances for the Kitchen #Best Brand for Kitchen Appliances #Gordon Ramsay Cookware #Best Non Stick Cookware #Hard anodized cookware set #Best Hard Anodized cookware #Best Induction Cookware Sets #Best All Clad Cookware #Best Copper Cookware Set #Copper Cookware Sets #Best Nonstick Cookware Sets #Best Stainless Steel Cookware #Stainless Steel Cookware Sets #Grainte Stone Cookware Reviews #what cookware does gordon ramsay use #How to clean cast iron cookware #How to organize your refrigerator #How to use non induction cookware on induction cooktops

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czyzsh · 2 months ago

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Tinned Copper Clad Steel Wire (T-CCS Wire)

#Tinned Copper Clad Steel Wire (T-CCS Wire)

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yourlocalmechanism-dr-carmilla · 2 months ago

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“Care for a tea with your executioner?”

A new creation for the war, thats what I, King cole, adore!

Make me a beastly warrior out of the finest silver and strongest steel, unrelenting and deadly as death itself!

The rebels shall recoil in terror and fright when they see their executioner- the jabberwocky! [king cole obv]

Born from war, made for war, you shall never know anything else

You only feel pain, but you cant be beat, you dont have a soul, youre just a weapon

You cant talk right, so why bother? Just obey your orders, paint the sky red with blood, that is your life!

They soon found out that the collar that makes me obey, my chain on which i am held, can be hacked, soon i was fighting for the rebels, unknowingly

Ruby eyes turned white, as i burnt hundreds of rose reds and tore them apart

It was over as soon as it started, but they deceided that i should be the only one

So i was taken control of back and forth from the queen of hearts to the rebels [jabberwocky]

Born from war, made for war, you shall never know anything else

You only feel pain, but you cant be beat, you dont have a soul, youre just a weapon

You cant talk right, so why bother? Just obey your orders, paint the sky red with blood, that is your life!

The jabberwocky was useful in the war to the rebels, everyone feared it, but then, it went all so wrong. A glint of sentinence had been growing inside of the Jabberwocky, as it took over. And it turned against everyone, tired of being treated as just A weapon, it wrecked havoc, before it was shot down- it didnt stop it. I stabbed out its eye, to distract it. But then, it was gone. [Alice]

Born from war, made for war, you shall never know anything else

You only feel pain, but you cant be beat, you dont have a soul, youre just a weapon

You cant talk right, so why bother? Just obey your orders, paint the sky red with blood, that is your life!

I stalk the lands, seeking out new victims to satisfy my hunger for blood, picking them apart to see whats inside. I get driven mad woth the turmoil inside of me, oil spills from my eye- tears perhaps?

When i see tea, i stop for awhile, and thrn, there seens to be sonething reminiscent of peace

When i get taken control of- which never lasts too long-, i get chained up- whether queen of hearts or rebels, it doesent matter. I cant speak, its gibberish, a rhyme whine, Speech a Confusion, Askul frm or my true language- the one of machines that no one speaks anymore. When shall this terror end? I receive other broadcasts, maybe the war is over, i dont know? I hide and fight, i am a legend now, just another spook take to tell, as i was never a person to begin with.. [jabberwocky]

Born from war, made for war, you shall never know anything else

You only feel pain, but you cant be beat, you dont have a soul, youre just a weapon

You cant talk right, so why bother? Just obey your orders, paint the sky red with blood, that is your life!

A NEW OC!! ITS FOR THE MECHANISMS Ä!

Heres the description:

Name: Jabberwocky

-they/it or just its name

-a humanoid robot dragon essentially; it has dragon wings, its gasmask/helmet looks like a dragons, its pupils are slits, its hands have claws and its unnatural lanky and tall, its feet have claws too, and it has a dragon tail..its made from shining silver metal, its teeth are steel. It can breathe fire, has enorm strength, a thirst for blood, poisonous teeth and bizarrely, a love for tea. Its wings are the colour of oxidized copper, its eyes are essentially rubies w slit , their short hair a mix of blood red and moss green, their scales that litter their arms, legs, meck and sides of its body are a.metallic green. it is clad in a red military band jacket and a pair of white pants with buttons on the side. Its dangerous as it can move so swiftly and makes no sound- until its too late. Their teeth are too big for their mouth, thats why their mouth is always contorted into an odd grin (not as wide as chesires tho). Often perches somewhere on kts fours, looking for its next victim

-an experiment by King Cole; the only one of its kind as after it was finished and deployed, it was discovered that anyone could use it for its purposes- The collar that it wears makes it follow orders through a series of electric impulses- Unfortunately, that collar can be hacked and it didnt took for the rebels long to notice, so it turned into a back and forth between the two sides. Until…a glint of sentinence had started to develop inside of it- and it had enough of being just another weapon. So it went rogue. Turning onto everyone, it lit the battlefield ablaze with its fiery breath. It took awhile to even shoot it down, but it srivived and it also survived gettign its eyes stabbed out by none other than Alice Liddell, to protect the others, especially the white knight and queen. It did escaped tho, stalking the land

-due to its one eye being broken, its collar inly works half way- on occasion, it gets hacjed and then iti fights for one side but the effect wears off and it goes rogue, berserk-like as it slaughters the masses- but as soon as it sees tes, it takes a tea break. And when it gets brought under control, its always chained up and secured, no matter if rebel or queen of hearts- its treated like a beast.

-And inside of its head, irs full of doubts- what us it ecavtly, is it a person? Does the oil that leak from its eye symbolize tears? Can it feel mental pain? What are these sequenves (dreams) that it sees when.it rests? Why does it want to run or to stop?? It is confused. What doesent help is that it cant communicate properly, usually speaking in odd rhymes that make no sense, gibberish or just repeats a few words with no connection. And no one on this palnet speaks its true languagey the language of machine. So its left alone, confused, scared, full of hatred and bloodlust..soemtiems it picks its victims apart to see whats on the inside.

-It also picks up broadcasts and signals from all over and it can hack into computer system…but the message that the war was over..was deemed dentrimental to the war effort and was scrambled and it didnt udnerstood it. And even if-it coudlnt have stopped. It was born from war. it is their nature, their programming

-depending on which side theyre on, their eye changes from red to white. It doesent ubderstand feelings, has the names but not the meaning. It laighs but it sounds fake, robotic.

-it yearns for another machine to understand it..and to love it. It saw lovr in war it wabts to understand it, feel it. But it doesent have a heart, just a processor.

-they get picked up by the mechanisms abd taken in, due to theur destructive nature and wings. They deceide to keep their lost eye…

#the mechanisms

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navree · 2 years ago

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Vhagar had come at last, and on her back rode the one-eyed Prince Aemond Targaryen, clad in nightblack armor chased with gold.

He had not come alone. Alys Rivers flew with him, her long hair streaming black behind her, her belly swollen with child. Prince Aemond circled twice about the towers of Harrenhal, then brought Vhagar down in the outer ward, with Caraxes a hundred yards away. The dragons glared balefully at each other, and Caraxes spread his wings and hissed, flames dancing across his teeth.

The prince helped his woman down from Vhagar’s back, then turned to face his uncle. “Nuncle, I hear you have been seeking us.”

“Only you,” Daemon replied. “Who told you where to find me?”

“My lady,” Aemond answered. “She saw you in a storm cloud, in a mountain pool at dusk, in the fire we lit to cook our suppers. She sees much and more, my Alys. You were a fool to come alone.”

“Were I not alone, you would not have come,” said Daemon.

“Yet you are, and here I am. You have lived too long, Nuncle.”

“On that much we agree,” Daemon replied. Then the old prince bade Caraxes bend his neck, and climbed stiffly onto his back, whilst the young prince kissed his woman and vaulted lightly onto Vhagar, taking care to fasten the four short chains between belt and saddle.

Prince Daemon took Caraxes up swiftly, lashing him with a steel-tipped whip until they disappeared into a bank of clouds. Vhagar, older and much the larger, was also slower, made ponderous by her very size, and ascended more gradually, in ever widening circles that took her and her rider out over the waters of the Gods Eye. The hour was late, the sun was close to setting, and the lake was calm, its surface glimmering like a sheet of beaten copper. Up and up she soared, searching for Caraxes as Alys Rivers watched from atop Kingspyre Tower in Harrenhal below.

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mawofthemagnetar · 2 years ago

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NPC Grian Gets A Job

You, a modern minimalist architect who has done nothing but produce sterile white hellscapes your entire life, arrive in the 96th circle of Hell.

To your shock, it is a lush and verdant place. Rows of quaint stone and wood houses line perfect picturesque streets. Colourful flowerbeds and gorgeous classical architecture surrounds you. Trees grow wild and untrimmed. The only metal is copper roofing and wrought iron door-knockers and fence gates.

And you hate it immensely.

As you set off down the lovely cobbled streets, you come to realize that this place never ends. It’s an endless sprawling labyrinth of quaint rustic homes, roads forking off each other in all directions, forever. Eventually you finally, FINALLY wander to the edge of “town” (is it truly a town if you haven’t seen a single soul?) and find…a construction site.

Eager to break up the monotony (and give yourself something to do) you rush to the blueprints left lovingly on a sawhorse and examine them. Another rustic house. You’ll fix this. Grabbing your trusty ballpoint, you click it and set about sketching up something nice. Clean lines. White walls. White concrete. Square. Colour? God forbid, it’s not the fashion! After a few minutes of redoing the design, you look up.

“HELLO,” a man(?) clad in a red sweater shouts at you, “DO YOU WANT TO BUILD A RUSTIC HOUSE WITH ME?”

You stare at the man.

“No. We’re building something nice here. Something new.” You say, gesturing at the page.

The man’s face darkens like an encroaching storm as he glances at your page. At once, the illusion of colour in his eyes fades away, and you find yourself staring into two blank steel balls with a glowing red pit in the centres.

“THIS IS MY REALM WHERE ALL THINGS ARE RUSTIC AND ALL THINGS ARE HOUSE. DO YOU WANT TO BUILD A RUSTIC HOUSE WITH ME?”

You swallow uncomfortably. Something tells you “no” is a bad response.

“YOU HAD TO THINK ABOUT IT. I THINK YOU NEED TO GO IN THE CLOSET. IF YOU CAN LAST TEN MINUTES IN THE CLOSET, I WILL ALLOW YOU TO BUILD THIS NOT RUSTIC HOUSE.”

You swallow and nod slowly. That…certainly sounds like a deal.

“DO YOU AGREE?”

“Sure.” You say nervously.

“GOOD. I LOOK FORWARD TO SEEING THE RUSTIC HOUSES YOU WILL CREATE FOR ME.” The man says with a smile.

He snaps his fingers.

You blink.

When you open your eyes again, you’re inside of a small, cramped, dark closet. The walls are wood and it smells of must and mothballs.

It’s…boring, but safe enough?

“YOUR TEN MINUTES BEGINS NOW.” The man announces from outside.

And as the walls begin to drip like white paint around your fingers, you realize that it wasn’t a deal at all.

Nine minutes later, you are sketching out a design for a wonderfully quaint rustic house.

#magnetar writes #horror #npc grian #second person pov #crack fic #uhhh I don’t have an explanation for this #joke fic #i blame the xbfam #don’t expect a lot of NPC Grian stuff

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nostalgicamerica · 2 years ago

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True Story:

Throughout my life I have had many obsessions; fishing, the blonde I sat behind in high school biology, to have my own dog (Not just a 'family' dog), the redhead three doors down from our house, hockey, the brunette who would later become my wife, and a number of other things.

But when I was 10 years old I – like every other boy I knew – had a burning desire that made all other obsessions pale in comparison. My singular desire was to have to have a BB gun. I didn't care what kind, although for some reason I loved the look of the Daisy Model 30-30. Maybe it was because of all the Rawhide Kid, Kid Colt; Outlaw, or Cheyenne Kid comic books I consumed whilst hiding from my mother and her infernal chore list.

I wonder in retrospect if my mother believed that if a comic had 'Kid' in the title it couldn't possibly lead her flock astray, but I digress.

As far as BB guns go, I really didn't care what make or model. I just knew I had to have one. I dreamed about fighting off coyotes, black bear, and local bullies. The only requirement was that it be able to shoot a copper-clad projectile at a high rate of speed. Most of my friends already had their obsessions satisfied and it was a source of constant sorrow that I was BB gun-less.

My desire for a BB gun also filled me with a feeling of guilt because my parents ensured I had everything I needed and fulfilled many of my wants. My mother was never shy about providing me books, new or used, and Dad bought me all the fishing gear and hockey equipment I ever needed.

But Ivanhoe and shin pads couldn't fill the hole in my life left by something I had never possessed in the first place.

Any BB gun would have filled the hole.

One close friend, Skunk (don't ask), had the Holy Grail of the BB gun world – a Crosman pump rifle. This particular rifle was carried around town with much-deserved pride (oh, how I hated Skunk when he toted that gun around). I personally witnessed the sleek weapon puncture the side of a tomato juice can. I know it doesn't sound like much today, but back then, tomato juice cans were manufactured by the Ohio Boilermaker Company, made of 10 gauge, zinc-lined, galvanized steel, and, empty, they weighed 23 pounds.

Another friend actually had a BB pistol but his folks took it away from him because he put out one too many window.

There was a smattering of other BB guns in town. Most boys, who were born to more BB gun-friendly parents toted around Daisys, but I recollect other makes like Powermaster, Benjamin, and, of course, Crosman.

Mom apparently wasn't too worried about my brother and I shooting our eyes out because the Christmas after my 11th birthday my brother and I were presented with matching Daisy 102 Model 36 Cubs. My initial jealousy that my brother got his first gun at 10 while I had had to wait until I was 11 abated after a few seconds when I remembered he was my partner in crime and a pretty good friend all the way around.

The jealousy was immediately replaced with an ugly feeling of ingratitude that made me feel guilty and I tried to shake it off before my dad could see it in my eyes.

Cubs!

Yes, they were guns. Yes, they would shoot a BB. Yes, if you squinted at them, the rifles did sort of look menacing. But they were still Cubs, of all things. To those ignorant of the BB gun world, allow me to explain that the Daisy Cub was the AMC Pacer of the gun hierarchy. It was akin to eating a fast-food burger that has been sitting too long under the warmer; it looked vaguely burger-like, it would fill up an empty stomach, but no matter how you looked at it, it was never going to be a thick, mouth-watering, flame-broiled burger fresh from the barbecue grill in the back yard, dripping with grease, and topped off with the freshest of toppings.

Given that Christmas unreasonably seems to always fall in the dead of winter every year, and at least 8 feet of snow covered everything as far south as Des Moines and would until at least April, we were resigned that the guns wouldn't see much action until the Detroit Tigers were in spring training, at a minimum.

Dad, with a head toward solving our dilemma, came through in fine fashion. He covered the windows in the attic with a heavy, BB-proof tarp, hung up paper targets on a length of rope at one end of the cramped space and created an indoor shooting range for his two would be cowboys.

At this point it behooves me to again educate the BB gun ignorant; as a BB does not have a method of propelling itself down a barrel like a bullet, a BB gun has one of two ways to operate: 1. Compressed air (either manually pumped or by using a pre-filled CO2 cartridge), or, 2. Spring-loaded.

Take a wild stab at what method the fine folks at Daisy chose for the Daisy 102 Model 36 Cub.

Initially the BBs zipped to the targets just fine. The single light bulb hanging from the rafters was proof as it had to be replaced more than once, and we discovered the ricochet effect shooting at the chimney bricks.

By the end of January, the springs that provided the propulsion in the Cubs had lost some of their zip. To hit the targets we were required to raise the muzzles a few degrees to provide some elevation to the projectile's trajectory. By the beginning of March, the springs in both guns were so much al-dente fettuccine, and even if we managed to hit the targets – which wasn't a given – the BBs could no longer penetrate.

It wasn't long afterward that the blush fell off the rose and we were spending less and less time sharpening our sharpshooting skills.

I had some Two Gun Kid and Apache Kid comics to read.

Spring does show up every year, even to Northern Michigan's Keweenaw Peninsula. It's magical warmth causes the snow banks to shrink, gradually at first, and then disappear like cotton candy in a rain storm. It turned the roads into nearly impassable slush and mud, and boys' yearnings to everything summer: baseball, fishing, camping, freedom, no school.

In the spring and summer, Mom's infernal chore list was only a threat if one couldn't sneak out of the house before she latched onto an arm or ear. Avoiding Mom wasn't all that difficult, mostly because my brother and I had five younger siblings who always seemed to be crying for something or other and, as a result, Mom was almost continually distracted.

The first few glorious days of summer were spent in pursuit of birds and small animals with our new but impotent weapons. The hunts turned out to be exercises in futility because even if we managed to hit a chipmunk or squirrel, the BBs would do little more than tickle them.

It wasn't too many days before the Cubs were left in the hall closet to gather dust. What was the point of toting around a firearm that wouldn't fire? Nobody feared us, and the bears and coyotes were scarce, so our pursuits turned to fishing or swimming or that old trusty standby, finding ways to pester the neighborhood girls.

A few weeks into summer found a group of us kids, who had all successfully dodged our respective mother's chore lists, looking for mischief to get into. Picking on the girls was terrific fun but even that had gotten old. How often can you bomb a tea party with water balloons before it loses its attraction?

Fishing was always a draw for me, but nobody else wanted to slog the three miles to the river. A pick up baseball game was mentioned, but there were only eight of us, and, unless we wanted to play with older kids who would take over everything, or worse, girls, it was a non-starter.

Somewhere in our lethargy, the conversation turned to World War II. Over for some time, it was still a favorite subject. One friend's father had actually been in Normandy, and later on was stationed in Paris after it was liberated. He had been a supply clerk and never saw combat, but he still was a hero to us wide-eyed war junkies.

Most of us wouldn't have been able to find Normandy on a map, and whenever I heard of La Madeleine or other French towns I couldn't help picturing Mom's jar of orange marmalade that was always on the breakfast table. But even in our ignorance, we still loved talking about the war.

And then somebody casually asked, why not have a war of our own? For real. With guns. BB guns, albeit, but guns nevertheless. We could map out a large area south of town, stake out territories and try to capture the other's flags. We could set up rules of engagement and follow them to the letter. No targeting someone above the neck. No shooting if the target is closer than 10 feet. If you are hit anywhere but the arms or legs, you are out until the campaign was over and the new one began. Skunk could only pump his gun once; anything more would give him an unfair advantage.

The three boys who weren't already wearing Coke-bottle glasses had to see if they could filch safety goggles from their dad's garages or find something else to protect their eyes.

Breathless, my brother and I raced home to grab our guns and I crept up to our room to grab the half-filled, cardboard carton of ammunition Even employing stealth, we heard Mom yelling for us as the screen door banged behind us and we made our escape and headed to the field of battle.

Most boys are brain dead. At least I was and I can honestly say the thought of how stupid we were being never crossed my gray matter. I can't speak for my brother, but he was right by my side and I don't recall him voicing objections.

If we had stopped to think we would have recognized that if we were found out, not only would Dad bend our guns against the trunk of the maple tree in the back yard, but he'd wear out his razor strop on our heinies.

Perhaps common sense was out pestering the girls that afternoon because it was nowhere to be found when we all met up in the field under the giant cherry tree that we had designated as the demilitarized zone.

In short order we formed two, four-person armies and hammered out the theater of operations. We had to stay in between the two dirt roads to the east and west, and the northern edge of the pond was the southern boundary. The Pelkkanen's (who happened to be out of town) outhouse would represent the northern border of our combat arena.

We tore up the tee shirt pinched from somebody's clothesline and each team took half as a flag. We would split up, set up our head quarters and wait 20 minutes before launching hostilities.

None of us had a watch, so approximately 4 minutes later, we were all slinking through the waist-deep weeds and bramble bushes, crouching behind cedar bushes and pine trees looking for the enemy. Strategy? Ha! We just moved towards the opposite end of the war zone until, hopefully, we'd engage somebody to shoot at.

That's exactly what happened. The two skirmish lines met in an opening in the shrubbery and began firing as fast as we could work the levers on our guns. BBs flew like confetti and boys fell with over-dramatic flair. The BBs had a slightest of stings, except for Skunk's shots, but even those weren't terrible.

Through four successive battles the teams went at it. mostly adhering to the rules. One boy caught a BB in the ear that made him yelp, and in the fourth skirmish I took one in my lower lip which immediately began to swell. The pain wasn't too terrible and I fought on.

Tied two battles to two, we determined to settle the issue of supremacy in one last engagement. To the victor would belong the spoils, whatever they were. Possibly an empty tomato juice can.

Unfortunately, the other team had at least one boy who wasn't addle-minded and had something up their sleeves; they had no intention of a frontal assault.

We found out too late that three of the opposition moved to the west side of the combat zone and made somewhat of a ruckus, drawing our attacking force on the run, while their fourth slipped by unobserved on the east side, waltzed into our base, swiped our flag and redeployed back to his base.

We lost the battle and thus the war without firing a shot. While certainly the defeat stung, my brother and I took the whipping in stride and opined that we'd know better next time. One of our team yelled some of the worst Finnish words he knew; paska, and kusipaa and paskiainen being chief among them. (For those who don't speak Finn, trust me, they're pretty tame by today's standards.)

For some unknown reason that escaped the others in our army, Skunk was livid. How could we lose so easily with such superior firepower? The tyhmät päät must have cheated! He was going to exact some sort of revenge. I tried telling him we just lost and that's the way it goes sometimes. But he was beyond reasoning with.

Skunk set off to the other side of the field with the rest of the team following behind. He would later claim he only pumped his gun once, but my brother and I would both rat him out to the fellows that we both had seen him pumping the gun multiple times as he advanced on the other army's position. How many times did he pump the pump? I have no idea, but it was more than one.

The other team emerged from hiding and began rubbing it in as we approached - as we would have done had we been the victors. Without a word Skunk raised the Crosman and took bead on one of our friends, Jussi. The intended target yelled and spun around to take cover when the BB punctured the denim and skin that covered his keister.

We were all in shock as we watched a small, dark, wet spot appear and grow slowly larger on the wounded boy's left buttock. Even Skunk was mortified at what he'd done. We were all shocked and most of us were crying except for - oddly enough - the boy with the BB in his butt. He handled being shot with remarkable aplomb.

The youngest boy in our gang lost control of his bladder and he peed his pants. (nobody gave him flack for the leak - he was only 8 and, frankly, some of us struggled to keep from peeing in our drawers, too.)

Skunk tossed his gun aside and ran off, all the while crying how sorry he was. The rest of us gathered around our wounded comrade and dithered back and forth about what to do. Jussi gingerly lowered his trousers baring an expanse of pale white flesh with an ugly purplish circle the size of a nickel surrounding a BB-sized darker hole. Bright blood trickled from the wound and dripped down into his pant leg.

Someone suggested sucking out the BB like we might suck out rattlesnake venom. Even Jussi was taken aback by the suggestion and in no uncertain terms bellowed, "Ain't nobody sucking on my arse!"

I picked up Skunk's Crosman and we helped the only real casualty of what we'd come to refer to as the War of the Keweenaw hobble home to have his mom administer first aid.

Either Jussi's parents were brighter than we gave them credit for and didn't buy the story that their son was injured by a branch when he fell out of a tree, or Jussi just told them the truth.

Whatever the case, in short order, all of our parents were brought up to speed and that evening found my brother and me in the backyard with Dad. Our Cubs on the ground at our feet.

Without words he gestured for me to hand him my gun. I did so waited for him to slam the gun against the tree trunk. Instead, he raised his knee and bent the barrel of the gun over it like it was Play-Doh. He tossed my Cub aside and repeated the ceremony with my brother.

We waited for him to pull out his strop but it wasn't forthcoming. Even his belt stayed cinched around his waist. He just looked at us sadly and shook his head.

He hugged us both and whispered, "I'm disappointed in both of you."

We would have rather had him wear out the razor strop on our butts. That was a punishment we could understand, even if it was a painful. "Please yell at us, Dad!" I screamed in my head.

Both my brother and I were sobbing uncontrollably. The worst punishment imaginable had been handed down - Dad was disappointed in us. It was a pain we would strive hard to never feel again.

All of us who had participated in the War of the Keweenaw had received punishments of varying degrees. We all lost our guns, except Skunk, who, in his remorse and shame, presented it to Jussi in atonement.

My brother and I would spend the next several months trying to make Dad proud of us again. We stopped sneaking out of the house and even willingly worked on Mom's infernal chore list that seemed to keep growing, and completed everything on it that an 11 and 10 year-old could. As much as we would have liked to do so, we just weren't able to reshingle the house and garage roofs on our own, but we willingly helped Dad do the job.

Eventually, after a time, Dad returned to his normal, boisterous, and joking self and life went on and it was good.

I never owned another BB gun. A handful of years later I received a Remington .30-06 just in time for deer season, and I've owned multiple rifles, shotguns and pistols since then, but I've never had an 'obsession' for the guns. They are nothing more than tools that I always handle with the respect they deserve.

Note: A dozen or so years ago I was able to visit my old home town and reconnect with the few of my friends who still live in the area. Skunk and Jussi are still best of friends and I can still see the boy in both through the grey. Jussi grinned at me when I brought up The War of the Keweenaw, went to his basement and returned with the Crosman BB gun. He claimed it still worked perfectly.

Although I declined to do so when he offered to let me feel the bump, he asserts the BB is still lodged firmly in his buttock.

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