#Volley Valley

[conundrumcomics]

"The Adventures of Rock in a Jar"

Enaction, 14:3

[cherrieflavouredheadcanons]

hi luv! i hope you're doing great. Saw your recent post and i do have a hc request (since im having a haikyuu brainrot rn 👀), what would you think of making papa!haikyuu hcs 😩. How would these volley boys make as a father! (especially kenma, tsukki and noya) and you can add your favs too 💕sjsjjsjs hope you have a great day ahead!

I'm doing okay, I hope you are doing good and that you have a nice day! I hope you enjoy this post and it is to your liking

Them as fathers

Characters: Kenma, Noya, Tsukki Gender neutral reader, it is not mentioned whether the children are adopted or biological, Kenma’s is longer than the others because i had way too many ideas for him

Kenma Kozume

First things first: I don’t think Kenma would have more than one kid, if you really wanted to have more he would relent but he is perfectly happy with just one, he thinks 3 people is the perfect number for your little family.

You may think he wouldn’t be that involved in his kids life, but that is a big misconception,

No matter how much work he has to do he makes sure to spend time with you and your kid.

Kenma would never show his child on the internet in any way, he wants to keep his private life private and keep his child safe, he knows how cruel the internet can be, no way in hell will he put his young child into that kind of situation.

Once your child learned to crawl he brought the three starters of Pokémon black and white (gen 5 best games I don’t take criticism) to see which one your child would choose.

Based on what they chose he will be sulky or proud. (I nearly made this into Oshawott propaganda but I didn’t you’re welcome). But at the end of the day he knows that they just choose one based on colours and shapes, he would teach them once they are older how to perfectly choose a starter.

Best believe that as soon as your kid is old enough to understand things he will show them all kinds of (age appropriate) video games.

You enter his gaming room with some snacks for him and you can just see him play Slime Rancher as your kid sits in his lap, eyes glued to what their father is doing.

He already has started a Stardew Valley coop farm for you three to play together one day, he is just waiting for the day your child is old enough.

Now enough video game talk, (though I have so many more ideas about this lol) your child loves it when Kenma reads to them before they sleep, his voice is very soothing to them.

Once they are asleep Kenma stays at their side a bit longer, watching them sleep a serene smile on his face.

Kenma can’t say no to your kid, he will buy them anything they want. You sometimes wonder how he can be so responsible with his money in any other situation, but your child just needs to point at something and he will buy it for them unless you intervene.

Lastly, be prepared for Kenma and your kid to team up against you. Board games? Yeah they are a team even if the game isn’t a game for teaming up. (Monopoly is a nightmare with them, Oh you need a red? Too bad your kid and Kenma are trading it between one another instead of giving it to you) But you can’t really seem to mind when you see the way Kenma and your kid smile. (Unless you are like me and are fiercely competitive in games then you may want to strike Kenma down)

Yu Nishinoya

Noya would take longer to have children with you, at least until he is done travelling, he does want kids but is aware that travelling the world with them wouldn’t be ideal, he wants them to have a stable home.

Once you two do have kids, he wants at least 2 or 3. Noya wants a big family.

I feel like he is the type of Dad that throws his kids in the air and then catches them (he won’t do it high) and it always gives you a heart attack.

Instead of reading them good night stories he always tells them (embellished) stories from when he travelled the world, for example he once exclaimed to one of your kids how a mermaid vied for your attention but he fought them heroically off.

This does bite him in the ass years down the line once your kids are teens, they will bring these stories up whenever they can to tease him.

Asahi is basically an uncle to your kids, he often visits you and brings the kids many gifts. He loves to spoil them.

And yes Asahi designs the clothes for your kids as well, it often leads to many people asking you and Noya where you got the clothes for them from since they are such a high quality.

Yes, he will teach your kids “Rolling thunder”. No you can’t stop him. Even if your kids don’t play Volleyball they will still know the move.

This leads to your kids looking for his old jersey’s from highschool, putting them on and pretending to  be their dad. No he is not crying, he just got dust in his eye.

Vacations and holidays are important to Noya, while he can’t travel the world with your kids, he will take them on memorable vacations across the country when they are old enough to remember them.

He wants them to have a happy and fulfilled childhood with as many experiences as they can have.

Kei Tsukishima

When you first brought up having children with him he asked “Are you sure you can take care of a child? Don’t you wanna practise with a pet rock first?” You lightly punched him in the chest for that and he had his signature smirk on his face.

He is honestly neutral on the aspect of having kids, he is not against it but also it was never his dream of having them, so he is fine with whatever you want.

Just like Kenma he would probably only have one kid, with his Job as a Volleyballplayer and everything he isn’t home that often, so if you had more than one kid he would feel guilty leaving you home alone with them.

Tsukki is probably the first one from Karasuno to have a kid, so he is smug about the fact that he is ‘better’ than the others in that regard.

The first team reunion after you two had your child will have him holding his child proudly, while he tells all the others how slow they are for not having kids yet, which has everyone rolling their eyes. He is very proud of his kid so that he will hold it up Lion King style so everyone can admire it.

Unluckily though he miscalculated the height of the ceiling and bonked your kids head on it, which left everyone in the room in a stunned silence (True story from my infant days, my dad did this exact thing with me)

You had made him change every diaper for 2 weeks for the heart attack he gave you with that, even if your kid was fine and wasn’t hurt.

Tsukki and you switch every night who is going to read your kid, while you pick different topics every time, he only ever chooses dinosaur stories to read to your kid.

Speaking of dinosaurs, Tsukki once claimed he had to educate your kid on certain things while you went out grocery shopping, when you came back you saw that the thing he was educating your child on was “The land before time” which made you smile.

Now no matter if the child is biologically yours or adopted, it somehow interhits his sass, which means you will be surrounded by two sassy little pieces of shit (affectionate).

Though you get both of them to calm down their sass by offering them some strawberry cake if they stop, it surprisingly works better on Tsukki then on your kid, who would have thought?

[novaursa]

The Dragon's Right (10)

- Summary: - It was by grace of the gods that firstborn child of Viserys I and Aemma was born a boy and he lived. And all of the rest, scholars will later say, is by power of something more malevolent in kind.

- Paring: male!reader/Rhaenyra Targaryen

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Word count: 6 000+

- Previous part: 9

- Next part: 11

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne

The Crown’s forces gathered on the ridge overlooking the barren landscape of the Dornish border. Rows of soldiers stood at the ready, shields raised, spears glinting under the harsh sun, their faces set with grim resolve. The wind carried the distant sound of drums and war horns, a steady beat from the Dornish army assembling in the valley below. The smell of dust and sweat clung to the men, the anticipation of battle hanging heavy over the field.

Captain Mallor, the commander of your ground forces, surveyed the scene with narrowed eyes. “They’re massing for a charge,” he muttered to his lieutenant, his voice low but tense. “We’re outnumbered, but if we hold the ridge, we might stand a chance.”

The lieutenant nodded, though his face was pale with the realization of what lay ahead. “Where is the prince?” he asked quietly. “We’ll need him… and his dragon.”

The captain’s eyes flicked to the sky, scanning the clear horizon. “He’ll come,” he said, though even he couldn’t hide the uncertainty in his voice.

Below them, the Dornish army moved like a tide, their brightly colored banners snapping in the wind, the glint of their spears and swords creating a sea of metal and bloodlust. They were ready, and they were coming. Soon.

But then, just as the tension seemed about to break, there was a distant, thunderous roar that echoed across the valley, causing every head to snap upward.

From the clouds above, Silverwing appeared, her massive wings beating the air with a power that made the ground tremble. You sat atop her, your body braced against the saddle as she descended swiftly, the sun catching the glint of her silvery scales. Below, the soldiers on both sides stared in awe and fear as the great dragon loomed above them, casting a shadow over the battlefield.

“There he is!” someone shouted from the lines of your men, their spirits lifting at the sight of you and Silverwing.

“Ready the archers!” Captain Mallor barked, his voice carrying over the clamor as Silverwing swooped down, her powerful wings stirring up clouds of dust.

You could feel the tension of the moment in your bones, your heart pounding with both anticipation and dread. This was it. The Dornish army was larger than expected, and you knew they had prepared for you. Reports of scorpion ballistas had been filtering in for weeks, but now, as you flew over the mass of their forces, you could see the large siege weapons being wheeled into position.

Silverwing let out another deafening roar, one that shook the ground and sent a shudder through the enemy ranks. But the Dornish were not cowed so easily. They were battle-hardened and knew that dragons, while powerful, were not invincible.

You leaned forward, giving Silverwing the command to dive.

With a terrifying grace, Silverwing folded her wings and plunged downward, a stream of dragonfire spilling from her open jaws. The fire hit the front ranks of the Dornish army like a hammer, the flames scorching the earth, leaving nothing but charred bodies and burning wreckage in their wake. Screams filled the air as the heat of the flames spread, and men scrambled to avoid the dragon’s wrath.

But as you circled for another pass, you caught sight of the scorpions—massive ballistas mounted on wooden platforms, their operators frantically turning the cranks to aim the deadly harpoons at you.

“They’re aiming for us!” you shouted to yourself, tightening your grip on the reins as you urged Silverwing to veer left. Her wings flared, and you felt the rush of wind as she twisted away, avoiding the first volley of harpoons that whizzed through the air, missing by mere feet.

“Hold steady!” you commanded, but your heart raced as you saw more scorpions being loaded, their deadly spears now pointed directly at you.

Silverwing banked hard, her wings cutting through the air as she avoided another harpoon. But in the chaos of the battlefield, you didn’t see the third scorpion until it was too late.

A sharp whistle split the air, and you had only a second to react. You yanked on the reins, pulling Silverwing into a sudden roll, but the harpoon grazed your side, tearing through your armor and ripping a searing line of pain across your ribs. You gritted your teeth, gasping as the wound burned, blood soaking through your tunic.

Silverwing let out a shriek of alarm, her body jerking to the side as she felt your pain through your bond. “I’m fine!” you shouted, though the throbbing agony in your side made it difficult to speak. “Just keep flying!”

You gripped the reins tighter, ignoring the hot, sticky sensation of blood running down your skin. Another scorpion fired, and this time, Silverwing was ready. She spun in the air, dodging the harpoon with ease before unleashing another blast of fire, scorching the siege weapon and the men operating it. The ballista exploded into a burst of wood and flame, sending debris flying in all directions.

But the battle was far from over. The Dornish soldiers, seeing their weapons destroyed, began to surge forward, their commanders barking orders as they launched a full-scale charge toward your forces.

“Now!” Captain Mallor shouted from below, raising his sword. The archers let loose their arrows in a deadly volley, and the front lines of the Dornish army fell in droves. But still, they pressed on, determined to reach the ridge and break your lines.

You urged Silverwing lower, her great wings beating the air as she descended once more. The battle below was chaos—soldiers clashing, shields splintering, the sounds of swords clanging and men screaming filling the air. You could see your forces struggling to hold the line, the weight of the Dornish numbers pushing them back.

“We need to break their charge,” you muttered, scanning the battlefield for the best point of attack.

Silverwing growled in response, her body coiled with fury, ready to strike. You guided her toward the thickest part of the enemy lines, where the Dornish were pressing hardest. With a flick of the reins, you gave her the signal, and she opened her jaws wide, releasing another torrent of dragonfire.

The flames tore through the enemy ranks, leaving devastation in their wake. Men screamed as they were consumed by fire, their armor melting to their skin. Horses bucked and fled in terror, and the ground itself seemed to burn as Silverwing’s fire swept across the battlefield.

But even as you rained fire upon the enemy, you knew this would not be enough. The Dornish were relentless, their resolve unshaken by the dragon’s fury. They pushed forward, their commanders shouting for them to press the advantage.

Your side burned with pain, but you ignored it, focusing only on the battle, on the roar of Silverwing’s breath, and on the enemy that had to be stopped.

As the battle raged on, the Dornish forces began to falter, their morale breaking under the relentless assault of dragon and steel. But you knew there would be no easy victory here. The fight had only just begun, and the price of protecting the realm would be paid in blood.

But for now, the Crown’s forces held. And Silverwing, her scales glistening with blood and soot, let out one final, victorious roar that echoed across the battlefield, sending a shudder of fear through the remnants of the Dornish army.

The mood in the Tower of the Hand was suffocating, the air heavy with unspoken words as Otto Hightower sat in his study, his fingers drumming impatiently against the edge of his desk. His brow was deeply furrowed, his mind clearly preoccupied as he stared at the open window, his thoughts far beyond the confines of the Red Keep. The months had dragged on since you had flown off to the Dornish border, and with each passing day, Otto’s frustrations grew. Plans were stalling, opportunities slipping through their grasp, all while the realm waited for the prince’s return—if he ever returned.

A soft rustling of fabric caught his attention, and he turned to see Alicent standing quietly by the door, her hands clasped nervously in front of her. She had come at his summons, but the look on her face revealed she knew this conversation would not be a pleasant one. She could sense her father’s agitation in the set of his jaw, the tightness around his eyes.

“Alicent,” Otto said without preamble, gesturing for her to enter. “Come in. We need to speak.”

She stepped into the room, her movements graceful but hesitant. The weight of the past months had settled heavily on her shoulders, her inner turmoil visible in the slight slump of her posture. She stood before her father, her hands still clasped tightly, as if bracing herself for what was to come.

“Yes, Father?” Alicent asked softly, her voice betraying the nerves she felt. She had been waiting for this conversation, knowing it was only a matter of time before Otto’s frustrations turned toward her.

Otto’s frown deepened as he stood from his chair, pacing slowly around the room, his hands behind his back. He didn’t look at her directly as he spoke, his voice low but filled with irritation. “It’s been months, Alicent. Months since the prince left for the Dornish border, and in that time, we’ve made no progress. None.”

Alicent’s heart sank at his words. She had known this was coming, but hearing the disappointment in her father’s voice still stung deeply. She shifted uncomfortably, not quite meeting his gaze as he continued.

“We had a plan,” Otto went on, his tone growing sharper. “A plan that hinged on your ability to gain the prince’s favor. And yet, here we are. Months later, and you have nothing to show for it.”

Alicent flinched at the harshness of his words, but she forced herself to remain composed, though her voice wavered slightly as she responded. “I know, Father. But… the prince—he’s been away for so long. There was little I could do once he left.”

Otto stopped pacing, turning to face her with a sharp look in his eyes. “And whose fault is that? You had your chance, Alicent. You had the opportunity to win his trust, his affection, but you let it slip away. Now, we’re stuck waiting for him to return, if he even does.”

Alicent’s throat tightened, and she felt the sting of tears threatening to well in her eyes. She blinked them back, her fingers twisting nervously in front of her. She knew her father was right, at least in part. She had tried to win your favor, but her efforts had always felt hollow, overshadowed by your bond with Rhaenyra. And now, with you gone, she felt as though she had failed entirely.

“I’ll be better prepared when he returns,” she said quietly, her voice filled with quiet determination despite the sadness that weighed on her heart. “I’ll be patient, and I’ll make sure I’m ready.”

Otto raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a scornful smile. “Patient? Prepared?” He shook his head. “Alicent, by the time he returns, it may already be too late. The realm moves on, and so do alliances. If you don’t act now, we’ll lose everything we’ve worked for.”

Alicent’s chest tightened, her heart pounding in her ears as she struggled to find the right words. She had always been obedient to her father’s wishes, always tried to meet his expectations. But with you, it had been different. The feelings she harbored for you were not just strategy or duty—they were something deeper, something that made it difficult to see you as just another piece in the game her father played. She had grown fond of you, despite her attempts to push those feelings aside.

“But I can do this,” Alicent insisted, her voice firmer this time. “I won’t fail again.”

Otto sighed heavily, walking toward the window and looking out over the Red Keep. His shoulders were tense, his frustration evident in the way his hands gripped the windowsill. “You need to set aside your foolish feelings for the prince,” he said, his tone cold. “This isn’t about love, Alicent. It never was. It’s about securing our position, securing the future of our house.”

The words hit her like a physical blow, and she recoiled slightly, her eyes widening in shock. Her father’s bluntness wasn’t new, but hearing him dismiss her emotions so callously hurt more than she had expected. She had tried to hide her feelings, even from herself, but now they were laid bare, exposed and dismissed in the same breath.

“I…” Alicent started to speak, but her voice faltered, her hands trembling at her sides. She couldn’t deny that part of her had hoped for something more than mere duty in her interactions with you, and now, her father had torn that hope away.

Otto turned back to face her, his expression hard. “You had your chance, and you wasted it,” he said coldly. “Now we have to rethink our approach.”

Alicent lowered her head, trying to swallow the lump in her throat as she fought back the sting of tears. She didn’t want to appear weak in front of her father, not now. But the weight of his words crushed her, leaving her feeling as though she had failed not just him, but herself as well.

“What… what do you want me to do, Father?” she asked quietly, her voice barely more than a whisper.

Otto’s eyes gleamed with a new idea, his lips curling into a calculating smile as he stepped closer to her. “The king,” he began slowly, his voice taking on a more measured tone. “Your efforts may not have worked with the prince, but King Viserys… he’s been suffering since he sent his son away. He’s lonely, grieving the absence of his heir.”

Alicent’s brow furrowed, her confusion evident as she looked at her father. “Father, what are you saying?”

Otto’s gaze sharpened, his tone leaving no room for misunderstanding. “You will go to him, Alicent. You will offer him comfort.”

Alicent’s breath caught in her throat, her eyes widening in shock and disbelief. “What?” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Father, I… I don’t understand. You want me to—”

“You’ll offer him comfort,” Otto repeated, his voice firm. “The king is vulnerable right now. He needs someone by his side, someone he can rely on. And that someone should be you.”

Alicent shook her head, stepping back from her father, her heart racing. “But I… Father, I can’t…”

Otto’s expression darkened, his patience wearing thin. “You will do what’s necessary, Alicent. This is the opportunity we’ve been waiting for. If you can win the king’s trust, his affection, we can secure our position in the realm. You’ll ensure our future.”

Alicent’s chest tightened, her mind reeling from the implications of what her father was asking of her. “But… but I care for the prince,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “I thought… I thought I could—”

Otto cut her off with a sharp look. “The prince is gone, Alicent. And when he returns, it may be too late to secure anything with him. You must focus on the here and now. The king is the key to our future.”

Alicent stared at her father, her heart breaking as the weight of his expectations crashed down on her. She had always done as he asked, always played the part he had molded her into. But this… this was different. This felt like a betrayal, not just to herself, but to you as well.

“I’ll do what you ask,” she said quietly, her voice barely more than a whisper. “But…” She hesitated, tears welling in her eyes. “I… I just wish it didn’t have to be like this.”

Otto’s expression softened for a moment, but only briefly. “We all must make sacrifices, Alicent,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “Now go. The king needs comfort. Give it to him.”

Alicent nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat as she turned to leave the room, her heart heavy with the knowledge of what lay ahead.

The air in King Viserys’s private chambers was charged with strife, the kind that clung to the walls and weighed down every breath. Rhaenyra stood, her fists clenched tightly at her sides, her chest rising and falling with the force of her anger. Across the room, Viserys sat in his high-backed chair, his face red from the shouting match that had already unfolded between them. His eyes were sharp with frustration, though beneath it all was the unmistakable sorrow of a father who felt cornered by his own decisions.

“I will not marry him!” Rhaenyra’s voice rang out, fierce and defiant, her usually calm demeanor shattered. She paced the floor, unable to stand still, her mind racing as the weight of her father’s words sank in. “Lord Jason Lannister? He is arrogant, conceited, and—"

“You will marry him,” Viserys interrupted sharply, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You are a princess, and this is your duty. Lord Jason is the perfect match to solidify the alliance between the Crown and House Lannister. This is not up for debate.”

Rhaenyra spun on her heel, her face a mixture of fury and disbelief. “I don’t care about alliances, Father!” she shouted, her voice trembling with emotion. “I will not be bargained off like a prize to someone like Jason Lannister. You know nothing of him—he’s vain, pompous, and entirely insufferable! I refuse to marry him, and I will not be forced into this.”

Viserys’s jaw tightened, and he slammed his hand down on the arm of his chair, the sound echoing through the chamber. “You will marry him, Rhaenyra!” he bellowed, rising from his seat, his face flushed with anger. “You think you can run from your duty forever? This is not a choice! You are the heir to the Iron Throne, and you will marry as I see fit. That is the end of it.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes burned with tears she refused to shed, her heart pounding with rage. She stared at her father, her lip trembling as the weight of his words pressed down on her. He had always been the one person she thought would understand her, the one person she could count on. But now, here he was, forcing her into a marriage she didn’t want with a man she despised.

“This is about more than just duty,” she said, her voice lower now, but no less intense. “It’s about control. You married Alicent, and now you think you can dictate the rest of my life. But I won’t let you. I won’t.”

Viserys’s face softened, if only for a moment, at the mention of his new wife. The two years since his marriage to Alicent had not been easy on his relationship with Rhaenyra, and he knew this decision would only drive a deeper wedge between them. But he couldn’t back down. Not now.

“This is the way things are done, Rhaenyra,” he said, his voice calmer but still resolute. “You must understand that everything I do is for the good of the realm. You will be queen one day, and this marriage is essential to securing the stability of your future rule.”

Rhaenyra shook her head, her jaw clenched in defiance. “I will never marry Jason Lannister,” she whispered, her voice trembling with the force of her determination. “Never.”

Before Viserys could respond, she turned on her heel and stormed out of the chamber, her footsteps heavy with anger. The guards at the door flinched as she passed, their eyes wide with alarm at the sight of the princess so visibly enraged.

“Princess!” Ser Criston Cole called out from down the corridor, his voice filled with concern as he hurried to catch up with her. He had been waiting just outside the king’s chambers, listening to the raised voices within. Now, seeing Rhaenyra’s furious expression, he knew something terrible had happened.

She didn’t stop, didn’t slow her pace as she marched toward her chambers, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she tried to control the storm of emotions inside her. Ser Criston followed her closely, his armor clinking with every hurried step.

“Princess, please,” he said gently, though there was an edge of urgency in his voice. “What happened? What has the king said?”

Rhaenyra didn’t answer. She couldn’t. If she spoke, she feared the anger boiling inside her would explode in a way she couldn’t control. Instead, she pushed open the door to her chambers with more force than necessary, the wood creaking under her hands.

Once inside, she finally stopped, her back to Ser Criston as she stood in the middle of the room, her chest heaving. She was shaking, her body tense with the intensity of her emotions. Ser Criston, ever respectful, lingered just inside the door, his brow furrowed with concern.

“Leave me,” she said through gritted teeth, her voice thick with barely suppressed emotion. “I need to be alone.”

Ser Criston hesitated for a moment, his eyes scanning her form for any sign of what might have transpired. But he knew better than to press her. He bowed his head slightly. “As you wish, Princess,” he said softly, before stepping back into the hallway and closing the door behind him.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Rhaenyra let out a shuddering breath, her entire body trembling with fury and despair. She paced the room for a moment, her mind racing with thoughts of rebellion, of defiance. How could her father do this to her? How could he expect her to marry a man like Jason Lannister, a man she had no love for, no respect for?

The thought of being trapped in a loveless marriage, bound to a man who cared only for power and prestige, made her stomach churn. She could feel the tears pricking at her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.

Without another thought, she rushed to her writing desk, her fingers trembling as she grabbed a piece of parchment and quill. She had to reach out to you. You were the only one who would understand, the only one who might be able to help her.

Her quill scratched furiously across the parchment as she poured her heart into the letter. She told you everything—her father’s plan, the marriage she was being forced into, her anger, her fear. She wrote of how much she missed you, how much she needed you by her side now more than ever.

As she finished, she wiped away a stray tear that had fallen onto the parchment, smudging the ink slightly. She folded the letter carefully, sealing it with wax before hurrying to the window.

She could see the rookery from her chambers, the tower where the ravens were kept. She had used this method before, sending secret messages to you during your time away, but this one felt more urgent, more desperate. She knew that by the time the letter reached you, it might be too late. But she had to try. You were her only hope.

Rhaenyra called for her handmaiden, who arrived quickly at her command. “Take this to the rookery,” Rhaenyra said, her voice steady but filled with urgency. “It must go to my brother at once.”

The handmaiden nodded, taking the letter from her hands and hurrying out of the room. Rhaenyra watched her go, her heart racing with both fear and hope. She turned back to the window, staring out at the sky, her thoughts with you, wondering when you would return—if you would return before it was too late.

The gardens of the Red Keep were a tranquil oasis amidst the bustling halls and chambers, but today, there was no peace to be found in them for Rhaenyra. She sat on a stone bench, staring out at the delicate flowers and perfectly pruned hedges, her mind far from the beauty surrounding her. The announcement of her marriage to Jason Lannister had been like a thunderclap in her life, shaking her to the core, and her heart was still simmering with anger and frustration. She had promised herself she wouldn’t let this happen, yet here she was, being forced into a match she despised.

The sound of footsteps approaching stirred her from her thoughts, and she didn’t need to look to know who it was. Daemon. His presence was as unmistakable as the swagger in his step, the kind of casual arrogance that seemed to follow him wherever he went. He appeared beside her, leaning against a tree with a faint smirk on his lips.

“You look like you’ve been banished to the ends of the earth,” Daemon teased, his voice laced with amusement. “What’s wrong, niece? Did someone steal your favorite lemon cake?”

Rhaenyra shot him a glare, her temper flaring. “It must be so easy for you to jest,” she snapped, her voice biting, “when I’m the one being bargained off like some trinket to marry Jason Lannister and be whisked away to Casterly Rock.”

Daemon’s smirk only widened at her outburst, clearly enjoying her ire. “A Lannister, eh? I’ve heard worse fates,” he replied with a lazy shrug. “Though I can see why the idea of being stuffed away in a gilded cage at Casterly Rock might not sit well with you.”

Rhaenyra scoffed, her anger bubbling to the surface. “You don’t understand. It’s not just the marriage—it’s everything. It’s—” She clenched her fists in her lap, her voice trembling with frustration. “He promised me.”

Daemon raised an eyebrow, his amusement fading slightly as he leaned in, curious. “Who promised you what?”

Rhaenyra’s jaw tightened, and she looked away, her voice low and filled with anger. “My brother. He promised me that he wouldn’t let this happen. He swore he would protect me from being forced into a marriage I didn’t want. And yet here I am, on the verge of being shipped off to marry a man I can’t stand.”

Daemon was silent for a moment, studying her carefully. His amusement returned, though it was tempered now with something more thoughtful. “Ah, so it’s not just the Lannister match that has you fuming,” he mused, his tone sly. “It’s that your dear brother isn’t here to sweep in and save you.”

Rhaenyra whipped her head toward him, eyes blazing. “He lied to me!” she nearly shouted, her voice filled with betrayal. “He promised. And now he’s been away for years, fighting at the borders while I’m left here, alone, to deal with this madness.”

Daemon didn’t respond immediately, but his eyes glinted with something akin to understanding. He knew what it felt like to be betrayed by family, to be pushed aside for the sake of duty. But he wasn’t about to offer her comfort—not in the way others might. Instead, he leaned back, his tone casual.

“Well, perhaps your brother had other matters on his mind. War does tend to make men forget promises,” he said, though the amusement had returned to his voice. “Or maybe… he didn’t forget at all, but simply couldn’t stop this from happening.”

Rhaenyra pressed her lips together, trying to compose herself, though her hands were still shaking with rage. The thought that you might have been powerless to stop this was one she hadn’t wanted to entertain. She had put her faith in you, had believed in your promises, and now it felt as though that trust had been shattered.

She took a deep breath, willing herself to calm down, and after a moment of silence, she spoke again, her tone cooler, more controlled. “I heard about Lady Rhea,” she said, shifting the conversation. “A hunting accident, wasn’t it? Her horse fell, and… well, it seems you’re now free to marry again.”

Daemon’s smirk returned, though there was a darkness behind his eyes. “Yes, my dear wife,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “It seems she brought her death upon herself. She always had an uncanny ability to make unfortunate decisions.”

Rhaenyra snorted, crossing her arms. “I’m sure her death has made your bride-to-be, Laena Velaryon, quite ecstatic.”

Daemon chuckled, the amusement dancing in his eyes once more. “Laena is a smart girl,” he replied, lifting his gaze toward the sky. “She knows what’s good for her. Besides, I doubt she’ll mourn Lady Rhea’s passing too much.”

Before Rhaenyra could respond, Daemon’s expression shifted, his eyes narrowing slightly as he glanced toward the entrance to the gardens. “Speaking of wives, your new stepmother seems rather keen on finding you,” he said with a smirk, nodding in the direction of the approaching figure. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Rhaenyra turned to see Alicent Hightower making her way across the gardens, her steps tentative but determined. Rhaenyra’s frown deepened as she watched Daemon give her a mock salute before he walked off, leaving her to face Alicent alone.

Alicent approached slowly, her green gown trailing softly behind her, her hands clasped in front of her as if she were holding back from reaching out to Rhaenyra. “Rhaenyra,” she said gently, her voice soft but tinged with hesitation. “I’ve been looking for you. I wanted to… talk.”

Rhaenyra didn’t bother hiding the annoyance in her voice. “Have you now? Come to offer more congratulations on my impending marriage, or perhaps to check if I’m still in one piece?”

Alicent winced at the sharpness of her tone but pressed on, her gaze filled with an earnestness that Rhaenyra found both irritating and exhausting. “I wanted to know how you were feeling,” she said quietly, her words careful. “I know this marriage was unexpected, and I… I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

Rhaenyra let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. “How I’m feeling? You really want to know how I’m feeling, Alicent?” She turned to face her fully, her eyes narrowing. “I feel like I’ve been betrayed. Like everyone around me is conspiring to push me into a life I don’t want. And you? You stand there, pretending to care, when you’re part of the very system that’s caging me in.”

Alicent’s face flushed with hurt, but she stood her ground, her voice soft but steady. “Rhaenyra, I do care. I didn’t want this to happen either. I know you don’t want to marry Jason Lannister, and if I could—”

“If you could?” Rhaenyra interrupted, her voice rising with anger. “But you can’t, can you? You’re as much a pawn in this as I am. Except you’ve made peace with it. You’ve accepted your place, married my father, and now you think you can offer me comfort?”

Alicent’s eyes glistened with unshed tears, but she didn’t back down. “I just wanted to help,” she whispered, her voice breaking slightly.

Rhaenyra shook her head, her heart hardening as she turned away from her former friend. “There’s nothing you can do to help me, Alicent,” she said coldly. “So don’t bother.”

With that, she left the gardens, leaving Alicent standing there, tears spilling silently down her cheeks.

The sun hung low on the horizon, lazy rays sprayed across the barren landscape of the Dornish border. The air was filled with dust and the stench of blood, remnants of the brutal fighting that had raged for many moons. Your men, tired but unbroken, stood along the ridgeline, watching as the enemy forces began to pull back. The Dornish army, once so bold and numerous, now appeared ragged, their numbers thinned by the relentless engagements, their morale shattered.

You stood at the crest of the hill, overlooking the retreating forces, Silverwing perched nearby, her gleaming silver scales catching the last light of day. Her low, rumbling breaths were the only sound breaking the heavy silence that had settled over the battlefield. Your hand rested on the hilt of Blackfyre, your eyes narrowed as you watched the disarray below, the remnants of the Dornish army attempting to regroup, though their retreat was obvious.

Ser Kevven Moriggen, a grizzled and experienced knight who had fought by your side throughout this campaign, rode up beside you. His armor was dented and smeared with dirt and blood, but his eyes still gleamed with the fierce determination of a man not yet willing to let the battle end.

“They’re pulling back, Your Grace,” Kevven said, his voice hoarse from days of shouting orders. He glanced at you, waiting for your command. “Should we press them? They’re vulnerable, and a final push might scatter them for good.”

You frowned, your gaze locked on the retreating enemy. The temptation to drive them back to their lands, to ensure they wouldn’t return for decades, was strong. But there was something hollow about the thought of chasing them now, after years of bloodshed. They were broken, their supplies exhausted, and to pursue them deeper into their own land would be a waste of men and resources.

“No,” you said firmly, turning to Kevven. “We don’t need to spill more blood on their land. If they cross back into ours, then we’ll engage. But for now, let them retreat. The battle is over.”

Kevven looked surprised, his hand tightening around the reins of his horse. “Your Grace, if we push now—”

“I said no, Ser Kevven,” you interrupted, your tone leaving no room for debate. “There’s no honor in cutting down a retreating army. We’ve held our ground, and they’re falling back. That’s victory enough.”

The knight hesitated for a moment longer, then nodded, though the disappointment was clear on his face. “As you command, Your Grace.”

You watched as he turned his horse around, riding down the line to relay the order to the other commanders. The soldiers, weary and worn, seemed relieved when the command to hold was given. They had fought long and hard, and the sight of the enemy retreating was a victory in itself.

The silence of the battlefield settled in once more, the distant figures of the retreating Dornish shrinking against the horizon. Your mind was heavy, not with the satisfaction of victory, but with the weight of the toll this war had taken—on your men, on the realm, and on yourself. You had been away from the capital for too long, and the thought of what awaited you back home stirred uneasily in your chest.

Just then, a soldier approached, his face dirtied with the grime of battle, his breath coming in short gasps as he saluted you. “Your Grace, a raven arrived. A message… from the Red Keep. It bears the Targaryen seal.”

Your heart skipped a beat. The Targaryen seal. That meant only one thing. Rhaenyra.

Without hesitation, you took the small scroll from the soldier, your fingers trembling slightly as you broke the seal. The wax crumbled beneath your touch, and you quickly unfurled the parchment, your eyes scanning the familiar handwriting. Rhaenyra’s handwriting, urgent and pleading.

Brother, the letter began. You promised me you would protect me. You promised me you wouldn’t let them force me into a marriage I did not want. But Father has broken that promise. He’s ordered me to marry Jason Lannister, and I cannot, I will not do it. They are trying to take away my freedom, trying to take away everything we spoke of. You told me you would stand by me, and now I need you more than ever. Come home. Please, I beg of you, come home and help me.

Your grip on the letter tightened as you read the words again, the desperation in her plea cutting through you like a blade. You could see her in your mind’s eye—Rhaenyra, fierce and determined, but also vulnerable, trapped by the weight of duty and expectation. She had always relied on you to protect her from the worst of court politics, and now, you were hundreds of miles away, unable to stop what was happening.

You folded the letter slowly, your chest tightening with frustration and anger. You had promised her that you wouldn’t let this happen. You had promised to protect her, to ensure she wasn’t forced into a marriage that she didn’t want. And yet, while you had been here, fighting a war at the edge of the realm, they had moved against her, using her as a tool in the political games of King’s Landing.

Silverwing shifted behind you, sensing the change in your emotions, her low rumble filling the air as if to offer comfort. You closed your eyes, your thoughts racing. You knew you couldn’t remain here. You had to return. Rhaenyra needed you, and you would not fail her again..

As the sun started to set, you made your decision. 

It was time to go home.

[zweiginator]

omg patrick with stanford cheerleader reader pls pls pls pls pls pls pls pls pls pls pls pls i’m begging

like you're used to basketball and football players at stanford. they're cocky and hypermasculine and spoiled beyond belief. get whatever they want whenever they want. and the school is trying something new out: they want more fans at the smaller athletic events.

swimming, lacross, water polo--tennis.

so your coach tells you there's a tennis match you have to go to. just once a week during the season. which is fine, since it barely overlaps with your normal schedule.

you have assumptions about boys' tennis. you think they'll be scrawny and nerdy, nepotism kids who needed a way to weasle into a prestigious school like stanford.

you arrive to the match an hour early; you see the team practicing drills. they're confused as the stanford cheerleading bus pulls up.

picking your bag up, you make your way to the bottom of the stands. you bend over to tie your shoes, and hear a distinct groan from behind you.

but when you turn back to face the court, it wasn't what you thought. the groan came as a dark-haired tennis player smacked the ball, his shirt riding up to reveal toned abs, and pulsing veins in his wrist, exacerbated by the may heat.

he isn't scrawny, or nerdy, and he certainly isn't a bad athlete. you watch him intently, how he smacks the ball, his shoes squeaking as he moves up and down the court. he's strong and self-assured and a little cocky.

you see it as he notices you're watching him. raises his eyebrows at you as he squirts water into his mouth and stretches his shoulders with his racket.

he takes his shirt off too. tanned skin peppered with dark chest hair that goes down, down, down--extends underneath his little red stanford shorts.

patrick notices your get up too. your short, perfectly pressed skirt with those tiny shorts underneath. your cute, tight tank top with stanford stretched across your tits. you look so smooth. like you smell like vanilla frosting and warm linen. and better yet, you look tight.

when the match begins, it doesn't feel like patrick is playing against an opponent. it feels like he's performing for you. pushing his chest out and flexing his legs. looking over at you when he hits a good serve, wins a set, a match.

he likes how you pretend like you don't care that he stares at you. and he likes how you let your little skirt ride up for him. he dabs the sweat off his chest and forehead with a cloth.

your eyes follow a lone bead of sweat that drips down the valley of his chest, towards his belly button. and you notice he's hard. he adjusts himself before the next set.

and you eye fucking each other moves back and forth, a volley. a fun game of watching patrick's breath visibly hitch as you run your pom up your leg, as your skirt flips up when you jump.

when the matches are over, patrick finds you in the stands. he hikes his leg up on the bench next to you and leans forward. you look up at him with a feigned innocence that he sees right through. but your eyes are big and pretty, so he doesn't mind the little white lie. he'll catch you on it later.

and he does. he sits across from you and talks and talks and talks until everyone has left. bounces you on his cock under the bleachers away from the security cameras, your skirt flipped up, tank top pulled down. it's messy and hot and desperate and he has to use his t-shirt as a cum rag.

for the rest of the season, your little routine persists--until patrick's teammate catches patrick fucking your throat in the locker room.

[shirefantasies]

This Means War- Elrond x Wife!Reader

Just a little drabble as requested by an anon! This heat where I live is the perfect time for this request ❄️

Gripping Elrond's arm, you steadied yourself, straightening slippery feet beneath you. The thick layer of snow draped over the ground glittered like a cracked geode, but it rendered travel difficult. Luckily your lord, your beloved, remained steadfast at your side, his pure-white robes, delicate silver circlet, and most of all kindhearted smile all outshone the snow by far. Even the gentle blue of your husband's eyes seemed illuminated against the bright shine of the fresh fall upon the ground.

Elrond chuckled lowly, meeting your eyes as his turned upward merrily. You joined him in laughter, bright sound filling the air quite visibly in puffs curling into the chill air. Sides brushing, you strode as best you could across the crunching wintry ground, taking in the soaring pines with their blanketed needles.

This country was new to you, a place far from Rivendell in all respects. Never did snow fall upon your fair valley, marring it with cold. And yet, you thought as you looked upon the shine of all around you, perhaps it would illuminate it all the brighter. You realized, though, when you peered at your husband once more that nowhere would shine so as when you two could be side by side.

Rushes of sentimentality did nothing to dissuade the utter childlike wonder drifting to you across the pine-scented air. Childlike. Mental gears turned, bringing another more mischievous smile alight.

Trailing behind your husband, you dipped your hand in the snow, shivering at the cold but gathering more instead of balking at it. Soon the sting equalized upon your fingertips, which held and packed a nice little ball. A lovely little ball you promptly tossed into Elrond’s back, glistening ice bursting against and sliding down his white robe, blending in even as it soaked in spots.

You saw the way Elrond’s eyebrows rose when he swiveled to face you, but an exasperated smile teased upon your husband’s lips.

“Quite a declaration of war, my dear.”

Before you knew it, he was chasing you, grinning at the giggles escaping your frosty lips every time he tossed return snow volleys. You fired plenty more as well, your worst casualty descending upon your failure to dodge a snowball to the neck. Shuddering as cold moisture slid beneath your collar, you scooped and tossed as hard as you could.

Splat!

Looking back up from your bent, braced posture, you were met with the sight of your husband splattered aside the neck…and the head! A bit of snow crowned his dark hair alongside the dignified circlet, bringing full laughter forward from you.

Shaking his head, he fixed you with a much more focused look. Your undoing and yet you would enjoy it so! …Hopefully. Grinning a blend of sheepish and impish, you ran from the great bundle of snow Elrond amassed, using his steady feet upon the fall to catch up to you the moment your own betrayed you.

Sliding down before catching yourself on your knees, you were met by your husband, who tipped a rain of snow down upon you. Undeterred, you took both of his hands in yours, pulling him down to your side. Giggling, you powdered him with snow, too, stopping only when he leaned in and rubbed his nose against yours, the motion raising a tinge of warmth to the chilled flush of your face.

“You fought bravely,” he teased, voice low and humming against the shell of your ear.

“But who was the victor?” You asked him, turning to face one another again.

Powder faintly drifted from the clouds, dusting your adjacent figures. Smatterings of browned pine needles littered the pure white surface, interrupting the seemingly unending sea. Elrond chuckled, caressing the side of your head and easing it upon his shoulder. In response, you leaned up to press a quick kiss to his neck.

“I daresay we both have won,” your husband replied, taking your hand to rise as one from the sky’s glittering gift.

Taglist: @lokilover476 @fuckyoumakeart @kilibaggins @filiswingman @ibabblealot @stormchaser819 @pirate-lord-of-narnia @datglutengoblin @letmelickyoureyeballs @mossyskinn @wordbunch @tiny-and-witchy @th3-st4r-gur1 @fleurdemiel-145 @mistresskayla-blog1 @misabelle717 @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @evattude @noodlesduck | Reply/Message/Ask to join 🖤

[jinxedruby]

Whumptober Day Seven: Only for Emergencies

Featuring Twilight, Time, and Legend.

I'm sure Fierce Deity stuff is going to be a very common interpretation of this prompt, but I won't let that stop me lol

Heads up for major injury (mostly descriptions of pain) in this one.

AO3

First part | <- Previous part | Next part ->

-------------------------------

Dust plumed up beneath Twilight’s boots, pebbles scattering as he skid around a sharp bend in the narrow valley between cliffs. Legend spat out a curse and he glanced back, heart slamming against his ribs. Time grabbed hold of Legend’s arm, hauling him up from where he’d tripped. He dragged the collector forward a few steps until Legend regained his footing.

A whistle and flash of heat streaked past Twilight’s ear. He flinched and whipped around, lifting his bow and drawing back the string with cramping fingers. His hand shook as he aimed at yet another bulblin archer that had appeared on one of the clifftops overhead, volleying fire arrows down at the three heroes. His shot hit its mark, the bulblin howling weakly before toppling forward and plummeting to the ground below. Twilight bolted forward again, hopping over the bulblin’s body as he passed, Time and Legend close behind. The path twisted and forked. Twilight hurriedly glanced each way before veering left on the trail leading out of the cliffs. The constant thunder of footfalls behind them never ceased and never faded. Only the narrow canyon they ran through kept them from being surrounded by the horde of monsters, but with more and more monsters figuring out how to scale the cliffs and attack them from above, they needed somewhere with more cover.

Twilight slowed to shoot another archer overhead. He fell into a sprint the moment the shot hit, the muscles in his legs burning with the overexertion. He rounded a bend and skidded to a halt. A large monster blocked the path forward. It had the body of a horse, but instead of a head, an entire torso stood at its front. The man-like arms and abdomen gave way to a beast-like head, with a full mane and curved horns.

“What is-” Twilight cut off with a grunt as Time and Legend ran into him from behind, nearly knocking all three of them over. He threw a glance at them to see if either of them recognized the monster. Time scrutinized it with a narrowed eye. The color drained from Legend’s face.

“Back, back, go back!” Legend yelled. He pushed Time back a step, grabbing Twilight’s arm at the same time to yank him backwards.

The monster tensed, sucking in a deep breath. Twilight twisted and bolted after Time and Legend. Just as they careened around the bend, heat blasted across Twilight’s back. He yelped, glancing back to see a massive fireball roar past and slam into the cliff wall, narrowly missing him. A large, black scorch mark marred the rock where the flames impacted. His heart lodged in his throat and he whipped his head back around, a jolt of fear fueling his legs. They reached the fork and took the other path leading deeper into the cliffs. As they passed by it, Twilight caught a glimpse of the monsters choking the trail they’d come by originally. Screeches and whoops rose from the horde, joining the percussion of their pounding footsteps. Bizarrely, memories of herding goats into the barn back at the ranch flashed through his mind. It made him feel sick.

The canyon widened as the three charged through it, the cliffs growing taller around them. Smudges of dull green appeared on the clifftops silhouetted against the sky. Twilight lifted his bow again, struggling to keep his aim steady and run at the same time. The string snapped across the raw flesh of his fingers, sending a sharp sting through them. Somehow, he hit his mark, the bulblin falling from its perch. He reached for another arrow. A hand wrapped around his wrist, yanking him forward.

“Just run!” Time shouted, pulling him along.

Twilight flicked his tongue over his lips, casting an anxious glance up at the archers. He looked over his shoulder and his heart jolted when he saw the horde in sight, closer than they’d ever been. He cursed breathlessly and spurred his legs on faster, catching up to where Legend had pulled ahead of him. Time sped up as well, running just ahead. Twilight’s gaze kept darting up to the archers. They fired down at the heroes, fire arrows streaking past them and striking against the cliff walls and ground. Twilight’s hand itched for his bow but if he slowed to shoot the archers, the horde would overtake him. He ground his teeth, stifling a frustrated cry between them. The arrows could meet their mark at any moment, could debilitate one or more of them and prevent them from running, could strike true and kill them instantly, could-

The next time his gaze darted to the archers, his gut twisted. The flames licking the arrowheads were visible on most, but some arrowheads appeared gray and bulbous. He snatched an arrow out of his quiver. Time shouted something at him as he took aim. He tried not to slow as he fired. The bulblin loosed its arrow simultaneously. The projectiles met midair. An explosion split the sky overhead, the sound slamming against his ears and bouncing wildly between the canyon walls. Twilight pumped his arms, dashing to make up for the distance he’d lost. Breath ragged in his throat, he quickly scanned the archers again, searching for any other bomb arrows. He spotted one, shot at it in the same manner as the last. He managed to kill the bulblin before it could fire. His arm burned from the strain of drawing his bow over and over again, sweat stinging in the raw flesh of his fingers. He flapped his hand to get the cramp out as he continued to run. He almost tripped over some uneven ground, hardly able to take his gaze off of the archers. They wouldn’t need to make a direct hit if they had bomb arrows. He couldn’t let that happen.

Another archer down, a sharp sting as a small divot of skin ripped away with the bowstring. Another shout of warning from Time as he fell too far behind again. He nocked another arrow, searching the clifftops, adding a burst of speed to his legs to catch up to the others. He spotted the next one too late. It fired the bomb as he yanked the bowstring back. But the bulblin hadn’t fired at them. An explosion tore through the air and he snapped his gaze forward. The arrow had impacted against a natural bridge that formed between the clifftops overhead. Roaring and rumbling continued past the explosion and he realized with horror that the bulblin had collapsed the bridge. Rocks and dirt rained down as the cracks spread rapidly. Directly over where Time and Legend were about to run under.

“Guys, move!” Twilight roared. With speed he didn’t know he had, he closed the distance between them. He lunged forward and shoved them both out of the way. Roaring filled his ears, making his teeth rattle. Time and Legend looked back at him with horror. Something crushed Twilight on all sides all at once, slamming him forward into the ground and hurling him into darkness.

****

A high-pitched whine rang incessantly. Pain and pressure swelled in a raucous symphony, screeching along every nerve in his body, peaking at a crescendo in his legs. The side of his face felt plastered to the ground, something wet and warm pooling under his head and mixing with the dirt. He tried to drag in a thin breath. Something solid raked down his throat instead of air. He coughed, harsh but weak. Dust and dirt spewed from his mouth and nose, clearing airways he didn’t even realize had been blocked. Once he started he couldn’t stop, even as pain streaked like fire through his ribs and organs. He tried to open his eyes but they burned horribly and he couldn’t see. He brought a hand to his eyes, somewhat surprised that he could, and swiped at the dirt caked across them. He found his arm to be the only thing he could move, everything below his middle immobilized and blind with pain.

Rubbing his eyes just made them hurt more. Weakly, despite the dryness of his mouth, he jammed his fingers in and smeared some spit onto his eyes in an attempt to wash the dust away. The saliva mixed with the dirt into a muddy mess that caked onto his skin. But it became easier to wipe away and, after repeating the process a couple more times, he managed to clear away enough that he could pry his eyelids apart.

They stung horribly, each flick of his eyes driving thorns of agony into his brain. The world appeared in a blurry mess before him, indecipherable shapes darting about his vision. He tried to drag in a deeper breath, only to trigger another weak coughing fit. Muffled sounds grew beneath the deafening ringing, and he vaguely recognized the timbres of human shouts and monster cries. He weakly rubbed his eyes again, black splotches marring his already bleary vision. It cleared enough to see two blobs, one red and one silver, darting back and forth somewhere in front of him. More shapes moved beyond and around them, shooting toward them, spinning away, falling still.

He gathered more saliva on his fingers and rubbed his eyes again. His fingers tasted like blood. His vision cleared enough to make out Time run to defend Legend’s back against an approaching monster. He cut it down, the two continuing to fight as more and more monsters surged toward them. A roar rumbled through the air, vibrating in Twilight’s chest. Time’s and Legend’s heads both snapped to look down the canyon. Time wrenched Legend aside by the arm, the two of them diving to the side. A fireball collided with the cliff wall a moment later, close enough that Twilight could feel the dry heat rush over his face. The sensation brought to attention again the sheer agony his legs had become. A cracking cry scratched its way out of his throat. He clenched a hand as lightheadedness swept over him, pressing his forehead to the ground and screwing his eyes shut. Reality itself seemed to waver around him, his entire world narrowing down to the pain overcoming him.

A horrendous, gut-wrenching scream tore through the air.

He pried his eyelids open again. A wave of power that he felt on some unseeing level pulsed over him. He fell as still as he could, each breath still hitching in his throat. He could somewhat make out the horde of monsters beyond where Time and Legend had been. A tall, pale figure streaked toward it, sprinting into the fray. For a moment, he thought it was Time, but he couldn’t see the gold that Time’s armor normally had. The figure plowed through the horde, monsters screeching as they fell under its blade. Twilight thought the figure may have sounded like Time, but his thoughts fizzled and slipped from his grasp, heavy drowsiness filling his head.

He must have passed out for a few moments because Legend appeared before him between one blink and the next. Twilight tried to speak but the words turned into harsh coughs.

Legend dropped to his knees before him, eyes wide. “Holy shit, you’re still alive, oh goddess…”

Twilight tried to speak but couldn’t calm the coughing fit. The coughs sounded more like wheezes, his throat burning with dust and dirt he couldn’t clear. Something pressed to his lips, a hand on his jaw helping his head tilt up off the ground. Water trickled into his mouth, mixing with the dust into an unpleasant sludge with a gritty taste. He tried to swallow anyway, if only to get some of the dust out of his throat, but ended up coughing it back up. The hand and canteen withdrew. His head dropped to the ground again, cheek pressed into the dirt as he hacked weakly. He thought he heard Legend say something, but the words slid from his mind before he could process their meaning. Abruptly, water splashed over his eyes. He winced back, the motion sparking a fresh flash of pain through him. Soon enough, he realized what Legend was trying to do, and he reached up to rub his eyes again. The water removed most of the grime and when he opened his eyes again, only the pain and lack of air blurred his vision. His eyelids still felt gritty, burning whenever he looked around, but he could see much better than before.

“Hey, Rancher, you with me?” Legend said, voice trembling. He rested a hand against Twilight’s shoulder as Twilight struggled to look up at him, eyelids fluttering.

“Ye-yeah,” Twilight managed, voice rough, throat stinging.

“Okay.” Legend’s tongue darted across his lips. He glanced at something behind Twilight, toward the rancher’s legs. “Okay. You- um, can- can you feel your… your legs?”

“H-hurts,” Twilight whispered, unable to get enough air to speak much louder than that.

“But you can feel them,” Legend confirmed. Twilight honestly couldn’t differentiate much of his body below his waist with how much agony rent through every single nerve, but he couldn’t figure out how to put the feeling to words with the dizziness plaguing him. He managed a nod. Legend sighed. “Okay. Okay, good. Uh- l-listen, Rancher, there’s… all those rocks and everything collapsed on you. You’re- y-you… I can’t see- I can’t see how much damage it did, everything below your waist is totally covered.”

Twilight’s brow furrowed as he took in the words, struggling to keep a hold on them until the meaning processed. He nodded slowly.

“I have power bracelets but I don’t know if it’s enough to- or- or if it’s safe to move the debris and- and shit. S-so- so, um…”

Twilight’s gaze drifted away from Legend as the collector rambled, loosely tracking the pale figure charging through the monster horde. Now that he could see more clearly, he could make out the strange blue long sword that the figure wielded. White arcs of light catapulted from the sword with each swing, carving through the monsters like razors through flesh. The figure had thinned the horde all on his own, monsters strewn dead on the ground around him.

“Wh… where’s… Time?” Twilight rasped, interrupting Legend. He didn’t take his eyes off the figure.

Legend fell silent. He turned to follow Twilight’s gaze, watching the large white-haired figure in pale armor go into a spin attack and send ten enemies at once flying. As the figure turned, Twilight caught the briefest glimpse of his face. Red markings curved across both cheeks, a blue shape looping down the center of his forehead. Legend didn’t answer him. Twilight didn’t need him to.

“Let’s just- let’s just worry about you, right now,” Legend stammered, tearing his gaze away from the figure and turning his attention to Twilight again. He said something else but Twilight didn’t hear him, focus remaining fixed the figure. On Time.

“What’d ‘e… he do?”

“Rancher, please, I don’t- I don’t know, okay?” Legend stood and took a step to Twilight’s side. Twilight heard him grunt and a sizable rock sailed behind him, clattering to the ground. Another followed as Legend began scooping some of the rocks off the pile burying Twilight. “I don’t know, but I do know you’re still alive and we have to get you out of there before you suffocate.”

“What’d he do?” Twilight insisted.

“Something really fucking stupid!” Legend yelled, voice strained with stress and exhaustion. He turned and dropped a boulder nearly the size of his whole upper body on the ground beside him. “We thought you were dead. You weren’t breathing and we didn’t have time to really check before the monsters caught up. We fought for a bit but it was- we- we were clearly not going to win. Then he gave me this- this look.” Another boulder landed beside the first. Legend shoved them both away to give himself more room. “Told me to get out of here. Then he put something on his face and turned into that.”

Twilight’s heart stopped. Thought you were dead. His eyes followed the figure as it continued its rampage through the horde. He thinks I’m dead. All too easily, he could imagine the figure as the Shade, its one remaining eye blazing red. Unable to rid himself of past regrets, determined to train Twilight. To make sure I don’t die.

“We have to he…help him,” Twilight croaked.

Legend didn’t seem to have heard him, continuing to move rocks off of Twilight. He picked up one and Twilight felt something shift. Needles shredded his bones and he screamed, shoving his face into the dirt. Legend swore loudly. Twilight barely heard it over the muffled wailing of pain in his ears, blood roaring in his head and making the hairs on his arms stand on end. After what felt like an eternity, the pain subsided just enough for him to feel the hand on his shoulder.

“-alk to me, please, don’t you dare fucking die,” he heard Legend saying.

Twilight groaned and Legend let out a harsh exhale. He cracked his eyes open to see Legend kneeling before him, one hand braced on the ground to keep his balance. Twilight reached forward and wrapped his fingers around Legend’s wrist, dragging his eyes up to meet Legend’s wide-eyed gaze.

“H-help Time,” he said.

“We can’t- we need to help you, you’re in a lot more danger than he is, right now.”

“No,” Twilight stressed. “You don’ get it.”

“No, you’re not thinking straight,” Legend insisted, moving his hand from Twilight’s shoulder to grab his hand. “Your head’s bleeding, you’re trapped under goddess knows how much weight. Whatever’s got the old man isn’t letting go. There’s nothing we can do.”

Twilight looked past Legend to the white-haired Time. He’d cleared out nearly all of the monsters. Twilight wracked his brain as much as he could. If Time had some item with that level of power, surely he’d have mentioned something about it. Legend said he’d put something on his face. Twilight remembered Time showing off his mask collection that one night. He’d said something about them having power, hadn’t he? Demons? Or was that about Wild’s mask? Twilight’s head throbbed sharply and he groaned, letting his eyes fall shut. What could he do? If Time had been… possessed, or something, what could he do? He felt his consciousness fading and pried his eyes open again, narrowing them as he watched Time cut down the monsters.

“...before moving this?” Legend muttered to himself. Twilight dragged his gaze up to see Legend’s stricken expression. “No, no, I don’t know if there’s anything in his wounds, probably a bad idea. But maybe just so he doesn’t… argh, no, free him first, heal him later.”

Heal him. Twilight looked back at Time. Heal him how? He doubted a fairy would work. He hadn’t dealt with possession on his journey at all, just his own forced transformation and the twili denizens being mangled into beasts. They’d been healed with light but, as far as he could tell, he and the others were currently in a light world. There had to be something else. There had to be, he refused to believe his mentor would be lost here and now.

“Hey, Rancher,” Legend interrupted his train of thought. “I’m going to try getting you out again, okay? It’s probably going to hurt but I really can’t think of anything else. I’ve got a potion so I can heal you as soon as I get-”

“That song!” Twilight wheezed more than shouted.

“Wh-”

“A song I… I heard.” Twilight paused to rake in a breath, chest burning, black spots fizzling at the edges of his vision. He remembered howling a duet with the golden wolf on his journey. He remembered Time asking when he’d heard the rancher humming it to himself. “H-he said it… heals… spirits.”

Legend crouched before him again. “Rancher, what are you-”

“His masks,” Twilight wheezed. “Said he… used tha...that song… when he got tr...transformed on one of his… journeys. Healed him.”

Legend’s eyes widened. He looked back over his shoulder at Time.

“Please, Ve…Veteran.”

Legend pressed his mouth into a thin line. He glanced at Twilight then back at Time. Then he cursed softly, reaching into his bag. “What’s the song?”

Twilight blinked, not comprehending for a moment as Legend pulled an ocarina out of his pouch.

“The song, Rancher, I don’t know it, you’re gonna have to sing it, if you can.”

Twilight managed a nod. Fatigue weighed him down and he narrowed his eyes against it, dragging in as deep of a breath as he could. He hummed the song, three descending notes. He could barely even hear himself, his voice raspy and wobbling at each note. Legend brought the ocarina to his lips and quietly copied the tune. Somehow, he got it and Twilight gave him a tired nod.

Legend shook his head, turning to face where Time fought down the canyon. “This better work…” He took a deep breath and played the song, loud and clear. The notes rang out, echoing off the cliff walls. The figure stiffened, looking back toward Legend. Legend froze as the white-eyed gaze of the figure landed on him, breath stilling and ocarina falling silent.

“Rancher, I don’t think it’s working,” Legend rushed to say as the figure cut down a monster without taking his eyes off of Legend.

“Tr...try his.”

“His what? His ocarina? I don’t- I don’t think that’s going to make a difference.”

The figure began making his way toward them.

“His has… has power,” Twilight gasped. “Remem’er that… song he played an’ it… started raining?”

“Yeah, yeah, okay, but the problem is that he currently has it!” Legend cried, scrambling to his feet as the figure continued to approach, slowed only by the straggling monsters. “I kind of doubt he’ll just hand it over to me!”

Twilight reached back for his pouches, hissing at the pain the motion caused. He gritted his teeth and reached anyway, feeling a mound of dirt in the way. He dug through it as Legend’s panic spread to him, heart thudding in his throat. His fingers hooked into his pouch and he pulled out one of his clawshots. He let out a gasp as he dropped it to the ground, the clatter drawing Legend’s attention. Legend stared at it for a moment before understanding dawned on his face, followed quickly by a pained expression.

“This is a horrible idea,” he said as he swept the clawshot off the ground. He fumbled with it for a moment, muttering something under his breath about a weird-looking hookshot. Then he aimed it at the pale-clad Time and fired. The claws wrapped around Time’s pouch still lashed to the figure’s belt, yanking it free and pulling it back to Legend. The figure broke into a run as Legend retrieved the pouch. The collector let out a colorful string of curses, plunging his arm elbow-deep into the impossibly small pouch. As the figure neared, the strange, heavy pulse of power washed over Twilight again, sending chills racing across his arms. A monster attacked the figure from behind, forcing it to slow as it took time to dispatch it.

Legend shouted triumphantly, yanking his arm back out of the pouch, a blue ocarina clutched in his hand. He jammed the mouthpiece between his lips and immediately played the wrong notes. He cursed loudly, holding it out in front of him and squinting at the finger holes that lay different spots than his own ocarina. Blood roared in Twilight’s ears as the figure resumed its approach. Legend took a breath to play. The figure raised its sword and lunged, closing the distance. Three descending notes rang out, Legend playing even as he stumbled backwards.

The figure froze as the notes echoed throughout the canyon. He remained locked in place for a long moment, hands tight around the hilt of his sword. Then his face, previously completely blank, twisted into an aggrieved expression. He staggered back a step, sword lowering as one hand came up to clutch at his forehead. He groaned in a voice nearly identical to Time’s, sword dropping to the ground as he held his face in both hands. Then his fingers tightened on his skin. A bright light flooded Twilight’s vision and he screwed his eyes shut against it. In the moment that it lasted, the oppressing feeling of power withdrew, pulling back towards the figure. In its wake, a tranquil quiet settled around them. For the briefest moment, it drew away the pain in Twilight’s limbs. Then the moment passed, leaving him in just as much burning agony as before.

Something clattered to the ground. Twilight peeled his eyelids apart to see a mask resembling the figure’s face resting on the ground before a pair of boots. He dragged his gaze up the figure to familiar silver and gold armor, up to the hands clutching a blond head. Time let out a soft sigh, slowly lowering his hands and lifting his head. Tears glistened on his eyelids.

“Time?” Legend asked uncertainly. His voice shook. He hadn’t moved an inch, leaning back slightly away from Time.

Time blinked. A look of confusion crossed his face. His eyes traveled from Legend to the ocarina in his hands to the mask at his feet. He blinked again, stooping to pick it up. His hands shook as he held it, mouth pulled into a deep frown.

“Time,” Legend said again.

Time’s gaze lifted. His brow furrowed. “I’m… still here?” he said faintly.

Legend let out a trembling breath. He took a cautious step forward, then another when Time didn’t react. Then he shoved Time’s pouch and ocarina into the man’s arms and turned around, falling to his knees in front of Twilight.

The moment the tension drained from the air, Twilight’s vision dimmed. He breathed out slowly as Legend spoke to him, nodding at the veteran’s questions. Legend stood up, moving behind Twilight to continue trying to dig him out. Time took his place, kneeling carefully before Twilight. He seemed to have put away his ocarina and the mask, pouch lashed to his belt once more.

“Link,” he said quietly, taking Twilight’s hand in his own. His eyes, dim with exhaustion and fatigue, shone with unshed tears.

Twilight gave his hands a weak squeeze. “Not… dead yet.”

Time’s brow knitted, eyes dropping to their joined hands.

“Guys,” Legend called softly. Time glanced up. Twilight couldn’t follow his gaze, barely able to remain awake. “I can see the boulder that’s directly on him. If I lift it up, can you pull him out?”

Time set his jaw, nodding stiffly.

“H-hey,” Twilight croaked as vertigo sank its teeth into him. He continued when Time turned to look at him. “I’m probably going to… pass out… soon.”

“Th-that’s fine,” Time stuttered. He pursed his lips, frowning to himself. When he spoke again, he did so carefully without stammering. “I have a fairy, we’ll heal you right away.”

Twilight nodded, letting his eyes fall shut. His hearing began to fade along with his consciousness as Legend started counting down.

He barely heard Time’s low murmur before slipping under.

“I won’t fail you.”

[bakedbakermom]

Good Morning

Rated X // 2300 words // Read on A03

tagging @today-in-fic @ao3feed-msr

Summary:

He loves her first thing in the morning.

Notes:

A little smutbiscuit for Kinktober 2023. Prompts: morning sex, frottage, (light) somno. I was 3 or 4 days into writing this fic when the painfully talented @msrafterdark posted this piece and it was like fate and the universe had come together.

He loves her first thing in the morning.

Well, he loves her all the time—volleying theories back and forth across the office over burnt coffee and crappy photocopies, singing along off-key to whatever radio station comes through the static three hours into a road trip from one corner of nowhere to another, lounging on a tiny motel bed with sharp springs and a pile of reports spread out like snow across scratchy blankets. He loves her on his couch sharing a beer after a long day, in her kitchen as they dole out boxes of takeaway (broccoli beef extra spicy for him, kung pao tofu for her, and she always nabs the carrots from his shrimp fried rice), nestled against him with her tiny feet propped up on the coffee table and a bad movie on TV. He loves her when she presses her sweet lips to his and breathes hot into his mouth, when she wraps her smooth white legs around his waist and whimpers “more,” when she clenches around him in the dark as she shatters on a gasp of his name. Oh yes, he definitely loves her then.

But he especially loves her first thing in the morning.

It’s something about how soft she is. Agent Scully is all crisp lines and barbed tongue, the creases of her suits pressed sharp enough to kill a man as she slices through the hallways of the Hoover Building like a red-headed sword of justice, eyes flashing blue steel. Agent Scully can unman the most cantankerous and blustering small-town sheriff with the twitch of one razored brow, can force Death itself at scalpel-point to surrender the most intimate secrets of the grave.

Agent Scully flashes through her days like a machete, too sharp to touch and so blindingly bright it hurts him to look at her sometimes. But Morning Scully. Oh Morning Scully…

Her edges blur in the evening, melting under his words and his mouth and his hands, but it takes until morning for her to grow butter-soft and creamy between the rumpled sheets of their bed—her bed or his, both are theirs, though this particular morning they’re secure behind door 42, the honeyed sunlight of a rare empty Sunday drizzling through the blinds and illuminating the intricate dance of the little dust motes that hang in the air. She sleeps on her side with her back to the window, the light catching her crimson hair in a nimbus that he thinks would inspire a better man to painting or poetry, but reduces him to gibbering wonderment.

He watches her sleep with something like awe. Her lips slack and slightly parted, still plump and red from kissing. Freckles sprinkled like cinnamon across her sleep-pinked cheeks, hair in a delightfully tousled disarray that makes him think of sunset clouds and cotton candy. There’s a little crease between her eyebrows as if she’s dreaming of something unpleasant, and he smoothes it oh so gently with his thumb. He doesn’t want to wake her; he’s not done looking yet. 

The sheets have shifted as they slept, revealing the hourglass curve of her side, the mole cradled just inside the firm crest of her hip. She had whimpered last night as he tongued it, a long detour on his slow journey to the oasis between her thighs. Her body is ripe with secrets to explore, his mental map of her slowly filling in as he traverses every hill and valley. He writes “here be monsters” beneath her ribs where she is too ticklish to touch, “here be angels” on the curve of her breast where the gentle scrape of his teeth makes her breath hitch. He finds heaven in the cradle of her hips, nirvana in the fragrant skin of her neck, paradise in the lush press of her lips.

Morning Scully may be soft, but Morning Mulder is getting decidedly less so by the minute.

She stirs slightly and rolls onto her back, the sheet slipping down the slope of her breast. One rosey nipple emerges into the cool morning air, pebbling quickly into a tantalizing peak, and he can’t resist anymore. He leans over her and circles it gently with his tongue, then pulls it into his mouth. He licks and sucks, feeling her flesh tighten even more, and when he scrapes his teeth against it, her chest jumps beneath him. She sucks in a breath, and her hands come up to card slowly through his hair. “Morning, Mulder,” she murmurs, her words still slurred with sleep.

“Good morning, Scully,” he answers as his mouth slides wetly to her other breast, on which he lavishes the same attention as the first, the slow and thorough consideration of his lips and teeth and tongue. Her breathing quickens, her pulse jumping visibly beneath the soft skin of her throat, and she moans low and long. He runs one hand up her leg, and her thighs part with a contented sigh; his fingers move higher until they brush against the curls of her sex, parting them to reach the hot, slick slit beneath. Morning Scully is always putty in his hands, her limbs loose and heavy, making love to him like something from a dream. “Sleep well?”

“Mmmhmm.” Her hips move in small circles as he plays between her legs, right on the line between soothing and arousing, and a blush blooms across her chest. “Wh-what time’s it?”

“Late.” He kisses his way up her neck, suckles on her earlobe until she whimpers softly. She still hasn’t opened her eyes. “I let you sleep in as long as I could stand it. Sorry.”

“S’okay.” His fingers skim her entrance and she twitches beneath him. “This is a nice way to wake up.”

“Do you want to go back to sleep?”

Her face scrunches adorably, and she makes a grumpy whining sound in her throat. “Maybe?”

He smiles into her skin, presses his fingers just barely inside her. “Do you want me to stop while you figure it out?”

Eyes still closed, lower lip between her teeth, she smiles and shakes her head. 

Her body is sleep-warm and limp as he drags her thigh over his hip, opening her to him. His erection presses into the firm flesh of her ass as he strokes her, coaxing her arousal slowly to life. He slides his fingers through the slick folds of her sex, coating them in her wetness; some of it must be from last night, when he had pressed her into the cushions of the creaking leather couch and come inside her with a cry that made the upstairs neighbor bang on the ceiling—and then again, in this bed, as she rode him like a prize pony until they both came apart at the seams. She clenched around him like a vise as they came together, and the way he spasmed inside her only set her off again, until their orgasms seemed to feed off each other in an ouroboros of pleasure that felt endless and left them both gasping, shaking, too exhausted to even roll off the wet spot, let alone clean up properly.

She’s slick halfway down her thighs.

“Fuck, Scully, you’re so wet. You feel so good.” He slides his tongue into her ear and one finger into her slippery, aching heat, and her neck arches off the bed. “You felt good last night, too, especially the second time”—and now he scrapes his teeth along the shell of her ear, slides a second finger alongside the first—“when your pussy was already full of my cum, when I could feel it leaking out of you as I fucked you.”

“Jesus, Mulder,” she gasps, and spreads herself open even more, hooking her leg behind him and shifting a little onto her side. He holds her across her stomach and gathers her partly on top of him; her head falls back on his shoulder so he can tongue the soft column of her throat, nibble the sweet ridge along her collarbone. He ruts against her as his fingers pump slowly in and out, her clit hardening beneath his thumb. One arm is still trapped against the mattress, and he wriggles it free as best he can to fondle her breast, rolling her nipple between his fingers.

She moans, squirming against him and pushing her ass deliciously against his hard length, begging for more. A quick shift of her hips, an awkward moment of fumbling, and then his cock is no longer trapped between their bodies but gliding between her slickened labia, and she brings a hand down to press him more tightly against her. He thrusts languidly, trapped between her hot little fingers and her even hotter cunt; he skims across her entrance with each stroke, rubs the head of his cock against her clit, her hips rolling in counterpoint to his sweet, unhurried rhythm. She reaches backward to grab his hair, whimpering, and his newly unoccupied hand busies itself at her other breast, groping and tweaking them in tandem.

“I love making you feel good, Scully.” His voice is velvet and gravel, his cock almost painfully hard against her molten core, and he talks to keep from embarrassing himself by coming before he’s even gotten inside her. “I love making you wet, feeling your clit pulse under my fingers, my tongue.” He licks her from shoulder to ear, leaving a glistening line of saliva along her skin, then sucks on the sensitive little spot where her jaw meets her throat. Soft little oh s spill from her lips as she grinds harder against his cock, and stars crowd his vision. “I love making you come, over and over. The sounds that you make, the way you smell, the way you squeeze me with your tight, wet cunt. ”

“Oh God.” Her whole body shudders and he feels a warm trickle of arousal coat his cock. Her face turns into the pillow, muffling the increasing volume of her moans. Greedy for the sound of her, he cups her jaw to pull her into a long, sloppy kiss, swallowing each whimper as she writhes against him with growing desperation.

“Are you awake yet, Scully?”

“Yes,” she pants helplessly against his mouth, his cock gliding between her soaked folds with almost no resistance. Soft, wet sounds fill the room, broken only by her breathy moans, his desperate panting. “More,” she manages to gasp. “God, more.”

His arm tightens around her stomach, and in one smooth move he drags her fully on top of him and scoots until his back is against the headboard. Her thighs fall to either side of his and he spreads her wide, his thick cock still thrusting along her slickened sex. She drops her head back against his shoulder and he growls, “Touch yourself,” into her ear.

A moment of hesitation, a deepening blush in her cheeks, and then she obeys. He watches her hand moving in quick tight circles over her clit, brushing the head of his cock as he slides it up and down the length of her. He slips just barely inside and she cries out, chasing him with her body when he withdraws, teasing her again and again. She gasps his name between casual blasphemies, notes in a symphony of moans and whimpers. “I want you inside me,” she finally begs. Her hand is slick with her own arousal as she wraps it around his cock, pumping him slowly, holding him against her entrance. She arches back to kiss him, plunges her tongue into his mouth, unable to stop the embarrassingly high-pitched whines coming from her throat. “Fuck, Mulder, I need you inside me when I come.”

“I live to serve,” he purrs against her mouth, and thrusts firmly upward, impaling her in one smooth motion. A loud cry pours from her throat—the neighbors are definitely going to complain again—and then she’s riding him for all she’s worth, her hips rolling and the muscles in her thighs clenching as she gallops toward release.

“Yes, oh God, Mulder, yes,” she gasps again and again, breathless and wanton, her tits bouncing in his hands as he pinches her nipples and her fingers making ever-more-frantic circles over her clit. “Close, so close, harder—”

Her words melt into a loud moan as he begins to plunge into her from below, his feet braced against the bed for leverage and his cock bumping against her cervix with every stroke. “Yes, Scully,” he hisses into her ear. “I want to feel it. Fuck me until you come.”

She’s tight and clenching around him, hotter than hell and slicker than sin, and his hand leaves her breast to join her fingers, stroking her clit together. He bites her nape, hard, and with a startled “ Oh! ” she shatters, her inner walls squeezing his cock in strong, rhythmic flutters as she gushes around him.

“Christ, Scully, did you just–?! Oh my god–!” Before she has a chance to answer or even catch her breath, he squeezes her tightly against his body and thrusts hard and fast, unable to hold back any longer. His ass lifts off the bed as he pistons in and out of her, desperate for release, and when she tightens around him again he comes with a roar—someone next door bangs on the wall—spurting hot inside her until his eyes roll back in his head and his vision goes red at the edges.

He comes down to find himself spooned against her, her ass cradled in the bowl of his hips as he softens inside her. They’ve made quite a mess, but his legs are burning like he’s been running for miles, and she’s gone completely limp against him; the last thing he can imagine is getting out of bed.

Still, he tries to be a gentleman.

“Want me to make some coffee? Then maybe a shower?”

She shakes her head against the pillow and pulls his arm tighter around her body. “I think I might be falling back asleep.”

He smiles into her hair. “Want me to wake you up a little later?”

“Absolutely.”

Hope you enjoyed! As always, comments will be printed and pasted into my little self-esteem scrapbook <3

[sweetcocopowder]

Shaytham + " please" for the milestone prompt? 🙏 👀 and congrats!! I absolutely adore your fics!!!

Prompt 7 | Shaytham

Synopsis: Haytham enjoys seeing the Captain of the Morrigan come undone

Word Count: 2.3K

Warnings: Violence. Roughness. Biting. Marking. Grinding. Begging.

Note: This is the last fic of the Lil Milestone Event!! Thank you everyone for sending in requests and I do apologize just how long it took me to spit all these out. Life has been very stressful and this year has taken quite a turn haha. I hope you enjoy this last fic!!!

The Morrigan groans as mortar fire crashes down around her like shooting stars falling from the heavens. One tears through the main sails and ropes snap apart like thunder, slashing across men’s chest and face. Some come out unharmed while some others are less fortunate and thrown backwards into the churning, cold sea. Shay Cormac grinds his teeth as he veers the Morrigan to port so that her cannons are facing the fort. The one that bears it teeth at them with its mortars and cannons.

“FIRE!” Shay cries out above all the chaos.

The boom of the cannons rings in his ear as the ship groans under the pressure. She’ll take it. She always does. The cannon balls hit their mark and a fort tower falls, crumbling into the sea below in a foam of white and blue. The satisfied swell that rises in him is quickly shut down as the destroyed stone reminds him of an all too familiar memory. He looks away, pushing it down and locking it away. He can’t get distracted, not now. Now while his men need him.

It’s not until now, snapping out of the trance he gets lost into that he notices Haytham. The Grandmaster is crouched down behind the railing, holding on for dear life all while holding onto his hat. It’s almost a humorous sight if it wasn’t for Haytham glaring daggers his way. It’s an expression that brings Shay back to himself. Reminding him of why he’s here. Why they’ve travelled so far up the River Valley to take on the fort with the foreshadow of losing men or even themselves.

Shay brings the Morrigan around again, facing her starboard side this time to the fort. Another volley of cannon balls are fired out with the sound of his booming voice shouting the order to do so. This time, only half of them hit their mark. Some strike the mountainous rock behind the fort and others in the water. Shay curses, shouting out to his men once more to reload the cannons as quick as possible. They’ll get this done. The fort will fall today!

With four more rounds of cannon fire and some quick thinking on Shay’s part, the fort groans in ache as the last of her mortars are destroyed. But the fight is far from over. Shay knows that all too well. Docking the Morrigan is a difficult challenge. Survivors of the fort fire their rifles and muskets toward the Morrigan as she docks. They hide behind the rubble of the fort, ducking in and out like groundhogs when they come out to yip before disappearing again.

Before Shay can race into battle, Haytham is quick to grab at his shoulder and drag him to face is intense stare. “We’ll go around the side of the fort! Up to the top!” He bellow over the retuning gunfire of Shy’s crew. “It’ll be quicker to get to the war room that way!”

Shay’s dark brown eyes dart up to the fort, quickly accessing the way up. “Lead the way,” he grins.

Shay doesn’t hesitate to follow his Grandmaster up and over the side of the Morrigan. Gist is quick to clear the way for the two, a bullet shooting one man clean through the eye. Shay praises his first mate under his breath, but doesn’t let himself get too distracted as he follows Haytham up the side of the fort.

The stone walls would normally be impossible to scale up. But with half of the tone tumbled and destroyed, it’s easy to get a grip on stone and bricks that jut out. Haytham rises to the top first and offers a hand down to Shay. He takes it eagerly, letting Haytham help him up over the ledge.

Shay spots the war room easily. It’s just a hop and skip away to their left. The only thing in the way is a guard staring down his rifle at the two in his watch tower. Shay pushes Haytham away as the rifle cracks. The bullet pierces through the collar of Shay’s coat. Too close to call.

The Irishman is quick to pull is own gun on the guard. He can see the fear in the white’s of the man’s eyes before Shay pulls the trigger. He dead before he even hits the ground. Shay swallows thickly as he sets his gun back into it’s holster. He stares at the guard tower, where the man lays dead. Haytham brushes a hand over his elbow, snapping him from his oncoming thoughts.

“On with it,” Haytham snaps.

Getting to the war room is easy enough. It’s the man inside that has both Templars stopping just inside the door. A man armed with two swords grins at them. Shay draws his own, ready for the fight.

But Haytham rolls his eyes. And as the man charges with a vicious shout. He clashes swords with Shay quicker than either Templar would have liked. Shay is pushed back against the door, a fist smashing against his mouth. More taunting than anything else. Shay’s eyes widen with a fierceness akin to bloodlust. But he doesn’t get the sweet taste of killing the man or even hurting him a little.

The man barks out a choked cry as Haytham’s sword is thrust through his back. The tip sticks out of his chest, glinting at Shay. The Grandmaster doesn’t waste time to push the man off of his sword and down onto the ground. He has better things to do than to bother about a man that he doesn’t even know.  

“I do hate the theatrics some men possess,” Haytham drawls out as he reloads his gun.

“What about mine?” Shay asks.

His Grandmaster quirks an eyebrow his way with a frown on his lips. He points his bloody sword towards him. “I tolerate you on good days,” he quips out darkly.

But Shay grins at that as he sheathes his sword. Haytham returns his antics with the slightest of a smile before turning towards the war room’s desk. He’s quick to look over the many papers and reports spread out on the wooden table. He plucks up three pieces of paper before rolling them up in his hand. Tucking them under his arm, he deems this mission a success with a curt nod of his head.

His dark blue eyes land upon Shay’s lip and the cut that bleeds slowly. He steps around the desk and Shay stays where he is, watching Haytham with a curiosity. His Grandmaster swipes a thumb at the blood on his lip, pondering a thought to himself before wiping it on the front of Shay’s coat. Shay watches him intensely, leaning forward a bit as his chest tightens. But Haytham hums to himself, as if satisfied before passing Shay.

“Let’s get out of here,” Haytham concludes.

And Shay follows like some lost pup.

-

Shay unfolds the papers out over his fleet reports for Haytham, letting the Grandmaster look over them first. He hums in satisfaction, his eyes flicking over the coordinates and the set dates for each cargo ship. Shay sits down in his chair with a groan, his face aching every time he clicks his jaw. He tries to get that right spot, but no matter what he does nothing works. The pops of his jaw are loud in the quiet cabin and slowly, they draw the attention of the Grandmaster.

He stops immediately. Instead he leans over the table to pick up a half empty bottle of whiskey without a word. He flicks the top off and he draws over two glasses near him as well. Haytham watches with interest as both glasses are poured with the golden liquid. Shay pushes one glass over to Haytham before he leans back in the chair and nurses his own.

Haytham takes it as his gaze returns back to the reports. Shay tries to make sense of them, his eyes skimming over the words. But he has never been a strong reader having lived on the streets nearly his entire life. Liam tried to teach him, but it took forever to crack it into his brain. He can read per say, it’s just that Gist normally takes over to make things go quicker. It always brings a bound of shame within his chest that makes him angry and frustrated at no one but himself.

“So was all this worth it for the papers?” Shay asks.

“Yes,” Haytham quickly answers. “Routes of their trade and cargo. Supplies we can obtain to keep out of their hands.”

Why his Grandmaster needs these supplies? He won’t ask any further right now. He doesn’t feel all too chatty after having bellowed his throat raw on deck. He clears his throat, feeling the painful scratchiness that only the whiskey seems to smooth over for a few seconds. So he fills his glass once more for that few seconds of relief.

Shay looks to Haytham deep in thought. Wondering what plans and other whatnots are going on up in that head of his. Has he already thought of a plan to take the Morrigan out to intercept these ships? Does he know that they’ll have to stop somewhere to repair the old girl?

Haytham catches him staring, meeting Shay with a raised brow. The Irishman only smiles as he takes another swig of his drink. He pops his jaw again.

“Are you here to distract me?” Haytham asks.

Shay looks around dramatically, suddenly sitting up right in the chair. “Last time I checked this was my quarters,” he remarks cockily.

Suddenly, Haytham’s hand comes to Shay’s thigh, squeezing lightly. He leans over into the Irishman’s space, his eyes on his lips the entire time. Hooded, dark and filled with ill intent.

“And what makes you think I can’t just make you leave?” Haytham asks lowly.

Shay swallows deeply. The adrenaline of the battle hasn’t fully worn off yet and he will admit he is a bit riled up. Shay licks his dry lips and bites it lightly, not missing that Haytham’s gaze watch the action. His Grandmaster must be feeling the same.  

“Because you enjoy my charismatic comments too much,” Shay grins around the lip of the glass before he takes another swig.

Haytham takes the glass from Shay to down the rest of the amber liquid. He sets the glass aside, forgetting about the fleet report for the moment to capture the Irishman’s busted lip in a deep kiss. Shay’s hands are quick to grab a hold of Haytham, unclasping clips and buckles. He doesn’t hesitate to try and get these stupid bulky clothes off of the man. They always hide the Grandmaster’s body and it always annoys Shay to no end. His heavy cloak falls to the floor, his coat coming off shortly after.

Haytham breaks the kiss to bring Shay out of the chair to his feet roughly with his hands fisted into the front of his coat. Shay grins wildly as he’s spun around to be thrown atop of the table. Neither of them care about he many papers and reports that litter the table top. Some of them are pushed aside and they shower to the floor.

None of them take notice as Shay’s groans fill the quarters as Haytham kneads a palm roughly to his groin. It’s a delicious sound that has Haytham palming more to milk them out of the man under him. Shay’s hip rut up into his hand, trying to get more friction than he’s being given. But Haytham stops all together.

“Please,” Shay breathes out.

Haytham hums at that, loving the view before him. Knowing he can have Shay like this at a simple touch. It’s almost intoxicating. He’s quick to undo Shay’s belt and throws it aside without a care. He pushes the man’s vest and shirt up his torso to reveal the body that’s been made with years of hard work and discipline. Haytham’s runs his hands over Shay’s hard stomach, earning him a shaky exhale from him. Beautiful.

“Hmm?” Haytham finally questions.

“Please, I need you,” Shay whines out.

That commanding Captain that was once on deck is gone for the moment. He looks to Haytham with only want and need. Begging for his Grandmaster to do something, anything.

So, Haytham gives him something. He leans forward to plant a kiss to the man’s stomach. His skin is salty with sweat and he can taste gunpowder on him as well. He kiss and laps at his skin all the same, sucking and biting lightly to hitch those noises from Shay’s busted lips. Haytham hooks his fingers into the hem of Shay’s pants as he ventures lower into the man’s snail trail. He bites lightly at the v of the man’s torso, Shay’s hips bucking up lightly with a groan from his throat.

Haytham grins into his pale skin before pulling his pants down to his knees in one swift movement. Shay’s cock is already hard and red. Haytham doesn’t mind it though, he stands up to lean over Shay. He towers over Shay to grab his face so that the man’s dark brown gaze is looking at him and only him. He wedges himself in between Shay’s thighs so that the only touch he’s receiving is the harsh friction of his closing.

He closes the gap to kiss Shay deeply, his tongue invading his mouth to taste the cheap whiskey. Shay moans into the kiss, his hips rutting upwards into Haytham’s crotch to try and earn himself some friction. But a firm hand on his hip holds him down, a thumb digging painfully into the soft skin.

Haytham breaks the kiss to only mouth at Shay’s prickly jaw. He ventures downwards, biting and kissing the Irishman’s neck, collarbones, chest and back down his stomach. Leaving purple and red marks of different shades. And with each one Shay whines and groans, his hooded eyes watching Haytham in a haze.

“Please,” Shay breathes out again, quieter this time.

Haytham smiles as he hovers over the man’s half hard cock. His deep blue eyes look to Shay with adoration. Only because Shay asked so nicely. He does love it when his best man begs like this. It just as delicious as he tastes.

-

Reblog, like and share ;)

[youlikefanficdontyousquidward]

Don't fuck with my man

"I have a idea for it 😉 maybe they had a big argument and there having like a break 😞 and the dude from the previous one is flirting with reader and he flirts back and yk jealousy jealously. Then like more stuff you can add"

@dozcan123 for you!! (´▽`ʃ♡ƪ)

Again absolutely love a jealous Quaritch

Warnings: swearing, smut, voyeurism

Human!Quaritch x Masc!reader

There was screaming, shouting, some amount of things thrown and in the end you'd stormed away. Boyfriend or not you would not let him speak like that to you. So for now you were on a break. Not broken up! Just needing to cool off.

Still he seemed to haunt you around the base. Glimpses of his muscular frame before you'd turn and see nothing. You'd chalk it up to your mind playing tricks on you but you knew how possessive he could be.

You were on a break but you wouldn't use that as an excuse to see other people. Deep down you loved him, even when he was being an ass. The idea of another man's hands on him set a restless anger coursing through you.

You stewed in the gym with Lyle today. The other man was on eggshells with you. Clearly Miles had said something to him but he wasn't going to expand on that. Instead he just hovered around you, spotting you or working out near by. You didn't appreciate the company. Your other friends had been kind enough to give you some space to collect yourself.

It was quiet at least. No one else seemed to have come by at this hour. Leaving you first pick of whatever equipment you'd be taking your anger out on. You swung a furious punch at the sand bag making it smack rather hard against Lyle behind it.

"Ah fuck!" He grunted as he peaked out from behind the thing. "Look it's getting late I gotta head off." Lyle said. He stepped off to the bench to grab his things. He paused a moment watching you stay by the bag. Lyle sighed taking the hint finally and leaving you in peace.

Or so you thought.

"Aww things okay at home babe." A man laughed as he came round the corner. Ben, that flirty asshole that just couldn't seem to take no for an answer. You'd had to keep quiet about most of his advances to Miles. He'd have his head for less.

"Not in the mood, piss off." You grunted before taking another swing at the bag. He slinked over draping his form on the back of the bag, stilling it as you kept swinging.

"Come on, worried Papa Dragon's gonna catch us..." Ben purred before grunting at your swings impact.

"Catch us what Ben? Catch me kicking your ass?" You snorted before landing another kick against the bag. Ben groaned again but you heard him chuckle. An anger flared though you and you shot another volley of hits though to him.

"Oh surly we could be having more fun then that." He said.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He wasn't following you, Quaritch was just looking out for you. Word travels, folk knew he was pissed so folk might take advantage of that. Try and swoop in on what was his.

When Lyle tipped him off to you being alone he was moving before he'd even finished the thought. That prick Ben had been hovering all week, fucking vulture. Tiniest scent of blood and this guy was right at you.

His veins chilled as he rounded the corner. Through the glass divider he could see into the gym. Could see Ben rutting against the punching bag as you sent hit after hit against him through it. The sight made his stomach churn.

His flushed features, face twisting in some vile bliss as he took your hits. The vibrations of each swing, thrust, ricocheting through his nerves.

Quaritch could have stormed in, thrown that Ben to the ground but he caught your face too. The rage pulling at features he adored so much, the pain and anguish that he knew was his fault.

He wished desperately to smooth away those lines, to kiss each valley until you were his again. Would you spurn him? Spit venom at him again till you were both crimson and burning.

Furious Quaritch turned and crashed back out the door. He cursed and swore, tossing a bin to the ground as he passed it. If you were done so be it.

Only he couldn't move another step. A firm hand grabbed his wrist and stopped his escape. He turned sharply ready to blow off some steam on whatever idiot had cornered him now. Only his face fell, softening at your concerned eyes.

You were stunning. Heaving chest, slick skin, those tattoos he loved so much on display. He tried so hard to hold his anger, to imagine Ben's display but it was hard. All he managed was to keep a frown set on his brow.

Still your eyes met his with the unwavering confidence he'd always admired. You'd never squirreled away from him, never been threatened by him and he loved it. He was free with you and he missed that feeling so much.

"You not got Ben to finish off..." He bit. Immediately regretting the sentence as he watched your jaw clench. Biting back your own anger it seemed and it made his own jaw tick in response.

"I don't want Ben." You said, gaze locked on his own. Quaritch could crack under you, be split apart and lain bare. You wormed your way under his skin every time and made your home in his rib cage, curling round his heart. Your words always set a fire in him. Suppose it was up to him whether he'd be warmed or burn on that pyre.

Quaritch dragged a deep breath in through his nostrils and gritted his teeth. You hand still held his wrist the grip turning from almost harsh to soft. Fingers dancing up his arm and coming to rest by his pulse.

"I won't say I'm sorry." Quaritch said.

"I know." You whispered back. Palm still tracing up to his cheek now and Quaritch couldn't help leaning into it. He turned his face kissing roughly into the skin. Quaritch's eyes screwed closed, savoring the heat of your skin. He could feel you smiling at him through the dark and grinned against your skin.

He let his hands move to your skin, pulling under your shirt to rub your sides. You molded against him, arching to be closer still. Your hands moved behind his head as you pulled him down to you.

Chapped lips moved over his tenderly and he darted a tongue out. He swiped against moving in as your lips parted. He groaned into you, twitching to life against you. God he wanted to to take you here, right in the hall against the glass. Show the whole fucking planet just how good he was to you. Wasn't like anyone was around at this time to catch you both anyway.

He turned you against him walking you forward until you were flush against the glass. You gasped against the cool surface and he chuckled, rolling his hip into your ass. He felt you shiver before grinding back against him. His large hands traced under your gym clothes, one slipping up against your chest. You keened as he pinched a nipple and mouthed against the back of your neck.

You groaned hands flying back to make more contact. Gripping his head, nails scrapping along his scarred scalp and kneading into his hip. Desperate for his touch, maybe missing him as much as he did you.

Quaritch reached further under your shirt to your throat, squeezing against his as he ran a tongue over your ear.

"Eager are we?" He groaned as you continued rubbing back against his erection. The thin fabric of your shorts let him feel your curves, your heat as you moved. He reached his other hand from your abdomen to trace down to just above where your shorts tented.

"Who do you belong to?" He growled against your ear. Your body shuddered against his, your hands gripping him and trying to pull him closer still.

"I'm yours. Please..." you whined. Quaritch smirked, running his finger under the waist band as he teased.

"And I'm?" He continued, spying movement out the corner of his eye. He didn't need to advert his gaze to know who it was, he'd know Ben anywhere. Still he reveled in his stillness, the gaping and bobbing mouth. What would he do? Would he watch Quaritch prove how worthless he was?

Still the idea of him enjoying your moans, your form, anything of you bit into him. So Quaritch shifted his gaze, letting a glare fall on the other man as he rutted into your ass. Ben glaring back as Quaritch reached in and took your cock in his hand. He kept eye contact as Quaritch let you thrust into his fist.

"You're mine." You growled under him as your arched back against him. Chest flush against your back as your head turned to his, forehead rubbing his stubbled cheek. Quaritch was sure you could see Ben now too but it didn't slow your movements. Nor the keening groans and whines that were coming breathy from your lips.

If Miles could think straight he'd have torn Ben to shreds by now. For seeing even half of this he'd do worse but he couldn't stop chasing the friction against you. Pumping hard stokes down the length of your cock, desperate for your high more than his own.

Still he felt his own ecstasy coiling and burning through him. Almost dizzying arousal fueling every snap of hips against the curve of your ass. You hand was searing against his face, turning him away from Ben to lock him in a frenzied kiss.

You groaned again, growling into his mouth as your tongue tasted him. Your rolling hips stuttering as he thumbed over the head of your cock.

"Come for me." Miles growled against your lips. You moaned his name out cumming hard against the glass. Painting seed against the smooth surface.

Quartch couldn't contain his own fast approaching orgasm. Taking a hand from its grip around your throat to free himself from the confines for his trousers. Your hand tipped to him, pumping him through his high as his own release hit the glass.

He breathed hard, head tipping into your shoulders as he came down. Your hands trailing up his hip, past your head to rub his hair. Your eyes were turned to where Ben watched and he felt an odd satisfaction at your mocking glare.

Quaritch straightened up, tucking himself away as he slung an arm over your shoulder. He guided you away, loving how your eyes immediately locked onto him. He tossed a look over his shoulder as you both walked away.

Ben had remained frozen, a mix of anger and shame mixing as his eye's remained locked on the window. Quaritch's chest swelled as he you called back.

"Clean that up will yah?" You called without turning your head back. Quaritch barked a loud laugh pulling your shoulder closer into his chest.

"That's an order Private." He added looking down at your half lidded smirk.

"Think we can make it to the dorms before round two?" You purred.

[palin-tropos]

44🙏

“If you die, I’m going to kill you.”

I am giving you Mazov/Nilsen for this one! And I got kind of fascinated by an outsider’s perspective for this story.

—

Account of a Mirovan citizen.

The roar of the crowd was the sea, prone to its swells and valleys, a unity of averages, but then—as all who witnessed the disaster would recount—that fateful barrage of bullets was first swallowed by the noise, then the shocked lull followed like an ominous retreat of the seashore, before the moment it surged, typhonic.

To say that the class war was declared that day on the streets of Mirova would be to mock the broader truth, that it had been waged ever since the city’s founding. One could hardly even call it a ceasefire broken. But it was true that the bourgeois class declared a new battle in the moment a particular captain of the guard gave the order to fire upon the strikers.

In that collectively held breath before the chaos broke loose, when the demonstrators realized in a rippling shockwave that some of their own were dead, it was Kras Mazov who leapt onto the pedestal of the General ——insky’s statue and pointed towards the mounted gendarmerie, exactly in the opposite direction of the General’s perpetually outstretched sword, crying out in accusation. But inevitably this was taken as a call to stand one’s ground and attack back. This must have been the intention.

At that point, years before the Revolution, you may be surprised to hear that Mazov was fielding accusations of timidity from his rivals, that he was a clever scholar but hadn’t really the stomach for violence. Anyone who met him personally saw that sensitivity. But it was that same tender soul that turned him into a commander that day.

And history could have been knocked from its tracks by a stray bullet in the moment that he rose above the crowd. The row of soldiers blockading the plaza aimed with the same thought—up, and away from the mass of workers, at the presumed leader.

This was a mistake. There was enough time for the men leading the march to rush forward, brandishing their signs—for they had no weapons—and try to drag the officers by their legs off their horses.

And Mazov, rigid and alone beside the unflinching legs of a horse and its rider cast in bronze, was suddenly joined by another man in a darker, high-collared coat, leaping with desperate vigor up onto the pedestal, clutching Mazov by his shoulders and turning them both round so that Mazov would be shielded behind his own body.

In the moment of another volley of rifle cracks, the man spasmed and his knees gave out. They fell together under the legs of the bronze horse for partial cover, Mazov with his back to the stone and the dark-coated man atop him.

I was there, you see, directly beside the statue. I thought at first that Mazov had been grabbed by an imperial officer because the other man’s coat was cut in a very military style, but I quickly realized the man was an ally of his. The two of them lay under an unfortunately lifelike metal cast of a horse’s genitalia—the indignity of it was hard to forget.

Mazov’s savior had such a thunderous voice that rang in my ears, exclaiming, “If you die here, I shall have to kill you!”

After trying more than once to speak over the mob clamoring for revenge, the winded Mazov had to drag the other man down to him by his necktie and enunciate in his ear, “No, you poor fool, it’s you who’s been shot!”

And at that point I hauled myself up onto the stone pedestal as well and reached for the man who seemed stunned to hear that he had a bullet in his back—but he did, I saw the hole torn in the dark coat. He refused to slump over, but the sensation must have broken through the shock, and his features twisted with pain, while Mazov sat up enough to cradle the comrade against his breast.

Mazov himself turned to me and ordered, “Get help!” and despite me being just a lad, he was baring a terrible vulnerability in that moment. I saw that tender soul people spoke of—his eyes were dewy and creased with so much simple, human pain.

As for the other man… strangely his face blurs like blended paint in my memory, which hasn’t been right ever since I somehow survived that dreadful plague… but there is no doubt in my mind that someone tackled Mazov down that day and saved him. I put my hands on his wounded back, and tried to staunch the blood, until some other group of communists suddenly appeared and whisked the both of them away.

It was the soldiers who fired first, yes. That I do remember.

[canadaloveselenasblog]

Jay: Tom Cruise returns character of Top guns the first movie came out 62 years ago, and Had a homoerotica volley ball scene this new film is updated for a new audience by having a homorotic football scene. oh and there's ladies now so it's not quite homoerotic unfortunately. In the movie top gun has to teach how to fly their planes more betterer and bomb a lunch box at the base of a valley, Its a dangerous and complicated flight path with little survival. Hey don't drone exist now

[innerchorus]

“Tactically there were only two ways for infantry to beat cavalry in an open field battle: firepower and mass. Firepower could be provided by swarms of missiles. Mass could be provided by a tightly packed phalanx of men. Such tactics were long-established; the Romans used missile troops such as slingers, and the core infantry learned to deal with swarming enemy cavalrymen by forming a hollow square fenced with a solid hedge of iron pila (large javelins). Alexander the Great combined both methods in his clashes with the Asiatic horseman of Persia and India, screening his central infantry phalanx with slingers, archers and javelin-men, before unleashing his cavalry against the enemy. Both mass and firepower could be aided by a good tactical position, such as on a hill or on rough terrain, where enemy cavalry would have trouble manoeuvring.”

×

“Archers, for example, were essential in holding the fast-moving Muslim cavalry at bay—suppressing their firepower, and allowing the armoured knights to mount successful counter-attacks. Pikemen were important in screening the flanks.”

×

“Against Saladin's light cavalry at Jaffa (c. 1192) during the Crusades, Richard of England drew up a line of spearmen, kneeling on the ground with spear planted in front, forming an effectual 'hedge of steel' against the charging enemy horsemen. Behind the spear wall, crossbowmen stood ready, with assistants helping to reload. The Muslim armies attacked but the combined firepower of the archers and the steadiness of the wall of spears held.”

Some interesting little morsels I found regarding the role of infantry in battle!

I dread the day I have to do enough research to write a convincing full-scale battle set in the world of ArSen (though there's a good chance that maybe I will never need to). The Parsian army definitely have a reliance on their cavalry, specifically their cavalry charge on open ground but also tactics like feigned retreat or swift raids, where it's hard to envision the infantry playing a large role.

For bigger battles where they are fielding infantry units as well, perhaps they're used to give an initial volley of arrows (firepower, as mentioned above). I'm not sure where the infantry were at Atropatene but I assume behind the cavalry units, with the plan that they would move up to join them once the two sides had met? I did try to check the novels for details but aside from mentioning that the infantry were there, Tanaka didn't elaborate on their involvement. They're obviously separate from the Marzbans and their 10,000 cavalrymen, and I'd love to know how the two work together in terms of tactics and command etc.

There are situations where I could see infantry being better suited. Fortresses probably had a decent amount of infantry stationed there, especially those like Peshawar which were defending a border or access point. To take Peshawar Fortress as an example, there are 20,000 cavalry and 60,000 infantry. And inside Ecbatana before it fell there were 20,000 cavalry and 45,000 infantry (and given that the infantry were slaves you can imagine how fast things turned bad when the slaves revolted). The cavalry are good for sallying out in a charge, but the infantry must be invaluable to help hold a fortress or walled city when it comes under siege.

The Parsian forces that protect the border with Misr are also primarily infantry, and there's good reason for that. Unlike the Kaveri River at the eastern border, the Didjireh River (the Tigris) is shallow and relatively easy to cross; therefore the defensive measures include a wall of fortifications along the banks, which are probably better defended by infantry as a cavalry charge would not be that practical.

Other situations in which I could see the infantry being utilised are when that famed Parsian cavalry charge just isn't possible because of the terrain, or because they are using that terrain to trap the enemy (archers atop the cliffs of a narrow valley, for example). But I really know very little on this subject as a whole, so these are just my thoughts.

I think, because of the heavy reliance on cavalry, it's unlikely that the Parsian infantry used tactics as sophisticated as the Roman infantry squares, though I'm sure they would form up with shields and spears as a wall if they did happen to find themselves facing a cavalry charge from an enemy. And the info above about defending the flanks from attack with spears seems like it could well apply.

It's probably worth reading into Persian infantry specifically. There's some info on historical tactics in general here, and also the sparabara, with the caveat that none of this is going to match up perfectly to the composition of the fictional Parsian army. My partner suggested also looking into the Mamluks in terms of slave soldiers but again it's not going to be directly comparable.

[beardedmrbean]

Today is Thursday, Oct. 31, the 305th day of 2024 with 61 to follow.

This is Halloween.

The moon is waning. Morning stars are Jupiter, Mars, Neptune, Saturn and Uranus. Evening stars are Jupiter, Mars, Mercury, Neptune, Saturn, Uranus and Venus.

On this date in history:

In 1517, Martin Luther began the Protestant Reformation by nailing a proclamation -- the 95 theses -- to the door of a church in Wittenberg, Germany.

In 1864, Nevada was admitted to the United States as the 36th state.

In 1931, with the Great Depression in full swing, the U.S. Treasury Department announced that 827 banks had failed during the previous two months.

In 1941, more than a month before the United States entered World War II, a German submarine torpedoed and sunk a U.S. destroyer, the USS Reuben James.

In 1941, the Mount Rushmore National Memorial in South Dakota -- consisting of the sculpted heads of U.S. Presidents George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Abraham Lincoln and Teddy Roosevelt -- was completed.

In 1968, U.S. President Lyndon Johnson announced a halt to the bombing of North Vietnam.

In 1984, Indian Prime Minister Indira Gandhi was assassinated outside her home in a volley of gunfire by Sikh members of her own security force. Her son, Rajiv, succeeded her.

In 1985, salvage divers located the remains of the booty-laden pirate ship Whydah, which sank Feb. 17, 1717, off Cape Cod, Mass.

In 1993, actor River Phoenix died of a drug overdose outside of a West Hollywood, Calif., nightclub, The Viper Room. He starred in Stand By Me and My Own Private Idaho.

In 1994, President Bill Clinton signed the California Desert Protection Act, establishing Death Valley and Joshua Tree National Parks.

In 2004, Iranian lawmakers chanted, "Death to America!" after a unanimous vote to allow their government to resume uranium enrichment activities.

In 2008, U.S. Army Gen. David Petraeus took over as head of the Central Command, in charge of military operations in Iraq, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Syria, Iran and other countries.

In 2010, Brazilians elected Dilma Rousseff as their first female president. The former energy minister and choice of outgoing President Luiz Inacio Lula da Silva defeated Jose Serra in a runoff with 56 percent of the vote. Rousseff won a second term Oct. 26, 2014.

In 2011, a U.N. report said the world's population had topped the 7 billion mark, doubling the total of 1968. The U.N. Population Fund predicted 8 billion people by 2025.

In 2014, SpaceShipTwo, Virgin Galactic's effort in spaceflight for tourists, crashed during a test flight in the Mojave Desert, killing one of the pilots and seriously injuring the other.

In 2015, Russian airliner Metrojet Flight 9268 crashed after taking off from Sharm el-Sheikh International Airport in Egypt, killing all 224 on board. Investigators suspected a bomb on the plane caused the crash.

In 2017, a man drove a rented truck onto a bike path in New York City, killing eight people and injuring 11 others. The alleged attacker's trial on terror charges began in October 2022 after multiple delays.

In 2019, the Islamic State named Abu Ibrahim al-Hashimi al-Qurashi as its new leader after the death of Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi.

A thought for the day: "Variety is the soul of pleasure." -- English writer Aphra Behn

[thebaffledcaptain]

For writing purposes, have you any anecdotes from battle reenactment, or references on the battle of Yorktown (1781)?

Oh that's a fun question… my first disclaimer is that I only started reenacting fairly recently, so I only have so many anecdotes. My second disclaimer is that I definitely know more about the British side of things than the Continental side, but luckily most of the military organization and conduct was virtually the same on both sides. My last is that I am no particular expert on Yorktown specifically—I've heard they've done huge reenactments there in the past but I have not been in the hobby long enough to have gone to one, unfortunately. However, what I would be happy to talk about are some historical details you could use in setting up your scene and kind of bringing it to life, most of which only occurred to me after experiencing them firsthand!

“The Fog of War”

Which is to say, powder smoke. Great white plumes of it, tearing from muskets on every volley, drifting across the field and saturating the air with the bitter smell of sulfur. I find myself holding my breath on every volley just so I won’t inhale a big lungful of it—at certain points it’s like marching through a cloud, and humid weather can exacerbate that even further, since it won’t dissipate. And it lingers. I remember standing up at the very top of the valley at Monmouth in the evening after the first day and you could still see that smoke blurring the horizon, hours later. We tend not to think so much about it as a modern audience, but it was a huge factor in these historical battles: you could write about how it obscures the visibility, how the smell lingers, the terrifying sight of an enemy battalion emerging from the smoke with bayonets fixed…

The Scale

Let’s be honest, reenactments don’t tend to be really massive events—some events are bigger than others but overall it’s a niche hobby and even our best turnouts are nowhere near the size of these battles in reality (my regiment requires a minimum of a mere 8 members to commit to an event for us to go…). Historically you’d be having somewhere between roughly 500–700 men per regiment, divided into ten companies. As a field musician, since it would have been my job, I’m always thinking about how it would have been to actually communicate with and maneuver a group that large with only a handful of drummers and fifers per company, especially with that many other companies on the field—it’s hard enough playing for 20 something reenactors across two units! And Yorktown was one of the biggest conflicts in the war, both literally (with regard to number of men involved) and figuratively, given how decisive it was; I can only imagine how much pressure it would have been on the commanding officers as they actually made those decisions for dozens or hundreds of men. Being on the battlefield is actually rather isolating, in a way—I’ll see certain regiments in camp and then never see them on the field because we’re in completely different places, so, you know, could make for some dramatic Character Worrying in the story if you're so inclined.

Last but not least, because I’m a little biased but still feel it’s important:

The Music (and other Sounds of War)

Being on a battlefield is loud! You’ve got men roaring as they head into a bayonet charge, drumbeats punctuating shouted orders, volleys firing, the shrill sound of another company’s fifes playing on the advance. When you've got artillery you can literally feel the shots reverberate through the ground beneath your feet, even across the field. Occasionally muskets don’t fire the first round, so they get double-loaded with gunpowder on the second—the 54th had this happen at my last event and when the shot went off it was so loud it temporarily deafened the two men closest to it. War is noisy. And of course I can’t not talk about the music—you could mention the musicians switching tunes to reflect a different maneuver, or mention listening across the field, hoping to hear the Cease Fire from the enemy. Fifes are loud instruments, designed to carry across these wide-open spaces, so often you’re hearing multiple companies’ musicians on top of each other (and even on top of that, some light infantry and dragoon companies were actually using bugles instead of fifes!). On bayonet charges we play the Reveille, on the advance we tend to do British Grenadiers. When men are aiming and firing there’s a different short drum beat for every command (make ready/present/fire). Obviously it’d be a bit much to write in every one of those instances, but it kind of puts it in context how frequently you’d be hearing music on the battlefield.

Anyway. If you can’t tell I love talking about reenacting. Thanks for letting me infodump to you and, though it’s not Yorktown-specific, I hope this maybe gives you some inspiration or some contextual material to work with while you’re writing!

[pahrak-the-sinnoh-slizer]

Rivers Branching (draft of opening)

As he tumbled downhill, crashing against or through at least a dozen trees along the way, Ash could only hope that the plethora of SNAPS he heard came from branches rather than his bones.  He finally skidded to a stop in a muddy ditch and tested his body: it hurt like hell, but he could still move normally.  With a heave, he pushed himself high enough to grab the edge of the ditch, but froze when he realized he could no longer feel the rain.  Looming over him was a tall, lanky creature with face and shell like a turtle, its gleaming yellow eyes locked on him.  The top of its skull was indented into a circular bowl of sorts, currently overflowing with rainwater.  Stooping, it slowly extended its webbed claw.

“Terribly sorry, friend,” it said in a hoarse yet piercing voice.  “Seems I misjudged the incline on that ledge.  Looked like a nasty fall—are you still in one piece?”

Ash grunted.  “Don’t mock me!”

The creature took a step back.  “Oh no, not at all.  I apologize if I came across as such.  Let me know when you’re ready to resume.”

Pulling himself up, Ash took a quick glance at his surroundings.  There wasn’t much to see: hills towered over either side of the valley, and all he could see beyond that was a pall of gray rainclouds.  He glared at his enemy and lifted one arm; in a matter of seconds, a reddish-yellow flower bloomed from his wrist.  “Let’s go!”

A vine rapidly grew from the flower, shooting across the gap ready to skewer its target.  The creature dashed aside and stayed low, changing direction after a few steps, and charged straight at Ash with its claws spread wide.  Ash hopped forward—the end of the vine buried itself in the hillside and retracted, reeling him out of harm’s way.  He rolled into a crouch just as his anchor freed itself, seeing that his foe was still bearing down on him.  A multitude of smaller vines grew from his flower, weaving a thorned glove around his fist, and he led with his shoulder before throwing a deadly straight…that missed spectacularly.  The air fled his lungs as the creature thrust an elbow into his gut.

“One thing I will say is that you’re quite determined.”  The creature slowly circled around him as he writhed.  “A strength to be certain, though one must take care to prevent it from congealing into pure stubbornness.”

Ash stabbed at it with a lance made of vines.  His foe kicked his arm back and grabbed his face—the water dripping from its skin was nearly enough to drown him.  The next thing Ash knew, he was in a heap on the far side of the valley.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk.  Truth be told, friend, I find myself starting to wonder if you truly knew what you were getting into.  I mean really: a land-dweller picking a fight with a kappa in the middle of a rainstorm?  If your aim was to win, then one would think you’d have at least waited for the weather to clear up!”

“Oh, shove it!”  Ash climbed to his feet, wiping blood and dirt from his face.  “I’m not giving you the chance to make it back to the Earl!  One way or another, I’m going to wring you dry right here!”

He formed a bow next, sending forth a volley of arrows.  The kappa swiftly wove around the projectiles.  Just as it prepared to pounce, the next arrow exploded in mid-flight, scattering arboreal shrapnel across the creature’s path.  It managed to stop its forward momentum, but Ash didn’t let up: he kept firing arrows until he saw the kappa stumble and fall directly onto one of the thorny caltrops.  The bit of plant matter lit up, followed by a terrible shriek from its victim.  The kappa rolled onto its back and clawed at it frantically, its skin slowly but surely constricting and shriveling as the moisture was rapidly siphoned out of it.

“Got you!”

Ash ran forward, reshaping his bow into another glove.  Once he was close enough, he leapt at the kappa, summoned all his might, and slammed his fist down.  He struck only dirt.  The kappa flung itself just out of reach, plucked out the caltrop accosting it, and then smashed the human fighter’s skull into the ground.

“Haah…that was…clever…”  It rose slowly, the rain quickly restoring its body to health.  “My apologies: I underestimated you.  Allow me to rectify that mistake.”

Ash’s head throbbed.  He flopped a few inches away, short vines from his flower swiping blindly, but it did him no good as the kappa strode over, picked him up, and bit into his shoulder.  Pain shoved aside all other thoughts as the creature’s powerful beak cleaved flesh from bone, keeping firm its grip even as the kappa pulled back and spat.

“Mrrmm…that’s right, I forgot.  Those primroses of yours leave some truly dreadful seeds throughout the host’s body.  Pity: a waste of perfectly good food.  In that case…”

It bared its claws.  Ash did his best to push through the pain, to dig up some last reservoir of strength, but only a single thought came to his mind: Marisol…

The kappa turned sharply; another arrow was flying towards it, and it slashed through the bolt.  A cloud of spores burst out of the splintered arrow.  Gasping and choking, the kappa dropped Ash and stumbled backward.  Ash hit the ground hard but got right back up.  He began to lift his arm once again, but someone stepped in front of him: a young woman about his age wearing an armored wetsuit identical to his own but with patches of red rather than gray.  Sitting in her hair, glowing brilliantly, was a flower like the one on his wrist.  “Don’t be stupid—get back!”

“M…Marisol?”  He winced.  Vines from his flower were wrapping tightly around his shoulder to staunch the bleeding.  “You’re here already?  How did you stop the other one so fast?”

Marisol didn’t answer.  She kept her gaze fixed on the kappa, who cleared its throat one last time before wiping its beak.  “Well now…that was a bit underhanded, don’t you think?  In any case, I should introduce myself.”  It spread its arms and bowed.  “I am Kamikawa Getsumaru, Baron of the Western Antarctic Islands, here by request of the Earl of the Southern Waters.  And you are?”

Marisol stepped back.  “Not alone.”

A bolt of lightning shot down from the sky just then, striking Kamikawa dead-on.  It shrieked once again as the electricity surged through its entire body, leaving it charred and smoking when it had passed.  Ash’s eyebrows went up.

“I’ll give you one chance,” Marisol said.  The flower in her hair fanned out its petals, slowly extending four long vines covered in thorns.  “Leave.  Now.”

Ash reached for her shoulder.  “Mari, wait, we can’t just let it go!  We—ow!”  A vine lightly smacked his fingers away, making him recoil.

Almost groggily, Kamikawa looked around the valley, but ultimately it took another bow.  “I think…I shall accept your gracious offer.  Well-played, humans.  I look forward to our next meeting.”  And with that, it was gone.

Ash grunted.  “…Thanks.  I owe you one.”

Marisol whirled and grabbed him by the collar.  Her teeth were clenched, and orange light burned in her eyes.  “I’m real fucking tired of you owing me!  How have you still not learned to avoid getting nearly killed in the first place?!”

“I didn’t…”  A range of emotions flipped through Ash’s mind, but beneath it all he could feel a layer of shame providing a foundation.  “It’s…not…”  He took Marisol by the wrist—she was trembling.  “…I’m sorry, alright?”

“No, it’s not.”  She gave a long sigh as she let go of him.  “But…now’s not the time.”

Ash then realized they were not alone.  Standing nearby was someone new: another human, middle-aged if Ash had to guess from his white bear and frayed gray hair.  He wore badly scratched glasses that hid his eyes, and the trench coat he wore looked to be made more of dirt than of cloth.  Ash’s eyes settled on the massive tome tucked under his arm.

“Is that a spellbook?  I guess you’re responsible for that bolt, then.  Thanks for your help, mister, uh…?”

The ragged stranger slowly adjusted his glasses.  Marisol fidgeted too, which made Ash feel very uneasy very quickly.

“It’s been a long time, Ashton,” the stranger said.  “…I do apologize for that.  My name is Garrick Blackwood.  I am your biological father.”

Ash blinked.  He turned to Marisol, who nodded.  He looked at his primrose, which stood eerily still.  Looking back up at Garrick, he began to feel faint, and blurted out the only thing he could: “…What?”

~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~

Ash lay on his back in the tent serving as a makeshift infirmary.  His shoulder was properly bandaged but still bleeding, so he had been instructed not to do anything too strenuous.  That order was impossible to fulfill, however, since Garrick perched like a gargoyle on a chair next to his mat.

“Are you in pain?” Garrick asked.

Utter anguish, asshole, Ash thought.  Out loud, he instead answered, “I’ll be fine.  Something like this should only take a day or two to heal.”

Garrick glanced at the flower on Ash’s wrist.  “Ah, yes.  I’d been told that enhanced healing was one of the advantages granted by the scorch-wither primroses Laverne has been employing.  Remarkable specimen: there have long been theories about sapient plant species, but the idea of one being psychic seemed ludicrous.”

Ash shifted, watching the flower sway gently.  “…Zoe.”

“Pardon?”

“Her name is Zoe.”

“Ah.  I see.”

Rain drummed against the sides of the tent.

“Ashton, I—”

“Why don’t we just cut to the chase?  Where the fuck have you been?  You abandon Oren and me before I’m even a week old, and now, twenty years later, you suddenly decide it’s a good time to drop by for a visit?”

Garrick took a long pause.  “I was searching for something.  I knew it would be too dangerous to bring the two of you with me, so I left you in Laverne’s care.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“If there were any other option—”

“Raising your sons wasn’t an option?  What was so damn important you had to drop everything, huh?”

Garrick opened the book he carried.  “A way to defeat the kappa regime once and for all.”

Ash lifted his head.  “…What?”

“I had a lead,” Garrick said, flipping through pages.  “In my studies of magic, I had gathered enough evidence to suggest that an exceptionally powerful grimoire was involved in High King Kuzenbo’s plan to seize control of the planet.  It stands to reason that, if this grimoire can so completely change the state of the world, it can also be used to undo that change.  But I needed more information: exactly what I was looking for, an idea of where to find it…”  He paused before flipping the next page.  “It took far, far longer than I was expecting.”

After turning the page one last time, he held the book out for Ash to see.  Spread across the open pages were a few photographs of a book changing hands and copious hand-written notes he couldn’t entirely make out.  At the bottom, in large, clear letters, was printed “WUKONG CODEX".

“It exists, without a doubt.  And there are several accounts claiming that, among the eclectic list of spells it details, it contains information about chaos magic—highly effective in dismantling a world-spanning order.”  He snapped the book shut, giving the closest thing to a smile Ash had yet seen.  “With this, we can take them down.  I’ve tracked it and believe it to be somewhere in the vicinity of the Eurasian Delta, so I felt the time was right to share my findings with Laverne and secure her assistance in conducting an extraction.”

Ash stared at the book, dead-silent.  Garrick stiffened.  Before either could say anything more, the tent rustled and Marisol stepped inside; a large, flat leaf had grown from her primrose to shield her from the rain, and it flicked the water outside before retracting back into the flower.  Marisol stayed near the door squinting at Garrick.  After a moment, he rose.

“…I suppose I should let you rest.  We can talk more on the way back to headquarters.”  He raised one hand, hesitated, and then pat Ash on his good shoulder.  “It is…good to see you, Ashton.  Sleep well.”

Ash stayed quiet as Garrick left.  Marisol came to his side and crossed her arms.  “…How do you feel?”

He tried to put it into words.  In the end, all he could do was shrug one shoulder with a sweeping gesture.  Marisol smiled.

“I guess that’s to be expected.”  She reached out towards his primrose, lightly brushing it with her fingers.  “Zoe seems flustered too.  We really need to get her some sunlight ASAP…”

“Did we bring a UV lamp?”

“Nope.  Didn’t think we’d need it since we weren’t supposed to do any fighting.”

“Ah…right.”

She crossed her arms again; he could hear her foot tapping.

“…Right…”

Marisol looked up at the ceiling.  “I don’t want to press the issue right now, but…can I just ask what you were thinking?”

“Oh?  Well, first of all, thank you for assuming that I was thinking.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Haha…I, um…I thought I had an opportunity, really.  I didn’t see that kappa had backup, so I saw a chance to take it out and prevent whatever intel it had gathered from making it back to the Earl.”  He scratched his bandages.  “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Marisol’s foot stopped.  “Hm.  And, did you think at all about who else your actions might impact?”

“Yeah, I consulted Zoe, made sure she was okay with it before—”

“That’s not what I mean, Ash.”  She leaned over him, their gazes locking.  “Did you think at all about how the rest of us would feel if you died?”

His heartbeat quickened—he winced as the increased bloodflow seeped out of his wound.  “I…it wasn’t my plan to die, but…if I did, then at least I was helping to keep you safe.”

“So no.”

“I just said—”

“No, that’s not thinking about how we’d feel.  That’s not thinking past the situation you made for yourself!  I would still have to wake up tomorrow knowing that you were gone—I would still have to carry that pain for the rest of my life.  But you never think about anything beyond the fighting!”

Ash scowled.  “Hey, that’s not—”

“No?  Okay.  What if we toppled the kappa regime tomorrow, then?  What would you do with yourself after that?”

Ash averted his eyes.

“You haven’t thought about it, have you?  At all.”

“Alright, what’ve you got, then?”

Marisol turned away, sitting on the side of his mat.  “Plenty!  I’ve already begun gathering samples of various plant life and roughly plotted out where they need to be grown to repair the Earth’s biodiversity.  I want to learn to cook—I could start now, sure, but it’s not like we have the resources for me to learn much other than different ways to grill fish.  And little things: I want to visit an old-fashioned beach, sail on calm waters, run through a field of flowers so big I can’t see the end of it…”

Ash looked up at her.  A dull ache began to form in his heart.

“…I want a house.  Two-story, somewhere rural, with a greenhouse for my botany studies.  Some sort of pet, I don’t know what.”

Ash picked at his bandages.  “…And, uh…any other humans living in Marisol’s Dream Home?”

She turned her head.  “That mostly depends on you.”

He nodded.

“Ash…I know things look bleak.  I get that fighting against the regime is the only way you feel like you have any control—I don’t want you to stop.”  She gently took his hand.  “But the only way any of us are going to get through this, if we want to keep even a shred of our souls intact, is to have something to hope for when the fighting is over.”

The ache grew stronger.  “…Okay.  I’ll give it some thought.”

She smiled.  His pain vanished for a moment.  She lifted his hand, kissed it, and said, “Rest up.  We’ll head back in the morning.”

“Okay.  Good night.”

[cast-you-dxwn]

I

Half a league, half a league,

Half a league onward,

All in the valley of Death

   Rode the six hundred.

“Forward, the Light Brigade!

Charge for the guns!” he said.

Into the valley of Death

   Rode the six hundred.

II

“Forward, the Light Brigade!”

Was there a man dismayed?

Not though the soldier knew

   Someone had blundered.

   Theirs not to make reply,

   Theirs not to reason why,

   Theirs but to do and die.

   Into the valley of Death

   Rode the six hundred.

III

Cannon to right of them,

Cannon to left of them,

Cannon in front of them

   Volleyed and thundered;

Stormed at with shot and shell,

Boldly they rode and well,

Into the jaws of Death,

Into the mouth of hell

   Rode the six hundred.

IV

Flashed all their sabres bare,

Flashed as they turned in air

Sabring the gunners there,

Charging an army, while

   All the world wondered.

Plunged in the battery-smoke

Right through the line they broke;

Cossack and Russian

Reeled from the sabre stroke

   Shattered and sundered.

Then they rode back, but not

   Not the six hundred.

V

Cannon to right of them,

Cannon to left of them,

Cannon behind them

   Volleyed and thundered;

Stormed at with shot and shell,

While horse and hero fell.

They that had fought so well

Came through the jaws of Death,

Back from the mouth of hell,

All that was left of them,

   Left of six hundred.