#twisted hairs tribe

[minami-mad-fish]

Ulysses Week second day: Zion

log: Y-17.23 -

“[…] It was like my entire dead tribe in the firelight, teeth grinning red in the dark - eager corpses, blood-covered ghosts.[…]”

@datura-tea senpai please notice me

[felassanis]

I'm sorry how can u not ship Courier x Ulysses when the base game and EVERY FUCKING DLC is constantly pushing the idea that they're fated to meet and destined to be each others salvation.

[cocofetti]

Hair MFN goals!!!

[yanderedrabbles]

Yandere Desert Bandit x Reader - DubCon

Yandere! Desert Bandit who rules his tribe with an iron fist. Heartless, he's called. His soul as unmoving and unkind as the desert itself.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who prays to no God but the desert and her bleached bones.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who dreams every night of a woman, a lover as dear to him as water in the hamada.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who finds your caravan by pure luck. People seldom travel this route - the springs are fickle and even one dried well is a death sentence.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who watches from a distance, dipping behind the dunes if anyone looks his way for too long.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who hears the desert wind whispering in its sibilant way and knows this caravan is special somehow. Who calls his band together to raid you, even though they've already hit three camel trains in the last week.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who waits for nightfall before he brings steel and fire and choas down on you. Who revels in the blood he spills, each drop an offering to the desert.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who sees a figure running from him, their cloak streaming behind them. Yandere! Desert Bandit whose blood is up, who wants nothing more than a good hunt.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who rides you down, his scimitar close enough to cut your cheek before you dive away from him.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who leaps from his horse without even stopping her. Who looks to you less a man and more a jinn. How else could he be so quick and so cruel?

Yandere! Desert Bandit who catches your wrist as you swing your dagger at him, laughing like you're nothing but a hare in his trap.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who sees your face and feels his blood turn to ice.

It's you. The woman from his dreams.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who realises suddenly that they were no mere dreams. No, they were a premonition, a promise. A gift from the desert herself.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who won't let his promised bride slip away, no matter how you twist and turn in his grasp. Who grips your wrist so tightly you have no choice but to drop your dagger.

Yandere! Desert Bandit with eyes rimmed in kohl, glinting gold with the reflected firelight. Glinting gold with lust.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who brings his sword to your throat and threatens to spill your heart's blood all over the thirsty sand if you don't come with him.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who forces you onto his horse and is quick to climb up behind you. One arm wrapped around your waist so he can savour the curve of your body. A woman in his arms, his woman.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who calls to his men to meet him at sunrise so that he can steal a few hours with you.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who feels your hips rubbing against him in the saddle, no matter how fast or slow he rides. Who has to grit his teeth against his desire.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who smells of smoke and musk and blood.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who rides almost half the night to bring you to an oasis.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who leads you to pool of water and commands you to drink. Who watches the water drip down your neck and catch on your collarbones.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who has never been more desperate to lap up spilt water, even with a reservoir to infront of him.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who sits down in front of you and unwraps his litham. His hair is dark and smooth as oil. It falls past his shoulders and he gruffly tells you to brush and braid it.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who wants to moan when he feels your nails running along his scalp and neck.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who slowly turns to face you when you're done. He's on his knees like a supplicant and he doesn't even know it.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who rests his hands on your thighs. You fear the heat of him - his hands, his eyes - will surely burn you alive.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who offers you a choice. You can stay here in the oasis and he'll leave you as you are - virginal, untouched.

Or he can make you his bride. On this night, in this place.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who watches your breath hitch, who sees the doubt creep across your face.

Why?  You ask. Why not just take what you want?

Yandere! Desert Bandit who plays with your hair while he speaks. Who does it so absent mindedly that it's almost proprietary. Like he owns you already.

I can steal gold and jewels. I can steal the breath from a man's lungs and the life from his body. But this, this one thing, must be given willingly.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who watches your heart war within you. The desert has you trapped more tightly than chains or bars. Even in an oasis, you can't survive on your own. You need him.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who holds perfectly still as you lean forward and kiss him. It's chaste almost, a shy press of your lips against his. And he's thinking that there'll be nothing chaste between you before the night is done.

You don't know it but a kiss given willingly is all he needs to appease the desert.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who lays his palm across the nape of your neck and pulls you back to him. Who bites at your lips until you give in and open your mouth. Who holds you in place when you try and pull away from his tongue and its ruthless advances.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who guides your hand to his cock and groans at just the touch of your fingers through his clothes. Who throws his head back and grits his teeth when you hesitantly stroke him, your hands so much smaller and softer than his own.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who watches you through the tangle of hair that's blown across his face. His little blushing bride. His desert prize.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who knows only roughness and cruelty. Whose first instinct is to throw you down and rip the clothes from your body. Who has to dig his hands into the sand to stop himself from doing just that.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who lays you down on the soft sand, the firelight casting his face in flickering shadow. There is more than lust there, though you can't see it.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who runs his hands slowly down your waist, grabbing the fat of your hips before moving lower. Your thighs are squished closed and he works his fingers into your flesh until he practically pries them apart.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who leans down and spits on your cunt and uses his fingers to work it in.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who clicks his teeth in irritation when you look away from him. Who grabs your jaw and guides you back.

Yandere! Desert Bandit whose fingers keep digging into your cheeks as he gets ready to enter you. He sees the doubt, the fear, the guilty lust in your eyes and he wants to drink it all in.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who tries so damn hard to be gentle and slow. But once he has the tip in he can't even try to hold himself back.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who slams himself the rest of the way in. Who snarls through his gritted teeth like an animal and digs his hands into the flesh of your hips.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who doesn't even register the way you scream or try and twist away from him. He has you now and he's going to fuck you hard and fast until he's satisfied.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who pounds into you with all those years of longing and lust and nights when he would have fucked just about anything because he dreamt of you.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who uses your hips to pull you onto his cock with every thrust. His escaped hair hanging around his face and his canines gleaming.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who hooks one arm around your lower back and literally lifts you off the ground so he can go deeper.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who leans forward and bites into your tits. Hard enough to leave bruises that turn purplish blue by the morning.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who deep down in his conscious mind knows he's hurting you like crazy. But it's all animal instinct in control and he doesn't stop even though you're begging him to please stop, please, it hurts.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who slams into you as deep as he can when he comes. Who forces a rough, biting kiss onto you even though you try and turn away.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who digs his hands into the sand next to your head and just spends a minute trying to get his breath back.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who finally pulls out of you. Who slowly becomes human again.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who realises his bride is a crying, bleeding mess under him. Who makes you wrap your legs around his waist so he can slowly pick you up.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who walks into the water and holds you close as the blood and tears wash away.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who coos at you until you lift your head from his neck and look at him. He looks apologetic almost, but his gold eyes are still filled with want, with devouring lust. You are the bandit's bride and there's no escaping it.

He truly was the worst of thieves.

[heli-writes]

A dragon's heart, part 7.

Pairing: Barbarian!Bakugou Katsuki x female!reader

Summary: The dragonblood tribe is known for being cruel, barbarian warriors that slaughter, loot and rape all places they pass through. They are feared among the villagers and even bigger cities. Having lost most of their women to a plague, they're trying to ensure their tribe's survival by kidnapping women from other places. However, they're not the only monsters in human form out there. When y/n experiences this first hand, she has no choice but to ask for help from no other but the barbarian leader Katsuki Bakugou himself.

Disclaimer: mentions of injuries, mentions of dead animals, hunting of animals, kissing, allusion to arousal

[Please don't read if you are sensible to or triggered by the topics mentioned above.]

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8

Series Masterlist

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

„You shouldn't move yet!“, y/n says angrily. Katsuki is up and walking around camp. It seems as if he's getting ready to leave. Y/n follows him closely.

„Seriously! This wound is not even close to being healed yet. You can still rip it open again!“, y/n keeps scolding him but Katsuki simply ignores her. Y/n grips his arm and pulls it which has no effect on Katsuki whatsoever. He's just too strong.

Y/n doesn't give up yet. Quickly, she catches up to him and stands her ground in front of him. „I'm not joking, you need to sit down!“, she says loudly and stares up at him.

Katsuki almost laughs in her face. She's glaring up at him, anger twinkling behind her eyes. She has put her hands into her sides and huffs at him. Her cheeks are slightly red. He doesn't need to understand her language to know what she is saying. „I'm fine, you little shit. I've had worse injuries and went into battle with them.“, he grins at her. Y/n shakes her head in disapprovement and Katsuki ruffles her hair.

When they're all packed up, it's time to mount the dragon. This time, y/n pulls her up by herself and even helps Katsuki up with his injured leg.

Y/n doesn't want to admit it yet but she's growing more comfortable to ride the giant beast. She clutches the handle of the saddle a little less tight and even takes a closer look at the view.

She's never been this high before. Everything looks so small. Hungrily, she takes in the landscape around her. Now and then, she gleefully points out things to Katsuki.

Katsuki doesn't catch on the things y/n discovers but he's content watching her this excited. It's the first time she truly enjoys flying and her reaction makes him want to take her on a joy ride more often.

This makes an idea pop up in his head. He grips the reigns and y/n tighter and grumbles in her ear: "Hold on tight".

His deep voice sends shivers down y/n's spine. Her neck and stomach suddenly feel really hot. Before she can recover from this sensation, the dragon takes on speed. The wind makes her eyes water and she presses her legs into the saddle.

Suddenly, her sight turns and before she knows it, she's upside down in the air. It happened so fast, that she didn't even have time to scream. It's over just as fast again. Katsuki's booming laugh can be heard against the wind.

Y/n turns around to him and shoves his chest. "You asshole!", she yells half laughing. "Asshole, hm?", Katsuki repeats with a grin. He knows that's an insult. Y/n huffs. "Of course, you know that word.", she says sarcastically and twists around again.

Katsuki laughs again and pulls her closer to his chest. "You're naughty, eh.", he grins.

They fly only for a little while longer before Katsuki lands in a secured area. He leaves the dragon to rest and prepares for hunting. He secures his weapons and then gestures at y/n to come over to him. He gives her a hunting knife and a spear.

"Are we going hunting?", she asks him unsurely. She's pretty sure she will only stand in Katsuki's way but the man gestures to follow her. The dragon takes to the air and follows them as a small point above their heads.

Katsuki scouts the area looking for tracks. Y/n follows him trying to be as quiet as possible. Her father and mother took her hunting a few times and she learned that being quiet is essential to being successful. Once her father wanted to shoot a pheasant and y/n stepped on a branch scaring the bird away. While trying to conceal it, her father was really angry and she had to promise to gather vegetables for the entire family to make up for the lack of dinner.

She watches Katsuki closely. He crouches to the ground looking at the ground intently. Y/n knows what he's looking for. While she's not an expert at reading tracks, she knows how to identify tracks of certain animals: foxes, rabbits, deer, pheasants...

Wanting to help out, she looks around for tracks as well. It's hard for her untrained eyes to see more than leaves and dirt. She can hear Katsuki curse behind her.

Then, she finally sees something that might be interesting. An imprint of a hoof in the dirt.

"Katsuki, look!", she whispers excitedly and waves behind her. Katsuki stops his string of curses and walks over to her. Y/n points at the hoof print.

"Jackpot", he mumbles and gives y/n an appreciative pat on the head. His eyes follow the rest of the trail that y/n didn't notice. He gestures y/n to follow him which she does so on quick and light feet.

They follow the trail for a good half an hour. Eventually, y/n doubts that Katsuki even knows where they are going but every now and then she recognizes a hoof print in the dirt.

They arrive at the edge of a clearing. Katsuki gives her a hectic sign to get down and y/n quickly ducks behind a bush. Katsuki crouches next to her and readies his spear. Y/n lures over the edge of the bush and sees a flock of deer resting in the middle of the clearing. There's a mighty stag just in the middle of them.

Knowing Katsuki, that's probably what he'll aim for. Katsuki nudges her and gives her a sign to stay down and be quiet. Y/n nods and Katsuki gets in position.

The element of surprise is an essential part of the hunt, y/n knows that. She can see how Katsuki's brows furrow in concentration. He looks pretty like this, y/n thinks.

Then, he tenses his muscles getting ready to jump. Before y/n can blink, Katsuki's in the middle of the clearing. Even though y/n knew it was coming, his speed still surprised her. Y/n raises her head above the bush. Almost she gets run over by a fleeing deer.

Then she sees Katsuki ramming his spear into the stag and wrestling it to the ground. The stag tries to defend itself by throwing its antlers into Katsuki's direction but Katsuki throws himself onto the stag's side pushing its body and head down. Katsuki lets go of the spear and struggles to get his hunting knife out. When he has it secure in his hand, he expertly cuts the stag's throat.

Slowly, the stag's movements become heavier. Katsuki stays on top of it nonetheless. It seems as if he's whispering to the stag. Y/n gets up from her position at the edge of the clearing and walks closer as the stag takes its last breath. Katsuki puts his hand on the stag's head and mumbles in his language. To y/n, it seems as if he's saying a prayer. Katsuki closes the stag's eyes and gets up. He lowers his head in respect and y/n stays silent. This seems like a sacred ritual that y/n doesn't want to disturb.

When Katsuki raises his head again, his eyes meet hers. Y/n gulps. She doesn't really know how to behave in this situation. Katsuki removes the spear from the stag's side. He dips his thumb into the blood and draws a line on his forehead. He dips his thumb into the blood again and gestures for y/n to come over. He draws a similar line on her forehead.

"You're a successful hunter, too.", he tells her, "Without you, I wouldn't have found the flock."

Y/n looks up at him with those big, clueless eyes and Katsuki almost has to laugh again. He pats her head then turns to look at the sky. He whistles and the small point in the sky becomes bigger and bigger until the dragon lands at the clearing.

Katsuki drags the stag to the side into the shade. After that, they set up camp. The dragon is relieved of the weight it is carrying. Y/n and Katsuki stack the bags in a way that makes it easier to get ready to fly in the morning. When a bonfire is lit, y/n and Katsuki settle down to eat. They still have some leftovers from yesterday which they eat in silence.

The cold slowly creeps in once the sun has set. Y/n shivers and holds her hands towards the fire in an attempt to keep warm. Katsuki chews on a bit of meat as he watches y/n. Y/n rubs her arms. Katsuki swallows the last bite. Then, he grabs y/n's waist and pulls her over to him. Tucking her into his side, he drags his cape over y/n's body. Instinctively, y/n leans into his warmth and Katsuki puts his arm around her.

Unknown to her, Katsuki's heart starts pounding. Now's the chance to find out if she's interested in him like that, he thinks to himself. Slowly, he shifts and grabs her legs. Y/n is startled when she's suddenly pulled into Katsuki's lap.

Katsuki pulls her close and y/n's head rests on his chest. She can hear the beating of his heart and his raspy breath. Katsuki runs his hands up and down her arms and legs. Y/n's own heart starts to pick up. What is he doing?, she wonders.

When she looks up, his intense red eyes meet hers. There's a certain determination behind them that makes y/n swallow thickly. There's that warm feeling in her belly again.

Slowly, Katsuki drags his hand up her arm, along her shoulder, up her neck until it lies firmly against her cheek. Y/n's breath comes out heavy in anticipation. She knows exactly what is going to happen next. She'd be a fool not to notice how Katsuki's eyes flicker down to her lips.

Then, Katsuki pulls her face closer and presses his lips against hers. Electricity shoots down y/n's spine. It takes a second for y/n to react. Katsuki is just about to pull back in defeat when y/n jerks forward putting pressure behind her lips. She helplessly grabs onto the necklaces that hang around Katsuki's neck.

Relieve floods Katsuki's veins. His hand finds y/n's lower back and he pulls her closer, deepening the kiss. Y/n kisses him back more feverishly. Her arms snake around his neck and one of her hands find their way into his hair. Katsuki kisses back just as feverishly and he pulls her body flush against his.

He can feel the mounts of her breast against his chest and he feels blood rushing into all the wrong (or right?) places. He shifts y/n on top of him so she doesn't notice. It's not the right time for this.

He groans as he lets go of y/n. In all honesty, he didn't expect y/n to go all in like this. She did strike him as one of those shy, easily sexually intimidated girls. Seems like y/n hides a lot more behind her kind, soft eyes.

Y/n's cheeks are red and her breath comes out in slight puffs of air. Katsuki has to smirk at her disheveled appearance. He pulls her close once again giving her a quick, but deep kiss. When he lets go of her, she looks embarrassed.

"Seriously", y/n huffs, "what are you doing to me?".

Katsuki presses another kiss into her neck with a chuckle. He feels happy, triumphant even. This makes it easier on what comes next. He'll take her home and present her to his mother. Then, he'll take her as his mate.

He leans back stroking over her back as she leans into his chest. Bringing home a mighty stag and a woman to his people. How better can he prove himself worthy to be their leader? He's securing their future, no matter what comes.

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Tag list: @graviewaviee @cosmicbreathe @tsukikoxo @nnubee @witchbishsblog @elajede @bsallergy @frxcless @berryvioo @eyesforbkg @shamelesjaroflaffytaffy @pastelbaby1111 @iamlizardgod @plvt0fvtvre @hello-peanutdoodle-blog @guccirosegold @kookiemyfeelsposts @sweetblueworm @54fangirl @sakurarr1122 @rv19 @leeliyah @king-dynamight @confused-smol-fan @xmaudx @waterstarz @pinkwhiskerglitter @adeline96 @zoom1374 @fingui @giuli-in-earth @colouringfrogssittinginleaves @futuristicallykawaiiturtle @tragedyofabrokensoul @dynakats @rebel-loves-anime @cloudxluv @itsssyagurll @sunshineandwitchery @cloudxluv @hollykanuki @atouchofmidnight @nutellaenjoyer @musicbecky @miacitocco @cassouandco @penguinlovestowrite @sleepykittycx @bakugouswh0r3 @xxjesshuxx @helenamaximoff @ssssssws-world @k1tk4tkatsuki @gh0stgirl333 @anon-mouse223 @bexxs @i-am-ms-rebel-heart @wannabeisekai @spragaraga @faemagic88 @kolakoke @faetoraa @cax-per @willy-the-witch @stardream14 @jiyuu-da @mintytalesblog @sparklyoperaroadpie @musicbecky @maria-patricia @mistermemister @katsukismrs @l0kisbitch @bakukiriswife @rebel-loves-anime @drink-water-456

@spragaraga @fudo-aki @stillcrazystacey @bakkusimpp @itsiambaby @leelee28901 @angie-1306 @miniaturebouquet @skibbiescoober

[Please comment if you'd like to be tagged in future chapters]

[sleepynegress]

*sigh* Featurism...

So, I woke up to this shit on the Twit app and I've only hit on this issue before, but today I'm digging in. Colorism is something that is not addressed often enough, but intersected within that and even more rarely spoken about, is the issue of featurism. The young actress above just got cast as Juliet in the latest big staged prestige production of Romeo and Juliet, opposite Tom Holland. And as usual the blue-checks, everybody else including "black", and even Black regulars are all-in on the cruelty.

...But I want to breakdown a nuance that is too often skipped over when this happens. The two people named with her, give away the featurism game, here; a particularly nasty form of often internalized racism. I guarantee if the young actress looked like this?

She'd definitely still get racist attacks, but the particularly nasty shit I'm seeing attacking her looks wouldn't come. In fact, I could see some people thinking they are defending her with "but she's pretty!" or more specific... "obviously she's mixed" comments. -Something pretty much every Black woman with features that don't align with a narrow perception of blackness hear often (and we'll get to why I specified women in a minute). And don't get it twisted...

These aren't exclusively nor standard white features either (see: the many ethnic features w/in white ethnic groups that also get hit to a lesser and non-racialized degree such as large "hook" and/or Romanesque noses for example, which is definitely about anti-semitism, anti-Romani sentiment, and other disparaged/discriminated against ethnic minorities in Europe) and yes, blue eyes are naturally occurring within non-mixed and dark-skinned Black people due to a mutation called Waardenburg syndrome. But there is a REASON why fetishizing even certain ethnic features within the African continental diaspora has been a thing for a long time...i.e. "the dopest Ethiopian" from the Tribe Called Quest lyric is pictured as this:

and this:

and not this:

...despite them all being Ethiopians of various tribal ethnicities.

A wide-nose, a tighter curl, coil, or zig-zag pattern of hair, fuller lips and often, but not always (because I've given examples above where features "mitigate" skin color) darker skin. Zendaya is grouped with Tracey and Francesca Amewudah-Rivers, despite being both lighter in skin color and having a Black parent and a white parent because her nose isn't what has become the standard surgical look...that too many celebs have. This includes the ones who got so-called "ethnic" work or just a slight 'refinement'. No, her nose is born w/it, made for that good African air, as I call it. Nostrils prominent, nose bridge wide:

I went make-up free as well, because even make-up practices these days, go for that narrowing highlight technique i.e. just below it's subtle.

Sza is a an example of it taken to extremes, even with the Hollywood standard "ethnic" refinement she did get.

The thing is... I don't blame or attack her for that. Because you see above that is just a taste of what happens. Lil' Kim was relentlessly bullied by the men in her life for her ethnic features for her whole life...and that is why she is off-limits to this day for me when it comes to all the work she's had done.

...And this is where I explain why I specified men being mostly exempt. It's because "Blackness" including all the physical features associated with it, is by default masculinized. ...Which is why Idris Elba is considered one of the most handsome men in the world, w/o the caveats that even Lupita Nyong'o often gets. Nobody calls Samuel L. Jackson ugly. He is even idolized and fetishized by a specifically white male gaze for how culturally "Black" he is perceived to be for all the wrong reasons, his signature "motherfucka" for example (and I could go off on a whole other tangent here, but digressing). All this to say... Featurism sucks. It's not talked about enough. Blackness in all variations is Beautiful. Tracy Chapman looking as young she does?? Hell, mark it down to both her dark skin (a natural UV protector) and not messing with her given features (and being a lesbian, men will age you. lol -I got jokes-):

P.S. THANK GOODNESS for Tems and her rising prominence as a beauty as well:

P.P.S. Even Jay-Z the billionaire rapper has had the comments over the years about his lips and nose, hence that lyric in Beyonce's Formation.

[zepskies]

The Honorable Choice - Part 1

Pairing: Dean Winchester x OFC 

Summary: June 1872. Captain Dean Winchester of the U.S. Cavalry is tasked with one job: break a wild mustang. He just didn’t expect the woman who infiltrates his camp, intent on freeing her tribe’s horse.

AN: I got inspired after a recent rewatch of Spirit: The Stallion of the Cimarron (literally a perfect movie), as well as having Yellowstone in the back of my brain. I thought this idea might be a good fit for this @jacklesversebingo prompt.

Disclaimer: I’ve done extensive research for this one, both on the American Indian Lakota tribe, and on American history during this time in the late 1800s (AKA: the Old West, during the American Indian Wars and the Sioux Wars). Of course, one of my main goals is to avoid inaccuracies, both historical and cultural.

Jacklesverse Bingo24 Prompt: Western AU

Song Inspo: The Spirit Soundtrack

Word Count: 4.6K

Tags/Warnings:��18+ only to be safe. Racism/racial slurs, attempted sexual assault (not successful), protective Dean, angst, some violence and some action.

🐎 Series Masterlist || Bingo Masterlist

🎙️ Listen to the podfic version here!

Part 1: Pride & Prejudice

June 1872

Dean hears some of his men shouting, along with the telltale cracking of bone that would make a less seasoned soldier wince. He spares a look to Benny, his Lieutenant, and sets down his glass of whiskey.

Dean’s path takes him brusquely out of his office and toward the stables. He grabs his gun and his hat on the way there, setting the latter on his head.

Is it too much to ask for one night where he can drink in peace?

Dean comes to find a young woman being detained by two of his men, Kline and Novak. Roman sports a bloody nose and his eye is already beginning to swell. The woman fights against their hold.

Even under the pale moonlight, Dean notes the way she’s dressed: a deer skin dress cinched at the waist, over thin pants and shoes. He surveys her tan skin, her black hair that blends into the night, twisted into a long braid, and the anger in her dark eyes.

“What have we got here?” Dean says. He stows his gun in its holster as he approaches her, resting his hands at his belt.

“I caught her breaking into the stables, Captain,” Roman says. He prods with a hiss at his busted nose while trying to stem the bleeding. That’s going to be a bad break.

She remains tight lipped, stubborn. 

“Probably doesn’t even understand English. Savage bitch,” he says. Dean shoots him an impassive look to cover up his annoyance.

“Put a cork in it, Roman,” he orders. Then, he focuses back on her. “You’re a Lakota, aren’t you?”

Aside from their main mission here in the Dakota Territory, the Colonel has been fixed on fighting back against the Lakota Indians, especially after they sabotaged the supply line last month.

The proud tilt of the woman’s chin is her only answer to Dean’s question. Her gaze drags down his form with disdain, like he’s the savage. His mouth twitches mirthlessly. 

“The Lakota rear up their own horses pretty damn well. Why would you want to steal one of ours?” he asks.

She glances away from him, first at her feet, then over at the camp’s latest “guest.” Dean, Benny, and a few of his men wrangled up a horse a few days ago. He’s a beautiful Kiger mustang with a nasty mean streak. He barely got through a trim this afternoon, and almost took a chunk out of Rufus when he tried to brand the horse.

The Colonel ordered them to tie the horse up to a post just outside the corral—no food or water for three days. He’d turned to Dean with a firm set to his face and issued a single order.

“Break him.”

Now, Dean catches the furtive look the Lakota woman gives the horse, who flicks his tail. The animal stares right at her, as if into her eyes.

“Oh, don’t tell me you here for him,” Dean says with a chuckle. “That thing’s a little too much for you, sweetheart.”

That earns her attention, steely and unimpressed.

“He is too much for you,” she says. Her voice is smooth, and would even be pleasant, if not for the circumstances. “He is one of ours. You will never break him.”

Dean's eyes widen a fraction. He glances back at the mustang.

So that's why she's here, he thinks. She's trying to mount a rescue. Dean feels a twinge deep inside, but he can't allow himself to care about that. They've collected a strong horse that will be a good support for their objectives here, once he's broken.

“Ah, well see,” Dean says, tipping his Stetson up to meet her gaze. “That’s kind of our specialty.”

“Sir, should we take her to the stockade?” Novak asks. He seems reluctant to do so to a woman, even an Indian, but he’s always been good at following orders.

Dean opens his mouth to reply, but another voice cuts him off. Colonel Asmodeus Sanderson steps out and takes a look at their captive.

“Not the stockade,” he says, with that Southern drawl that betrays his Kentucky roots. “Not yet.”

He approaches her with a slow, calculated gait. His hands gather behind his back. Dean gives her credit for looking Sanderson in the eye. She seems rightly wary, but not afraid.

“We won’t hurt you. I give you my word,” the Colonel says, “if you’ll lead us to your people’s camp.”

He takes a hold of her chin, turning her face this way and that, like he’s examining a dirty animal, and all that he’ll have to do to make it clean. She spits in his face.

Dean bites the inside of his lip against a smile. She’s got as much fight in her as the mustang. However, he has to school his face back into stoicism when Sanderson rears back in anger.

The harsh smack rings out in the clearing, along with the woman’s cry. Dean doesn’t allow himself to outwardly react, but inside, his spine tightens as he fights his instincts.

Only Kline and Novak’s hold on her arms keeps her upright. She pants for breath, but again, she meets the Colonel with a face that doesn’t give away anything, despite the reddening mark on her cheek.

“The post,” he barks. “Three days. No food or water.”

Dean is kept busy by his duties. He makes sure the camp is running in order, accepting shipments of supplies and ammunition, among other things. Cas Novak is in charge of the stables, caring for the horses and putting them through their training. Jack Kline is young and strong and a good assistant, along with others in his unit.

Right now, Dean and Benny are going over the plans with Colonel Sanderson for continuing construction on the railroad, from here to the Black Hills. It’s a path that cuts straight through Sioux territory—the bands of Dakota and Lakota Indians that occupy the land.

“The natives are fightin’ us tooth and nail,” Sanderson says. “But maybe our guest will be able to help us…negotiate.”

Dean remains quiet, ignoring yet another uneasy twinge in his gut. He didn’t join the army to fight the Indians. He doesn’t always understand their way of doing things, but he understands why they fight—to protect their land, and to protect their own. It’s the same reason Dean fights, when he has to.

He joined the army because…well, it felt like the right thing to do at the time. His father had been a Cavalry Major, and he’d died an honorable death, now about a decade past.

Has it really been ten years? Christ.

Dean wipes his brow. Even with the windows open, the office is humid and smells like ass. He glances outside, where both the mustang and the woman are tied to their posts under a sweltering sun at high noon.

Not for the first time, Dean wonders what his dad would think of him now. 

After the meeting, Dean and Benny fall into step together to inspect the camp. The summer sun shines hot on their blue uniforms, and occasionally they raise their hats to mop the sweat from their brows.

Things are running as usual, but many of the men’s eyes occasionally turn to the posts. Dean’s attention wanders there too without him realizing, catching on the woman’s dark hair. It shines even blacker in the sunlight, like a raven’s wing. He knows the shade because his dad used to have a feather kept in his journal, like a bookmark.

“You okay, brother?” Benny asks. Dean realizes what he’s doing, and his attention returns to the task at hand. Get it together.

Always forward, never backward.

“Just fine,” Dean replies. Benny gives him a knowing look.

“A bit unsavory, ain’t it?” he says. “Keeping her chained up without even a lick of water.”

“The Indians are getting smarter, bolder. They’re ambushing our men, going after our supply lines, and now, stealing our horses,” Dean says. “This is strategy.”

Benny shrugs slightly, making a sound of agreement. Dean hesitates, his gloved fingers flexing against his sides.

“If she was a man, you guys wouldn’t give a shit about putting a bullet through her head,” Dean says.

Benny’s gaze shifts downward. He doesn’t reply, but he concedes the point all the same.

They continue their route, and Dean keeps the rest of the conversation on the work at hand.

Mila has gone far longer without drink, but the sun is particularly unforgiving today. She’s prayed and prayed for even one cloud to glide overhead and shield her for a while. It’s not much better for her companion. He paces in place, occasionally tugging his head against the rope that binds him to his post.

She makes a clicking sound at the horse, getting his attention. She calls him by his name, and his ears flicker in her direction. He offers her a short whinny in response.

“I see you, Mato. I am with you,” she says in her native tongue. She hopes the sound of her voice will soothe him. He looks tired and hungry, but his eyes flick hard and untrusting on any man who comes near him. His spirit isn’t broken.

“Hey! Shut the hell up over there,” Roman shouts at her from where he and Cas are taking a short lunch break. Cas gives him a certain look, crossed mostly with annoyance.

Mila resists the urge to roll her eyes. Instead, she closes them and tilts her face back to the sun. In a way, it feels cleansing. Maybe it can wash away the stench of the White Men’s hands on her body, manhandling her, checking her for weapons.

She spends the rest of the day watching the camp. One of their leaders, the Green Eyed One, called this a fort. It does look fortified, with tall walls made of thick wood constructed to form a cage—whether to keep others out, or to keep the men and horses in.

She identifies the Colonel as their chief, of a kind. Green Eyes is second in command, followed by the Bearded One with a strange voice. Even the scruffy Blue Eyed One has some authority, mostly over the Child Faced One. There are too many others to rank them all, but she knows the Loud Mouthed One is arrogant, even after she broke his nose. The way he carries himself, he clearly thinks he has more power than he actually has.

In her mind, Mila conjures up different plans of escape. All of them fall short in some way. The men didn’t find all of her weapons; a small knife is hidden deep in her boot. She could saw at her binds within an hour, but even with Mato to carry her out and away, the problem is escaping this camp without alerting the men. Without getting shot.

She has three days to think.

That night, the moon refuses to give her clarity. Her stomach is too empty, her throat too dry, her tongue thick in her mouth. Her attention shifts in and out of consciousness, until the sound of boots crunching in the dirt trills unease down her spine. More alert, she sits up straighter.

The Loud Mouthed One. The one they call Roman comes to taunt her, offering her water, then drinking for himself instead. He comes closer to examine her. He has a small bind over his broken nose.

“You know, you’re a pretty one,” he says, taking another cold sip as his gaze drags over her form. “For a wild thing.”

His face nears hers, clean shaven, though his thin smile reminds her of a rattlesnake. Dread and repulsion churn at odds in her stomach as she realizes what he's really here for. It doesn't matter if he truly wants her, or just wants to pay her back for his face. Either way, he means to take her here in the dirt.

She looks away, not wanting to let him see her fear, or the dread tightening her stomach, rising into her throat. He winds long fingers into her hair. At first the hold is gentle, deceptive. Then it's tight against her scalp. She hisses in pain when he tugs her head back and forces her to look at him. Her breathing quickens as she tries to pull away.

He draws in close to try and claim her in a kiss, but she head-butts him, hard.

He cries out and stumbles back, his flask falling to the ground.

He angrily grabs her and hauls her up to her feet. He pushes her hard against the post and unbuckles his belt, just to stuff it in her mouth. With his free hand, he begins to undo his pants.

She refuses to cry out, even though she spits out his belt and fights him, trying to kick out his knees.

Suddenly, the man’s body is ripped away from her. Mila loses her footing and falls to the dusty ground, sliding against the wooden beam she’s tied to. The wind is knocked out of her, but when she raises her head, she watches with wide eyes as the Green Eyed One beats the other man into the dirt. It doesn’t take much, just a few well-placed fists.

Roman lies there catching his breath, and he spits a wad of phlegm and blood. His left eye will match his nose, that’s for sure.

Green Eyes looks angry and disgusted. He huffs and puffs while staring down at his subordinate. He pushes back his short brown hair and points an ungloved hand at Roman.

“Get back to the goddamn barracks. You’re gonna be mucking out stalls until shit’s coming out of your ears,” he growls.

Roman doesn’t argue, though it’s obvious that he wants to. He just picks himself up, makes a show of straightening up his open uniform jacket while catching his breath. He walks past Green Eyes with a resentful, angry look. Green Eyes watches him until he disappears inside.

Then, he turns to her. His gaze softens somewhat, but it’s still unreadable. He crouches down in front of her, resting his arms on his thighs. Mila’s gaze briefly falls to his hands. They’re calloused, the hands of a laboring man. He carries himself like a warrior.

“Sorry about that,” he says.

It’s not what she expected. Mila eyes him warily when he moves closer. She presses her back against the post until it hurts her spine. He raises up his hands placatingly.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he says.

“That is what your Colonel said,” she says. Her voice cracks with dryness. “I didn’t believe him either.”

His lips flicker at a rueful smile. It wrinkles crow’s feet around his eyes, breaking his stony face.

“Fair enough.”

He reaches for his belt and retrieves a flask, similar to the one his subordinate carried. He extends it out to her.

“It’s water, unless you prefer whiskey. I know I do,” he says.

She raises a brow at him, but hearing the sloshing inside the flask, her thirst takes over her wariness, and even her pride. She tentatively leans forward. He brings it closer so she can press her lips to the opening. Despite his Colonel’s orders, he lets her drink as much water as she’s able. When she’s done, he pockets the flask and sighs, running a hand through his hair.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

That, she will not give him. Names are sacred to her people, and this man, while seeming to have a shred of honor, isn’t worthy.

“Don’t wanna even tell me your name?” he says. He nods slightly. “Okay, well, I’m Dean. Captain Winchester, to this band of delinquents.”

He gestures around the camp with a dismissive hand. Mila only watches him. She’s never seen a White act like this, breaking his leader’s rules, being…kind.

What a strange man.

But if he had any real convictions, he would untie her and let her go, along with Mato. She won’t hold her breath.

Dean’s brows raise up toward his hairline, and his full lips form a pout. Realizing he’s not going to get anything more from her, he lets out a tired huff and straightens up.

“Well, goodnight,” he says.

He finally leaves her alone, but she can’t help but follow the swaggering path of his bowed legs and heavy boots. They carry him away and back indoors.  

A strange man.

By the morning of the third day, Dean is ready to do what he does best. Or at least, one thing he does best.

He’s no stranger to horses. He grew up on a farm in Lawrence, Kansas, where he and his brother would help take care of the animals. Dean was older, so he helped his father till the land and train the horses. Sometimes he and Sam would sneak off and race their favorite ones, until their mom called them back for dinner.

In fact, part of what earned Dean his rank in the U.S. Cavalry was how well he could command a horse. His own is resting in the stables.

Today, he’s getting in the ring with the mustang.

…Well, not right away. He lets a few of his guys go first to tire him out. Even after three days of no food or water, the horse is living up to his bad attitude. He bucks each of them off after just a few seconds in the corral. Dean can tell it’s becoming a kind of game for the horse. His dun-colored coat shines in the sun, his brown socked legs kicking up dust and manure as he brays angrily at whoever tries to mount him.

Dean notices the Lakota woman watching with an amused smile on her face while she sits with her hands tied to her post. She’s enjoying the show, like she knew this would happen. It seems to give her energy every time another man is thrown off the horse and limps out of the ring.

Dean shakes his head. Pitiful.

He puts two gloved fingers to his mouth and whistles the entire clearing to attention. He saves Kline the chance to bruise his spine and pats him on the shoulder. Dean steps into the corral and positions himself into the stirrups, wrapping the reins around his hand. The horse is breathing hard, but he’s not done. He’s still got fight in him. Dean sees it in his brown eyes.

“All right, mustang. You’re big and bad. I get it,” Dean says lowly. “But I don’t scare easy. Gimme your best damn shot.”

Cas and Benny give him wary looks from where they stand outside the gate.

“Hold onto your hat, Cap,” Benny mutters.

Dean adjusts his hat and rests his gun on the post for safe keeping. He wants to feel as natural as possible, like it’s just him and this horse, out back in his family farm. He holds on tight to the reins. He’s fully prepared for how the mustang takes off at a galloping clip around the ring. He twists and bucks, but Dean claps his thighs tight and holds on for the ride.

The horse gets smarter.

He runs for the water trough just outside the ring. He slams Dean against the side of it once, twice—and manages to throw him off, with Dean landing right in the water trough.

He bursts out from the dirty water, sopping wet and spluttering in anger. He looks over at the horse trotting around, whinnying and tossing his head like he’s laughing. Dean can’t help it. His anger fades, and he smiles.

This guy’s got some brass balls, I’ll give him that.

The Lakota woman laughs. Dean hears it and his head swivels toward her. She bites her lip, but she knows she’s been caught. Despite his injured pride, Dean’s lips curve with a smirk. Just gonna laugh at me, huh?

“I see things are going well,” comes a familiar drawl.

Dean’s face falls as he looks up and finds Colonel Sanderson. Dean pulls himself out of the trough and tries to squeeze some water out of his uniform. He clears his throat.

“Well, uh, it’s going, sir. Just gonna take a little more time than I thought,” Dean says. He quickly reclaims his hat from the ring, giving the mustang a smart berth. After he climbs back out, he goes over to the post where he left his pistol.

“Hold him steady,” Sanderson barks out the order, but not at Dean. The other men wrangle the horse back into the pen, where Sanderson climbs up and mounts the horse himself.

To his credit, he stays on longer than even Dean thought he would. The mustang gallops and circles. He tries slamming Sanderson on the sides of the corral, tries bucking him and bucking him, but the man clings on, even when his hat falls into the dirt.

The horse is exhausted. He eventually stops in the middle of the ring, panting for breath, his legs shaking slightly. Dean straightens at attention.

So does the Lakota woman, he notices. She looks worried, her brows furrowing.

Sanderson swipes a hand over his graying hair and moustache to collect himself. He raises his head with an arrogant smile.

“You see, gentlemen. Any horse can be broken,” he says. He kicks the horse with his spur. “Move along, mustang.”

To everyone’s amazement, the horse obeys him. He moves forward at a slow clip. All the men applaud, even Dean, belatedly.

“There are those in Washington who believe the West will never be settled,” Sanderson continues. “The Northern Pacific Railroad will never breach Nebraska.”

His gaze draws over to the woman. Her eyes are filled with tears as she watches the Colonel makes his rounds.

“A hostile Lakota,” he says in derision, “will never submit to providence.”

She stares back at him with steel in her watery eyes.

Dean doesn’t realize his jaw is clenched tight until he feels the strain in his jaw. He forces himself to relax, with his hand on his dampened belt.

“And it’s that kind of small thinking that would say this horse would never be broken,” Sanderson says. “Discipline, time, and patience. That’s all you need to level a wild thing.”

Just then, the horse stops abruptly.

“Mustang?” Sanderson asks in warning.

Dean tenses. He knows what’s about to happen.

“Sir!” he calls out.

But it’s too late.

The stallion revs and charges, bucking even wilder than before. He swings his head and rears back high on his hind legs with a powerful bray. Sanderson yells in fear and strain, but he stays on the creature’s back.

The horse’s angry eyes take on a darker shade of conviction. When all four of his hooves hit the ground, he finally bucks hard enough to get the Colonel off his back, though he still clings to the reins near the animal’s head. He comes face to face with the horse’s crazed eyes. His own are wide and full of terror.

Hot breath heats Sanderson’s face. Then the horse swings his head and tosses the man out of the ring. In the process, the horse falls on his side and shatters a section of the wooden beams that fenced him in.

While he shakes his head and gets his hooves under him, Dean and Benny help the Colonel up to his feet. His uniform is a wreck, and now, with a bruised body and likely a couple of broken ribs, the man is fuming.

Kline and Roman wrangle the horse’s reins and keep him more or less in place. The Colonel shoves Dean and Benny off of him. He reaches for his gun at his belt and aims it at the mustang. Dean goes rigid in shock, but he knows he can’t interfere. If he does, it could warrant some major discipline.

The Colonel pulls the hammer back on the revolver, but before he can pull the trigger, the sound of cutting rope and a feminine yell breaks the silence in the clearing. The Lakota woman pulls the Colonel’s arms down, and the gun goes off into the ground. Her elbow comes up quick to strike the man between the eyes. He careens back into Benny, who catches him.

Meanwhile, the woman swings up onto the mustang. She grabs a stronghold by the neck and barks something in her native language. It spurs the horse onward, and he breaks through the crowd of men at a gallop.

Dean watches with widening eyes and furrowing brows. “Shit!”

He runs to the stables where he finds Baby waiting for him. Her black coat ripples as she stamps impatiently.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he beckons. He leads the mare out of the stable, and after grabbing a coil of rope from the supply bench, he mounts her smoothly. With a subtle kick of his heel, she picks up speed to follow the mustang and his rider.

They’re already approaching the gate where the men are quickly trying to close it. There’s still a window of opportunity for escape, but not only is Dean on their heels, Roman also stands on a pile of crates filled with iron parts that are due to be shipped out in the morning for continued construction on the railroad. Roman holds a rifle. He trains his weapon on the woman, taking deadly aim.

Dean’s jaw clenches and his brows furrow. He knows then, in the breadth of a few seconds, that he has to make a choice. If he does nothing, both she and the horse are as good as dead.

Sam used to call him reckless, stubborn as the horses he spent long hours taming.

Right about now, his brother is probably right.

Dean reaches for his gun, aims, and shoots within the span of those seconds. Roman goes down before he even knows what hits him. His chest plumes with blood after he slides down the crates and flops heavy to the ground. His eyes stare unseeing at the crisp blue sky.

The mustang tears through the narrow opening in the gate, and Dean isn’t far behind. The woman is an excellent rider, far better than he expected her to be. She clings to the horse’s neck and mane, and she doesn’t even use the stirrups. She clings on when the horse leaps over rocks, and when she notices Dean tailing her, she urges the horse at an even faster gallop.

Dean’s face furrows with determination. Baby is built for speed too.

He gives her a little kick with his heel. “Come on, Baby. Go!”

He’s able to keep up with the mustang just a few yards behind, even when they reach rougher terrain, going further up and into a canyon. He follows them through every curve and dip, guiding his horse just as much as she's guiding him.

Dean takes his rope in hand and turns it above his head, but his attempt to lasso the mustang's neck fails; the woman saws straight through the rope with her knife.

"Damn it!" Dean mutters.

He's forced to let go of his frayed rope when he and Baby nearly careen off the edge of a cliff. His heart settles high in his throat as he grits his teeth, but he pulls back on the reins hard and leans in the opposite direction. Baby's able to bank left, saving them from a long way down to certain death.

They continue up the narrow path the mustang has trod ahead. It carves around and through the mountain.

Dean mentally grasps for a plan, aside from just keeping up. Without even a bit of rope, he doesn’t know how he’s going to slow the woman down without hurting her or the horse. He doesn’t want to have to use his gun.

Eventually, the canyon breaks into a patch of desert, and then, grassy plains and tall forest trees. The mustang begins to tire and slow to a stop. His rider murmurs soothing things to him, stroking his neck. She turns back to look at Dean over her shoulder in dismay. She knows she’s caught.

“All right, sweetheart. That’s enough,” Dean says.

He sidles up next to her and intends to grab the mustang’s reins.

That’s when her swift kick comes, dead in his forehead.

AN: And here we go! 😅 Feels right that November is Native American Indian Heritage Month. 🫶🏽 For that reason especially I've done my best to do the Lakota people justice, even in this little series and complete work of fiction.

There's a lot packed in this first chapter, and yep, I did borrow a bit of scene from one of the best scenes in Spirit as an homage. From here on out, we're literally going off road...

Next Time:

Dean falls out of his saddle with a yell, landing hard in the grass. The impact knocks the air out of his chest and his hat off his head, not to mention the pain that rattles down his back.

“Son of a bitch,” he wheezes, while trying to get back up.

The woman jumps down from the mustang’s back and all but leaps on Dean. Straddling his waist and grabbing a fistful of his collar, she lets out a battle cry and raises a small knife at him. It’s probably no more than two inches long.

Dean may be on the ground with a smarting forehead, but he’s still got the upper hand. He grabs her knife-wielding arm and whips out his pistol from his belt. Her eyes widen, and she stills above him. The gun lies between them, aimed for her chest. They’re both breathing hard.

Dean has a problem.

Looking into her eyes, soulful and brown, the slope of her nose and her full lips, parted with shock… 

▶️ Keep Reading: PART 2

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[alicesivory]

Old Habits Die Hard [4/?]

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Pairing: Nightwatch! Aemond Targaryen x wildling female! Reader

Genre: Historically accurate Aemond

WC: 3370

Summary: Aemond ventures beyond the Wall.

“Your hair looks nicer when it’s braided now.”

It seemed that the she-wildling could not keep her mouth shut. Rolling his eyes, Aemond changed the subject quickly, “How long ‘til we reach your people’s camp?” Aemond asked. “Just keep the horse in a steady pace up ahead and we’ll reach them in no time,” she answered him whilst comfortably sitting in front of him, between his arms that held the reins of the stallion. The reins were relaxed, and the stallion responded effortlessly to his light guidance through the cold and dark forest. The forest stands in eerie silence, its dense canopy casting a perpetual twilight over the twisted, gnarled trees. Shadows dance menacingly across the forest floor, where fallen leaves and branches lie in disarray, as if disturbed by some unseen force. The trees themselves seem alive, their bark scarred and contorted into grotesque shapes, carrying with it the faintest whisper of forgotten secrets, and the occasional creak or groan of the wood echoes through the stillness, adding to the sense of foreboding. 

No wonder they call this the haunted forest. 

“What lies in these woods?” Aemond asked once again. “Wild animals, mostly. But we don’t really hunt at night. It's a bad omen,” she replied. “Sometimes we see them at night, that’s where they emerge.” Her words made Aemond wonder, “Who do you speak of?”

“What do you think the walls were made for?”

Aemond thought for a moment. 

“To keep your kind away from entering the realm,” he said, hesitantly. Not quite confident with his answer. For he knew that the wall’s purpose was more than just keeping a few wildlings out of Westeros but, he does not know what. “It wasn’t even built because of us. My people were separated from yours because we were unlucky enough to live beyond the wall when it was built,” she explained. “It was the others that they were afraid of.”

“Others? Other tribes?”

“No. The undead.”

Chills ran down from Aemond’s spine.

The White Walkers. 

He has read countless books about the white walkers and the long night. How the battle for the dawn unfolded, yet all he knew was that it was all a myth. A fairytale. Stories to scare your child so they would sleep for the night. He recalled how the White Walkers were first written and mentioned during the Age of Heroes. Born of powerful and untested magic, they were created to protect the Children of the Forest during their war with the First Men. What once used to be puppets and soldiers for the Children of the Forest, the magic within the white walkers took a turn and rebelled against their creators and brought nothing but destruction to the realm. 

“But they were nothing but old stories. Fiction, even,” Aemond protested. 

“They are far from fiction, snow-hair.” 

The wildling looked back to him, surprisingly close since they were cramped at horseback. 

“What did they call you back there? I couldn’t recall. Was it Almond?”

“Aemond,” he grunts. 

She chuckled, “I like snow-hair better.”

“And what of you?” Slowly speaking her name which seemed foreign to his tongue. 

“Close enough,” she shrugged with a smirk, looking back into the road. Aemond wondered once again of the undead she mentioned. Were they lurking behind the old trees of this very forest? Were their lives at stake when they stepped their foot to this forest. “They took my brother,” she said, capturing Aemond’s attention. “The undead?” She nodded at his question. “He seemed to forget about time that day. But what kind of child remembers time, really? They wanted to play all day. So he did, running inside the woods without me or my mother’s attention, wanting to become a great hunter who enters the forest with no fear like my father. And he never came back.” 

He felt sorry for the girl, for he himself had felt the same kind of grief when he heard of Aegon’s death. Especially when they could’ve done something to prevent their deaths. “Sometimes I wonder if they buried him at all. If they did, I wonder where they buried him,” she said, spacing off into the distance. “There is no sympathy from the dead. Nor do they care for the living,” he said to her. “I know. But I’d like to think they did. He was just a child.” 

The whole ride quickly became gloomy and sour as the pair battled their grief as bad memories and remorse overcome their thoughts. “Does that stop you from hunting in the forest?” Aemond asked, trying to bring peace to her. “No, not really. I think I became eager to hunt here. Maybe one day I can find him well and just…cleverly hiding between trees,” she said with a bitter chuckle, sensing her denial of her brother’s disappearance. A sense of protectiveness washed over Aemond, knowing what it felt like to see light in the midst of darkness. Denying the truth to comfort yourself. He knew of that feeling. 

“Maybe one day you would. One day.”

Crack. Swish. 

“What was that?” 

Crack. Crack. Crack. 

“A wild beast?” Aemond asked. 

A figure emerging slowly behind the tree as they pass. “That is no beast,” the wildling alarmingly said, taking over the reins and snapped it making their horse gallop through the dark forest. “I would’ve preferred it to be a wild beast so we can take it home, yet you and I know that is no beast, snow hair,” she spoke as the harsh winds of the north hits their faces. Aemond looked back, seeing two..three...four figures catching up onto them. 

“How do we escape them?” He asked. 

“Hold on tight.” 

She took a turn in a swift motion, galloping off the road going between trees. In hopes for them to stop gaining on them. The wildling kept snapping the reins ordering the horse to go faster with only the moon being their source of light. “C’mon…c’mon…,” he heard her grunting as she took a glance behind and saw some still following their tracks. Galloping between trees, their horse finally took them to safety at the edge of the forest, to a clear opening. 

Making Aemond have a clear vision of the undead. 

Their skins were pale, almost blue. 

They look like humans yet they were not at the same time. 

The creatures frightened him more than anything else, but as they neared the edge of the forest, the White Walkers ceased their pursuit and vanished behind the trees. Aemond exhaled deeply, relieved that they had escaped the forest unharmed. Suddenly the horse neighed, abruptly stopping. Making both of them grunt in pain when they nearly fell. “What’s wrong?” The wildling asked the horse before an arrow striked a tree behind them. They looked around, trying to find any signs of life. 

“What are you doing?” Aemond hissed when she stepped down from the horse. “Where’s my dagger?” She whispered, ignoring his previous question. Aemond sighed, tossing her the dagger beneath his black cloak. Catching it with ease, she spoke into the air,

“It’s only me! Gruff? Yuri?” Aemond was curious about those people she called out. Were they one of her people? Who were they?

“Blimey kid, you scared the shit out of us!” 

A loud booming voice suddenly said, emerging from the snowy ecosystem. Their thick fur coats also seemed to be efficient for camouflage. Aemond saw how his peculiar she wildling smiled brightly when she spotted her friend, running towards the tall red haired man giving him a tight hug making them both laugh as he picked her up in his arms. 

Aemond rolled his eye.

“Thought you were gone for! We saw those creepy dead people- thank the gods!” The red haired wildling said, ruffling her hair. “Oww! No! Do you think that low of me, old man?!” She asked with a laugh, shoving the man away from her. “Oi, I'm not that old, young lady.” Locking her head once again with his arm. “Yuri! Look who just came back from the dead!” The red haired shouted, now another wildling emerged from the opening. His hair was blonde, almost as light as the hair of the Lannisters. “We really thought you were dead, kid,” Yuri said, patting her shoulder. 

Who were they? Why were they awfully close with her? 

From what he witnessed, a young woman could only interact like this with the opposite gender if they were siblings or wedded. Even he never saw any of his wedded acquaintances interacting this way. Were they her siblings? They don’t seem to resemble one another, were they bastards? Did they came from different mothers?

Aemond cleared his throat, stepping down from his horse, interrupting their reunion. 

“Ah yes- Gruff, Yuri, this is ehm..Aemond Targaryen. The man that I spoke of to the both of you,” she said. The red haired, who was named Gruff looked Aemond from head to toe. “Gruff and Yuri are my hunting friends. We’ve been hunting together since we were children and fun fact, we have the same grandsire.”

Gruff slowly approached the one eyed prine, keeping an eye on him. Aemond straightened his back to appear taller, gripping the handle of his sword, preparing himself. Once Gruff stopped in front of him, their noses bumping into each other, he spoke, 

“Did your mum fucked a snowman?”

“I beg your pardon–,” Aemond stepped closer, ready to draw his sword out.

“–Alright that’s enough!” She quickly stepped between the two men. “What Gruff was trying to say was, how is your hair silver?” She asked. "My father, my grandsire, my great-grandsire—all of them had silver hair," Aemond hissed, his gaze fixed on the red-haired wildling. "How did they end up with silver hair?" the red-haired wildling asked, crossing his arms. Aemond couldn't believe how absurd this conversation had become. Frustrated, he let his hands drop. "We're from old Valyria," Aemond explained with resignation. "It's simply a trait we have—silver hair is just part of who we are."

“Valyria? What’s that?” The blonde wildling asked curiously. “It's a place far from the north, Yuri– Now come on! We must bring him to the Chief.” Walking past them, she held the horse’s reins and started walking ahead. Gruff purposely bumped Aemond’s shoulder as he passed through the one eyed prince. Aemond rolled his eyes again, resigned to the childish behavior of these people, before catching up and walking alongside her. Compared to the two wildlings, he found her more tolerable. At least she didn’t ask pointless questions.s. “I have told our Chief about you,” she said. “I am sure he will take it easy on you,” she said.

 “Does he takes it easy with anyone else?”

“No, not really. He’s quite rude if you ask me.”

“As rude as your friend there?” Aemond chuckled bitterly.

“You’re in for a ride,” she chuckled, patting Aemond’s shoulder. 

As much as Aemond would like to worry, he could not as he knew that she was the one who brought him to her people. For her people needed him, not the other way around. He hoped that this agreement would be the means for her to fulfill her promise and return him to Westeros once and for all. Additionally, he couldn’t help but notice her diminutive stature compared to his own—she barely reached his shoulder, smaller than any lady from Westeros yet possessing a fierceness and demeanor that defied conventional femininity. A smirk tugged at his lips.. 

And there he saw it. In the vast expanse of snow-covered terrain, a tribe lives a nomadic life, their existence marked by resilience and adaptability. Their tents, typically made of sturdy animal hides or woven materials, scattered across the field. The tents are insulated with layers of fur and cloth, designed to withstand the biting cold. The camp itself is a lively hub of activity despite the harsh environment. Smoke curls up from several central hearths, where fires are kept burning to provide warmth and to cook meals. The scent of roasting meat and simmering stews mingled with the crisp, cold air when he stepped closer to them.

Like when he first entered Winterfell, all eyes fell upon him, following him as he walked side by side with her. “It seems you have captured the people’s attention,” she teased with a cocky smile. “Why is it because of my hair or my eye?” He asked. “Neither. It’s your attire.” Aemond looked down to his clothing. Of course, he’s still dressed like a member of the night’s watch.

“We hate the crows in here, so it’s better for you to strip those clothes after you meet our Chief,” she said, giving him a wink. Before he could protest, a snow hit his cloak, making him flinch. Turning around, he saw a couple of children running around, even snickering at his presence. “Careful now boys!” She chuckled, greeting some of those children. “Never seen a crow, huh?” She crouched down, talking to the children surrounding her. 

“He only has one eye!” One of the children tried to whisper to her. “Scary, isn’t he? Tell you what, I’ll let you pick on him when I’m not around,” she said to the kids, making them snicker and giggle in excitement. 

She was really good with children. 

Throughout his life, he rarely sees his mother or even his sister being this natural with children. It makes him wonder if she has one. 

“For the meantime, can all of you keep an eye on our horse?” Offering the rein to the children, in which they eagerly accepted before taking the horse away. Aemond curiously kept his eye on the horse as the children led it away. “Don’t worry, they are very gentle with horses. They know their purpose,” she reassured him before she started to walk once more. 

Approaching one of the biggest tents in the area, the spearwife stops beside him, “If the Chief likes you, you’ll live another day.” Before smiling mischievously stepping inside the tent. Slightly on edge, he hesitated to follow them inside. But he would not cower in fear and enter anyways. Reminding himself to keep himself in check if he wants to go home. He stepped inside, his eye falling onto a man sitting in his chair as his companions surrounded him, whispering to each other. 

“Chief, I would like you to meet the crow I spoke of. This is Aemond Targaryen,” she introduced him. Aemond nodded with respect to their chief, an older wildling who carefully inspected Aemond, standing up from his seat. “Targaryen,” he said. “A peculiar tribe. Was it true that your family had power over dragons?” The Chief asked in which Aemond instantly nodded, “Yes, my Lord.”

All of them chuckled humorously. 

“Lord? I’m flattered to be called a Lord,” the chief said in humour. 

“So, where is your dragon now?”

Swallowing a lump in his throat, Aemond spoke. 

“She was killed at war.” A sense of bitterness, trying to mask his grief and sadness for Vhagar’s death. 

“A shame,” the Chief said. 

A pregnant pause.

“I want everybody out of this tent.” Aemond’s eyes widened. Was he going to be murdered? Did he not fulfil the Chief’s expectations? 

“But Chief–,” 

“–Especially you, girl. I shall talk to you when I’m done with this crow.”

Aemond instantly locked his eye with hers. Even her expression was unreadable as she hesitantly turned around to exit the tent. She gave him a nod, giving him support before leaving him alone with the Chief. Aemond turned his gaze back to the Chief who was crossing his arms inspecting Aemond from head to toe. 

“The girl likes you,” the Chief chuckles. “If it wasn’t for her you’d probably be dead by now. Killed by those crows.” Aemond kept his expression stoic as he brushed off the Chief’s words. “Speaking of crows, she told me you were forced to be one. Was that true?”

Aemond nodded.

“Yes, Chief.”

“What was your crime?”

“I was called a traitor to the Starks. Yet I beg to differ, for it was them who were traitors,” Aemond bravely said. 

“Traitors to whom?”

“The Throne. My brother.”

“Your brother? Your brother sat on a throne?”

“Yes, Chief.”

“That makes you a prince, then.”

A title he deeply missed. Aemond stood proudly, straightened his back as he kept his chin up high. 

“I am–,”

“You were.” 

“For you are currently not in Westeros, my boy. You are beyond the wall. Everyone beyond the wall fights for survival. For nature does not care if you’re a king or a criminal. And so far as I know, you stand before me,” the Chief said, telling Aemond to abandon his title as prince. “Where does your loyalty lie, boy?” The Chief asked, stepping closer to the one eyed prince. “To the crows?–”

“–No,” Aemond spoke with no hesitation. 

“The Starks?”

“Never.”

The Chief hummed in agreement. “The girl told me you wished to be rewarded. To go back to your family.” Aemond nodded, wishing nothing more than that. “So you’re loyal to your family,” he pointed out.

Aemond nodded. 

“Good. A man should always stay loyal to his family.”

He poured his drink onto his cup, “But will you stay loyal to us as you serve my tribe? And lead us to victory?” Aemond looked down, seeing the cup lent to him. Offering a friendship– an alliance– trust. Trusting a wildling. It seemed impossible for him, but he recalled simple questions by those wildlings about his hair. They were a simple tribe, living out of the complicated politics of Westeros. He could outsmart them easily and they’re offering him friendship. 

She paced back and forth in front of the Chief’s tent, waiting for the Targaryen to exit the tent unharmed. “You seemed stressed, kid,” Gruffed snickered, crossing his arms as he took notice on worried expression. “Of course, I am,” she said, stopping her steps abruptly. “May I know why?” He chuckled.

 “Is it because of the crow?–”

“–He is not a crow. He loathes the crows as much as we do.”

Gruff chuckled amusingly. 

“And? I bet Chief will tolerate him–,”

“–What if he doesn't? What if he beheaded that man and puts him on a spike?!–”

“–So what? What if he were beheaded? You should not care for that outsider—,”

“–I don’t care about him! I-I-I just want what’s best for our people–,”

“–You like him,” Gruff points at her with a mocking laugh. “I don’t! You pig!” She shouted defensively, quickly slapping Gruff’s arm repeatedly. “You do! You like that snow haired boy!” Gruff kept pointing at her as he teased her. The young she wildling grunts in frustration as he denies her feelings for the Targaryen. “If you speak of this one more time, I will kill you in your sleep, Gruff.” 

“Oooh you’ll kill me in my sleep, eh? Right, sure you don’t like that boy, surely if he one day betrays us will you kill him in his sleep?”

“I will. And I’ll cut off his cock and hang it in front of your tent,” she speaks bluntly. 

“Right, you sure you won’t use that for anything else?”

Her face turned red before she threw a hard punch across the red haired’s face. Groaning in pain, Gruff still laughed at her being so flustered with his words. “Why do you like him anyways? Is it because of his hair? His eye? Ooh his other eye, the sapphire?” Gruff asked, sitting up curiously looking at his friend. “For the last time, I do not like our new comer,” she repeated herself. “Keep telling that to yourself, kid. If I see silver haired babies one day–.”

The tent opened, Aemond stepping out of the tent.

Unharmed. 

“Ah, so he gave you a chance to live another day,” she said quickly, changing her once worried demeanour into the confident young wildling she is. Aemond could only nod, towering over her. “I shall, and I will.” 

His purple eye fixed on hers, “Where can I find new clothes?”

a/n: stay tuned for the next chapter and I apologize if this is not my best work but😊✨

[damnation-valley]

hey guys you ever think about how since ulysses had his tribe assimilated into the legion he was never allowed to grow his hair out so he couldn't practice the twists? and about how, when he finally got the chance to let it get longer, he realised he barely remembers how to do it? and now that he's alone there's no one to guide him, and he's left carrying the half-forgotten remains of his culture like an incomplete set of shards of a vase broken long, long ago?

anyway i sure do think abt that idk abt you guys though

[serpentface]

Brakul participating in the khaitwrestling tournament in the city of Wardin’s annual games. He is grappling with his beloathed rival, a Titen youth with a cooler beard named Gijo Sihgawe.

Brakul is using a technique where he attempts to gain a solid hold of his opponent's body and will then spur his khait into a run, using the animal’s momentum to drag the opponent off his mount. This can be a risky endeavor (as one attempting this maneuver might be wrenched off their OWN khait if their foe has a stronger grip) but is considered rather impressive and crowd pleasing when performed successfully. 

Khait wrestling is a sport that was brought to broader Imperial Wardi culture via the Hill Tribes, and is very popular in the west and south of the region. The Wardi brand of khait wrestling is similar in basic form and structure to its progenitor traditions, but has developed into its own unique variant. The goal of the sport is to force the other rider to dismount (via pulling or shoving them off) and to lead both khait out of the ring.

Wardi khait wrestling is performed in a wide, circular ring. Combatants begin with their khait standing parallel, and attempt to shove or pull opponents off of their mount. Fighting halts if the riders step out of the ring, and both must reposition themselves at the center before the match can resume.

Combatants are only permitted to fight via grappling. Punches, kicks, intentional twisting of extremities, attacks with the spur, jabs at the eyes, intentional trampling, etc are prohibited (and called by referees. Their calls can be incredibly controversial). Notably, the pulling of hair is generally Not outright prohibited, so longhaired riders usually wear their hair tight to the scalp or under a cap, and many devoted wrestlers keep their heads shaved. 

A match ends when one combatant has forced their opponent to the ground AND successfully leads their khait out of the ring while remaining mounted. If a dismounted rider manages to regain control of their khait before it is led away, the match continues. Bouts between equally matched opponents can be very lengthy. Official competitions held in annual games tend to have time limits, at which point the match is scored by referees based on a point system (usually tallying number of falls and scoring points per certain types of grapples).

Khait wrestling requires strong, calm, well trained and exceptionally even-tempered khait that can remain unpanicked as their riders fight atop them. Most are mares or geldings, though occasional intact bulls with particularly gentle temperaments make appearances. Hornless or blunt-horned khait are preferred (some local games only accept hornless) as even the most placid khait's horns can become dangerous to their wrestling riders. A khait that intentionally injures another rider or khait (through biting or kicking) will be banned from official events, and often become fodder for sacrifice (khait are rare as animal sacrifices, and also considered among the best for the same reason- their high value).

Saddles are made especially for this sport, and are designed specifically to Not provide significant security to the rider (they are flat and lack stirrups), making riders entirely reliant on strength and balance. Riders wear loose trousers (quite uncommon in the region, where robes or skirts are generally worn), belted at the waist to avoid being yanked off during a bout. They wear high laced riding boots with small spurs.

This and other mounted events are usually accessible only to wealthy athletes (or athletes with wealthy sponsors), as there is a significant cost barrier to khait ownership to begin with in the cities, and animals suitable for this sport are particularly expensive. These matches are functionally a showcase of wealth and power for their participants. Though riders must wear simple clothing and are provided basic saddles, their mounts may be lavishly groomed and ornamented. The costuming shown here is actually on the less ostentatious end of the spectrum for a typical city tournament.

Additional notes:

Brakul's khait here is one of his favorites (he has twelve), a huge, shaggy mare named Emense, a Wardi word that translates close to 'beloved'.

Brakul has participated in nine of Wardin's annual games, and placed first in khait wrestling three times. He enjoys modest local fame for this and has used most of his winnings to buy more khait and khait accessories.

Goji is a relative newcomer and won first in the last two annual tournaments. This drawing depicts moments before his second win, where Brakul does, in fact, fail at his awesome maneuver and get wrenched off his khait.

Goji rides an intact bull, a relative rarity. He is an exceptionally placid and gentle creature, named 'Moose' after a strange and exotic beast from the north.

Khait wrestling among the Hill Tribes has dozens of local variants, but commonalities that distinguish these from the adopted Wardi tradition is that the goal is specifically to knock off the other rider AND mount their khait AND THEN lead both from the ring, and that it's done with actual saddles.

[persefolli]

What if Neytiri sought Uturu from the Metkayina clan and ran into Jake after him, Wari, and y/n were all happy together? And Jake felt some old feelings coming back up because of their past tshayleu connection? The potential angst 👀

��𝐥𝐝 𝐅𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐉𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐓𝐨𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐢, 𝐍𝐞𝐲𝐭𝐢𝐫𝐢

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝐂𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐀𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭

𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭

“Who are you?” You asked curiously, wondering why a forest na’vi flew all the way to Awa’atlu, alone. 

“Neytiri te Tskaha Mo'at'ite. Daughter of Mo’at, and Eytukan.”

Neytiri. The name seemed familiar. 

“Why have you traveled so far to get here? Are you safe?”

“No, actually.” The woman lowered her head. “I seek Uturu.”

“Uturu?” Tonowari approached from behind. “Daughter of a great Tsahik seeks Uturu?” He clarified.

“Me and my former mate got into some trouble with other…species and I’m afraid I cannot stay in the forest much longer.”

You looked up at Tonowari who had a conflicted look on his face. Nodding your head to get his attention, you began to speak to him with your eyes. ‘I washed up on the shore a year ago’

‘That's different.’

‘She needs our help Wari.’

‘Y/n I don’t think you under-”

“Neytiri?” You heard Jake say in disbelief behind you. He came walking forward, looking at the na’vi woman with his eyes bugged from his head. 

“Jake.” She smiled at his presence.

You backed up and grabbed onto Tonowari’s arm and watched the two interact. Jake had nicely placed his hand on her bicep, comforting her and asking about what happened.

‘That's the Neytiri?’

‘I wish I could’ve warned you sooner.’

Jake came up to you with a pleading look in his eyes. “Tonowari. I know you already-”

“She's your responsibility.” Tonowari said coldly. You looked at him confused, but stood ten toes down for him, nodding your head and ultimately accepting Neytiri’s Uturu request.

---

“Tonowari, did accepting Uturu really upset you?” You kneeled next to your husband when you had the chance. He had been twitching his ears all day, and seemingly acted unbothered to everything that happened earlier.

“I just don’t want the Metkayina tribe to be known for harboring ex-war criminals.”

You tilted your head and Tonowari sighed, finally setting down his weaving project and looking at you. “I didn’t…mean it like that.”

“I understand Wari. You take so many risks and you’re worried for the clan.”

He smiled softly, “That's why you’re my Tsahik.”

As the two of you leaned in to kiss, Jake walked in, untying his hair and setting his gun aside. “Y/n. Tonowari.” He greeted. 

“Ma Jake.” You began approaching him. “How is she settling in?”

He gulped and nodded. “She's doing fine. A little emotional but, everything will be just fine.” He reassured. Tonowari looked at him with a disgraceful expression, and you were not oblivious to the look. You cleared your throat and ran your hands down your lover's arms. “Rough day for us all? Let’s get to bed.” 

The three of you retreated to bed, cutting off all the lights and locking up for the night. You found yourself between the two men, leg thrown across Jake’s waist. You couldn’t help but notice a tense nature, maybe a coldness to the bed that night. 

The next morning you awoke to the bed empty of your two lovers. You groaned getting up, walking to the kitchen to grab for the fruit bowl you knew Tonowari had prepped for you earlier that morning. You ate in zen, thinking of all the rounds you would have to make around the village. Schools, weaving pods, and fishing stations to see if there were any alarming districts.

The first stop you made was the fishing stations, walking on the boardwalks and watching how people made their catches. You noticed a little girl struggling with her net, so you walked over and helped her untangle the webbed mess. 

“And you twist your arm and throw it out like that.” You noticed a familiar voice. You snapped your head over to see Jake guiding Neytiri. His hand was close to her waist, looking down at her entranced as he helped her out. You stood and placed your hand on the girl's shoulder, bidding her goodbye. “Hi Jake, Neytiri.” You walked over. Jake dropped his hand from her waist and turned towards you. “Y/n. Didn't know you'd be stopping by today.”

You quirked an eyebrow. “You know I always make my rounds on this day. Hasn't changed for months.”

Jake sucked his teeth and nodded.

“While I have you here, what would you like for dinner?”

“Actually, I was gonna hard body it and get some dinner with Neytiri. We do late night hunting sometimes.”

You raised your head and nodded down, not too fond of the rejection. “Okay.” You said, and began walking to make the rest of the rounds. You would be lying to yourself if you said you weren't upset. Jake had been acting brand new since Neytiri had come around, and you didn't appreciate that.

You bumped into Tonowari in one of the weaving pods, smiling at the focus he had on his project.

“Ma wari.” You cooed softly. You walked over and sat next to him, leaning your head on his shoulder. “Y/n, my love. How are the rounds?”

“Everything is just fine.” You said blankly. He hummed in approval and went back to weaving. After a few moments of silence you couldn't ignore the pit in your stomach, and looked back up at your husband for reassurance.

“You haven't….like…do Tsaheylu with someone before me did you?”

Tonowari placed his weaving pieces down and grabbed your hand. “No. I've only ever bonded with you. Why do you ask?”

You took in a breath. “Jake has been acting weird and I'm just hoping you won't be next.” You felt his lips press softly against your forehead. “You are my wife, my Tsahik. There is no woman on this land that comes before you. Jake…is another story, but I cannot abandon you.”

Smiling, you turned to climb into his lap and hug him, leaning your head into his chest. 

“Love you Ma Wari.”

Time passed and you noticed how Jake rarely came home anymore. You placed your focus on Wari, who was still very much there and attentive to your needs, but you couldn't help but think of your other lover who had unfinished business with the two of you.

You would catch glimpses of Jake, but no longer made the effort to approach him.  Slowly implementing a cold shoulder, you made sure Jake was aware of how angry you were with him, but sadly he seemed more focused on getting home to Neytiri at the end of the night. 

Tonowari got increasingly agitated at Jake as well, not only was he neglecting you, he was neglecting his duties. The newest insurrection was coming up and Jake hadn’t made any plans, only you and Tonowari.

“What the fuck is this?” Jake flung the paper onto the ground. 

“Y/n choose K’arim to lead the air team. He’s one of our best warriors and he's proven to be capable.” Tonowari looked at him with a smug expression.

Jake turned towards you, upset and angry. “You replaced me…with a random warrior who has no knowledge on the-”

“Stop it with that excuse!” You snapped. “You haven’t been here. We got new updates and where were you?”

Jake stammered over his words, eyes glinting as he did so. You felt a shift in a room, a lighter one.

“I’ll….I’ll be back.” He quickly dashed from the pod, and Tonowari let out a groan. You knew what Wari was thinking because you were too. Something goes wrong and he goes running to her. 

---

It didn’t take long for things to crash and burn with the three of you. Only a few days later, you walked home to find your two lovers fighting, but this wasn’t any ordinary fight, as you saw Tonowari holding and pointing his spear at Jake.

“What the hell is going on? You dropped your basket of fruit and walked over. 

“He is leaving!” Tonowari pointed at Jake and spat. “I knew Uturu was bullshit.”

“She needed our help!” Jake tried reasoning with the Metkayina male. Tonowari began hissing, which came as a small warning of the anger that was to come soon. You approached Jake with tears in your eyes. “So she comes and you just leave?” You asked, trying to make sense of it all.

“Typical. She goes crying and he goes running.” Tonowari scoffed.

Jake grabbed your hands and shook his head. “Please understand Y/n. I love you, I really do but-”

“You are mated with her for life.” 

He nodded, releasing your hands and looking at his best friend one last time before leaving the pod.

You turned to Tonowari, and began breaking down, falling down to your knees and sobbing. “What was the point of everything?” You whimpered. Tonowari immediately ran to envelop you in his arms. Pulling you off the ground and rocking you. 

“I- I broke customs for him!” You hissed.

“I did too. This is not on you Y/n.” He comforted. 

You grabbed at your husband's biceps, burying your head into his chest and crying softly. As you weeped, he ran his hands down your head and shushed you. “This is the last time I'll let anyone into our land and hurt you.”

𝐀/𝐧: 𝐈 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐈 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐠𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐬𝐤 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐩𝐭. 𝟐, 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐮𝐧𝐞𝐝

[lostinwildflowers]

To Befriend A Dragon

Shoto Todoroki x Reader

Summary: Shoto will always deny his father's wishes to find the rarest Mystery Class dragon out there. You're his long-time best friend, and you happen to have a dragon. Things grow intense as your dragon grows more and more hostile toward your friend.

Word Count: 7.3K (...oopsie)

Warnings: Best friends to lovers, idiots to lovers, fluff, mutual pining, smidge of angst if you look, jealous dragon(think Maximus and Flynn Rider), erm... Enji Todoroki mentioned, like 2 cuss words, and a small cut/blood mention

A/N: Hello my lovelies, I have emerged from my cave to finish this Shoto x HTTYD fic! I have been super excited about this one for a long time(like, April of 2023), and I really do love the plot. Be sure to give me your feedback, and please, enjoy!-Birch<3

Useful Info:

Scauldron

Inspo for wet Shoto(This isn't graphic, this is just a wet Shoto XD)

Part i. Romantic Flight- Katsuki Bakugou x Reader

Part ii. Dragon Island- Eijiro Kirishima x Reader

"Y/n!" the call came. It was light, not angry; soft, and yet still somehow loud enough to hear over the crashing of waves on the old wooden fishing docks.

"Y/n?" the call came again, less sure than the first time. It sounded like an ancient hymn, floating on the ocean's fine mist, disappearing just as soon as it arrived.

"Y/n, there you are," this time the voice was just behind you. It was the voice of someone you could spend your entire life listening to. Deep and rich at the same time, tranquil but firm in its timbre.

Your gaze was fixed on the moving waters in front of you, (colored) orbs scoping out every cresting wave, waiting. The gentle touch of a hand on your shoulder draws your attention away from the sea for a split second, long enough to see who was looking for your attention.

Unnaturally white hair. Unusually bright red hair. The locks were split down the center of his head, messy around his eyes, but delicate braids danced around the nape of his neck. One eye was a deep stormy grey, the other a piercing icy blue.

His smile was as warm as the summer rain that fell in the late morning. His posture was straight yet relaxed, just as he was trained. His presence and demeanor were kind, yet stoic.

Shoto Todoroki. Your long-time best friend.

-

It all started way back. Even further than the village could remember. Your cradles after birth were almost always next to each other growing up. The two of you spent almost every waking moment together as toddlers, mainly being raised by the village elders.

The pair of you spent hours playing on the light, sandy beach looking for unique shells or conches. Hiking through the woods to find interesting colored stones and lush mosses to build forts outside of your houses became an every-summer activity.

You even snuck out to watch the young vikings train their dragons in the middle of the night with the young Todoroki boy. When the flames stopped dancing in the sky, you both would gaze up at the stars, wondering what your lives would hold.

Yes, you had other friends as well, but none of them understood you as deeply as the two-tone-haired boy who you spent every day with. You were the finest of friends, no one could separate you two.

The one thing that could twist your whole relationship with the Todokori boy was the fact that he was the chieftain's son. The Todoroki Tribe was known for finding and taming the rarest mystery class dragons, the most dangerous of dragons.

Shoto's oldest brother had managed to find and tame a gnarly male Bone Knapper, while his sister gentled a Light Fury while traveling. Even Shoto's other brother trained a Changewing that had tried attacking the village.

But Shoto didn't have a dragon. He didn't want a dragon. He loathed his father for forcing such pressure on him, to find the rarest dragon yet and force it to respect him. Shoto didn't ask to be raised as the next leader of his village.

All he ever wanted was a normal life with you, his best friend.

But while Shoto didn't have his own dragon, which was an ongoing argument he had with his father, you did. Your family loved the sea, building a home on the water's edge so you could grow up right next to its murky depths. When you came of age, it was only fitting that a dragon of the water became your own.

When you were just eleven years old, a Scauldron drakaina laid her clutch of eggs on the beach just down the shoreline from your house. She was a gorgeous turquoise-scaled dragon, and her eggs reflected her light bluish-green colors.

You watched her tend to her eggs for several weeks, even going as far as to tend to her needs. You didn't mind making sure she had enough food, you were right next to the sea. You checked to make sure the eggs were warm enough and in a safe location where they wouldn't get crushed when she left to hunt.

When her clutch finally did hatch, one of them instantly chose you. Storm. He was born a deep, steel grey color when he hatched, and the color of his scales reminded you of a summer thunderstorm.

Over time, Storm grew into a large and strong Scauldron, with thick muscle that grew from his swimming in the ocean and eventual flights with you on his back.

As you grew older, so did Storm, the two of you forming a strong connection and bond as a dragon and rider. From the start, he was always a... well, opinionated dragon.

Yet, through it all, Shoto was nothing of supportive of you and your dragon, knowing that his father would never let him have a common dragon such as yours.

Years passed as you and Storm bonded and grew up, and Shoto continued to spend time with you. He would be there to watch you ride Storm, help you teach him a new trick, or even go fishing for the dragon.

Shoto would spend as much time with you as he could to escape his lessons, being the chieftain's son. Holding a bag of fish for you, helping you fit the saddle to his body, anything he could do to be near you. You and Storm were his escape.

-

"Y/n, there you are," the voice behind you rings out, and a slow glance over your right shoulder allows you to see Shoto standing still behind you, a small leather bag slung over his shoulder.

"Hey, Sho," you say with a smile as you turn to face your best friend. "Did you bring lunch again?" you ask cheekily, trying to peak into the leather satchel on his shoulder.

Shoto's lip curls into what you can call a smirk. To the outside view, there was no change to the young man's face. A scoff falls from his lips as he moves to sit beside you on the edge of the wet docks, "You could call it that. What were you looking at? You seem kind of distracted, Y/n/n."

And distracted you were. You see, years of friendship with the youngest Todoroki boy did not leave you blind. He transformed from a boy into a teen into a man. His voice deepened, his shoulders broadened, and girls flocked to his door in hopes of catching his attention.

Shoto became evidently attractive, and while you tried to brush it off, he was a deadly combination. Sweet, maybe a little daft, and breathtakingly handsome.

A hand on your thigh catches your attention, and you jump at the warm touch, and you whip around to look Shoto in the eyes. There was concern on his angled features, a gentle furrow to his brow at the unusual scatter-brainedness of your actions.

"Are you alright?" he asks again, his low voice just barely more than a whisper as his bi-colored eyes bore deep into your own (colored) ones.

His grey eye reminded you of the scales on Storm's back. Dark, firm, unwavering. His blue eye reminded you of the sea. Piercing, knowing, deadly.

The intensity of his eyes paired with the concerned look on his face was enough for you to shake off your thoughts, placing your hand over his own. Your fingers graze his, and you take the push to thread them through his long digits.

"Just fine, Sho, I was thinking about Storm. I haven't seen him for a while since he went out hunting," is what you manage to croak out.

Shoto squints at you, uncertainty lacing his gaze. "You're lying," he states blankly as if it's a matter-of-fact statement. You huff at him in an almost-offended disbelief, turning to face the clouded blue water in front of you.

"No, I'm not," you grumble out, "I haven't seen Storm in almost two days, he usually comes back faster than that. I'm worried about him."

Shoto's grip on your thigh tightens a little bit as he squeezes the flesh there and replies, "I don't doubt that, Y/n. I think you're lying about being okay. You've been like this for a while now. What's going on with you?"

Deep down, Shoto was afraid you had found someone, or that your parents had found a nice young viking for you to get married to and you wouldn't see him anymore. You had been starting to pull away, and it scared him to death.

In reality, you were scared to death because you had just started to realize why your hands got shaky around Shoto. You had started to realize why his compliments made your cheeks burn and your voice weaken.

You liked him. But he was your best friend, you couldn't like him. He couldn't possibly like you like that... right?

You stay silent, so Shoto takes a moment to continue, "Y/n/n, I have spent every day of my life with you, I can tell when something is wrong." You regain eye contact with him, your lips parting as your thoughts raced through your head.

You could feel your heart pounding harder and harder with every second, the butterflies building and swelling in your stomach. The words were just on the tip of your tongue-

A roar splits and cracks the air open, an enormous wave of seawater heading directly for you and Shoto. You find the head of the dragon in an instant, and you let out a yell as the icy water coats you and the boy sitting next to you.

Storm lets out another roar, diving back into the water and splashing his tail in your direction, the water smacking an already drenched and shocked Shoto in the side furthest from you.

"What the hell, Storm!?" you screech as your dragon dove back into the depths of the water, peeking his head up above the surface once he swam far enough away he couldn't get scolded by you.

There's one important part about your dragon- he hates Shoto.

-

From the day Storm hatched, he disliked the two-toned head of the youngest Todoroki boy. Shoto never did anything to make the Scauldron hate him, but the steel-colored dragon always had a bone to pick with your best friend.

As a young hatchling, Storm had a tendency to nip at people who weren't you. It didn't matter if they had food or not, he was always a little tense around others. When you introduced Shoto to Storm, your dragon took it upon himself to launch at your best friend.

He had latched onto Shoto's boot, his razor-sharp teeth cutting through the new leather, and ripping it right off of his foot. Shoto had been knocked to the ground, the air pulled from his lungs.

You had immediately scolded Storm, putting him in a large cage in the corner of your room while you tended to Shoto. His sock had been shredded from Storm's teeth, but otherwise, he was left unharmed.

That first incident with Storm should have been Shoto's first clue that things wouldn't be smooth sailing anytime he tried to be with you.

When the two of you were older and allowed to roam freely, you often took hiking trips into the woods. You both still had the hearts of children, but were more competent and aware of your surroundings.

Plus, you had a dragon.

But, Storm still found a hatred for the Todoroki boy, tripping him when the paths in the woods got rocky. Shoto ended up with several rolled ankles, to which he would tell his father he was training and got hurt.

Your Scauldron would knock Shoto into the water when you would haul in the fishing nets at the end of the day. The air would have cooled off, leaving you chilled if you got wet.

Storm learned that you and Shoto hated it whenever Shoto got soaked. So he did it more and more often.

Shoto somehow put up with it. Ever patient, ever forgiving, Shoto never once tried to put up a fight against Storm or got truly angry with him. He had his moments where he wanted to get the dragon back, but he knew you would be angry with him.

Shoto had such a care for you that he couldn't take out his frustrations on your dragon, no matter how much torture he was put through.

It drove Shoto insane from the inside, but he could never show that to you. Storm was your dragon, and you loved him, and Storm loved you. Shoto knew there was no way he could get between you and your dragon, so he learned to live with it.

Shoto did try to befriend Storm, but he was unsuccessful every time. He would bring the large dragon an extra fish he caught when he dropped by your house. You showed the red and white-haired teen where to scratch the dragon's chin the way he liked.

The boy even went as far as to change Storm's bedding in his nesting stall. None of it worked. So, Shoto did his best to be kind to the dragon while not making it an apparent issue to you.

-

In an instant, your clothes were clinging to your frame, the iciness of the water chilling you to the bone. You were in shock, first at the surprise of being drenched in cold, salty seawater, but also at the fact that Storm went out of his way to be mean to Shoto.

Your mouth had dropped in surprise, the tang of salt clinging to your lips as you brushed a sopping piece of hair out of your eyes. You turned to look at Shoto, who was in a similar state as you.

His pink lips were parted open, water streaming down his face and dripping off at the edge of his sharp jaw. Shoto's hands clenched at his sides, instinctively trying to shy away from the dragon who sprayed the water in the first place.

"Sh-Shoto, are you alright?" you manage to stumble out, your teeth clacking together, out of your control. He turned to look at you, shock also evident on his features. He just shook his head once, water droplets spraying everywhere, much like a wet dog.

It took him a second to respond, but he managed to murmur, "Yeah, yeah, I think I'm good. I wasn't expecting that at all."

Once Shoto locked eyes on your drenched figure, he swallowed thickly. Every ounce of your clothing was clinging tightly to your body, outlining every curve and dip.

While you noticed the way Shoto grew up, he also noticed how you changed. He saw how maybe your height didn't change that much, but he saw your hips widen and chest fill out.

Shoto saw the way your hair grew longer and your cheeks became less round. He saw the way your lips would catch between your teeth when you were concentrated and the way your eyelashes fluttered when you laughed.

And now, a developed woman with clothes hugging your every curve, Shoto did his best to fight to pink that was rising to his cheeks at his unholy thoughts.

He had to stop those thoughts from swirling around in his mind. You are his best friend, for Odin's sake! He can't be thinking about you like a lover.

Shaking his head less aggressively again to clear his thoughts, he gently urges, "Let's get you warmed up." He pulls his hands from where they were clutching at his sides and offers one to you. You shudder as a chill washes over you, slowly grabbing his outreached hand.

As Shoto pulls the two of you into a standing position, you glance back into the water to see Storm's figure had disappeared. A lump forms in your throat at the cruelness of your dragon for no apparent reason.

Shoto releases your hand, instead, bringing it up to your shoulder. He lightly rubs at it, trying to get your attention, "Come on, grab your things." You turn back toward him and nod shakily, reaching down to grab your own small pack.

How could Storm do that? I know he and Shoto haven't always gotten along, but this is cruel, even for him.

While you got lost in your thoughts, walking up the length of the pier, you missed Shoto falling into step behind you. You didn't even notice him stalling, pulling his drenched shirt off to wring it out over the shore.

Your footstep creaking on a slippery wooden board makes you notice that it's quiet behind you, save for the crashing of waves. You look over your shoulder to see Shoto's back facing you.

Taut, lean muscle laced his back, the skin pale as porcelain, but intricate like a marble statue. Only then do your eyes catch a glimpse of his wet shirt in his hands, drops of water falling from it as his hands worked over the fabric.

Your eyes follow his back to his shoulders, pausing over the bulge in his bicep. He must have really started training hard, the thought races through your head.

Your (colored) gaze flicks up to find Shoto's piercing one already latched onto you.

Shit. He so just caught you staring.

"Sh-Shoto, what are you doing?!" you yelp out as you spin around as fast as you can. The slippery board under your foot gives way as heat rushes to your cheeks at the sight of your best friend undressing.

A million thoughts are racing through your mind as your knee slams into the wet dock, a cry falling from your lips. You don't hear his response as pain takes over as your main concern.

You hear a curse fall from Shoto's lips as he tosses his wet shirt over his shoulder, carefully making his way over to you. His hands, now cooled from the water, reach out to you as he replies innocently to your question, "My shirt was wet, I was trying to remove some of the water out of it."

He then offers you his hand, a kind look on his face. Ever the gentleman, you think to yourself as the pain in your knee radiates and then slowly dissipates away.

You scoffed internally as he pulled you to your feet, How many times have I seen him without a shirt on, and here I am making a big deal out of it?

A moment passes and the touch of his other hand on your shoulder makes you about jump out of your skin. Distracted (colored) eyes lock onto his own bi-colored ones, and you feel like a blubbering mess as your eyes dart between the grey and blue colors, and the toned, naked, chest in front of you.

Once again that day, Shoto has a look of concern on his face as he asks, "Are you alright, Y/n? This isn't all that strange, remember? Your dragon has hated me as long as I remember."

Just as you open your mouth to answer him, a large wave hits the dock again, and a split second later, you feel Shoto being ripped away from you and knocked into the water off the side of the pier. You catch sight of Storm emerging from the ocean, a scowl coming across your face as your lips part in anger.

A yell rips itself from your already opened mouth, and you lunge forward as Shoto is swept away in the current below the docks. His wet shirt landed on the pier next to your feet, thankfully, but that wasn't your main worry.

You were already nervous about it being so cool and then being drenched, but panic overtakes you as you realize what Shoto was headed straight for.

The fishing nets.

Storm flaps up and onto the shoreline a few yards away, looking proud of himself as water slides off of his deep grey scales. You turn toward the dragon, tears of anger pushing at the edges of your eyes as you scream, "Get out of here, Storm! Go away!"

The large Scauldron huffs out an angered roar, but with a few massive wingbeats, hauls himself into the air and flies toward the village. You don't wait to see him leave, instead turning your attention back to your best friend in the water.

Shoto had resurfaced and was coughing on seawater, his arms and legs caught in the holes of the netting. With his limbs tangled and airways full of water, this could be bad. You don't waste any time after that realization, and you dive into the water, aiming to stay away from the net.

Your limbs ache at the instant coolness of the water, and you gasp as you enter the icy sea. Forcing your arms and legs into motion, you aim toward Shoto as you feel your body slow down.

Limbs flailing to get closer, you call to him, "Shoto, hang out!" In a desperate grab, your fingers latch onto the edge of the fishing net, and you use all of your strength to start pulling it to a depth where you can stand.

You manage to take a deep, gasping breath when your feet feel sand underneath them, and you cry out as you tug on the net. "Are you okay?!" You manage as you pull the net through the shallows, still hearing Shoto coughing up water.

Shoto goes to answer you as you see him start to untangle himself, but all you hear is a "Ye-" before a wave crashes into Shoto's bare back. The force of the water knocks him face-first into the shallows, and you lunge toward him to try to help pull him up.

Fingers grasping for his arm, you tug him back up, hearing him spit out more water, exhausted from fighting the net, the salty water filling his lungs, and the effort of his body to keep him warm for so long.

Your fingers, now throbbing from the cold, fumble as you search your belt, the digits slow and uncoordinated. You grip the blade as tightly as you can once you find it, cutting at the tangled nets.

Shoto manages to sputter out, "Y/n, I- I'm o-okay," coughing and trying to regain his air. You finish tugging the final piece of net away from his feet, the two of you heaving yourselves out of the water.

Worry overtakes you as you regard your best friend, "Shoto, are you alright? Oh, my heavens..." Your eyes lock onto his paled face, white and red hair splattered across his forehead.

You lunge forward, catching his cheeks in your hands as your eyes detect pink water trailing down the side of his face. Shoto brings his hand up to push the hair off of his face, a small grunt leaving his mouth when he comes in contact with a scrape hidden on his forehead.

This scrape was the source of the pink water, and even more worry overcomes you, but not before the thought of how oddly handsome he looked at that moment.

Compared to his usual hair styling, the red and white locks were intertwined with each other. Pushed up off of his forehead into a messy comb-over, your breath was stolen for your lungs.

He looked devilishly handsome. It was a terrible thought to have when you should have been rushing him off to clean up his wound and put warm clothes on.

But he did. He looked so good, you couldn't help the way your mouth parted in shock as you gazed up at him.

Shoto, mistakenly thought your reaction was to the throbbing in his head, which he assumed to be a cut. "Is the cut that bad?" he asks daftly, the hand which had been running through his hair coming up to cover one of your own.

His other hand finds its place on your hip unknowingly, stabilizing his unsteady stance. You blink, your mind still reeling as you process his words, "N-no, it's not that bad. Just, uh, caught me off-guard."

Shoto's heterochromatic eyes fix on you, waiting for you to elaborate. It's quiet for a moment, with your hands on his cheeks, his hand covering your own.

He takes it upon himself to fill the silence, his hand moving to cup your own cheek, brushing a stray piece of wet hair away from your eyes. He takes a shivery breath and starts, "Y/n, I-" "Let's get warmed up," you state at the same time.

A flash of an unreadable emotion washes over Shoto's face, and you internally curse yourself for cutting him off. You open your mouth to ask him what he was going to say, but he beats you to it.

"I was going to say the same thing," he said slowly, dropping his hands from your face and side, taking a step back. You instantly retract your hands to your chest, nodding once as you glance at the ground.

Shoto doesn't say anything as he slightly limps back to the pier, grabbing his drenched satchel and his shirt, which is now soaked again. You bring your arms to wrap around yourself as you stiffly cross the beach, heading to the pier to grab your own small sack.

You move to pass Shoto, aiming for where you had been sitting on the edge of the wooden dock, but an outstretched arm stops you. You look up at him inquisitively until he rotates his palm to face you. His fingers open up, his large hand revealing your small leather sac.

"I figured it would save you the hassle," he murmurs lowly, setting it in your awaiting hands. You give him a small nod in thanks, clearing your throat to say, "We can go get warmed up at my house if you don't want your father to see you like this."

Now it's Shoto's turn to nod, gesturing with his chin, he asks, "Lead the way?" You offer a small smile before ducking your head down, trudging your way up the dock toward you home up the shoreline.

-

It was quiet at your house - it was only you who lived there, after all. You had moved out of your family home once you came of age, but you couldn't bring yourself to leave the shore.

There were still embers burning in the hearth when you pried your door open, Shoto not far behind. The two of you were quiet on the walk to your house, an unspoken tension thick in the air.

You couldn't deny it now. Your dragon was trying to drive a wedge in between you and your best friend.

A sigh falls from your lips as some weight leaves your shoulders upon entering your home. Shoto quietly closes the door behind you as you walk into the living room.

You make your way over to the hearth, trying to keep your teeth chattering to a minimum. Shoto, who was still shirtless, followed close behind.

Your hands wavering and numb from the cold, reached for small logs you had chopped a few days before. They were set off to the side so you could throw them on as needed.

Shivers start racing up and down your body as you fumble with the log, your teeth clacking together unceremoniously. "Let me," his deep voice sounds out, his hands coming into view.

He grabs the log from you, with much less shake than you, and gently tosses it on the fire. Shoto quietly grabs your shoulder, pulling you away from the fire. You willingly let him manhandle you, watching silently as he takes your place, throwing more kindling on the growing smoke, softly blowing to ignite a flame.

"Sh-Sho, y-your head," you stutter out as you catch sight of red leaking down his forehead. With the hair still pushed up out of his eyes, you could see the gash still oozing.

He turns to you, cocking one eyebrow as if to say, What about it? You shift on your feet as you motion shakily to his head, "It's s-still bleeding. We need to get it-t cleaned up. N-no sense in getting dry clothes d-dirty."

You offer him a crooked smile, clenching down on your teeth to stop them from chattering. He stands up and walks over to you, his height looming over you.

"You're cold," he states blankly, noting the blue tint to your lips and the short, shallow breaths you were trying to calm down. But he also knows you won't rest until he's cared for, watching your eyes flit between his and the cut.

Shoto sighs through his nose before whispering, "Alright, work your magic." With a slight roll of his eyes, you drag him toward your table, where you sit him down on a tall stool.

You struggle to take off your vest, which is drenched, but Shoto sits still and watches, his cheeks once again heating up at the way your clothes cling to your body.

You roam around for a few minutes, lighting a lantern to set next to Shoto, gathering a clean bucket of water, some clean towels, and a soft bandage that you could wrap his head with.

The moving around seemed to help warm you up a little, but you were still feeling chills run up and down your spine as you stopped in front of Shoto.

"This may sting a little," you mumble softly, "The seawater probably got dirt in there." It's a bit of an obvious statement, but you didn't know how else to face the tension of Shoto. As long as you've known him, he's been intense.

But he's never been intense like this.

His gaze is sharp and almost narrowed. There is a furrow in his brow that makes you almost nervous, but you know you have no reason to be.

Your own brows knit close together as you regard him, softly urging, "Shoto, is that alright?" His eyes seem to focus on you a little more at that, and he gives you a nod, straightening up a bit on the stool.

You quietly set to work, delicately pushing the hair off of his forehead and dipping a clean towel in the water. As you bring the towel up to his face, you can suddenly hear blood pounding in your ears.

A wave of butterflies washes over you when you realize how intimately close you are to Shoto's face. If he notices your pause, he doesn't say anything.

The towel makes wobbly contact with the edge of the cut, and Shoto draws back with a sharp hiss of pain, his hand reflexively coming up to pull your wrist away from his face.

A startled look comes across your face and you take a step back, trying to pry yourself away from him. Shoto realizes his mistake instantly and rushes, "Y/n/n, I didn't mean to-" "It's fine," you cut him off with a squeak.

Shoto can see the look of hurt on your face, and a part of his heart crumples at the sight. He releases your wrist, but he doesn't let you get away from him. Instead, he grabs you by both hips and parts his legs, allowing you to stand in between his thighs.

"I'm sorry for pulling away, I- I wasn't ready," he says lowly, looking up at you with a sincere look on his face. If you thought your blood was rushing before, now it is roaring in your ears.

You just bite your tongue and give him a small nod of your head, slowly bringing the rag up to clean the edge of his cut again. You feel Shoto tense beneath you with a fast breath, but he transforms his pain from pulling away to a tightened grip on your hip.

His jaw clenches as you work as quick as you can, cleaning his wound before reaching for the soft bandage you had found. Just as you finish securing it around his head, Shoto stops you.

"Do you know why Storm hates me so much?"

The question makes you halt, every part of your body going still. You stare at your best friend, your mind whirring as you wonder where this is coming from.

You shrug and start to dismiss his question, but he stands up, his presence regaining that oddly intense feel. His eyes darken and his voice lowers a notch as he repeats, "Do you know why Storm hates me so much?"

Your mouth falls slack and your mind goes blank as Shoto moves closer and closer to you. As you take one step back, he's already filling the space. Before you know it, he has you backed into a wall, his heterochromatic eyes never once leaving your (colored) ones.

"Sh-Shoto, I don't know what you're talking about," you stutter out, this time, not because of the cold. Your heart is racing, your cheeks are burning, and it's becoming harder and harder to breathe.

A dry laugh falls from Shoto's lips as he rests his arms on either side of your head, trapping you in. "You really don't know?" is all he asks, with no hint of emotion or degradation in his voice.

You shake your head left and then right, feeling an immense amount of pressure on your face. Shoto takes a deep breath to re-center himself before he asks, "Why doesn't Storm hate all of the other guys my age?"

A frown etches itself on your features as you ponder his question. Why didn't Storm hate all of the other guys in the village? Your lips fall open in thought, and you look down as you try to come up with a suitable answer.

Shoto's right hand moves from its place on the wall to cup your jaw, his thumb tucking itself under your chin. He pulls your head up slowly so that you meet his gaze again.

"Why doesn't Storm hate all of the other guys my age? What makes me so different?" he repeats, this time a little more emotion, a little more urgency.

You look at him again, and only one thought comes to mind. I can't. I can't say it's that. I don't even know if that is the reason.

"I don't know, Shoto," you start to whisper, but he cuts you off, "You're lying to me," and this time his voice is thick. You scan his face for emotion, and you finally start to see his walls caving.

His grey and blue eyes are beginning to line with tears as he repeats again, "What makes me so terrible that he treats me this way? Why am I his only target?"

Shoto shuffles, caging you in closer and closer until you have no other option than to answer him. Your mouth parts, your skin burning where his large hand has cupped your jaw, lips loose from the way your best friend is falling apart in front of you.

But he's not really your best friend, is he?

You go to talk, but there is even more urgency when he almost growls, "What did I do to him?! What did I do to you?!" As he talks, his grip on you gets tighter and tighter, and you notice tears starting to fall from his eyes.

Your eyes snap shut as you burst out, "You made me fall in love with you!" A rush of butterflies floods your stomach and you feel like you're about to throw up.

A moment passes and you wait to feel Shoto pull away, you wait for him to pull his hand away from your face and ask you what the hell you were talking about.

But instead, you hear him whisper, "Open your eyes." You tighten them and shake your head once, "I- I can't." You feel him shuffle and his grip on your face loosens, repositioning his hand to brush that wet, stray piece of hair away from your face.

"Y/n, open your eyes, please," he requests, his touch softening and his presence becoming less intense, "Look at me when you tell me you love me, so that I can say it back."

His statement has your eyes opening from where they were scrunched shut, and they are wide as they gaze up at him. Shoto has a smile on his face, tearstains running down his cheeks.

"Shoto, you-" "You made me fall in love with you, too," he murmurs, a soft huff of a laugh accompanying his words. A smile breaks out on your face as you lean into him, your hands coming up gently to brush the tears off of his delicate cheekbones.

Shoto leans into your touch as he explains, "From the moment Storm saw me, he has seen me as a threat. Dragons are much more emotionally intelligent than they let on. He always has known that I-"

And then his voice catches in his throat. Your heart swells at the emotion you hear in his voice, but you don't stop him. Shoto clears his throat as his hand works its way into your hair, "Storm has always known that I love you."

"Shoto, I am so deeply in love with you," you rush out as you lean into him, "I just never thought you would-" "I always have," he cuts you off, his voice rough and meaningful.

Shoto is looking at you like you hung the moon and stars, but as his gaze locks onto your (colored) one, it dips a little lower. Before you know it, your nose is brushing his, Shoto's breath hot on your face.

Butterflies rekindle in your stomach as you lean into him even more. Shoto is no better, his mind is only focused on you, and how badly he wants to kiss you.

Just as your lips start to graze his, there's a knock at the door. Shoto pulls back a few inches and you hear him whisper under his breath, "Fuck."

The curse word coming from your best friend, no, lover, draws a laugh from you, but you can't blame him. You had been dreaming of this moment for years. Then, a pang of nervousness washes over you as you realize - it's probably Enji Todoroki at the door.

"Fuck indeed," you whisper back as you look up at Shoto. Shoto, who is still very much shirtless and in wet clothes. You, who is still dressed in your drenched clothes, pinned against the wall.

You swallow deeply and say, "It's alright, I'll go check the door. I can say you're getting changed in my room. I'm pretty sure there's a spare set of clothes in there."

Shoto nods and begins to pull away, but something changes in his gaze, and he leans back in to press a soft kiss to your forehead. It's not what you had been expecting or wanting, but nonetheless, it makes your heart rate skyrocket again.

Shoto chuckles at the way your brain stalls, and he backs away into your room as you sway against the wall. Another knock sounds out from the front door and you call, "C-coming!"

You can hear another laugh come from Shoto at the waver in your voice. Damn Shoto, now he knows the effect he has on me. Your legs are wobbly as you walk up to your door, and you have to give yourself false confidence as you prepare to face Shoto's father.

You swing the door open and are met with silence. Confusion floods over you as you look to the left and right of your door, and there is no one present.

A frown etches its way onto your features as you call out, "Hello? Anyone there?" A moment later, loud scuffling sounds ring out from your roof, and then, Storm jumps onto the ground outside of your front door.

The large grey Scauldron holds his head low, a solemn look on his face. You let a sigh out of your nose as you look at your dragon, who was bearing the look of a kicked dog.

"Alright, Storm. I get it now. You were jealous because I didn't have eyes just for you. Come here, big boy," you say, opening your arms to his head. Storm swings his long neck and head over to you, cuddling into your frame in apology for his actions.

You hear footsteps behind you, and when you pull away from Storm, you are met with a freshly dressed Shoto. The red and white-haired man looks between you and the dragon, initially with distrust on his porcelain features, but then he gets a good look at your face.

You nod your head toward Storm as if to say, See? It's over now. Shoto slowly walks up behind you, offering his hand out to Storm in a friendly manner. Storm pulls away from you, looking at Shoto in a similar distrust.

I'm not letting this happen again, you think to yourself as you cut in, "Storm, stop it." The dragon turns to look at you, and you take a step closer to Shoto, taking his hand in your own.

"Storm, you are my only dragon," you tell him, and then you glance at Shoto with a smile and say, "But Shoto is my only person. You have to accept that he will be in my life."

Storm stares at you for a second before letting a low roar and breath out. He lowers his head to the ground again, pressing his large skull against Shoto's outstretched hand.

Both you and Shoto can't stop the electric smiles on your faces as Storm pulls away, kindly. The dragon turns to walk away, his wings spreading out on either side. In a couple of large, dramatic flaps, Storm heads back toward the village.

Shoto watches your gaze follow Storm until he disappears, tightening his grip on your hand. "Y/n/n, I think it's time you get changed. I don't want you to get sick because of me."

You turn to look at Shoto, and with a sly grin, you mumble, "But at least I'll have you if I get sick, right?" Shoto shakes his head with a smile but replies, "You'll have me regardless if you get sick."

He then gets shy for a moment as he says quieter, "That is, if you'll have me." You squeeze his hand before letting it go, and you see a moment of panic flash across Shoto's face.

But you wrap your arms around his neck, your fingers threading through the drying locks at the base of his head, finding the damp braids on his nape. You smile up at him gently as you lean into him slowly, "You made me fall in love with you, Shoto. I will have you in whatever ways you give me."

And that was enough incentive for him. One of Shoto's hands finds its place on your jaw, while the other grabs at your waist. The clothes are damp under his touch, but he doesn't seem to mind.

Shoto tilts your head back, moving quickly at first, his mouth chasing yours. But just as his lips go to brush over yours, he slows down. His nose brushes against yours, and a shaky breath falls from your mouth as you await his kiss.

Shoto lets out a sigh, "I will have you in every way, but you need to get in dry clothes first. I have waited my whole life to kiss you, I can wait a few more moments."

A groan builds up in your throat, but you comply, pulling away from him slowly and starting toward your house. You turn and look over your shoulder, calling out, "Shoto Todoroki, you will be the death of me."

Shoto smirks and faces you, calling back, "And befriending your dragon will be the death of me."

-The End-

[datura-tea]

some ulysses facts

ulysses is not the name he was born with; he named himself after ulysses s. grant

he's from the twisted hairs, a tribe that was forcibly assimilated into the legion after vulpes inculta "pacified" them at dry wells. their history and culture were erased, and some of their people were crucified along interstate 40. the rest were broken, brainwashed, and absorbed into the legion

he rose through the ranks of the meritocratic legion slave army, becoming a frumentarius who worked as an undercover courier for caesar

he was one of the scouts who scouted the hoover dam for the legion

he was walking the wastes when he found the community that would become the divide; there, he found a potential home. until courier six came and delivered a package that blew it all up

in the wreckage of his potential new home, ulysses was saved by medical eyebots who saw the flag on his back and recognized it

he was sent by caesar to become an emissary to the white legs, who tried to honor him by mirroring his hair, which, unbeknown to them, was personal to him, because woven in the braids was ulysses' and his tribe's histories

he left the white legs shortly after they showed him their new hair, fashioned after him - it felt like a hollow mockery of his dead tribe

he defected from the legion after the battle at new canaan, becoming a bighorner herder at wolfhorn ranch and working and roaming he wastes as a courier

he found the big mt by tracking irregular weather patterns, and there he found father elijah and christine royce

he directed father elijah to the sierra madre, knowing elijah would find his death there

he rescued christine and nursed her back to help in a cave, learning about the brotherhood of steel from her. she gave him a recorder, which he used to create the logs that courier six would find along the divide

he spoke with the think tank asked them one question - "who are you, that do not know your history?" - and this shook them, made them remember the old world. they told him about the missiles under the divide

he went back to couriering, finding out that courier six was still alive from johnson nash - he was supposed to deliver the platinum chip but somehow knew it would be trouble, so he passed it on to courier six, hoping that the job would kill them

but discovering that courier six, the person that destroyed his new home, the person that he has been obsessing over for years, was still alive, awoke his desire for revenge against them

he made a plan to teach courier six a lesson about history - his, and theirs, together - and accountability, and how one person can make such a huge impact on the world, even unwittingly

he lured courier six to the divide, to see what they had wrought, and what he has planned

his plan: aim missiles at dry wells and the long 15, two strategic locations that would cut the throats of both the legion and the ncr. whether they launch would be up to the courier after their confrontation

he does not want to nuke the world and kill millions. only two locations that would weaken both warring armies. again, the decision to nuke these locations is up to courier six

[cocofetti]

Stayed up all last night to do my hair. Sleepy AF at school this morning but worth it! Lol

[obsessive-valentine]

just read yandere barbarian and I LOOOOVED it

he seems so gentle and caring but at the same time so rough and problematic. It's so cute! I would love to see his reaction to their darling gifting them a handmade accessory they made (like a flower crown or a necklace or even a bracelet)

Thank you SO much ❤️ he definitely is problematic and may come across stoic and heavy handed but not as much as he is loving and definitely softens considerably when he’s around his love. Fair waning-I may have rambled a bit on this one.

…

He’d falter for a moment, he’s so used to giving but never expects anything back nor thinks he wants anything back until you do gift him something. You have gotten more comfortable around him and the people of the camp, time had truly begun to heal your mental wounds, and in a moment of peace and thankfulness of the most recent gift you received you made him piece of jewellery.

…

He came back from his morning duty and entered the tent to fetch you for breakfast, his face stays poker but his posture relaxes and his stress wrinkles on his forehead lessen at the sight of you, everything you wore was gifted by him, from the clothes to the jewellery and hair pins and the shoes he got made especially for you by a fellow tribe member. “Let’s go, we got food to eat and it’s your day to feed the hens” you almost forgot about the hens while you fashioned old wire around a beautiful rock you found, the barbarian got you some jobs around the camp -all easy ones with animals- after seeing you begin to get bored.

“Wait I made you something” you rushed to stand up when he turned his back to open the tent and hold the front open for you, he dropped the fabric door again before raising a eyebrow “oh yeah what might it be?” Part of him didn’t believe you the it would be one of those jokes you love playing, til your hand shot out palm up cupping a necklace made from carefully twisted wire and string with the rock you found during one of the walks he took you on in the last camp which had a river of smoothed rocks from years of tumbling down stream.

His mouth opened you couldn’t tell if he wanted to say something or he was shocked maybe both, he took the necklace from your palms and promptly put it on, wearing it proudly over his shirt where as his others lay under. He wordlessly took you into a hug and kissed your cheek “it’s beautiful my love, it’s priceless, thank you” he whispered into your ear as his rough hands gripped your sides. He pulled back grinning with pride and maybe a slightly bigger soft spot in his heart for you.

He promises to give you a couple dozen more gifts to maybe come close to amounting how much this means to him. He wears it everywhere even the battle field, it’s his good luck charm and when it wears thin he spends hours twisting wire and thread onto to strengthen it so it will last him his life time.

[scriberye]

🔞 For Glory: Leman Russ

───────────────────────────────── LEMAN RUSS x F!OC ⚠️🔞 Rough Sex, Cunnilingus, Predator/Prey, Mild Violence Leman Russ goes on a mating hunt. a/n: ástarpungur literally means 'love' + 'ballsack'. It's both a dessert and something you can call a male partner.

Under the light of the moon, Leman Russ prowled through an icy forest. His breath steamed in the frigid air. He heard every crack of ice, and the distant calls of beasts that roamed Fenris, but it was not what he hunted tonight, but a far more elusive prey — a mate.

A huntress from a smaller tribe. Rumors spread like wildfire of her skill, eventually reaching his ears. It was thanks to her that her people survived this long, or else they’d have died off long ago. And she had eluded Russ for days now. Every time he thought he had her, she would escape, leaving him empty-handed. It both infuriated and intrigued him.

Russ paused amongst the trees and inhaled deeply, the chill burning his lungs, and he caught her scent — delicate and sweet, mingled with the musk of sweat and arousal. His cock throbbed painfully. This mating hunt would end tonight.

With a growl, he pressed on, following the lingering trail she left. He knew she was near; the scent was fresh. The wind shifted, and he caught her scent again, stronger this time, and he turned toward it, moving quickly and as quietly as he could. Patience was the key, he learned. A figure moved ahead of him, and every sense came alive, alight with the thrill of the hunt. Russ gave chase. The towering trees covered in snow blurred around him, his attention focused solely on his prey.

He could hear her heart racing.

Branches whipped past as he barreled through, closing the gap between them.

Then she was gone.

Russ skidded to a stop, snarling as he searched the area. He moved slowly, a predator circling around a large tree as he pushed his senses. Her footprints stopped here. A branch creaked, and powdery snow drifted down in front of him. Russ jerked his head back and looked up just in time to be blinded by a snowball to the face. The icy shock made him sputter, shaking his head furiously.

Her laughter filled the air, echoing through the forest. She stood overhead, balanced on a branch, her eyes alight with mischief. The moonlight danced off her hair, tied back into braids to keep it from her face.

“Well, well, ástarpungur! We finally meet!” she called to him. “You seem a bit blue tonight, but it’s a bit hard to tell from up here.” She squinted, forming a circle with her fingers and holding it up to her eye like a spyglass.

Russ let out a deep and wild laugh. Oh, he liked her spirit! He grabbed his crotch and grinned up at her. “I’ve got your ástarpungur right here!” he roared as he squeezed himself, a brief relief for his straining erection. “Come down and I’ll let you try some!”

“A tempting offer,” she purred.

Her scent hit him anew, heady and intoxicating — primal and her arousal was unmistakable now. Russ inhaled deeply, eyes briefly closing as he savored the smell. She called to him and the beast in him answered. His eyes snapped opened, darkened with desire.

“Come, little huntress,” he licked his lips, his voice thick with need. “I intend to make you mine.”

Without warning, she leapt from the tree. Her hunting knife flashed in the moon’s light as she crashed into him. Russ reacted instinctively, effortlessly catching her mid-air and pinning her to his chest. She struggled against him, twisting and turning as she tried to break free, hissing like a feral cat. Russ held firm, unphased when the blade swiped dangerously close to his neck.

“Yield,” he growled.

It only made her resist all the more. Then, slowly, she gave in, her energy drained. His grip on her loosened, and in one smooth motion, he threw her over his shoulder with a triumphant grin. She gasped, more surprised than anything else. Russ carried her through the forest and to the cave he had been camping out in for these past few days.

The cave was a sanctuary. A fire roared brightly inside, safe and sheltered from the snow, filling the cave with warmth. The aroma of roasted meat lingered in the air, mixed with the distinctive masculine smell of Leman Russ.

Furs were spread out over the ground, forming a cozy nest over the stone and dirt.

He set her down on the furs by the fire. As the heat seeped into their bones, chasing away the chill of the Fenrisian night, they undressed. It was a mating hunt, and they both knew what was to come at this point.

Russ shed his armor, piece by piece, setting aside the battle-worn and scarred ceramite, revealing the black body suit beneath. He peeled it from his skin, revealing the powerful physique beneath and the myriad of scars that etched his skin.

She watched him, her eyes tracing the contours of his form, her cheeks burned. He was impressive to behold, and it made her clench her thighs together. By the end of the night, he would be hers, as much as she would be his.

“See something you like?” he asked. His grin was broad, the fire’s light glinting off sharp canines. Caught, she looked away with an embarrassed huff, shifting her focus back to undressing herself.

Russ laughed and moved to stand behind her. “Let me help,” he offered. He took hold of the hem of her tunic and lifted it up and over her head. She shivered, her bare skin exposed to the cool air. She resisted the urge to cover her breasts with her arms.

“Last chance, little huntress,” Russ murmured, his large hands settling at her waist. He leaned low, pressing his lips against her throat. “Speak now, and I’ll let you go.”

Her eyelashes fluttered, and she turned to face him, her hand coming to rest against the fine hairs on his chest. “Your hunt was successful. I’m yours to take.”

Russ captured her lips in a fierce kiss, chasing after her as she sank down onto the furs and laid back.

Rough, calloused hands gripped her legs and spread them wide, exposing her most intimate part to his hungry gaze. And Russ wasted no time diving in, lapping at her folds like a man starved. He’d been craving her for days. His coarse bread scratched at her skin, and she gasped.

She shuddered and arched her back, offering more of herself to him. His tongue flicked out, tracing over her slit before delving between to tease her clit. He circled the swollen nub with his tongue, before pulling back to flick his tongue over it.

“O-Oh! Leman!” she gasped, breathless, reaching down to grab fistfuls of his hair and grind her hips against his face.

He groaned, muffling a laugh against her. He slipped a finger into her, curling it, seeking a spot that he knew would make her wild. And he knew he found it when she squealed and kicked a heel into his back.

“Fuck, don’t stop,” she begged. And Russ was all too happy to oblige her. He increased his pace, his tongue flicking over her clit, thrusting his finger in and out of her wet cunt. It was too much, and she screamed, her body convulsing and tensing as she soaked his tongue with her orgasm.

Russ pulled away and looked her over, licking her taste from his lips. She was beautiful, laying back against his furs, sweaty and satisfied — and all his now. He gripped her hips and flipped her over onto her stomach. She laughed breathlessly and raised her hips, swinging them tantalizing at him.

“Oh, you’ve teased me enough, elskan mín.” Russ’s lips curled into a grin as he hovered over her, braced on his hands and knees, engulfing her much smaller form. He rocked his hips forward, his thick, swollen cock slipping against her folds before she reached between them, lining him up with her cunt.

“Good girl,” he groaned, sinking himself into her until no more could fit. His cock stretched her to the brink, and he held still for a moment, giving her time to adjust to his considerable size before pulling back and thrusting back into her with a wet squelch.

This time she was ready, and she moaned, raising her hips to meet him, silently urging him on. And that was all Russ needed to let himself go. With a feral growl, he fucked her like a wild beast in heat. He pounded his cock into her with unrelenting force.

Her breath came out in bouncing, shallow gasps with each deep, piercing thrust, echoing off the walls of the cave. She screams his name and dug her fingers into his wrists, thrusting back against him with an equal desperation.

Russ pressed down over her, leaning forward onto his forearm and reached beneath them. He squeezed her breasts before sliding down between her legs, pressing his fingers against her clit and rubbing it in tight, rapid circles. It was enough to push her over the edge and she came with a hoarse scream, her body quivering.

The flutter of her cunt around his cock was enough to send him as well. With a loud, feral roar, he thrust into her with one last, vicious thrust. The head of his cock pressed deep as he pulsed inside of her, filling her with his cum.

With a satisfied sigh, she slid off his cock and settled onto the furs beneath, shifting uncomfortably as a gush of cum leaked out of her used cunt. “That was amazing,” she said with a grin, looking up at him. Russ smiled back, his eyes filled with pride and lust. He laid on his side beside her, running his hand over her back until he reached her rear and squeezed.

“Good,” he lowered himself down and pressed a kiss to her lips. “Rest, the night is still young and you’ll need your strength.”

She returned the kiss happily and snuggled close, feeling content and safe. Russ wrapped her up in his arms, content for now to hold her and bask in the afterglow of their lovemaking.