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beskarandblasters · 6 months

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Tell me how it’s lookin’, babe

Din Djarin x F!Reader

Main Masterlist | Din Djarin Masterlist

Author’s note: Thank you to @planet-marz1 for sending the discord this image because that’s what inspired all this 😵‍💫 Gifs are by @bestintheparsec and banners + dividers are by @saradika 🖤

Summary: You see Din in just his flight suit and don’t know how to act.

Word count: 1.5k

Warnings: reader is able-bodied, canon divergent, helmet stays on, porn with little plot, pet names (cyar’ika for you, baby for Din), tattooed!Din, shy!Din, uncircumcised!Din, body worship, oral sex (M receiving), vaginal sex, unprotected sex, creampie, half ass editing 😔, no use of y/n

It’s been another long, exhausting day. All you can think about is peeling your clothes off your sweaty body and crawling into Din’s bunk… And dumping the sand out of your boots. Maker, you really don’t care for Tatooine.

The walk across the desert is laborious, but soon enough the Razor Crest appears in the distance, like a mirage before your eyes. You pick up the pace, anxious to feel some air conditioning already. Before you know it Din’s lowering the exit ramp and you’re back inside the cool metal interior of the Crest. You slip off your boots and leave them by the door before heading to the bunk. You don’t hesitate to shed layers of clothes as you walk, tossing them into a pile on the floor at the foot of the cot. It’s nothing new for Din, he’s seen you naked countless times now. But you look over at him, leaning in the door frame by the bunk, and covered in layer after layer…

“You’re not… hot?” you ask him.

“…What do you mean?”

“Like sweaty, Din.”

“Oh… Yes.”

“You don’t ever wanna take all that off? Not the helmet of course. But even just the armor?”

“I guess I could.”

“Only if you’re comfortable,” you reassure him, taking a step closer to him and placing your hand on the hollow part of his helmet. He rests his hand on top of yours and says, “I am.”

You nod, looking deep into the T-shaped visor and take a step back so he can start to remove his armor, his weapons, and his cape. It’s methodical and meticulous the way he does it, each piece carefully removed and placed into a small pile on the floor.

And now he’s standing before you, wearing only his boots and his flight suit. He looks hot in his armor, there’s no question about that. But now that he’s just in his flight suit you can see his form so much better; his biceps, his chest, his thighs, everything. You’re fully staring at him, mouth agape and eyes full of lust and admiration. He’s all yours.

“Cyar’ika?” he says, breaking your trance.

“Hm?”

“What are you looking at?”

“You.”

You hear his breath hitch under the helmet. You take a step closer again and run your hands along the fabric of the flight suit. His visor follows the movement of your hand, running along his chest and down his arms. You look down and there’s a bulge growing in his flight suit.

“How do I look?” he says softly.

“So kriffing good, Din.”

“Really?”

“Of course you do,” you respond, moving your hand down to his groin. He lets out a strained “cyar’ika” as you palm his cock over his flight suit.

“Feel like shedding another layer?” you ask with a grin.

“You want to see me like that?”

“Baby, I’ve been dreaming about it.”

“You mean that?”

“Mhm,” you say, feeling the wetness grow between your legs.

“I guess I could take it off.”

“Only if you want to,” you reassure him, meeting his gaze again.

“I’m sure,” he says with a small nod.

He takes off his gloves, tossing them by the pile of beskar the corner before slipping off his boots. You follow the movement of his hands, realizing this is the first of his skin you’re seeing other than his cock. His hands are calloused, peppered with small scars from years of training, fighting, and bounty hunting.

And now it’s time for the flight suit to come off. He takes a deep breath and unzips it, stepping out of it and again tossing it by the pile of armor in the corner. His cock springs free as he releases it from the fabric, hard and sticking straight out. His whole figure is broad, his limbs toned and muscular. There’s more scars like the ones on his hands. Some are smaller and paler in color. Some are deeper, their edges more irregular. He’s got some beauty marks as well, each of them scattered about in his chest and arms, down to his legs. On his left bicep he has a tattoo, a simple black ring encircling his upper arm. It suits him well. He’s just beautiful, every feature of his telling a part of his history. And you’d like to know more.

You’ve had thoughts in the past that seeing Din completely naked with just his helmet on might be a weird sight, but now that it’s here in front of you it just feels right; a sliver of intimacy you and only you will ever know, even if you can’t see his face.

“Din… you’re beautiful,” you say, hands immediately gravitating to his sides.

“You don’t mean that.”

“Oh but I do,” you say, one hand roaming up his torso and to his chest, while the other moves down to his cock.

He says nothing, his visor fixed on your hand stroking his cock.

“Let me show you,” you say softly.

You sink to your knees and kiss along his groin. He lets out a soft groan every time you inch closer to his cock. You bring a hand to his balls and cup them lightly before finally swirling your tongue around the head of his cock, sliding it underneath the foreskin to draw a sharper moan from him. He curses under his breath and runs a hand through your hair, desperate for more.

And finally, you give it to him, taking his length in your mouth. The grip on your hair tightens as you bob your head up and down, all while you’re still cupping his balls. You look up at him, making eye contact with his visor as you suck him off. All of a sudden his balls tighten up in your hand and his cock twitches in your mouth. He’s going to cum soon but you’re not ready for that just yet. You pull your mouth away much to his chagrin as he lets out a soft whimper when you do.

“On the cot, baby,” you say, wiping the drool dripping from your chin.

He lies down on the cot and you move to straddle him, his cock glistening with his pre cum and your spit resting by your cunt. He brings a hand to your entrance, stroking it up and down with his fingers and spreading around your wetness. His fingers circle around your clit, working you up and making you more anxious to sit on it already. And eventually, you just can’t take it anymore.

You move his hand away, pinning it up by his helmet while you inch forward and sink down onto his cock. You’ve ridden him before but now you get to rest his hands on his bare chest for once. And you do, the warmth of his skin radiating against your palms as you rock your hips back and forth. His hands move to your waist, giving the skin a soft squeeze while you drive his cock deeper inside you.

“Kriff, cyar’ika,” he curses, coming out as a moan.

“Mmm, you feel so good. Kriff, you look so good, Din,” you respond, tears stinging your vision as you look into his visor. It’s hard to stay fixed on his visor for long, though. Your eyes want to roam his body. They keep gravitating towards the tattoo on his bicep.

“And when did you get this?” you ask, fingers grazing the tattooed skin.

“A long time ago. You like it?”

“Mhm. Maybe you should get more.”

“Oh, yeah? You’d like that?”

“I’d love that.”

Kriff, now you’re thinking of Din with more tattoos and your mind starts going hazey at the thought. You grind your hips against him, feeling the wetness seep out of you and down his shaft, soaking his groin. The small bunk is filled with the obscene noises of skin colliding with skin and the wet sound of his cock moving in and out of you.

Soon enough, you’re at the edge of orgasm thanks to Din’s cock hitting all the deepest angles inside you, the sight of his bare body beneath yours and the thought of him with tattoos.

“Din, I’m gonna cum,” you whimper.

“Mm, let me feel it, cyar’ika.”

A tingling sensation originates at your core and spreads outwards. The movement of your hips grow erratic as you ride out your high, the pool of wetness beneath you growing bigger as you cum. Your own orgasm triggers Din’s and soon you’re both coming together. His cum spills inside you and his grip on your waist tightens as he moans your name.

But now you’re resting against his chest, his cock still inside you and starting to go soft. Your bodies are slick with sweat as you catch your breath. You whisper beside his helmet, “You should get naked more often.”

“I bet you’d like that.”

“Oh come on, you know I would.”

He chuckles, “I know, cyar’ika. I know.”

He rubs your back and soon enough you’re both falling asleep, letting the exhaustion from the day and the evening’s activities finally get to you. You could spend the rest of your days like this.

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#din djarin smut #din djarin x reader #din djarin x f!reader #din djarin x you #din djarin one shot #din djarin #the mandalorian #the mandalorian fanfiction #din djarin fanfiction #star wars fanfiction #starwarsficnetwork #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #pedrostories

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octuscle · 3 months

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Now open under new management (remake)

Edward Parker III rolled down the car window a crack. Peter, his driver, had switched off the air conditioning to save fuel. The fuel gauge was practically at 0.00. Here, in the middle of nowhere, they had no mobile network. The last Google message said that a petrol station would appear at some point. And Peter claimed that it should open in five minutes. Open from 10:40 am. Strange opening times. Edward's stomach grumbled. Something had gone wrong at breakfast. The car desperately needed a gas pump. And he needed a toilet just as badly. Then, like an oasis in the desert, a building appeared in the middle of endless cornfields and pastures full of stupidly staring cattle. It was 10:39:50 a.m. when Peter steered the car into the dusty gas station with the last drop of gas. At 10:40 sharp, Edward yanked open the car door and jumped out. And the moment his spotless Oxfords touched the ground, the neon sign flashed. Open!

Edward ran towards the little store where the neon sign was shining. He was far too intent on not wetting his pants to notice the leather soles of his shoes turning into a firm rubber tread. When he pushed the door handle down, he got something like an electric shock. He didn't care. The store was empty. His palm became calloused. His fingernails were black. There was a door at the back labeled "Private". Hopefully there was a toilet there. Thank God the door was open. And thank God there was a toilet. In the middle of a room full of tools, car tires and packages. It stank miserably. But Edward didn't care at all. He had already undone his belt while running, unzipped his trousers, pulled them down and dropped onto the dirty toilet seat at the last moment. And he had to shit like never before in his life. The stench was overwhelming. But the relief was immense. Edward finally relaxed again. But only for a second. Then his eyes fell on the dirty biker boots. They contained a pair of completely filthy jeans, pulled down as far as they would go. And what was even more irritating: his right hand was the hand of a construction worker, the sleeve of his shirt had disappeared. And the fabric of the right sleeve of his jacket was also coming undone. And on his chest and back, the color changed from a navy blue to a washed-out red. What the hell was going on here?

Even greater than the panic was the disgust at the stench. His left hand, still freshly manicured, reached for the toilet flush. And again he was hit by an electric shock. Panicked, he watched as his fingernails became dirty and his hand calloused. Edward's gaze fell between his legs. That wasn't his circumcised, shaved penis. That was a cheesy, hairy cock. Much bigger than it normally was. Edward had to get out of here! He hastily wiped his ass. A tight, hairy ass, sitting there on a familiar toilet seat. A man needs a good place to shit. Hehehe, this was a good place to shit. Stumbling, Edward stood up, his head spinning. He looked in the mirror. That was still his head. But the rest of him? His stiff white collar and tie knot vanished into thin air, revealing a well-toned chest. The last remnants of the finest navy blue wool on his upper left arm disappeared, and the transformation of his jacket into a washed-out and worn-out tank top was complete. I look like a fucking hillbilly, were his last thoughts before he grew a scruffy three-day fuzzy beard. His $100 haircut became a home-cut mullet. Damn, the greasy hair hadn't been washed in a while.

Loud honking from outside. "Damn, I've taken a shit! Can't you wait?" Edward shouted. He wiped his hands on the dirty cloth stuck in his pants. Washing hands was for sissies in the city. He entered the yard of his gas station.

Hehehe, he knew the dirty truck that was parked there at the gas pump. "Pete's services of all kinds" was written on the door. And Pete Jr. was hanging in the cab with a visible bulge. "Eddy, don't you always promise the best service at your gas station?" said Pete with a grin. Ed spat out the chewing tobacco and licked his lips. "Go ahead, gas station attendant. The belt buckle won't undo itself!"

Full service and guaranteed customer satisfaction. That's what Ed's gas station was famous for.

#male tf #muscle tf #reality change #male transformation #muscle transformation #redneck tf #age reduction #white to blue collar tf #ai image #mullet

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valmare · 9 months

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When Hell Comes, part 1 • Doc Holliday x Reader

Series warnings: attempted rape, time travel AU, swears, smut

Word count: 6k+

Part 2

Do I know what this is? Not entirely. This idea has been racing through my head like a thoroughbred, so I decided to tackle it. Stupid long, I'm planning a Part 2 because Doc didn't creep in here nearly as much as I wanted him to, so, next time 'round, for sure. moodboard by the lovely @your-local-crzy-lady

When Hell Comes, Part 1

Arizona wilderness courses by in a blur of gold and blue, the line where the horizon meets the sky nothing but a wash of shimmering heat and speed. Hell has come to this desert it’s so hot, the devil himself a stone’s throw of a few yards behind you.

Dry, sinful heat licks at your face. Stings your eyes as the animal beneath you shoots through the sand like time itself is running out, the horizon beyond the only salvation. The bones in your chest rattle every time hooves thunder against the ground, and you hit the saddle hard every heartbeat or so, th-thunk th-thunk, th-thunk.

Feels like you’ve been flying forever, outrunning the shadow of Tombstone that lurks behind you like a vision of death and despair. It’s maybe only been a few handful of minutes, but time is an illusion. Survival has spiked your blood with adrenaline, though the chill across your skin rattles your teeth, a wash of goosebumps the only evidence that you are, in fact, more alive than you feel.

Reins in your hand are slick. Either with the sweat of your palms, or the well-oiled love of attention, you’re not sure which. And your legs burn as if they’ve been simmering in venom. Muscles could, at any given moment, detach from your legs and hit the dust beneath Viper’s ground-moving hooves.

The first shot explodes from a pistol, filling daylight between you and the Cowboys. Zips past you to what you assume is your left, but you wouldn’t know regardless. It rips a shriek of panic from the back of your throat that could cut glass—they are shooting at you.

Moments before, in the sands beyond this wilderness they’d been coming onto you—and now they were drawing iron. Unbelievable.

Terror spikes up into the back of your neck like a tomcat, claws bared against your flesh.

You duck forward in the saddle, hoping it’s enough to make a smaller target. It’s difficult, being low over the horn that’s cutting up into your ribs every time Viper’s hooves find the earth. Your core is on fire with the effort to stay balanced. Stay in the saddle. White-knuckling the reins like they are a lifeline, you can feel Viper’s tense mouth—it ripples through the animal like water.

What you wouldn’t give for a cell phone right now, any sign of life in this wilderness. But reality digs between your ribs like a starving wolf—you remember where you are. How’d you arrived here, two weeks ago, like something from Dickens or Verne or a Disney epic.

It still didn’t make sense, but nothing had since being thrown back in time nearly hundred and fifty years. Tended to throw a wrench in things, even though wrenches hadn’t been invented yet.

Unappreciative of the added pressure in your hands, Viper snorts roughly; you feel it in the depths of his chest. Out of habit your hands relax, instead mix with the flow of his thick, sweat-slick mane for stability, the leathers now rubbing searing blisters in the webbing of your thumbs. Every ounce of upper body strength funnels into gripping the stallion’s thick locks, your shoulders burn with the hot buzz of muscular effort.

You haven’t ever ridden this hard, Viper has never carried you this hard.

Viper isn’t conditioned for this. Arizona heat coupled with your body mass is not promising for the horse. He isn’t a horse of 1881 western America—he is a horse of the modern world. Grains and air conditioned trailers, not trail broke and tack-fed is the life Viper knows.

His breed shouldn’t be anywhere near the desert, something Wyatt had so aptly noticed when you’d stumbled into town after two days of barely surviving the shrub and desolace of the Arizona wilds.

Another cruel joke in the twisted deck fate has dealt you.

Getting home is the goal, getting out of Arizona is the reality. But there’s nothing to bet on, no bluffs to call. No moves to make. This is a game of another kind, entirely.

Nobody in the history of the known universe has seen what you’ve seen, felt the jolt of time passing through your blood. You, and Viper, are the only known bodies in the universe that have even been wretched through the wormhole. And you hope you’ll be last—you wouldn’t wish this on any one.

Another shot pops off behind you, this time hitting the dirt to your right. Closer, too close and Viper knows it—he locks up, skidding to a stop through the thick, searing sands of the wilderness to throw back in a hard rear. You hear the party behind you, hooves of their animals barraging the earth like a volley of gunfire, their hoops and hollers ringing hollow off your ribs.

“Th’r she is, boys—get up there and get ‘er off that sonuvabitch!” You don’t have to see him to know who it is.

Curly will haunt your dreams for the rest of your living days, if there are any after today. Ringo alongside him. Together their cold fingers spin through your fear, like bloodthirsty dogs lapping at whatever show of terror you’ll throw their way. Wolves that lay at the door, haunting Arizona lines.

And it isn’t just you—everyone respects the presence of the Cowboys. Well, rather everyone fears them. They’re unpredictable, like snakes. Jumping any which way they please, nearly without warning.

They’d killed Frank, the sweet sheriff who’d opened his home to you. Word had it that one of them had offed Fabian, too. The beautiful actor who’d blown in with the winds of change that sweet soul Josephine Marcus had ushered in. They’d enraptured the entire living populace of Tombstone in their short time—they’d listened to you. In ways that only people of interest and compassion would.

The red sash has been a thorn in your side since arriving in Tombstone—more interested in Viper, having never seen anything like him before. Less interested in you, until.

Well, that was it. Until.

Until he had made a show of you in front of the entire casino. An object, a trinket of fanciful display—Holliday’s sweet little nothing that made his eyes blaze and your face light up like the fourth of damn July.

They’d seen. Ringo had seen, Curly had seen—the entire damn Cowboy posse had seen. And, like all men of this century, they lusted over what wasn’t theirs. One weak moment beneath Doc Holliday’s enchantment and you’d shown your entire hand, cards down and heart ripped wide open for anyone and everyone to study. Then it tasted sweet, like wine. Ended up a sour poison.

Poison currently rotting a hole through your gut.

Front legs cutting through the air as he launches back, Viper releases a shrill, blood-chilling cry that shakes his entire frame. You feel it into the fiber of every muscle as you white knuckle the horn, legs locked around his barrel in an effort to keep yourself up. Eyes pinched closed, every one of their horse’s hooves hitting the earth race up your spine, rattle off at the base of your neck as they get closer.

Sour bile jumps up the back of your throat as Viper starts beneath you, ripped with nervous energy and on the hair trigger of flight. God he’s never been this skittish. Unpredictable. He rears again, and when his front legs find the earth, you kick at his sides. Attempt to launch him forward again.

“C’mon, Vipe–we gotta move!” His head pulls down sharply. Down, back—stubborn thing, he won’t move. His protest is stronger than your will, he’s got nearly two thousand pounds on you, and he plants his hooves. Stumbles back into shrubbery that makes him huff. “No, no no we can’t do this right now—Viper!” The words are bitter, panicked on your tongue. Nearly cracking.

He’s beyond argument. And for good reason—attempting to circle him, he paws at the ground. One check down his side and he’s complete foam, like someone has lathered fine suds over his chocolate coat. Feathered hair about his shine, nearly gleaming like he’s crossed the swift waters of the Colorado. Sweat ravines down his sides, carved muscle of his physique, like rivers. Fat drops rain to the earth around him, he’s hot. Lathered.

There’s nowhere to go, no way you can get him to move. He is trembling with exhaustion as he gnaws at the bit rolling about his mouth, and you really can’t tell where the animal’s fear ends and yours begins as you watch the dry cloud of dust roll in with the approaching horses.

Eyes burning with the granules of dust, your hand slides down and back, to your saddlebags—but there are none.

Virgil had warned you, but you’d been stupid. So, so so dumb.

Crescenting around you in a half moon, their animals fall into order, stepping forward to press a tight circle around Viper as your attention whips between them all, trying to keep track of the sun-leathered faces, dark eyes all bearing down like hawks.

Curly is the first to break the line, spurring his animal into a crisp trot up to you. Angling, his leg brushes yours as he comes up beside your animal, smirk twisting his sweat-slick, dripping mustache.

“Well look what we have here,” he chuckles, head bobbing with the loose effort of effervescent arrogance he’s displayed since the moment you’d been so graced with his presence, “seems that stud finally caught up with you, darlin’—figg’rd you couldn’t keep a handle on ‘im, cock an’ all. Mighty big horse for a pretty thing like yourself.”

His hands fall over one other on the horn of his saddle as he sits deep and low, brows lifted knowingly. “Will give it to ya, though—made it a ways out here. I’m more impressed than I thought to be, pretty.”

“Surprised you managed a thought at all, Curly,” you bite back, pulling back a little roughly on Viper’s mouth. Your glower is firmly planted at the man’s smirk, as if it will viscerally rip it right off his face, “Seems it didn’t last long though. What was your fine plan there, cowboy? Thought you wanted my horse—he isn’t much good shot dead in the middle of the damn desert.”

Low calls and cackles around the circle snap Curly’s attention back to Johnny Ringo, who’s tongue skips through the seam of his mouth to skate his bottom lip. His gaze diverts down to the dust, tempest of dark eyes lost beneath the brim of his hat.

Curly quells the murmurings of the group with a hellish glare.

Without warning whatsoever, his rough hand reaches across the space between his animal and yours, for the reins. You snap back and away, Viper sidestepping. Unbalanced for a brief moment, Bill catches himself in the saddle, his hard glare hitting you between the eyes with the force of a locomotive.

Not rattled for long, he gathers up his own animal at rein, comes about sharply, and before you know it the back of his hand cracks across your cheek.

The smack of skin on skin is sharp. Echoes through the blood in your ears, white hot pain zinging through your face as your hand comes to cover the sure mark he’s left across skin. It stings triumphantly, your distraction enough for him to rip Viper’s reins from your hand.

Youwatch the animal attempt to look back at you, then Curly—he’s confused by the transfer of power.

Curly’s strength and bitterness in his mouth is unfamiliar. Different.

Pulling sharply, he brings Viper under collection. Only after a few heartbeats can you hear the group of them chuckling at you, ribbing and elbowing each other knowingly.

With a sharp pull, Viper is spurred into a brisk walk as he guides up beside Ringo, you little more than a bobbing trinket in the saddle, hands on thighs and probably looking as whipped, and raw, as you feel.

“Let’s get movin’,” Curly barks to the group, face pointed southwest, not even bothering to register his group of followers, “We’ll camp southwest’a here—move on tomorrow.”

“Aint’ we gonna make tracks?” That’s Ike, though you can’t see him. His grating whine is enough to shatter the rest of your confidence as you all but feel his gaze slide down your form. “Earp and his boys’ll come lookin’ for her, Curly Bill, and I reckon—”

“You reckon shit all, Ike,” Bill snaps over his shoulder, “If Holliday wants his pretty thing back, well the sonuvabitch can come get her.” Shifting in his saddle, dark eyes glint over you. Smirk twisted in a coy, wolfish way, “Or he can try. His sorry lunger ass couldn’t make it halfway out of town before needin’ a got’damn siesta.”

The mention of Holliday makes your chest fly with living color for all of lightspeed before the sensation crashes to your knees, Curly’s brows wagging lasciviously.

Chin lifting as you rub at the mark on your face, your gaze is sharp enough to cut the pistol at his side.

“Doc is more of a man than any of you idiots put together,” you hiss at him, eyes narrowing against the sun threatening to blind you over his shoulder, “And you will rue the day you cross pistols with Holliday, Wyatt, or any of them boys. History remembers them as great men—you, well. Any of you morons—not so damn much.”

Ringo snorts beside you, shaking his head as he adjusts whatever is rolling around his craw with the tip of his tongue, “That’s right,” he draws the consonant in that dark way of his, brow crooking up knowingly, “little miss time travel’rs got it all figured out, boys. Hear that? Nobody remembers us in the future.” He cuts his horse between Curly’s and Viper, and without any warning whatsoever, his thick hand lashes out to grab you fully by the jaw.

“Ain’t that right, desert flower? Nobody remembers us, huh. Well—books and shit may not ‘member me all that well, but let me just tell you, bitch—by the time I’m finished with ya, you won’t know a word other than John Ringo.”

His slow smile claws at your soul, cold as it rips the air out of your chest with all the force of dark, testing eyes behind it, “Sweetest name I reckon I ever heard, comin’ out the mouth of a sorceress whore like you.”

Fuming, you seethe at him and rip his hand off your jaw, pulling back sharply. Cackling catcalls and low whistles bristle down your spine as the group spurs their animals into a trot, the air shaken with the movement of horse flesh and muscle. Gaze shadowed by the brim of his hat, your jaw is nearly breaking as you set it firm, unwilling to draw his attention.

You bob to a stop suddenly as he pulls up. His horse fidgets, his arm brushes against yours harder than you appreciate, the contact like an inferno on your skin.

Flinching, you consider your bare arm—it’s already pink, sure to be flaming tomorrow with a sunburn. In your fluster you hadn’t even bothered with any of the clothes Wyatt had passed to you—you’d just gone. Little more than a t-shirt and jeans, boots to carry you through the desert. How far you’d get without protection hadn’t even been a thought in the empty canoe of your brain.

Getting out of Dodge had been the only thought, Viper the answer to actually make it happen.

Touching your fingers to it, the white of pressure vanishes immediately and your eyes flutter closed at the sharp zip of pain that flares across your skin. Biting the inside of your cheek, your hand rubs over the sensation. And Ringo does notice, his eyes moving to your bare arm, canting to consider your choice of modern clothing—clothing he’s likely to have never seen.

None of them have—you’d all but dropped jaws when you’d staggered into town, Viper at reign, two weeks ago. Nobody could make heads or tales. Twenty-twenties fashion is a far cry from the elaborate gowns of yesteryear.

You notice his eyes fall to the cut of your hip, which is more than filled out in your favorite jeans. They do make you look sinful, that was the point of buying them. At least, in your world.

Now they were little more than an unwanted neon sign that called to attention the fact of your sex, your desirability. There’s one woman for every dozen men in the West, you remember hearing. And that’s never been more apparent than in the hollow, cold look of John Ringo’s face.

Shifting in the saddle, you can’t miss the rub of his fingers over his cock.

Before you know what’s happening, Ringo is bent over in his saddle, rummaging through a saddle bag. Seconds, maybe, and he’s flung a threadbare ball of something at you—it brushes your arm, falls into the cradle of your legs. Not daring to touch it, your gaze drops to it.

“Unless you wanna die’a heatstroke,” he gestures up to the sun with a nod, “no good to anybody if you're suncooked.” Snapping Viper back into compliance, his gaze pulls ahead.

Your abs are on fire the entirety of the ride southeast, low back burning as your legs buzz with hot ache from trying to keep yourself in seat.

The afternoon has been no less than torture—between the heat, the merciless ride, and the unforgiving gazes of the posse all but eye-fucking you in the saddle, you’re more than raw by the time Curly calls for dismount out in the middle of hell-all nowhere.

As if you haven’t been riding for hours, nearly starving and on a brutal pace, Curly and Ringo dismount to the ground on strong, unphased legs. Immediately setting to drop tack.

Hands numb from white-knuckling the Circle Y’s horn, you carefully release your grip. Fingers burning as you flex life back into them, Ringo drops the rein of his animal before gathering Viper’s into a short lead. The Clydesdale still hasn’t settled, foam all but cooked onto his flesh as Ringo’s hand smooths down his neck, whispering softly up into the animal’s ear.

With a snap of the reins, Viper’s head jerks up at alert, Ringo’s hot eyes cutting up to you all too quickly.

“Off,” he barks, jerking his head in a poignant way that indicates compliance. For a bleeding second you hesitate, uncertain if you can dismount without crumbling into the dirt on the gelatinous, goo-ish noodles your legs have become. But he doesn't give you a choice—”I said off!” His voice rips through the hollow of your gut as he grabs at your shirt, sharply tugging you out of the saddle.

You have no time to collect or swing off before he’s ripped you out of seat—your frame sinks off all 17 hands of Viper’s form, through the air, for all of a few seconds. Ground comes up hard, fast.

Head cracking against the dry earth, the air knocks out of you with a sharp whistle as your left side takes all of the weight of gravity—cheek roughly kissing the dirt, sand all but leaps up into your scalp as you slack into the ground. Ringo is amused, shaking his head at you as he clucks coquettishly.

Moaning, pain rings up through your arm and collarbone, slices from your hip to your ankle like a hypodermic needle through bone. Viper startles, huffing out a strong breath as he considers you, his trusted friend, in the dirt. Lifting your head to consider him, Ringo works at the latigo of your tack. Has Viper unsaddled and your thousand-plus dollar gear hitting the dirt in record time.

Before you manage to push yourself up on an elbow, thick fingers wrap through your hair and pull sharply, igniting your entire head with fresh, shooting ache that makes you shriek. White hot pain cocktails with the fear in the pit of your gut, which threatens to send up through your throat.

Clawing up at the hands tangled in your hair, spittle flies from your chapped lips as you attempt to writhe away from the effort hauling your ass through the said, “Let go of me, you disgusting cocksucker—let go of me!” Like a pig he is snorting at every attempt your body makes to snap out of his holds.

“Cocksucker? Ha! Hear that, boys? That’s’a new one—oooheee, ain’t that just sound like somethin’?” He goads you, creeping fingers cutting into the curve of your sides, attempting to brush beneath your ribcage greedily, “Head’s up—Billy! Get yer ass over her and grab her legs, fore she kicks the will out of the devil!”

Nails gouging at the hand buried in your hair, you realize it’s Ike that’s issuing orders, his comrade’s head snapping up to consider his proposition from his own animal. He drops you roughly into the dirt, your head kicking back into the crags of desert soil as Ike stares down at you, hands slung over his belt.

He licks at the spit across his chapped lips, heavy eyes dragging over you like frostbite slowly eating away at your flesh. Even fully clothed, he looks at you like you’re naked as the day you were born. Cold fingers of realization claw at the back of your head, attempt to throttle you as you can’t draw enough air into your chest beneath his gaze. Rung tight with adrenaline, fear chases through your blood, bringing new life and strength to exhausted muscle that’s flaming through every inch of you.

He drops into a crouch, nails scratching through the unshaven, slick stubble across his jaw. Crooked, infectious teeth appear through a thin, steely smile that’s meant to take you apart. It does, in all the wrong ways, and you work yourself up to crawl backwards, away from him. Any and all daylight between you and Ike will never be enough, and his eyes flick to your tits, which rise and fall with the effort of shallow, shaking breaths.

Every one of his movements are sharp and defined, like living color as Billy comes up beside him, hands lazily slung over his own belt as he stares down at you from beneath the brim of his own hat. Both of their intentions may as well be written as bright as Vegas neon across their faces, though Billy does a better job of containing himself. You swallow a thin breath when Ike palms over his cock, the quiet squeak that pops from the back of your mouth amusing them both to the point of chuckling.

Standing slowly, Ike swipes that hat off his head, passing it to Billy easily, brows lifted in the air as he considers you down in the dirt. “Think it’s some kind of bad luck to fuck a sorc’ress, Clanton?” His eyes drag over to the other man, who’s head cants to the side as he considers you on the ground.

He thinks about it for a minute, your eyes moving between the two of them. The rustle of leather and the clink of a buckle snap your gaze back to Ike, who’s already got his gunbelt, and chaps, well past still on. He wets his lips as you hustle back a few inches, fingers biting into the ground.

“You even think of touching me, and so help me God—”

“Shut yer fucking mouth!” Ike scrambles over you, stoops low, his stained fingers savagely taking you by the chin and squeezing hotly around the bone of your jaw, “You say one damn word other’n what I tell ya and I’ll cut that damn tongue right out yer damn mouth and shove it up your ass, fuckin’ whore.”

He releases you roughly before swinging from over you, ripping the hem of his shirt up and out from where it’s been tucked into his pants. Cutting Billy a look, the other man’s face is riddled with amused surprise, before he shrugs. Ike swings his belt off, moving to drop it beside his hat.

“Reckon it works the same way, sorc’ress or not,” Billy saunters up beside Ike, rubbing at his jaw before he squats and reaches for your booted foot, “And you ain’t one to worry over bad luck, Ike. Never met an unluckier sonofabitch than you.” His gaze breaks back over his shoulder to Ike, who’s glaring daggers at this cohort with enough weight that it may as well drag the sun from the sky.

You see your chance—distracted, you kick your foot up and slam the toe of your boot beneath Billy’s chin, the man howling and dropping back to his ass under its force as you writhe beyond reach, twisting in the dirt to haul yourself out of the sand. Rock and shrub and sharp sands grinds beneath your nails to the point of blood, but you can’t feel a thing except the buzzing electricity of adrenaline kicking like a mule through your veins.

Square-toed boots grinding through dust as you bolt for Viper, you barely make it to speed before someone attacks you from behind. Tackled nearly to the dirt, the arm that snags around your waist is like iron, clamping tight around your hips as the other swings home around your neck.

Tight, you can feel the constricting cut of muscle against your throat as the chuckle comes low over your ear, smelling like tobacco and whisky. You’re fairly sure your heart will launch out of your chest and to the ground beneath you at any second as you claw at the arm around your neck.

“Goin’ somewhere, desert flower?” It’s Ringo. His other hand dances over the low of your stomach, fingers dipping beneath the band of your jeans as you attempt to arch forward, away from his chest pressed hot and flush against your back.

“Anywhere that isn’t with you, you sonofa—” his hand clamps down around your mouth, and you attempt to kick your head back to break free of it. No such luck—his grip is like bronze, hard and warm, and his hand burns with the scent of gunpowder, sweat, and animal as it bites into your flesh.

His chuckle rattles around his ribs and you feel it more than you want to against your spine before his arm drops away from your throat. His arm at your hips loosens only enough for his fingers to find your belt hoops and bring you about sharply, any and all daylight that’s separated the two of you gone as he crowds you up against the side of his horse, his face merely inches from yours.

“I’ll give credit to Holliday,” he speaks in low, cold tones that feel like hot coals down the length of your spine as every fiber of your being attempts to reel back, against his horse, away from him, “good taste in women,” his tongue skates his bottom lip as his dark eyes flick down to consider your mouth, “tell me—you whore for that lunger? He tasted you with that poison mouth of his?” Face twisting with seething, dark anger, his hand shoots up from nowhere to grip your face again, his knuckles ghosting with the effort as his nails bite into the flesh of your face.

“Tell me, you cocksucker—you let Holliday part those pretty legs of yours? Fuck that tight little cunt of yours?”

That’s enough.

Wrenching out of his grip, you reel back far enough to land a sharp blow to his jaw—it isn’t enough to send Ringo reeling, but it's enough to turn his head. And within heartbeats the mark on his cheek matches the one that’s started to ache from Curly on your skin, and you offer him a sneer that curls your lips just enough to give you a flare of superior confidence.

Ringo isn’t rattled. Actually, he looks impressed as his hand smooths over the kiss of red lighting up the line of his jaw.

From nowhere, light eyes and fevered sweat cut through your mind like a dagger, for a moment separating reality with fantasy.

It’s impossible for your body to disengage Holliday’s hands at either of your hips, anchored like they’ve always belonged there. The way his heat rushes through you like wind. Enchanted is only a mild way to put it—you’d been enamored with him since he’d pulled you out of your saddle the first day Viper had wandered into Tombstone. You all but delirious, half dead.

You'd thought he was an angel.

“My, my—fortune does spring eternal. Wherevah did you come from, dahlin’? Pretty thing, blowing in on a shallow wind and tangerine skies an' all,” his chuckle had melted over you, feet finding ground, “Must be nothin’ short of heaven bound—and you’ll be closer still, if we don’t get you looked ovah.”

Lusty eyes and his arrogant smile had swiftly changed your opinion of him—he was the devil, you nothing short of temptation. In the best way, of course.

You can still feel his chest brushed up against yours, the th-thunk of his heart perfect between your ribs—the way he looks at you, crowded anywhere anyone else isn’t. Those inferno lips, sucking deep marks into your skin. Lewd, sinful. Unforgiving. With any and all strength God put into his soul he had kissed you and God, was it wildly magnificent, far more perfect than it had rights to be.

Your eyes blow wide thinking about him, knowing he isn't here. Can’t be here, won’t be here. He could be, perhaps would move heaven and earth—-if you weren’t foolish. So quick to run the hell away.

Holliday still on your tongue cracks a bolt of lightning down the length of your spine.

“Who I let ride this tight little cunt is my business,” you seethe at him, a hot smirk pulling at the corner of your mouth as his eyes track yours, discerningly, “there, Ringo—look at that. We match.” Proud at the mark on his face, your tongue skates over the bottom of your teeth.

Movement over his shoulder tracks your attention, and your eyes move to watch Curly’s feet weave a careful path to the two of you. Looking amused and smug, he rubs the cut of his hip. Deliberately.

His tongue clicks off his cheek, matter-of-factly. “Alright, Ringo boy, that’s enough,” a hand on John’s shoulder snaps him back a half step, opening up the air between the two of you. Only enough for Curly to angle in. “Had quite enough of your filthy little mouth, young lady. I suggest you play nice,” his index finger and thumb hooks your chin, tipping it up and back a little, “or I’ll feed what’s left you of you to my hogs, if anythin’.”

And before you know what happens, he clips you at the shoulder and shoves you forward, away from Ringo’s horse. You’re forced to the ground in a sitting position, Curly snapping sharp orders for you to be left alone until he gives word.

Ringo dishes out orders for camp, the men muster to duties as you attempt to will the throb of a headache out from behind your eyes.

You sit there, cross-legged and observed, trying to calm the heart kicking at your ribs. Watch as Viper is hobbled expertly into compliance, nose wriggling against whatever shrubs the desert has to offer as he investigates the night’s accommodations. Foam has all but melted off of him to the desert floor. He’s shining with sweat but has stopped heaving for air, at least.

Blinking the sweat from your eyes, Ringo drops the blanket by your side. Hesitation stops your breathe for a minute. Eyes scraping up his form, he smirks at you, shrugging a shoulder.

Dragging the back of your hand over your mouth, your fingers twist into the material. Draw it around your shoulders, bonelessly and complacent. It’s thin, tawdy, reeks to high heaven and back again. But it’s protection from the taskmaster sun hanging in the sky nonetheless.

Fortressed within the folds of the material, you can’t really say how much time slips through your fingers as red sash’s move to and fro about the makeshift camp. Bedrolls snap open, saddles are arranged for sleeping. Hard tack is passed around, booze and smokes. Horses passed handfuls of whatever trail provisions any of them have managed to pack, and much to your relief, Curly does order for Viper to receive rations.

Barely able to grip the hem of the sheet, though it may be a courtesty to call it even that, it takes herculean effort to stay awake. Aware. Alert. Because soon, every one of these Cowboys will be piss drunk and passed out, hopefully—and if you can manage consciousness, even for a while, there’s a good chance in hell you can swipe a pistol, mount up, and leave.

Once the heat of the desert acquiesces to the cool of night, stars make their way out among the canvas of black desert. Breathless sky hangs overhead and you sit motionless, staring into the twisting, licking flames of fire jutting up from the rocks and brush these idiots have gathered.

Your tongue rolls thickly through your mouth, over your bottom teeth as your toes curl and uncurl in your boots. Reminded that you’re alive, your skin is all but burning. Sweat has been chased even from beneath your clothes, but you’re slick with grime and the heat of the day as you sit, sunkissed and caked with dirt, on the desert floor.

You haven’t stopped studying Viper across the camp, who’s mingling innocently with the other horses. Standing like a behemoth among the paints and quarters of the herd.

Why Curly Bill wants him is no mystery–Viper stuns. Steals the breath from your lungs. Living color to a world that’s never seen his kind before. A glittering jewel. You’d mentioned how much he was worth to Wyatt that day in the stables and the entire town had nearly combusted—twenty eight thousand dollars was no small change, not in the 19th century.

“All the more reason to get you back where you belong, sweetheart,” Wyatt had looked at you with sympathy, rough hand clapping on your shoulder, “Helluva stud, though. Never seen someone ride nothin’ that big. Especially not a thing like you,” he’d winked at you and you’d blushed.

He didn’t let it slide. “Don’t you ever lose that color, pretty girl. You know what it does to us men? Cuts us at the knees—can’t hardly breathe when a thing like you lights up so nice.”

The corner of your mouth ticks up in an amused smirk. Wyatt is nothing short of character. Charming, enigmatic. Handsome in all the right ways, dangerous in many of the wrong ones. Walking antithesis of Doc Holliday, but they were a fine pair—a romance of opposites, apologetically friends but at distance, not much more than enemies.

Their friendship was the stuff of legend—history remembered them both fondly, and to know them? To have witnessed their revolutions around the same sun that is Arizona history?

It’s gripping, soul-changing. You’ll never be the same. knowing you.

Your throat closes a little as you pull in a slow breath, bottom lip rolling beneath your teeth for you to gnaw. Curling tighter into the blanket, your eyes close for a minute, the cool darkness immediately chasing tension from the base of your neck.

Ike and Billy’s game of cards is loud, but it fades beneath the kicking heartbeat between your ribs. Focusing on the blood in your ears, the tension rolls through muscle. Attempt to breathe—but it hurts. Locks up your chest, spins tightly through your lungs so much that the effort makes you cough.

Curling forward, your arms draw your knees as far forward as your body will allow. Head lolled to the side, your cheek rests against the muscle of your arm as you stare blearily into the serpent-like flames that bite up to the sky, smoke curling around them almost rhythmically.

Tongue skating between your lips to wet at chapped skin, you rake a hand down the length of your face in an attempt to stir life back into your veins. It does little, only ignites the hot burn on your skin. Dropping your gaze to your lap, your eyes slip closed.

And you wait.

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wilsonthemoose · 1 month

Text

and if i swallow anything evil

Sam gets taken by hunters and used as a weapon to fight demons.

Alternatively:

He thinks of it like recompense. Like he deserves it.

Set at the start of season 5.

Teen and up audiences. Demon blood, detox, withdrawals, canon-typical violence, canon-typical drinking, hallucinations

For this prompt (spoilers)

It's like the first breath of fresh air after being underground for weeks. Like the first sip of water in a desert under the midsummer sun. It's a sudden calm, like a shot of morphine, pain lifts out of each limb like it was never there, the bands of pressure around his brain disappear, his mind clears.

He never thought it would work out too well. Far enough down the path, he'd be lost, but we lie to ourselves to get by. Things work out in the end, don't you know? Haven't they always? Not really. This time though. You'll see.

He thinks of it like recompense. Like he deserves it. Like it's just. Maybe. Almost.

It's what he wanted, at the start. Kill the demons, save the hosts. Turn the curse into a blessing, make something good out of something evil. Make amends. Things work out in the end and maybe it never quite feels right, when he drinks blood, but no one said this was going to be easy.

He's learnt though. It's not what he wants now. A monster can do better but a curse is still a curse and some things are best left alone. Day late, dollar short. Timing all wrong, always.

He takes a deep breath in, closes his eyes and opens them slowly, steps through the door and into the bar, takes in the smell of blood and sweat, alcohol and smoke, leather and wood. He sees the demons, four of them, snarling, sneering, a dead man behind the bar, blood spilling out around him, seeping into the wood floor, a woman pinned against a table, hysterical, a man with knives and darts in his arms and torso, eyes closed against tears.

Reflex and instinctive hatred pull his arm up, palm held out like a shield that it isn't. It's almost thoughtless, he wants the demons dead and in twisting, writing, screaming obedience, they die.

Sam collapses to his knees with them. It's a calculated dose, the demon blood, no more and a little less than what he needs to get the job done. He could do without, usually, he thinks, he has to believe. These days, not so much.

He wakes up out of the blood warm waters of a silent nightmare that's gone before he's aware of himself, aware of the searing headache jack-hammering in his brain, the spasming hands, aching chest.

He thinks of it like recompense. Isn't that what you're supposed to do? Assign meaning to the suffering. Yes, things were difficult for a moment there, but didn't you learn so much though? He has to believe. Everything that's happened to you, hasn't it made you stronger?

He's shaking all over by the time his father walks up to his cot in the corner. Heavy black boots treading slow and precise across the floor, stopping half a pace from his nose. Sam looks at the torn leather on the tip of the right boot, one long scratch from some errant nail sticking out of the footbar of a chair, perhaps, or a friendly dog's nail cutting into the shoe as he plays. Sam doesn't know.

It takes him a while to look up at his father. John stays silent. He always knew how to wait him out. He stands at ease in a way Sam has never managed. One hand hanging by his side, the other thumb hooked through a belt loop. "How're you holding up, Sam?" he asks.

Sam chokes on a bitter laugh and raises a hand to indicate see for yourself.

His father sighs. "I'm sorry, Sam," he says.

The ground sways side to side like a raft in a storm. Sam tries to hold onto the floor, braces an arm against the wall and shuts his eyes against the vertiginous motion.

His father hands him the bucket, kneeling down to rest on a knee. Conditions are shoddy but his father has never flinched at that. Nor at much else. Sam throws up in the bucket and lies back down, clutching his cramping stomach. He'd like a sip of water, anything to soothe his throat. He coughs a little to clear his throat, then instantly regrets it, flinching at the pain. "Why're you sorry?" he asks, voice a hoarse whisper.

"I should have known you wouldn't be strong enough— smart enough, to resist."

Funny, Sam thinks, the things you regret. He twists to lie on his back and puts an arm over his head.

"I should have known, Sam." He sighs, pained. "Guess I wasn't smart enough either."

He'd like to say he gets used to it. He'd like to say it gets easier. What he'd really like to say is that he gets away. Or that he's rescued by his brother. That's how this story usually goes: one of them gets taken and the other comes in guns blazing, kicks the door down, shoots the bad guys. They run out to the car. Usually.

It's been a few months.

Dean works alone these days. He's almost honest when he says he prefers it this way. Don't examine anything too closely and it looks just fine. He leaves a voicemail or two for Sam. Gives him a vague location, coded. He doesn't hear back.

It feels like he's putting tape on a collapsing wall, climbing out onto the shaking, dead branch of a dead tree to save a dying leaf, throwing half a cup of water onto a burning building. It's no use thinking like that. If he does nothing he'll hate himself a little bit more.

The phone rings. "Dean?"

"Hey, Bobby." He rubs his eyes, looks at his watch, seven-thirty.

"Finish that job in Wichita?"

"Yes," he says before Bobby's stopped talking.

Yeah. No, I'm close. Yeah. 2 hours. Ok. Yeah.

It gives him a reason not to blow his brains out, if nothing else.

Here's what he knows: he's in an abandoned building somewhere near the coast. The place probably used to be, or was supposed to be, an apartment building. The area of the wall filled with rough cement probably used to be a window but the people holding him captive haven't done him the disservice of underestimating him and the window is gone, as is the one in the bathroom. The people who captured him are hunters, but that was a given.

They've changed location five times, they've changed vehicles three times.

By his less than reliable count, it's been over four months.

To no avail, Sam tries to tell them that he can do the job well enough without the blood. "Demon-bitch thinks we're dumb enough to get ourselves killed," they say when he brings it up. Sam tries not to dwell on the nicknames.

Lucifer doesn't let him not dwell on the nicknames.

Sam wakes up, or thinks he wakes up, in the quiet of night, and Lucifer is sitting on the floor by his head, back against the wall, knees drawn up to his chest, hands resting on his knees. As Sam becomes aware of him, he starts to talk. It's almost soothing and if Sam weren't forewarned, it might be entirely believable. "I can take you out of here Sam," he says, "It doesn't have to be like this. You don't have to suffer so much."

Sam flinched away the first time Lucifer touched him so he doesn't repeat the gesture. Stays close, but doesn't close the distance. In his weaker moments, Sam sometimes wishes he would. He misses being treated like a person.

He leans his head against the wall and looks up at the ceiling but Sam doesn't think that's what he's looking at, he suspects he's seeing the sky beyond it. Or maybe heaven. "We didn't deserve the things that were done to us, you and I," he says.

Sam turns away.

He still puts up a fight. Catches Mousy, the brown-haired one that bites his nails and smells perpetually like orange lozenges, with a hard left hook. Kicks out at the tattooed one and manages to catch him in the shin before the bag goes over his head, a punch lands hard on his nose and someone kicks him in the stomach, leaving him gasping for air through the potato-smelling bag over his head.

Dust catches in his throat and he coughs as his hands are cuffed behind his back. Then hands grab him by the arms and pull him up, push and drag him stumbling down the stairs. They lock him in the trunk and start the truck, acrid exhaust seeping through the sack and into his nose. He screws his eyes shut, head knocking against carpeted metal with the motion of the car until he loses himself.

It's bright daylight when the trunk lifts open on a scraping hinge, Mousy grabs hold of the bag and a handful of Sam's hair and yanks upward. Sam groans and ducks his head lower under the blare of the sun. The girl pinches his nose and Sam winches at the pain that shoots sharp across his face and into his brain. He keeps his mouth shut as long as he can and when he opens it to breathe, she upends a flask of blood into his mouth and clamps a hand across his face to stop him spitting it out.

He wouldn't, anymore, he doesn't think.

Warmth spreads through his aching muscles, soothing, like an embrace. He steps nimbly out of the trunk, mind clearing, focusing. His chest, aching mere seconds ago, feels light. He breathes in deep and lifts his face to the warm sun.

They're parked off the side of a road leading into a town. There's another car parked next to the truck, a 70s Buick, silver and scratched. Mousy, supporting a new shiner, Sam notices with satisfaction, is leaning over the front window talking to someone inside. Two men, Sam guesses, trying to see through the glare over the windows.

Civilian of the day is an old man, middle sixties, sitting uncomfortably on the bonnet of the Buick. The girl holds a gun to his head, casually like she's holding out an ice cream for a child. ("Insurance," they call it, "Make sure you don't bite the hands that feed you, Sammy.") He wonders if someday it won't be enough to hold him back.

He's filled with hate. He wants to kill them, all of them. He wants to rip Mousy's dirty hair out of his scalp.

The men step out of the car, grimly checking their weapons. It's routine for a hunter but something in the gesture makes Sam think they're nervous. They look at him warily. One of them, the older man, looks vaguely familiar. He quickly looks away from Sam and turns away before Sam can place him.

They look at each other in silence, the six of them, shifting uncomfortably, waiting for someone to speak. For a minute, it looks like they're going to keep loitering. Delay. Decide they're ill-prepared. Decide to come back another day. Then, like they want to get it all over with, they hoist their duffle bags, check their weapons once again, and still without a word spoken, start walking.

Crabby, the big dumb-looking one, nudges Sam in the back with his gun and he follows behind the rest of them. It's a small town, Sam can tell as soon as the first store-front appears (Gale's Grocers with a faded blue awning), suburban, the kind of place most people picture in their picket-fence dreams. It's empty. They walk past shuttered windows and parked cars, closed doors. Children should be playing in the streets.

A hip-flask full of blood when usually it's tiny sips shot into his mouth with a syringe. Sam wonders what they're in for. He looks over his shoulder at the woman walking along with the gun pointed at the old man, looking up and down the street. Worry has wiped the arrogant, disgusted look from her face for the first time since he's seen her, Sam realizes.

They see the first body in the middle of the street, crawling with flies. It looks like she's been run over from the way her chest is crushed, the angle of her broken legs, but there are no screech-marks on the road, no one tried to stop.

They stop for a few minutes there, then move on. The bodies become more frequent. There's dozens at the fire station, most burned, as if in irony. Even the flies avoid those. It's demons celebrating, Sam realizes and as he does, he becomes aware of hatred emanating from his companions. He's as culpable as any demon.

Crabby hits him hard in the back with the muzzle of his gun, making him stagger. They don't stop again. They pass the school with their faces turned the other way. It's the sort of place people would gather in an emergency and no one has the stomach to see what the demons made of them.

"Here," Sam murmurs, nodding down a street. The rest of them exchange glances and he waits for them to decide whether to trust him or not. In the end, they do.

They walk, instinctively closing together, the old man's breathing becoming laboured, whether in fear or fatigue, Sam can't tell. He gives him an apologetic look as they stop in front of the post office. Sam doesn't need to say anything, they can hear the noise for themselves, see the spilt blood, dragging scuff marks, the broken windows.

The hunters check their weapons again, compulsively. "Stay here and keep quiet." The woman tells the old man, pulling out a can of salt and drawing a circle for him in the shade.

So they're all going in, Sam thinks. It would be easy. Do nothing for just a moment too long and then it's over. It would be so easy. It's the first sin that makes you pay, the hundred others go by unthinking. Do nothing for a moment too long.

He looks at the old man trying to catch his breath. He wonders where he's from, where they found him, what arbitrary decision landed him at the mercy of these people. What door he forgot to lock, what empty parking lot he loitered in too long, what mistakes he's made. Will he live through today? And how long? A week, a month, a year? He looks down at his hands and wants to weep.

The weeks are a nauseous blur.

I'm sorry for what I've done but I wish I hadn't, and I won't do it again. It sounds like a generic, multipurpose apology. Sorry I broke the vase, mom. Sorry I let you down, sweetheart. Sorry I let the devil loose. Won't happen again, promise.

He has no way out.

The world is a blur of sounds and light, pain and nausea.

He has blood in his throat, metallic and sticky. His body aches from shaking but he can't seem to stop. Heartbeats fall like pounding feet on tarmac, jarring and fast, time stretches and bends and turns backwards, moments repeating. Sam curls up, arms braced in front of his face and prays for it all to be over.

Dean passes through town on a whim, it's not too far out of his way. He uses an attitude of casual arrogance and a fake badge (Springsteen) to pass through the roadblocks. He walks down streets littered with chalk outlines, stops at the police station to look in, then quickly ducks out when he sees a slew of suits. Too many agents, too many agencies, and the case is closed as far as his expertise goes anyway.

At the post office, he sees a policeman take a sample from a ring of salt, sees more chalk outlines, and talks to the deputy from the next county over. They think it's cult-related violence. It's been happening all over.

"You have no idea," Dean mutters. The deputy agrees about how terrible it all is and Dean's about to leave when one of the survivors, a young nervous-looking woman, comes in through the door, escorted by her mother and a couple of policemen.

Dean decides to stick around, maybe offer some consolation since the hunters who cleaned up this mess never bothered to stick around and explain to the survivors what had happened to them. He hangs back, watches the mother ask questions about when her daughter can get her belongings back from evidence, and waits for a moment alone. When they're leaving, Dean offers to escort them to the police station and they agree.

He positions himself next to the girl as they step out of the doors and into the street. He gives her a reassuring smile. Sam would be better at this but Dean's had to manage before. He starts by asking how she's doing, listens patiently to the stuttering response, then moves on to ask how much she remembers. "Officer, my daughter doesn't need to relive the whole ordeal for you," the mother intercedes.

"Of course not," Dean smiles, practiced. "Annie," he continues, "I've seen this kind of thing more often than you might think." He's rewarded with fleeting eye contact. "Those people— the ones who stopped it all—"

"I don't remember anything more," she cuts him off. "Just what I already told them. "That man came and—" she takes a shuddering breath and her step falters.

Dean grabs her elbow to steady her, then lets go as they walk on, the setting sun in their eyes. "Let me guess," he says, "He spoke something that sounded like an incantation, something in a different language?" Dean prods gently.

"What?" she stops in her tracks. The mother clucks disapprovingly at Dean. "No. Nothing— nothing like that. He didn't say anything. He just, he held his hand out and we all started screaming. And then—" she falls quiet.

The mother starts haranguing him in between soothing her daughter but Dean's not listening anymore.

"Annie— just— just one more thing," this last to the livid mother. "Tall guy? Needs a haircut?"

She nods.

He's outnumbered. There's seven of them, at least seven of them. Large, vicious, dark. Little paws scrabbling around his cot in the dark, keeping their distance, at first, then growing bolder at his feeble movements. Sam nods off and jerks awake immediately, snatching his hand back from the edge of the cot. He examines his finger for bite marks.

Strenuously, he maneuvers his leg up and pulls off a boot, holding it in his hand as a weapon he can just about wave, not swing. He fades in and out of sleep. For a while, somewhere in the night, his father comes and patrols along the edge of his cot and Sam sleeps a little better.

Dean finally manages to reach the phone the seventh time Bobby calls. He sinks down to the dirty floor, ignores the questionable stains on the carpet and slurs slow answers to Bobby's questions. "You ain't the only one with something to drink about," is the stellar advice Bobby gives him. Dean snaps the phone shut and decides he can try to make it back to bed in a few minutes.

"Why would he do this?" he asks the empty room and stares at his phone like he expects Bobby to call him back and give him an answer.

They work non-stop for a while and Sam starts to feel not quite his old self, but at least somewhat like a person again. He welcomes the break from repeated withdrawals and tries not to dwell on the fact that it means there are more and more demons around.

If he'd ever managed to keep tentative count of how many he's exorcised, he completely loses it now between rushing into buildings, breaking in through windows, driving cars into garages, being pulled to his feet and dragged back to the trunk.

Most hosts live, he reminds himself. It means something.

They change locations again, move to another state, set up at someone's abandoned farm. Sam gets a small, drafty room with creaking floorboards and a creaking bed with musty bedding. Crabby fits bars on the windows and sets up bear traps around the property. If Sam wasn't too weak to even think of running, he might take offence.

The silence is a relief, Sam finds.

Enough time passes and you'll get used to anything.

Mornings, when he's strong enough, he spends stalking the room with his boot held ready to throw but the rats don't come out in daylight. There's fewer here though and he's got a bed to keep him off the ground. He doesn't mind so much.

Bobby hears it from an old hunting buddy. In the interest of insulting them both against disappointment, Bobby keeps his tone mildly skeptical but Dean has no doubts, when he hears. The world decides to veer a little off course, spin a little faster. "It's Sam," Bobby says into the silence. "Remember the panic room?" he asks like Dean might've forgotten. "Sam can't be held" he says, "Not unless he wants to be."

Dean's skittering train of thought rams to a halt. Can't he?

And what if you're wrong?

A stab of pain in his chest wakes him and dizziness follows though he hasn't moved. His body feels like it's moving though, like it's trying not to crash. He realizes he's in the trunk again and can't remember how he got there. The last thing he remembers is the bathroom sink flying up towards his forehead. He groans.

When the trunk lifts open, he obediently opens his mouth for the blood. Mousy squints at him, shortsighted and suspicious, then tips the flask into Sam's mouth. He swallows the warm, coagulated blood. It makes him feel worse, these days. Clouds his head, makes him feel too clammy, too worked up, nerves on edge. He wants it all the same.

There is something broken in him.

It takes a few phone calls, that's all. Dean almost wishes it were harder because then there'd be something they could dress up as an excuse.

Dean drives up to the farm, parks off the driveway behind a tree, treads his way through the lawn, and breaks a window to enter the house. The noise draws a pallid, jaundiced-looking man into the hall to investigate, tuna-sandwich in hand. Dean strides forward and hits him over the head with the butt of his gun before he has a chance to react. He's out cold but Dean still checks him for weapons and finds nothing on him.

The other man is sitting by a loud police scanner and spinning his phone on the table. He never sees the mantle-piece come at him.

Dean sits down on the couch, rubs his forehead. If there were anyone else in the house, the noise would've drawn them out. There was no car so presumably the others are out— Dean was told there'd be four at least. Two less-than-spry men with no weapons on them.

Sam can't be held. Not unless he wants to be, Bobby's gruff voice taunts him and Dean buries his head in his hands. He considers leaving.

A dull thud, like something falling, makes him spring to his feet and he slowly moves into the hallway, pistol at the ready. He checks the rooms, one by one, opening each to find it empty until one doorknob refuses to twist. Dean raises his gun and kicks the door in, blinking until he adjusts to the darkness of the room, relieved only by the hall-light coming in through the door.

He's stunned to the spot and then the guilt crashes down, making him stumble forward.

Sam looks up at him, smiles bitter and faint, and puts his arm over his head.

"Sammy?" Dean grabs his jacket and shakes him, pulls his arm down from his face. His cheeks are gaunt and grey, eyes red and sunken in the sockets as if Dean's looking at a fresh corpse in a grave, tendons stand out on the backside of his hand, and he's tolerant of Dean, letting him turn and prod him, check for wounds. It unnerves him.

"C'mon, let's get you out of here," Dean tries for a comforting tone as he hauls Sam out of bed. Sam makes a noise, somewhere between confusion and pain, but doesn't resist as Dean pulls his arm over his shoulder and half carries him out of the house. "It's okay, Sam," he says, and "It's not far," and a dozen other reassurances that Sam doesn't seem to notice in the slightest but the silence is too much for Dean and he thinks if he doesn't fill it with meaningless nothings, one of them will say something real. Like perhaps don't you know who I am? Why won't you say anything?

They're near the car when Dean hears the noise behind him and whips round, letting Sam drop to the soft ground beside him, hand flying for the pistol in his belt but before he's even drawn it, there's a sound like a snap and a man screams, falling to the ground in agony. Bear-trap, Dean realizes. He picks Sam up, deposits him in the car and goes back. It takes two bullets to do the job but Dean comes back with an empty clip and the two men's wallets. He'll come back for the others later.

Sam wakes up in the Impala, warm for the first time in months. Sun shining on his face. He turns to look at Dean, offers him a faint smile, then closes his eyes.

He wishes it were real.

#Sam winchester #supernatural fic #Dean winchester #Fics tag #Finally a 2024 fic :p

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full-of-mercy · 9 months

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Cut for content: canon-typical violence with some whump for spice

The butt of a Grader is as effective a bludgeoning tool as anything else. Metal strikes skull and the crippled slaver is out like a light, spittle-slick threats silenced all at once in a stinking slump.

Nicholas wanted to kill them to a man. He could have. It would have been simple with them all clustered around their caravan and campfires, but they'd chosen their staging ground for its cover, and crossfire was too great a risk to the young lives trammeled like animals.

It was never going to be anything but messy. Human traffickers never go down easy, and they are always loaded for bear.

The dust has settled and despite traded bullets and close-quarters melee during a baited chase, nobody died. As the gunpowder smell wafts clear on the cold night air, Wolfwood finds he still wants to end the captors-turned-captives, and he cannot blame his conditioning for that.

Dangerous thinking. If it starts there, where does it stop? Will an effort to protect just make things worse, more desperate?

Vash is right, much Nicholas he hates to admit it, as much as that hate feels like a crown of thorns around the pit where his heart should be. Not about the pacifism, there was no peaceful resolution to be had.

But it is better this way. Better to have aimed for the knees and the crotches. Better to leave them with a story to tell in hushed whispers, paranoid looking over their shoulders.

He has to chew on it. On the truth. On something that resonates even as he binds limp hands into a secure hogtie. The children these slavers kidnapped didn't need to see death tonight. Not so close, and not on their behalf. They are alive, they will recover, returned to their families.

"Come get the head scumbag," he calls out to the others--he can't trust himself with keeping them alive long enough to collect the town's gratitude.

Just as he stands with a mind to help patrol and guard, he hears a crack!

Distant. Not distant.

Thundering. His ears ring, and he doesn't feel it, not at first, the overrun of adrenaline in his system a potent analgesic. Watery-limbed and sluggish, he turns to see.

See her. A little girl, she can't be ten, school clothes dirty and tattered, with a pistol in her shaking hands. It's too big for her, snub and blunt and brutal and still smoking. She had to pull the trigger with both index fingers, and the pale terror on her face pulls her expression into a rictus, a grimace, like a teary skull in the moonlight.

Nicholas drops to a knee with both palms up.

"Easy, easy," he wants to say. Tries to. But he can't. It comes out as a gurgle he can taste as gravity doubles in strength, his heartbeat speeding to cope with the crimson soaking his shirt. Lips. Chin.

It's alright, he wants to say, I understand, sometimes it's hard to tell who's here to help. He wants to. God, he wants to soothe the furious horror there, allay the panic. Fleeting thought - did I look like that? - flickers as he strains, reaching past the hole in his chest for his ampoules, the ammunition for himself.

She pulls the trigger again, reacting to a perceived threat.

Click. Click.

No bullets, couldn't cock the hammer. Nicholas falls. So does the gun. The little girl flees into the desert, and as he races against blood loss and biting cold, struggling to crack open the glass, all he can think as blackness swarms is not now, not yet, can't make her a killer.

#whump and whatnot #nico makes a great punching bag #cw: human trafficking

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revasserium · 1 year

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I'm so sorry I know you're in a Naruto mood, but childhood friends to lovers with Suga sounds so cute 😭

reqs are open :)

anatomy of a wish (or the thermodynamics of falling in love)

sugawara; sfw; 1,617 words

june, 2001

“tomorrow’s my birthday! u wanna come?”

the two of you are all of seven years old, with dreams too big for this world to handle, and bodies still small enough for the sky to seem like an endless place. he grins at you, jabbing a thumb into his chest, puffing it out like all his favorite superheroes. like this, he thinks, there’s no way she’ll say no! because the pretty girls never say no to the heroes in movies. and that’s just how things go.

“only if you tell me your birthday wish!" you say, grinning from ear to ear, watching as he struggles with the concept of telling someone else his birthday wish.

"ah... but momma said that if you tell someone a wish, then it won't come true!"

july, 2012

“nee, koushi… what’d you get for question 12?”

you’re splayed across his bedroom floor, cheek pressed against the workbook pages. there’s two bottles of fanta sitting in the space between your bodies, condensation beading on the frosted glass, their contents half drunk, the bubbles falling flatter with each passing second.

“it’s too damn hot in this stupid town… i wish it's just... cool down or something...” he says, lying on his back with his arms splayed out beside him, staring up at the lazy circles of the ceiling fan, doing absolutely nothing to cool down the tepid heat rising within the walls of his room.

“wishes don't come true just because you want them to, you know that right?” you flash him a lopsided grin and he feels his stomach backflip inside him.

august, 2002

“we’re supposed to hold hands when we cross the street!”

you bite your lips as suga grabs your tiny hand in his, your palms sticky with the summer heat, the road deserted except for the shadow of a few large crows, feasting on the remains of some long-dead roadkill. you crinkle your nose as he pulls you across the street to the convenience store, the both of you heaving a long sigh of relief as you step through the air-conditioned doors.

“kou-chan… you’re sweaty.” you blink down at your linked hands.

he hums loudly, pointing with this free hand at the on-sale tuna onigiri on the counter, and makes no effort to let you go.

september, 2012

“so, where’re you gonna apply?” you tap your pencil on the wooden desk, him leaning over the back of his chair to doodle in the margins of your notebook.

“hm? i dunno… probably somewhere close by…”

“are you… gonna keep on playing volleyball?”

his pencil pauses; so does yours.

“yeah. i-i think i am.”

you smile, your pencil resuming it’s rhythmic tap, tap, tap on the table. he doesn’t look up, but you can see the grin on his lips as he continues to shade in the stripes of a perfectly drawn volleyball.

“good. okay.”

october, 2004

at ten years old, sugawara koushi is certain he’s going to marry you.

“what kinda wedding dress do you think you’d wear?” he asks, the pair of you lying on the futon in your room, staring at the soft green glow of the stars pasted across your ceiling. once upon a time, you might've asked what wishes he would've made. but wishes are for children, and they won't come true if you tell them to someone anyway.

“mmm… something pretty.”

“well, duh.”

you make to kick him; he laughs, rolling out of your reach.

“i just meant that anything would look pretty on you!” he says, still laughing.

you sniff, feeling your cheeks warm with the weight of his words.

“you’re cheesy,” you say, unable to stop the smile from spreading across your lips.

“your moms says that girls like that kinda thing.”

november, 2013

“hey! how’s tokyo? ah — well, i guess i was just there last year for nationals — right… but miyagi is the same as ever. quiet… but it’s the nice kinda quiet, y’know? i — uhm… i miss you. i mean, all of us do — asahi and daichi too! but… i think i miss you the most. i know you’re busy with studies so it’s okay if you don’t call me back for a while but… i just wanted you to know that. we’re all good here, so don’t worry. ah — right. that’s it! let me know if you’re coming back for new years! it — it’d be nice to see you again. we... we can visit the shrine and make our new years wishes."

december, 2008

“we go to high school next year!”

you laugh as suga skips half a step in front of you, his breath puffing out in front of him in a great cloud of white.

“you applied to karasuno, right?”

he nods, his moon-kissed hair flopping excitedly about his ears.

“mhm! i watched their team play at nationals and — uwah, it was so cool!!! wait — you applied there too, right?”

you grin, raising an eyebrow, “hm… did i?”

suga pins you with a reproachful look, “it’s mean to play with a young boy’s tender emotions like that, y’know!”

you roll your eyes, “you’re full of shit, sugawara koushi.”

january, 2014

you meet at the foot of the stairs leading up to the shrine, the air is crystalline and clear.

“happy new years,” you both say at the exact same time.

a pregnant pause, and then, you fall into the laughter, the sweet, twinkling, midnight laughter, the warm, welcoming sunrise laughter. the laughter you both grew up surrounded by because you were always, always with each other and nothing has ever been so easy as falling back into this.

“know what you’re gonna wish for?” you ask.

suga grins, bumping you with his shoulder, “i’ve got an idea, you?”

you glance at him and bump him back.

“i’ve got an idea.”

february, 2009

“i got in! i can’t believe i actually got in! i’m going to the karasuno high!”

he waves an acceptance letter in your face, the morning air still cold enough to sting. but the sun is rising behind him and you smile at him like the first breath of spring. he freezes, something clunking clumsily inside his chest like a pair of sneakers tossed into a washing machine.

“you… you made it too, right?” he asks, cautiously, because there’s no way that you’re not going to the same high school as him, right?

you lilt your head to one side, your grin calcifying into something he’s always knew he loved in the space between his chest and his stomach.

“guess,” you say, sidestepping him on the sidewalk even as he nearly stumbles to follow after you.

“of course you did! i-it’d be stupid if you didn’t.”

he levels himself with you and you cast him sidelong glance, holding his gaze just long enough for him to doubt, to blush, to look away.

“it sure would be, huh.”

march, 2016

“so… education, huh?” you tuck a strand of hair behind you ear, the first buds of spring clinging to the winter-bare branches like beads of morning dew.

“yeah… i think i — i’d like to try. y’know… shaping young minds and all that.”

“hm…” you prop your cheek on the heel of your hand, “you’d make a wonderful teacher.”

silence. you sip at your lavender latte, him at his cappuccino.

“i… think i’d like kids… eventually someday.” he licks his lips, his entire body flushing with heat. he wonders if it’s a good idea to be having caffeine so late in the day but you laugh and he looks up and the smile on your face makes everything worth it.

“y’know… i think i do too.”

april, 2010

“if we win this next practice match, will you go out with me?”

he’s smiling, but you can see the corner of his eyes drawing down in that nervous tick of his, hear the way his voice trembles, ever so slightly.

“no.”

suga blinks, somewhere inside him, he thinks he hears the sound of his heart shattering into a million irreparable pieces.

“n…o?”

you shake your head, “i don’t want us to hinge on the outcome of a volleyball match.”

“then… what do you want us to hinge on?”

may, 2018

“hey, what do you want for your birthday this year?”

you walk down lantern-lit street, hand in hand, your faces illuminated by all the dancing matsuri lights.

“hmm… i’ll only tell you if you promise to say yes.”

you pause, you turn to face him and he turns to face you, and neither of you wonders if you say a wish aloud, whether it'll actually come true. of course it will, because you'll make it so, no matter if the wish was made on a falling star or a birthday candle or just in the spaces between two fated souls.

there’s an entire stampede of wild horses thundering across the plains of your heart and suga smiles like he knows exactly what you're feeling.

“okay… i’ll say yes. as a birthday present,” you say, biting down the feeling of the entire universe shifting around you, of time itself slowing down to watch this moment play out, of destiny tugging on the strings that had always conducted you both. one, and then the other, dancing, circling around just this moment.

suga takes a breath before he drops to one knee.

“marry me.”

june, 2012

“happy birthday!!! c’mon close your eyes and make a wish!”

you cheer as suga squeezes his eyes shut over his folded fingers, and then a second later, blows out eighteen multi-colored candles. everyone cheers around him, the entire volleyball team is there, and you'd all spent hours papering the locker-room ceiling in green plastic stars. but still, he only has eyes for you.

“cake! cake! cakeee!” hinata shouts, bouncing around as daichi rummages around the bakery bag for the plastic cake-cutting knife.

“what did you wish for?” you ask, bumping your shoulder against his, even as suga blushes, licking his lips with a sly little grin.

“can’t tell you.”

“why?”

(because i wished for you.)

“cause then, it won’t come true.”

#haikyuu!!#haikyuu x reader #sugawara x reader #suga x reader #sugwara koushi x reader #sugawara koushi x you #sugawara koushi scenario #sugawara koushi imagine #haikyuu imagine #haikyuu scenario #haikyuu fanfic #haikyuu x you #haiCUTIES #this... was hard to write; i won't lie im out of practice but im still pretty happy with how this turned out!#floofy floof floof #sugawara koushi

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callwesternair · 1 year

Text

Ways AC Preventative Maintenance Keeps the Repairman Away

If you’ve got an aging air conditioner, you’re probably not looking forward to the hot and humid summer days ahead. If you sweated your way through last summer and shelled out a lot of cash for repairs, you may be wondering what you can do to prevent breakdowns this summer.

Is AC preventative maintenance really worth it?

You’ve probably heard that regular AC preventative maintenance keeps your air conditioner running efficiently and can save you money on your energy bills. But is it worth the cost? And how can those service technicians prevent breakdowns without a crystal ball?

Getting your equipment tuned up and ready for the hot days ahead with AC preventative maintenance is imperative not only for your comfort and peace of mind but also for the reliability and longevity of your system.

These are some of the problems that a skilled AC service technician can prevent with a thorough inspection and preventative AC maintenance.

Electrical Issues

Your technician will inspect all wiring and electrical connections, and find and fix loose connections and worn wires before they cause a power loss that takes out your air conditioner.

Dirty Coils

Your air conditioner has evaporator coils that remove the heat from the air in your space and condenser coils that release the heat outside the building.

When the coil gets coated with dirt and grime, it can’t effectively transfer heat. That makes your system work harder and run longer to cool the space. The increased load on the fan motor and compressor can cause them to fail.

Cleaning the coils as part of AC preventative maintenance before the start of the season, and sometimes more often depending on the air quality where your air conditioner is located, takes care of this issue and prevents system failure.

Faulty or Improperly Set Controls

Those new electronic controls are handy and save money on your energy bills, but they can be tricky to program. If it’s programmed incorrectly, you might end up with an air conditioner that won’t turn on.

Your service technician will test thermostats and other controls to ensure that the correct temperatures are maintained, timer functions are set properly, and batteries are changed.

Your AC service technician is a friend you only want to see once or twice a year.

This is a case where absence definitely makes the heart grow fonder. You’ll love your air conditioning service guy when he only needs to come once in the spring and once in the fall for regular AC preventative maintenance.

If you have to keep calling him to make repairs all summer long, you’ll get tired of him in a hurry. You’ll certainly get tired of shelling out all that cash.

Poor maintenance is much more expensive in the long run than the cost of a service contract for AC preventative maintenance.

Contact Western Air Cooling & Heating today to get a quote for AC preventative maintenance.

#Western Air #Western Air Conditioning #Ac Maintenance #Cooling System #Heating #cooling #Palm Desert #California #AC Replacement #Western Air Cooling & Heating

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cocrante · 1 year

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Cyno, who often spends grueling days in the unforgiving desert for his work, finds it nearly unbearable to endure the scorching sun without drinking during the period of Ramadan. But instead of succumbing to the harsh conditions, he seeks refuge in the soothing shade of a lush oasis, where he rests beneath the cool, rustling fronds of palm trees, gazing out over a glittering lake and inhaling the heady aroma of ripe fruit growing wild. Amid this natural splendor, Cyno finds himself lost in thought, pondering the profound truth that nothing we take from the Earth should be taken for granted, and that everything we take will eventually be returned. As he savors these peaceful moments, he imagines the joyful sights and sounds of the village he will soon return to: the twinkling lights that line the streets and homes, the hearty laughter of revelers, the vibrant music that fills the air, and the sumptuous feasts he will share with friends and loved ones. And in his mind's eye, he sees Tighnari hunched over his desk, scribbling to record the details of a new plant species, or perhaps scaling a towering tree to pluck a sample of soft green moss while Collei begged him to be careful. These thoughts give him the strength to keep going and with a wry smile and a quick quip he rises to his feet and sets out once again into the blazing sun, ready to face whatever challenges the desert may hold.

A few days later Cyno returned from the desert. The sun had set hours ago and the moon was already visible in the sky, illuminating the darkness of the night. The streets were alive and festive, adorned with colorful decorations and lights that filled the roads and houses. Children ran around and adults gathered in groups to talk. A pleasant aroma of food filled the air. Cyno paused only briefly to greet the revelers, heading to his rooms to change and feast with them. But as he crossed the threshold he saw a figure standing with his back to him, busy tidying up something. His voice caught in his throat, his eyes welled up with tears that were about to fall and he quickly went to embrace his partner who had come to visit him. He hide his face in the curve of his neck, inhaling his scent "I missed you" he whispered, holding him close as if afraid it was all unreal and he might disappear at any moment. Tighnari let him be for a moment, caressing his hair. They had missed each other during those long days of absence. Slowly, Cyno lifted his head, looking into his lover's eyes. "Thank you for being here" he touched his cheek, giving him a gentle kiss on the lips that tasted sweeter than dates. "Collei is also outside. I sent her to help tonight. She'll be thrilled to see you" Cyno nodded with the heart full of joy and taking his hand they walked out together, strolling hand in hand through those colorful streets full of life and music.

#cynonari celebrate Ramadan #cynonari #headcanon #cynonari headcanon #genshin impact #genshin ship #my work

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cityofdreamsrp · 11 months

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⭐ A NIGHT UNDER THE STARS ⭐

When: May 22nd, 2023

Where: Joshua Tree National Park, California

Join us for a day of hiking and exploring, and a night of star gazing and bonfires! Joshua Tree National Park is an American national park in southeastern California, east of San Bernardino and Los Angeles and north of Palm Springs. You’re invited to enjoy a day of adventure and close out the night looking up at the stars.

Several hiking trails are within the park, many of which can be accessed from a campground. Shorter trails, such as the one-mile hike through Hidden Valley, offer a chance to view the beauty of the park without straying too far into the desert. A section of the California Riding and Hiking Trail meanders for 35 miles (56 km) through the western side of the park. The lookout point at Keys View, towards the south of the park, offers views of the Coachella Valley, the Salton Sea, the San Andreas Fault, the Santa Rosa Mountains, and the city of Palm Springs.

Joshua Tree is a popular observing site in Southern California for amateur astronomy and stargazing. The park's elevation and dry desert air, along with the relatively stable atmosphere in the region, often make for excellent seeing conditions. The park is well known for its naturally dark night skies, which are far away from and largely free of the light pollution typical in urban areas.

This one day event is open for all who would like to attend. Please feel free to tag any event related posts using the tag #codjoshuatree. We extend a big thank you to MK ( @ajsmins ) for collaborating with us and piecing it all together!

#cityofdreamsevent

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octuscle · 6 months

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Now open under new management

Edward Parker III let the car window down a crack. Peter, his driver, had switched off the air conditioning to save fuel. The fuel gauge was basically at 0.00. Here in the middle of nowhere, they had no mobile network. The last Google message was that a petrol station would appear at some point. And Peter claimed that it should open in five minutes. Open from 10:40 am. Strange opening times. Edward's stomach grumbled. Something had gone wrong at breakfast. The car urgently needed a petrol pump. And he needed a toilet just as badly. Then, like an oasis in the desert, a building appeared in the middle of endless cornfields and pastures full of stupidly staring cattle. It was 10:39:50 a.m. when Peter steered the car onto the dusty filling station with the last drop of gas. At 10:40 sharp, Edward yanked open the car door and jumped out. And the moment his spotlessly clean Oxfords touched the ground, the neon sign flashed. Open!

Edward ran towards the small store where the neon sign was shining. He was far too focused on not wetting his pants that he didn't notice the leather soles of his shoes turning into a sturdy rubber tread. As he pushed down on the door handle, he got something like an electric shock. He didn't care. The store was empty. His palm became calloused. His fingernails black. There was a door at the back, labeled "Private". Hopefully there was a toilet. Thank God the door was open. And thank God there was a toilet. In the middle of a room full of tools, car tires and packages. It stank miserably. But Edward didn't care at all. He had already undone his belt while running, he opened his trousers, pulled them down and dropped onto the dirty toilet seat at the very last moment. And he had to shit like never before in his life. The stench was overwhelming. But the relief was immense. Edward finally relaxed again. But only for a second. Then his eyes fell on the dirty rubber boots that went well above his knees. Inside, pulled down as far as they would go, were a pair of completely filthy jeans. And what was even more irritating: his right hand was the hand of a construction worker, the cuff of his shirt had disappeared. And the fabric of the right sleeve of his jacket was getting coarser and dirtier from bottom to top and the color was slowly changing from navy blue to a kind of beige. What the hell was going on here? Even greater than the panic was the disgust at the stench. His left hand, still freshly manicured, reached for the toilet flush. And he was hit again. He watched in panic as his fingernails became dirty and the calluses moved down from his fingertips. Edward's gaze fell between his legs. That wasn't his circumcised shaved penis. That was a cheesy, hairy cock. Much bigger than it normally was. Edward had to get out of here! He hastily wiped his ass. A tight, hairy ass, sitting there on a familiar toilet seat. A man needs a good place to shit. Hehehe, this was a good shitter. Stumbling, Edward stood up, his head spinning. He looked in the mirror. That was still his head. But the rest? His crisp white collar and tie knot vanished into thin air, revealing a hairy, muscular chest. The last remnants of the finest navy blue wool on his left upper arm disappeared and the transformation of his jacket into a dirty, much-worn, rough work jacket was complete. I look like a fucking redneck, were his last thoughts before he grew a badly trimmed goatie, his $100 haircut turned into a self-cut buzzcut that he hid under a bandana he hadn't washed in a long time.

Loud honking from outside. "Damn, I've been shitting! Can't you wait?" yelled Edward. He wiped his hands on the dirty cloth stuck in his pants. Hand washing was for city wimps. He stepped into the yard of his gas station.

Hehehe, he knew the filthy and dented truck standing there at the pump. "Pete's services of all kinds" was written on the door. And Pete was hanging in the cab with a visible bulge. "Eddy, don't you always promise the best service at your station," Pete said with a grin. Ed spit out the chewing tobacco and licked his lips. "Go ahead, gas station attendant. The belt buckle won't open by itself!"

Full service and guaranteed customer satisfaction. That's what Ed's gas station was famous for.

Inspirations found @pitstainsandpas and @fanofshoes44

#male tf #muscle tf #reality change #male transformation #muscle transformation #redneck tf #white to blue collar tf

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firstchoiceacheatinginc · 3 months

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AC Service in Palm Desert, CA

First Choice AC & Heating Inc provides unparalleled AC Service in Palm Desert. Our experts focus on comprehensive maintenance, ensuring your air conditioning unit operates at peak performance. Count on us for professional service that maximizes your system's reliability and energy efficiency.

#ac service #AC Service in Palm Desert

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thepastisalreadywritten · 9 months

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SAINT OF THE DAY (July 19)

St. Arsenius, an Anchorite, was born around 350-354 AD at Rome to a political family.

He received a fine education, studying rhetoric and philosophy, and mastered the Latin and Greek languages.

Theodosius the Great, having requested the Emperor Gratian and Pope Damasus to find him in the West a tutor for his son Arcadius, decided on Arsenius, a man well read in Greek literature, a member of a noble Roman family, and said to have been a deacon of the Roman Church.

Upon receving the request to become the tutor of young Arcadius, he left and reached Constantinople in 383.

He continued as tutor in the imperial family for eleven years, during the last three of which he also had charge of his pupil's brother Honorius.

Coming one day to see his children at their studies, Theodosius found them sitting while Arsenius talked to them standing. This he would not tolerate, and he ordered the teacher to sit while the pupils to stood.

Upon his arrival at court, Arsenius had been given a splendid establishment, and probably because the Emperor so desired, he lived a very great lifestyle but all the time felt a growing inclination to renounce the world.

After praying for a long time to be enlightened as to what he should do, he heard a voice saying, "Arsenius, flee the company of men, and thou shalt be saved."

Thereupon he embarked secretly for Alexandria, and hastening to the desert of Scetis, asked to be admitted among the solitaries who dwelt there.

St. John the Dwarf, to whose cell he was conducted, though previously warned of the quality of his visitor, took no notice of him and left him standing by himself while he invited the rest to sit down at table.

When John was half finished with his meal, he threw down some bread before Arsenius, bidding him with an air of indifference to eat if he would.

Arsenius meekly picked up the bread and ate, sitting on the ground. Satisfied with this proof of humility, St. John kept him under his direction.

The new solitary was from the beginning most exemplary, yet unwittingly retained some of his old habits, such as sitting cross-legged or laying one foot over the other.

Noticing this, the abbot requested someone to imitate Arsenius's posture at the next gathering of the brethren, and upon his doing so, forthwith rebuked him publicly.

Arsenius took the hint and corrected himself.

During the fifty-five years of his solitary life, he was always the most poorly clad of all, thus punishing himself for his former seeming vanity in the world.

In like manner, to atone for having used perfumes at court, he never changed the water in which he moistened the palm leaves of which he made mats.

He only poured in fresh water upon it as it wasted, thus letting it become stenchy in the extreme.

Even while engaged in manual labour, he never relaxed in his application to prayer. At all times, copious tears of devotion fell from his eyes.

However, what distinguished him the most was his disinclination to all that might interrupt his union with God.

When, after a long period of searching, his place of retreat was discovered, he not only refused to return to court and act as adviser to his former pupil the Emperor Arcadius, but he would not even be his almoner to the poor and the monasteries of the neighbourhood.

He invariably denied himself to visitors, no matter what their rank and condition. He left to his disciples the care of entertaining them.

Due to this extraordinary act, his contemporaries so greatly admired him that they gave him the surname "the Great."

He spent the next fifteen years wandering the desert wilderness before returning to Troe, Egypt. He died around 445-455 when he was nearly 100 years old.

#Saint of the Day #St. Arsenius

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littlemisspascal · 2 years

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Fast Cars and Lightning Bolts Part 2

Pairing: Din x Female Reader

Word Count: 2100+

Rating: T for whole series

Summary: “I’m here on behalf of Boba Fett. Suppose, hypothetically speaking, he wanted his company to win the Boonta Eve Classic. You’re one of the only racers still alive who’s done that. So I came to ask you,” she takes a breath, spreads her palms out with an air of frankness, “what does it take?”

Warnings: Racing AU, heavily inspired by the film Ford v Ferrari, dialogue heavy, language, angst, references of death but no graphic details, worldbuilding, Reader and Din are exes, No physical characteristics of Reader described except for having hair + a heart condition (I’m not a doctor, all medical details are fictional)

Author Note: Decided to officially declare this a series. A very relaxed, sporadically updated series--but still a series. Hope someone out there enjoys this 😊 All likes, comments, and reblogs super appreciated 💗

Also please note Part 3 is the original one-shot I posted, but it is now updated to better flow with the events of Part 1 and 2.

PART 1 / PART 3

The sales floor is swamped with customers and staff. Peli’s darting around each of the four corners, finalizing sales and answering questions, returning to your side every ten minutes with a new clipboard of documents needing your signature.

Sunlight filters in through the open windows of the building, a cool breeze toying with your hair, and at Ahsoka’s workstation a radio blares an upbeat tune by The Max Rebo Band. Unlike most car dealerships where employees are expected to wear fancy suits and fake smiles, you prefer a casual work environment full of car enthusiasts like yourself, unafraid to get motor oil on their hands and know the difference between a crankshaft and a camshaft without having to look on the HoloNet.

“Got a Trandoshan interested in Canary Classic and some senator’s son chomping at the bit to test drive our only Canary Moonlight out on the street,” Peli tells you, popping up at your side midwalk around the sales floor.

“Does the kid have a license?”

“I asked and you know what the little punk told me?” Peli nudges you to a halt, propping a hand on her hip with an exasperated expression that has you smirking even before she says, “He doesn’t have to show me a license because he’s Senator Blah Blah’s son. I should recognize him by his looks alone.”

You snort. “Yeah, no. Tell Senator Blah Blah’s son he either shows a license or he’s got to find somewhere else to make dumbass demands.”

Peli nods and turns to leave, only to freeze in place as a Zephyr-J motorbike pulls up outside the entrance. You watch as the rider removes their helmet, revealing a woman dressed in a black jacket with orange stripes and dark braided hair, exuding grace and strength with every movement. When you approach to meet her at the doorway, she isn’t subtle in observing you from head to toe with a quick once-over.

“Lightning Bolt?” She says it like a question, but the way her lips curl at the edges into a small grin gives you the impression this stranger knows exactly who you are.

“Depends who’s asking,” you reply, returning the smile with a cautiously friendly one of your own.

“Fennec Shand.” Her handshake is firm, professional. “Fett Motor Company.”

There’s a beat which follows the announcement, as though she expects you to have a reaction of some kind. It’s only because of your racing background you maintain your neutral expression, remembering what it was like to hide your true emotions from the press and their constantly recording cameras.

Internally, you’re about as calm as a leaf in the wind.

The thing about Fett Motor Company is that, not only is it run out of the desert city Mos Espa where the BEC is held annually, it is also owned by Boba Fett who changed his career from bounty hunter to crime lord three years ago after he murdered the previous Daimyo. You haven’t been to Mos Espa in over a year, but you’ve heard of the positive changes and improvements made to the city under Fett’s control. You’ve also heard some not-so-positive remarks about Fett cars. Their engines are powerful, almost unbelievably so considering the company’s youth, but the heavy weight and clunky shape of their vehicles makes steering a challenge and average speed on the low end compared to other cars in the galaxy.

Let’s just say, it wouldn’t be egotistical of you to claim your Canary could go around a track several laps before a Fett Rancor ever finished its first.

But even though Fett’s cars may not have much of a solid reputation, the Daimyo himself is not one to be trifled with. And the last thing you want is trouble with the crime lord, so despite your uneasiness, you direct Fennec to your office upstairs where you conduct all your important meetings.

If she does catch a glimpse of your anxiety peeking out of your mask, she politely doesn’t comment on it. Still, you linger on the sales floor after she’s left, signing a few more documents for Peli while also using the spare minutes to ready yourself for whatever it is Fennec wants to discuss. You have the distinct feeling it’s going to be a strange ordeal.

Upstairs, you find the woman observing the contents of your shelves. Old trophies and awards Peli insisted needed to be displayed so any potential business investors could see how well-established you are in the racing community. But Fennec isn’t looking at any of them, you realize upon a second glance. She’s found the only thing up there that’s of sentimental value rather than monetary.

“A pink carnation?” she inquires, studying the flower carefully preserved in a glass frame, as beautiful and vibrant as the day it was given to you what feels like a whole lifetime ago.

And that day, just like the flower, will always be preserved in your memory like this: summer heat, first anniversary, a drive down the coast, shy smiles, fingers grazing during the exchange of the pink bloom. So you won’t forget about me when you’re rich and famous.

“Long story,” you explain with a dismissive gesture, pushing thoughts of brown eyes out of your head. You then perch yourself on the edge of your desk. “Now, what brings you all the way from Mos Espa to see me, Ms. Shand?”

“Fennec, please,” she corrects, turning to face you. “I’m here on behalf of Boba Fett. Suppose, hypothetically speaking, he wanted his company to win the Boonta Eve Classic. You’re one of the only racers still alive who’s done that. So I came to ask you,” she takes a breath, spreads her palms out with an air of frankness, “what does it take?”

You lean further back on your desk a little, unable to keep your eyebrows from rising with surprise. Fennec just stares back at you. Not critically like the Twi’leks had done back at Galma, but calmly and patiently. Waiting for you to find your words on your own time.

“Well, hypothetically speaking, it takes something credits can’t buy,” you declare at last.

“Credits can buy speed,” Fennec counters.

“It’s not about speed.” You shake your head because she doesn’t understand, can’t understand unless she’s driven the BEC herself. “This isn’t like other races where all you have to do is turn left and go in circles for a couple of hours. To win the BEC, you need a car that is lightweight enough to reach 200 on the straightaways, but also strong enough to endure thousands of miles across sand and rock with limited breaks. This car has to be the best you’ve ever made and be ten times better than whatever Moff Gideon’s team shows up with that year. And if you’re lucky, that’s just what gets you to the starting line. Then your real problems start.”

Fennec tilts her head in acknowledgment, but her voice comes out a little wry around the edges. “So, you’re saying it’s challenging?”

“It’s not even a track, Fennec,” you say with thinly veiled frustration, and the woman blinks with surprise as your carefully composed mask begins cracking around the edges. “The circuit for the Boonta Eve Classic is made up of large stretches of desert plains, narrow canyons full of twists and turns, and part of the Laguna Caves underground. There are no paved roads. No safety rails. And you have to keep driving for twenty-four hours with an average speed of 130 if you wanna be a serious contender. Twenty-four hours.”

You tap your fingernail on your desk for emphasis, drilling the words into the wood. The Boonta Eve Classic was designed first and foremost as a test of endurance, separating it from all other races in the galaxy where the main goal was simply to have the fastest time. For the BEC, it’s the number of laps a car (and its driver) can handle without falling apart which determines the winner.

“It’s in the middle of summer so heatstroke and dehydration are serious risks. And then once the sun sets, half the race is in darkness. Cars and giant rocks coming up out of nowhere. An explosion of fire if the two collide. A driver stumbling out of the wreckage, bleeding buckets. Maybe they’re on fire too. Maybe they’re your friend.”

Your physical body might remain in your office, but your mind drifts back in time to the scariest, most exhilarating twenty-four hours of your whole life. The stench of sweat and gasoline fills your nostrils, a current of electric adrenaline flowing through your muscles, and your eyes burn from a combination of exhaustion and smoke billowing out from flaming vehicles. One of your closest friends, Omera Jones, experienced brake failure during her 156th lap, crashing straight into the side of a canyon. Doctors said it was a miracle she lived through it with only a broken arm as her worst injury. The fates of three other drivers weren’t so fortunate. Their deaths were bloody and horrific, and their faces, despite being total strangers to you, are forever etched into a corner of your brain.

“Either way,” your voice is quieter now, softer, weighted down with nostalgia and just a hint of trauma, “you have to keep going, hour after hour, until dawn breaks. You’re exhausted as hell, starving, can barely remember your own name or why any of this matters. And then you realize you’re flying by the Dune Sea at nearly 200 miles an hour. Anything goes wrong—blow a gasket or a tire or even a tiny five credit washer—and that’s it. You’re done. The Imperials win again. Like they won last year and the year before that and the year before that.”

You blink once, twice, three times before coming back to the present with a quiet inhale of breath. There are two sides to the BEC in your memories—-one bloodcurdling and perilous, responsible for your deteriorating health. The other extraordinary and invigorating, responsible for your golden reputation. Simply put, the BEC is as deeply interwoven with your identity as your own flesh and bones.

Fennec looks thoughtful, maybe a little thrown off balance, but at least she seems to be seriously absorbing all you said.

“So, yeah,” you tell her, offering a crooked grin. “It’s challenging.”

The corner of Fennec’s mouth twitches. “What I’m hearing is you don’t think Fett Motor Company can build the greatest race car the galaxy’s ever seen? You don’t think we’re capable of winning an event like that?” She steps closer, not unlike a Loth Wolf hoping to corner its prey. “Even if we had the best and brightest partner? Even if we wrote a blank check?”

You meet her stare evenly. “Credits can’t buy first place, Fennec. But maybe,” your crooked grin turns sincere, perhaps a little wider than usual with tentative excitement. “Maybe they can buy the woman who’ll get you your closest shot.”

Later that night, after Fennec’s long gone and your staff have returned to their homes, including Peli who’s already devising several hundred plans for Fett’s future race car, you sit behind your desk holding a torn piece of paper. It’s a bit crinkled from months spent stashed away in the back of your desk’s drawer, but the number scribbled in neat handwriting is still readable. Still makes something in your chest sting worse than a bug bite.

You rub at your forehead, declare yourself an idiot, and then punch the numbers into your comlink.

He picks up on the second ring, saying your name. His voice is marred by the crackling of static, but the familiarity of it freezes you in place. He repeats your name again in the same incredulous way, and you can picture him in his garage, oil stains on his clothes, that little crease between his eyebrows as he tries to figure out why the hell you’re calling him when you swore you’d never do it again.

“Alright, I’m going to hang up now,” Din says.

Startling back to awareness, your grip on the comlink tightens. “No, wait, please!”

He heaves a sigh, but does stay connected. You think of that bond of loyalty again, wonder if maybe you’re not the only one who still feels it. And suddenly there’s all these words bubbling in your throat you want to say to him, but the timing isn’t right, the moment too unsteady.

Choking down the words, you instead tell him, “I need to talk to you. It’s about the BEC.”

A long enough pause of silence follows you think he’s hung up, and then—

“Fine. But you’re buying me dinner.”

#din djarin fanfiction #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #the mandalorian fanfiction #my fic #My writing #pedrostories

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