#prickle 'verse

[insomniamamma]

Ribbons & Wings: Ezra x f!reader w/Cee

A/n: I started this on a night of heavy snow followed by blistering cold. I have seen the northern lights, once in Alaska and once in in western New York state. Set between after "Rain" around the same time as "Clean Dirt." I may revise the timeline as I see fit. As with everything else in this AU, this can stand alone. Reader is nicknamed "Artichoke" and "Prickle." Ships and Kings is a game that persists through my Prospect fics,. Cross DND with chess played on a hexagonal board.  As with any game there are house rules that vary. Kevva’s Flick is a highly contested (and some claim illegal) move in Ships and Kings.

Warnings: Language. Anxiety. Food mentions. Mentions of old injuries. Snowball fights?

          "--all ships in northern quadrant be advised boost is not recommended at this time. Hold tight if you are able--next pickup is in 10.25 cycles--"

         "What does that mean?" asks Cee,          "Understood, drop-com, we'll see you on the other side--"          "Ezra, what does that mean?" You hear the rising panic in Cee's voice and reach for the thrower you keep stashed under your bunk.          "There's a storm coming," says Ezra, "Might close our take-off window."          "So we're stranded." Says Cee. She stands and gets in Ezra's face, "You told me this wouldn't happen."          "I can't control the weather, Birdie," says Ezra, "We launch into a blizzard and there's a chance we break up."          "Fuck--"          "How long?" You ask and they both snap their heads around as if they've forgotten you're there, "If we get grounded how long are we here?"          "You heard the man," says Ezra, "10.25 cycles."          "That's two hands," you say, "We can make that. We'll be fucking sick of Bitz-bars  but we've got enough margin."          "What if we boost now? Minimum checks--"          "C'mere," says Ezra, he sits on the edge of his crash couch and Cee takes her place beside him, "You too. Let me show you something." Ezra plops his battered data pad into Cee's waiting hands, she holds it so he can manipulate the touch screen. You hunker behind Cee, peering over her shoulder, hunched in the confines of the pod.          "I'm getting the same info yon freighter's getting from the weather sat, about a sixteenth delayed," says Ezra. He zooms into the northern quadrant where the pod rests near a large, frozen over lake.          "Ooo-oooh," says Cee, face pinched with worry, "That's bad. If that's from a sixteenth ago--"          "Conditions are likely worse by now."          "What are we looking at, Ez?" You ask.          "The lines are wind direction, the color scale is speed. We take off now, our boost curve takes us through the worst of it, right at the point of maximum dynamic pressure."          "That could tumble us."          "Could do worse than that," says Ezra, "Big gust could crumple us like a beer can."          "But if we miss the sling--"          "Artichoke's right," says Ezra, "We've got rations for at least 15. More if we stretch it."          "If worse comes to worse we can do some ice fishing," you say.          "Bleee-arrgh," Cee makes a wretching sound. You were harvesting the spiker fish for their odd, metal-rich navigation organs and you'd cooked one over the camp fire just to see what the meat tasted like. "That was like licking a battery terminal."          "Lick many battery terminals, Little Bird?" Cee laughs.          "Spend enough time in a pod and you'll do just about anything for fun."          "The spiker wasn't that bad," you say. Ezra and Cee look at you with mixed horror and fascination, "I've had worse things in my mouth."          "Didn't need to know that," says Cee.

         We best power down what we don't need, said Ezra, and the three of you began a systems check. Reading off the things you were each responsible for when getting ready to drop or boost. Proximity radar and chute pyro-batts were obvious. Local comms. External lighting. Scrubbers. You sure about the scrubbers? Air's fine, it's just cold, we can reverse the aft vents and draw heat off the RTG baffles.          "We're only talking two hands," you say, "Between the reserve tanks and the scrubbers we should be fine," and Ezra gives you a flat-eyed look that means you've strayed somewhere you're not supposed to be just yet.          "Two hands have a way of becoming more,"says Ezra, "We take what care we can. Clear?"          "Sure. Clear."

         The pod sounds strange half powered down. You don't notice the faint clicks and chirps of the guidance computer until it's offline. In your head you know it'll boot back up just fine, but it still feels deeply wrong having it off. Same with the Baas converter, all the hardware that does the thinking for you. The wind moans through the trees outside, a low warbling wail that resonates through the pod. You and Cee exchange glances. She's got her music player on, but her eyes are big and dark and scared, and you don't like this any more than she does. There's no snow on Falnost but wind is something you understand, driving sand before it that can etch windows, it never happened to any of your livestock, you and your father and brothers were too careful for that, but you'd hear stories about pink skeletons, stripped of flesh but still fresh enough to ooze from their marrow.          "We'll be fine," says Ezra, "We're stable." Eventually you drift into an uneasy sleep. There's nothing else to do.

          "We've definitely missed the window," says Ezra, confirming what you expected, "But we might as well have fun little while we're here, right?" You are barely awake, sipping fake coffee from a pouch.          "Fun?"          "Snow, stupid!" Says Cee, she's already wriggling her way into her thermal gear, "It snowed like crazy overnight! We can bury ourselves in it! We can make a snow fort! Let's go!" You smile, but you feel it curdle, you know what snow is, you've seen vids, and the way Ezra is looking at you you can tell that he knows, he knows you've never seen snow, never felt it for yourself, and you can't look at him. There is so much you don't know. You start suiting up out of habit, thermal gear for a cold world, outer layers for batt-assisted heating--          "Hey," says Ezra, "You okay, Prickle?"          "Sure."          "I know they didn't--"          "Yeah, yeah, we didn't have snow there. We didn't have RAIN there. We'd get a little bit of hard frost come winter but that doesn't count--"          "Easy," says Ezra, "Easy. Cee's just over excited." He nods towards the open hatch now venting your hard-won warmth. Cee's voice comes faint from outside, you guys coming or what? "She hasn't had much chance to play in the snow."          You exit the pod into a new world. The gravelly shores of yesterday are blanketed in white, the branches of the feather-trees droop in low arcs, burdened with snow. You can feel the snow collapse when you step in it, hear it, a small crumping sound beneath your boots, you turn towards Ezra, smiling and something frigid and granular and wet splatters against the nape of your neck, and you whirl, reaching for the thrower your left on the pod and Cee's laughing, her cheeks pink with the cold.          "Gotcha!" She crows and bends down, sinks her hands into the blanket of white. You smile. This might be your first snow but you know mischief when you see it. You scoop up two handfuls of snow and squish them together, noting the give and push-back as it compresses down even as you aim for your crewmate's head. You miss by an Ephrate mile, and her next shot catches you mid-chest. For every shot you land she gets in at least three, and at last you scoop up and armload of snow and start chasing her round the back of a huge feather-tree, and Cee throws up her arms in defense and splutters laughter when you dump it on her.          The two of you pause, laughing and out of breath, Cee's cheeks and nose flaming pink.          "Cee? Artichoke?" Ezra's voice peals out from the pod , "By your silence I am assuming you are up to no good and I will act accordingly."          "He's so goofy," says Cee, and grins at you, "Allies?"          "Yeah. Let's get him." Cee bends and starts making snowballs. Ammo dump, she whispers and you nod. Right.          "Cee? Prickle?" Cee leans around the tree trunk and yells.          "Come and find us old man!"          "Old man," you hear him mutter and Cee giggles. She knows just where to poke and how much pressure to apply, "You think you're so hard to track leaving boot prints in the snow--" Ezra rounds the tree trunk and you paste him, snowballs exploding all over his suit. You try not to aim for his head. Cee has no such compunctions. One of her snowballs catches him right in the face, and he shakes his head, snow caught in his mustache, wipes the snow out of his eyes--          "--Oh," he looks past you and Cee, his eyes wide, white limned, "Oh Kevva what's that?!" You turn your head to the dark undergrowth and there's the whine of a discharged thrower over your head and you barely register Ezra's laugh before you and Cee are buried in a shower of snow from above.

         You splutter and swipe snow out of your eyes, out of the open neck-hole of your suit. Cee shakes her head, a brief, indignant halo of flakes ringing her flushed face. Ezra howls laughter. He's bent double, face red, eyes squinched shut.          "You shoulda seen your faces--" he wheezes.          "That was cheating!" says Cee, "No fair--"          "That was tactics! That was strateegery--" Ezra takes a bad step and overbalances, flails his arm out and falls on his ass in the snow.          "That was Kevva's Flick!" You say and grin. Kevva's Flick is a marginally legal move in Ships and Kings, the kind of thing that will get you stuffed out an airlock if you try it in the wrong company. A badly missed stealth roll followed by a natural sixteen means that your opponent can flick one of your pieces off the board like dislodging and errant piece of lint. The only reason you even know about it is because Ezra pulled it on Cee and they spent the next eighth arguing and wasting precious bandwidth looking up the legality of the move over the drop-net. Cee throws back her head and laughs, bright and clear. Ez crawfishes in the snow and then manages to heave himself upright.          "Hmmm," says Ezra, narrows his eyes, but his dimpled smile gives him away, "I know where you sleep, little bird."          "I know where you sleep too," says Cee, "Call truce?" A hard gust bends the tops of the feather trees, sending snow down in slow whorls, a low moaning sound that makes the nape of your neck prickle.          "We should get back inside," you say, "Wind's gonna pick up."          "Truce," says Ezra, and flashes you a smile, "Let's get on in before our C5 friend freezes solid." You trace your tracks back to the pod, landing struts buried in white, it's uglier angles and dents covered over.          "Oh hey!" Says Cee, "We can make snow angels!" You and Ezra look at each other, but before you can say anything, Cee is stomping out into the wide expanse of unbroken white.          "It's easy, see?" She flops down on her back in the drifted snow and fans her arms and legs.          "We called 'em phoenixes back home," you say, and pull Cee to her feet, careful not to step in the wing shaped marks she's left behind, "Once things settled after a storm we'd draw pictures in the dust."            You take a few steps so you don't mess up Cee's snow angel and flop down yourself. It feels different. Not like the dust that would puff up in your eyes and stick to your skin but the motion is the same, cloud laden sky instead of the screaming bright stars back home. Cee offers her hand and pulls you up.          "Not bad, dirt-farmer," she says, "You do one, Ez.          "If I must." Ezra takes a few steps and drops into the snow like a felled tree, makes his own pattern beside yours and Cee's.          "I'm somewhat lacking in the wing department," says Ezra, "If I'm to be an angel--"          "Hold up," says Cee. She wanders away from Ezra, back towards the dark of the trees and roots around, finds a fallen limb, some feather-needles still clinging to it.          "My ass is getting awfully cold, little bird,"          "Stay still," says Cee, using the branch like a paint brush. "There." She casts the stick aside and offers her hand. She pulls Ezra up and turns him around so he can see her handiwork, a feathered wing traced in the snow, fanning out from the shortened arc at his right side.          "See?"          "Yeah. I see." Ezra pulls Cee against his chest, she stiffens, then lets herself be hugged, her arms creeping around his middle.          "S'okay, Birdie," he murmurs into her hair and you turn away, embarrassed, feeling like you've seen something you shouldn't. The next gust of wind comes with a raft of blown snow, rough and cold against your cheeks. You bend down and draw your name in the snow with an outstretched finger and think of how very far you are from Falnost, the only one in your family to make it up out of the well and see snow.            "Come on in before you freeze," calls Ezra, he stands at the ramp and waves, "The snow'll be here tomorrow." You smile.          "Yeah. I suppose it will."

         "Hey! Hey wake up!" Cee's voice cuts into your dreams, harsh and breathy and urgent and you are reaching for the thrower beneath your crash-couch before your eyes can unstick themselves.          "Whuzzit birdie--" Ezra's sleep befuddled voice murmurs someplace to your left          "Come on!" says Cee, and she's climbing into her gear, green witch-light shines through the pod's small, rounded windows, "You've got to see!" You pull on your thermal gear and follow her out the door and down the ramp, still half asleep.          "What is this?"          "I don't know," says Cee, her hand finds yours and the sky writhes overhead, shivering bands of green like curtains, like incandescent ribbons, dimming and shifting and brightening, columns that ascend into the dark, stars muted behind them. No sound at all, a silent ignition, silver-green edged in red. You feel Ezra fetch up beside you, his hand finding yours.          "What am I looking at, Ez?" He squeezes your fingers.          "It's an aurora," he says, "I think. I've never seen one before. Just vids."          "It's so quiet," you say, your voice dropping to a whisper without even thinking.          "It is," says Ezra. There is no sound at all associated with the shifting columns, the world gone so still that you can hear your crewmates breathing, hear the soft sussurration of your own pulse. You pull your eyes away from the churning sky to look at your friends’ faces, Cee smiles, wide and open, her pale hair frosted green, eyes alight. Ezra's face is a study in naked wonder, and it's like you’re seeing him for the first time, no spacer's charm, no worldly confidence, just him smiling up at the sky. You squeeze their hands and they squeeze back.

#prospect #prickle 'verse #ezra x f!reader w/cee #ezra x prickle #prickle 'verse au #ezra prospect #cee prospect #ezra and cee #ezra (prospect) x f!reader w/cee

[vohunara]

💭 :3c

💭 For a thought Kaveh has had about @snowtombedstar ·⨇· Here

      ‘ One day, with luck, I'll understand why her violence does a poor job of making others feel hated by her. Maybe the reason lies in not trying to dissect it too much, nor overthink... ʼ

#⨇ DEFAULT VERSE. #snowtombedstar #If Tem prickly then why Kaveh not prickled?

[purgetrooperfox]

hey leo!!! i think your sw!nocte ends up with kit and dara, right? so when nocte gets transplanted into cod, do his partners come with?

[ask me about my ocs!]

hi zip! :)

Dara isn't my OC and I haven't talked to @/spacerocksarethebestrocks about a crossover into COD, since they're not into it afaik 😅 I've bounced around the idea of transplanting Kit but also the idea of pairing him up with someone from MW canon heehoo 👉👈 long answer short, there are multiple verses in my brain so yes and no

the urge to mash him and Soap together is strong af let me tell you skbdkdb

I did sketch out a possible humanverse Kit a while back, I'll put it under the cut and if you recognize the face claim? no you don't <3

#asks answered #if madz wants to bring dara over then 👀 but i also get that war propaganda the video game ain't for everyone dkdbdh #if i paired him up with soap then they would both have sillystupid nicknames and prickle at bring called by their govt names #and there's a polycule option LMAO #it's fun and free to ship your ocs with different characters in different verses <3 #leocs #atama 'nocte' te rangi

[freakfangstm]

@the-goddamn-babysitter liked for a small vampirebat!eddie starter

Lets just say he had a hard time at first coming to terms with this whole.. being a bat on a night of the full moon thing. Eddie had his first transformation last time, and luckily for him. Nancy had found him and saved him from his clothed prison. Well, this time Eddie was sure to remove his clothes before stepping outside in the moonlight. And with a poof of smoke the once metalhead was now a fluttering little bat.

With a clumsy wiggle of wings the little creatures wings expand and with a few fumbled flaps, he takes off into the air and flutters around. Eddie laughs but the bat just chitters out. Okay he could get used to this..

🦇 ･ﾟﾟ･｡ ･ﾟﾟ･｡ 🦇 ・゜゜・．

#the prickle of lil’ claws :: bat eddie verse 🎸 #the tale of the batman || writings 🎸 #text

[toji-girl]

prickled flesh | k. bakugo

synopsis: Your older brother uses his favoritism to his advantage, this time he unknowingly took it too far when he was able to invite his best friend Katsuki on your family vacation serving you on a platter to him.

wc: 5.8k

tags: kinktober fic + 18+ ONLY content + explicit smut: minors and empty blogs DNI + all characters are over the age of 21 + repost + modern verse (no quirks au) + brother's best friend trope + teasing + age gap + pet names + height difference between you two + fingering + unprotected sex + creampie + Katsuki is condescending + very very self-indulgent + huge shoutout to @x-reader-bitch for beta reading this and feedback + reblogs & comments are super appreciated!

Before summer ended, taking its warm days and blue skies with it, your mom and stepdad always planned a trip to a cabin they rented for a whole week for the whole family to spend quality time together before going back to your own lives. 

Your parents always claimed it was a way to bond before you and your older step-brother left to go back to college, it was a chore if you had to be quite honest lugging all your bags back and forth but this year was a little different, something you didn’t enjoy. 

It was Eijiro who convinced them to have a guest this time, breaking that one rule for their golden child, your older stepbrother. Although he is not even your mother's biological son, he still managed to worm his way to the top because he is the eldest and therefore the favorite. 

Even though you were the baby of the family it still didn’t matter, all he had to do was beam a smile and tell them that his guest wouldn’t cause any trouble making it hook line, and sinker, so naturally he won and invited Katsuki to the cabin your parents rented.

The blonde man put a rage inside your veins every time he was in close contact, the cocky sneer that graced his dumb handsome face drove you insane and he knew it as well by the way your lip curled when he was near or the way the vein in your visibly pulsed hot and heavy.  

Since he was Eijiro's friend that meant he was older as well, only by four years which he loved to hold above your head and objects that you couldn’t reach using his height as an advantage which only happened due to a growth spurt they both experienced over the last few summers, a smirk gracing his lips. “Aww, you can’t reach it, can you shortcake?” He teased. 

It was something he made sure to do at least once when he came over, and this time was no different as you attempted to pack for the trip, it was the night before and of course, it made sense for Katsuki to stay the night so he and Eijiro currently took over the living room. 

You could hear their shouts mixed in with the explicit cuss words the blonde loved to spill from his lips, it was causing a headache to crawl in the back of your skull to make home making your head thump with a doll throbbing. After shoving the last bit in your bag you stomped down the stairs to the living room and stood in front of the TV. 

“Hello? Do you two even think about the other people in this house?” You asked glaring at your brother not even giving his friend the time of day, you knew that any word uttered to him would only come back ten times in a harsh tone. They both frowned unable to pause their game but shared a look still ignoring you having a silent conversation. 

Katsuki stood and towered above you with his blonde eyebrows furrowed as he stepped closer to you forcing you to step back to put some space between you two. “Turn some music on then, now get out of the way of the TV because you’re fuckin’ everything up.” He told you in a warning voice.

You tilted your head back to look at Katsuki who crowded your personal space enough for you to pinpoint the earthy and musky scent of his body wash and cologne, then his face was in yours pressing more until you could almost count the dark red flakes in his eyes and the freckles splashed over his nose. 

It was a stare-off at this point until Eijiro broke it up grabbing the remote to turn down the shooting sounds that played from the TV, you placed your palms flat against Katsuki’s stomach ignoring the way the muscles contracted at the touch. “Now get the hell out of my way you asshat.” You pushed but there was no movement minus his lips that curled into a smirk. 

Katsuki glared down at you, the new nickname was surprising, it wasn’t one he heard and he was pretty sure you had called him every name in the book, getting under your skin was by far his favorite thing to do, the cute little pout you wore drove him crazy. He stepped back to the couch and sat down taking the remote out of Eijiro’s hand to turn the volume back up. 

He watched you storm out of the room grumbling something under your breath about how insufferable he is. “Why do you want to make her mad? I have to hear her complain about it later, and you better not piss her off on this trip or my parents won’t let you come again.” 

Eijiro warned his friend rolling his eyes as he smashed the up button making sure the TV was the loudest it could go. “If you aren’t going to bug the shit out of her then someone should do it.” Was his friend's response before returning his attention to the flat screen. 

The red-headed man was glad his friend didn’t pine after his little sister like most of his friends did, instead, he treated you almost as if you were his sister too, even though Eijiro was sweet and level-headed it still didn’t stop the sibling rivalry you two found homed in the relationship. 

Thankfully you were already upstairs when the TV was turned up and even though they wouldn’t hear it you still slammed your door shut to release some of the pent-up frustrations that built whenever you were near Katsuki, you pushed him to the side in your mind and finished packing. 

Would this year be a disaster now that he would be joining? You wondered what all Eijiro had to do to convince your parents to let him come because any time you asked to bring a friend it was always a no coupled with this is family time, but how can it be with Katsuki there? 

When you finally made it downstairs the next morning you were met with the bane of your existence standing in front of the fridge with the doors open wide, he was the only one in the room, and the air felt like it was sucked out when you stepped inside with a scowl already. 

“Good morning to you too,” He said with a smirk as he looked over at you from his shoulder before grabbing the bottle of juice unscrewing the cap with ease bringing it up to his mouth drinking straight from the carton without a care in the world as you watched his throat bob slowly, a small river of it leaked from the corner of his mouth and down his neck. 

Your jaw dropped while staring at him, a big pet peeve of yours was him acting like he lived here and could do whatever it was and get away with it. “What the hell are you doing? That is so gross, you’re a pig.” You huffed rolling your eyes knowing he wanted you to snatch it from him. 

He continued and ignored you before putting the cap back on and placing it back where he found it then shut the doors, the whole show threatened to dig under your skin and burrow deep, it was something Katsuki really enjoyed, seeing your eye twitch a little from irritation. 

“Hello? Are you going to ignore me?” You asked as he stared at you, his eyes trained intently on yours, butterflies formed a tight ball in your lower belly it felt like, the intensity of his gaze was borderline uncomfortable and made you feel hot all over as if tiny little fires licked at your skin. 

Katsuki still stayed silent knowing exactly what buttons to push and took a step toward you then another until your back was flush against the countertop, your head tilted back a little to glare up at him, his lips were pulled into a cocky smirk knowing he had you pinned like a wild animal. 

Everything about him was big, taking up space in its eternity from his broad shoulders and chest to his arms, the corded muscles weren’t to the point of being over the top but still, you could tell he took very good care of his body and was proud of it and as he should be, a thought you hated yourself for having. “What’s the matter short-cake?” He asked in a teasing tone. 

You knew his question was rhetorical, as if he did really care, you used your go-to tactic placing your hand on his chest to give him a firm push but he never budged, no matter how hard you did either. “If you wanted to feel me up all you had to do was ask.” He said, voice low now. 

Both his and your eyes dropped down to your hands, subconsciously you curled your fingers a bit into the fabric of his dark shirt like you were feeling him up, just as quick as you looked you jerked your hands back and then crossed your arms over your chest not saying anything. 

Katsuki pulled back and turned out to walk out of the kitchen but not before leaving without a snide remark. “I’m getting in the shower in case you want to watch me, little perv.” Your cheeks flamed at his nickname and you knew his invitation was just to get a rise from you but still. 

Thankfully you were able to avoid him until after breakfast and when you were packing up the car, but this time Eijiro was there showing him something on his phone. “You two move out of my way.” The video Katsuki was showing your brother had them engrossed to do anything. 

They both acted like they couldn’t hear you and stood in front of the open back hatch blocking your way from putting your bag inside, your nostrils flared from the anger that settled in your belly wanting nothing more than to stomp on their feet but you knew it would result in a fight. 

Eijiro would more than likely put you in a headlock as he usually does when you get on his nerves, and that you hated more than anything. You gripped the handle of your bag and walked to the side door yanking it open and throwing it in before slamming it shut rocking the vehicle. 

“You don’t have to slam the door, we were going to move until you stomped away,” Katsuki said leaning over the back to look at you with a knowing smile that he wasn’t about to do what he said he was going to, the rage in your eyes only spurred him on to break your resolve more. 

You lifted your middle finger in the air and walked out of the garage hearing him and Eijiro go back to their video with Katsuki laughing at it but you knew it wasn’t for what was on his phone, it was directed towards you. 

Time was not on your side it seemed like because not an hour later you were sitting in the back with Katsuki who insisted that Eijiro was able to sit by himself for the first hour then he’d sit with him until everyone arrived at the cabin, thankfully it was only three hours there.

You pulled your phone out to distract yourself by burying yourself in your romance novel, which was going along quite well until it became a little more mature, now in the throes of being erotic and graphic, Katsuki could clearly read the first two paragraphs which had to be the most explicit before you titled it quickly and elbowed him. 

He looked at you with an unreadable expression while pulling his phone out to text you despite sitting right there. 

Incoming Text 

[K:] You’re a little perv, I bet you’d like that to happen to you 

He watched you flick away the notification and roll your eyes pulling the screen back up until you were twisted enough that he couldn’t see, Katsuki smirked a little and leaned back spreading his legs more than what was needed pressing his knee into yours.

You jerked back and scooted over until you were pressed against the hard uncomfortable plastic knowing it was undeniable; that strong shot of heat running down your leg at the contact, you huffed and grabbed the pillow between your legs to lay it against the plastic and lay your head on to go back to your phone. 

Katsuki went back to his own thing keeping his leg away from yours but still spread so that if you did relax your leg it would be touching his again while you fought the urge not to finish the book, it was getting good and part of you that you wished didn’t exist played you and him out as the two main characters 

The male was currently fingering the female lead while urging her with praises but you didn’t know what happened after that because the blonde man next to you still could see the sentences with his own mind playing out a version of the same thing. 

Thankfully the hour passed by and you could finally stretch your legs out once Katsuki joined Eijro in the middle row which gave you an idea, a way to test the man that was so hell-bent on making your life a living hell. 

“Hey, E, I have a question.” You murmured leaning forward to rest your chin on the seat between his and Katsuki ’s broad shoulders ignoring his eyes burning a hole into the side of your face. 

Your brother turned his head to look at you raising an eyebrow. “What’s the question?” He asked putting his phone down for a moment, even though sometimes he can be mean Eijrio is mostly sweet to you, you’re his little sister after all. 

“Is Deku single? I just saw him post something on Instagram, he’s very cute.” You almost purred placing your phone between them with a small smile, and you weren’t really lying, he is cute with his dark curls and his freckles, plus with how sweet he is, he’s the total package. 

But he was nothing like the blonde man next to you even though he’s a brute you still can’t deny the feelings you’ve harbored for him the last couple of years. Katsuki huffed and rolled his eyes as he slid his earbuds in which only made you smirk knowing it was irritating him. 

Eijiro shrugged and tapped his phone screen to text his old friend. “I just asked him, why don’t you ask him out on a date?” He asked nonchalantly. 

You slapped his shoulder and pushed him with a slack jaw. “You did not just text him that?! What did you say?” You all but squealed not really wanting him to ask, and deep down you just knew he would say that you wanted to know his relationship status. 

“Stop being a spaz jeez, I’ll let you know the answer later.” Your brother said pushing you back into your seat earning a glare from you as you settled back in the leather hoping that the trip would just end at this point so you could go back to everything that seemed normal. 

Thankfully the rest of the ride was silent and uneventful until you got out of the back and near Katsuki feeling the icy wall that he built around himself after your question about Deku, the curly-haired little fuck. It shouldn’t bother him but it feels foreign; envy, the green monster. 

His red eyes followed your form when you walked inside first to turn the lights on before coming out to get your bags, a frown graced your pouty lips as he looked at you. “Take a picture, it lasts longer.” Your voice dripped with disdain, but you still couldn’t admit that you liked it. 

Maybe you are a pervert after all. It was a very quick thought that was pushed back because you know you’re not one. “Don’t flatter yourself sweetheart and I call the guest room with the bathroom,” Katsuki replied hitching his strap over his shoulder before walking past you and inside. 

“Why are you friends with such an asshole?” You asked looking at your brother before following the blonde man walking past him to the hallway to the room he called not letting him have any type of chance to actually claim it when you shut and locked the door. 

Through the door, you could hear Katsuki mumble under his breath. “Why is your sister such a bitch?” He asked your brother who sighed and shook his head feeling like you both were siblings instead and he was the parent putting an end to the fight. 

After unpacking your bags you found yourself settled in the living room chair with your book reader in your hands scanning the same paragraph multiple times with a groan. 

Down the hall, you could hear heavy bass thumping making it difficult to concentrate on anything. Your parents left once they unpacked themselves to head to town. 

It was a tradition much like coming out here, they’d usually leave Eijiro here but he asked to come to pick a few things up and opted to leave his best friend here despite your protesting. 

Reading the page again you clicked the button shutting the screen off before making your way down to Katsuki ’s temporary room and barged in, not bothering to knock. 

The insult that simmered in your mouth died down when you caught him shirtless doing pushups, immediately it was clear that he took did take very good care of his body. You stood there like a deer caught in headlights watching him like a star-struck fan seeing their idol. 

Sweat clung to his skin making him glisten thanks to the low sun that shone from the open window and his grunts made you ache in the worst way possible. His muscles flexed tight as he continued unaware you were watching him. 

With a shake of your head, you stomped over to the stereo and pushed the off button filling the room with silence minus his grunts and heavy breathing. “Does it have to be that loud?” You asked glaring at him trying not to let yourself get so flustered at the sight in front of you. 

Katsuki continued and ignored you counting under his breath until he was finished before he kneeled on the floor looking at you with a flushed face screwed up in annoyance. “Yes, it does, now turn the radio on whenever you’re done bitching.” 

“Go to hell! Why would I do something for you?!” You screamed from the frustration that built up from the small time you’ve already spent with him. Ruby irises watched you have your little meltdown with a chuckle as he rose from his spot and towered above you. 

You moved away from him until the back of your knees were pressed against the mattress. His arms bulged as he caged you by pressing them down on either side of you forcing you to sit down, his face a mere inch away from yours, his scent full of potent male invading your senses. 

Pressure mounted between the two of you as the stare-down continued, Katsuki’s nostrils flared as your eyes traced the droplets of sweat that trickled down his face. “If I didn’t know any better you wanted to stay back when you could’ve gone but yet…here you are.” His voice trailed off as his thumb and pointer finger came up to grab your chin jerking your head to look at him. 

You didn’t even know you looked down to watch the sweat travel down his muscular body, the perverse part of you wanted to follow behind it with your tongue. “Let go of me.” You hissed and pulled away from him placing your hands on his chest, his skin was warm and flushed as you pushed him back enough to slot yourself between the space and get away from him. 

“Leaving so soon princess?” Katsuki teased as he sat on the bed where you were to grab his water bottle but you were out of the room by then stomping down the hall feeling hot where he had touched you, the ache between your legs came back with a vengeance as you thought about how he’d sound fucking you, would he grunt like that? 

Once you were settled back on the couch the music started up again, but this time you ignored it and turned your book reader on again trying to find the spot you lost and read from there soon getting lost in the words, with how the author described things your blood pumped hot making you flustered with need. You scanned the room quickly even though you knew you were alone and slipped your hand under the band of your shorts into your panties. 

There was already a damp spot just from reading about the male character swirling his tongue against the female character's clit, you tried to mimic the movement and spread your legs further knowing you only had a few minutes to get away with this. You slid your finger up and down between your pussylips before barely dipping them inside while you scanned the words. 

Your eyes fluttered shut as you pictured Katsuki kneeling between your legs instead, two thick fingers pumping in and out of your drenched cunt making such a mess, the wet sounds would be so lewd and you’d want him to make fun of you for it. The book reader clattered to the floor as you chased your high now lost in the sensation of fucking yourself. “Such a little pervert.” 

Katsuki stood above you, his arms crossed over his chest watching you finger yourself on the couch. “What the -” You screeched only to be stopped when he bent down to press his digit against your lips watching your sentence die. Stuck in another stare-down you couldn’t help but look away and remove your fingers even though you were so close to coming. 

Awkward tension filled the space between you both as he continued to stare at you, his red eyes filled with a whirlwind of emotions, the main one being that he wanted to rip your clothes off to have his way with you, he is a man after all, and you? You’re the sweetest woman that reminded him of the ripe fruit he was so desperate to pluck even though it was forbidden.

Just a taste is what he told himself as he sat down on the couch and pulled you down over his lap not giving you a single second to think before he hooked his fingers in your pants and panties to pull them down exposing you to him. 

“How’d I know you wore silk panties?” He questioned out loud with a chuckle and ran his calloused palms over your bare ass spreading the cheeks as his index finger spread the slick that gathered on your lips to your clit where he pressed it in hearing you whine a little. His eyes followed how you arched your back and spread your legs a little for him making it easier. 

Katsuki thumbed you apart and watched your hole flutter around nothing. “Look at you, not talking back and just letting me play with your cute pussy.” He clicked his tongue and thrust two fingers inside you instantly curling them to massage your g-spot, his thumb returning to your clit to rub circle eights on it.

It was messy and wet the more he continued letting his free hand massage your ass like a teenage boy who’s never touched a naked woman before. 

You gripped his pants and moaned hating yourself for letting this happen but the fire inside you was too strong to put out until you came. “Better hurry up if you don’t want to get caught by your family letting your big brother's best friend finger your tight pussy, huh?” He asked picking up the pace intent on making you cum for him feeling his cock strain in his pants. 

Katsuki knew exactly what to do to make you come undone, the rough pads of his fingertips grazed your g-spot before curling to rub at it while his thumb stayed focused on your clit swirling it around as he let his free hand massage each ass cheek molding the flesh in his palm as he watched his fingers disappear inside your weeping pussy over and over taking him so well. 

Your face burned as you humped his fingers feeling your lower belly tighten, the ball coming unraveled as your climax washed over you. “Katsuki!” You panted and sighed letting him slowly pull his fingers out before sliding them in his mouth getting a taste of what he’s going to have to miss out for now. 

After several minutes you scrambled off his lap and tried to pull your pants and underwear up in haste avoiding his vermillion eyes, he leaned back and watched you with a smirk. “Seems like it doesn’t take much to shut you up before you turn into an orgasm-hungry little plaything.” He teased with a cackle as he stood up and looked at you waiting for your response. 

You glared at him and grabbed your book reader. “I’ve had better.” You spit and walked out of the living room before you let him do much more than just make you cream on his fingers.

Fifteen minutes later after the whole debacle between you and Katsuki, your parents and brother returned with dinner and requested everyone at the table naturally, forcing you to face the blonde man. 

“There’s something going on tonight downtown your father and I are going to attend, so you three will be here unless you want to go?” Your mom began once everyone was seated at the dining room table. She got grunts from all the men. “I’ll stay here.” You told her only to be echoed by Eijiro and Katsuki who no doubt had plans to ruin your night even more. 

During the dinner, you could feel his socked foot rub against yours here and there, sometimes he’d smirk at you and lift his fingers up to his mouth to wipe away food, and his tongue would peak out tasting you again. This man had plans to drive you up the wall and it surely was working, making your resolve weaker and weaker. 

“I’m done, thanks for cooking mom, good night everyone.” You announced and stood with your plate to drop it off in the sink before scurrying down the hall into your temporary bedroom. 

You lay in bed replaying the scene that unfolded on the couch as you attempted to read your book again, the words on the screen jumbled together the more you tried to read. Giving up you checked the time seeing it was past eleven which meant Eijiro was asleep so Katsuki had to be as well giving you the time to indulge in some private time in the hot tub on the balcony. 

After you got changed into your bathing suit, armed with your towel book and something to sip on you slipped outside in the warm sticky air to hear the hot tub running and Katsuki who grunted as he climbed over the side to see you standing there watching him.

“Did you follow me out here or something?” He asked lips curled up in a grin as he sank down on the bench. 

You ignored him and set your things down to sit across from him looking up at the sky, the beauty of coming here was at night when there was nothing stopping you from seeing the beautiful stars shining against the inky background, the moon was high bathing the earth in a soft white glow giving it an almost ethereal feel. “Are you going to ignore me then?” Katsuki asked earning more silence from you. 

He chuckled and rolled his eyes as he spread his legs setting his feet on either side of your thighs on the bench knowing he was right where he wanted to be. “Short-cake.” He spoke and leaned forward getting your full attention now, it was a silent dare. Are you going to break the tension or let him keep trying to play you like a board game? His throat bobbed when he swallowed. 

Only the sounds of the bugs and wildlife and the boiling water could be heard as you stared at him again weighing all your options, it was clear as day that he wanted you just as much as you wanted him. You leaned forward and kissed him pressing your mouth to his in a needy kiss, your arms coming up instantly to wrap around his arms when he tugged you into his lap. 

He settled back on the bench parting your lips with his tongue before tasting you whole, one hand holding the back of your neck while the other slides down your back ending to squish one ass cheek, your body was on fire between the hot tub and kiss and with how he touched you it was impossible not to roll your hips riding and dry humping his clothed erection.

His mouth worked down your jaw and neck and shoulders as he untied your bathing suit top before pushing you back a little to get a good view of your tits. “So pretty.” He murmured and cupped them, running his thumb over your peaked nipple before attaching his lips around the bud suckling on it softly then began nibbling gently. 

Your fingers curled into his hair as you continued to dry fuck him hearing the water slosh around your bodies, you both panted grinding against each other desperate to cum until you were pushed back again until your ass was on his knees and mostly out of the water. 

Katsuki untied the sides of your swimming suit bottoms slowly while letting his mouth litter your bare chest with slow opened mouth kisses. “I bet you’re fuckin’ soaked for me.” He grunted and spread your legs wider for him once your bare pussy was on display for him. 

Two thick fingers spread you open for him as the water lapped over you. “Sit up for me princess,” Katsuki demanded and thrust his hips up once you did what you were told, you watched him hook his finger in the band of his bottoms and push them down to free his cock that ached and throbbed all for you. 

The tip was red and swollen waiting for stimulation of any sort and water was not a good lube so with his dick free from the water you spit on your palm and used it to stroke his cock up and down coating him in your slick to make it easier teasing him a little bit as you looked at him with a sultry look in your eyes as you pulled your bottom lip between your teeth. 

With your hands on his shoulders, you sunk down on him feeling the head catch on the soft opening of your pussy stretching you out already. You gasped and sat down fully feeling him in what felt like your womb with how thick he is, it made you feel dizzy. He leaned in and wrapped one arm around your waist to keep you steady. 

“It’s just better if you let me take control short-cake.” He told you in a low tone, his voice growly and dark as he tucked you more into his chest planting his feet flat on the bottom of the hot tub to fuck you from below. 

His mouth went back to your neck laving the flesh in kisses and nibbles that left you whining his name tugging on his hair as you rode him hard letting out all your frustrations. “It feels so good I hate you so much!” You cried softly and threw your head back holding onto him tightly. 

Katsuki chuckled. “You say you hate me but the way you’re riding my dick tells me otherwise princess.” He shot back and laid his head over the edge of the hot tub watching you bounce so prettily up and down on his cock like you were made to do this, every single day. 

His hands snaked under the water to grasp your ass cheeks helping you ride him. “You know as soon as I smell you I get hard, so sweet like a peach just begging to be suckled from.” He grunted against the column of your throat biting down on the flesh leaving a perfect set of teeth indentations. 

Each time he bottomed out he kissed your cervix and stretched you out leaving you feeling incredibly full as you scratched at his back moaning his name brokenly feeling his thumb rub at your clit with slow motions. “Cum on my cock like I know you’ve been thinking about, you’re squeezin’ me so tight princess keep fucking me,” He growled when he pulled away from you for a brief moment, a bridge of spit between his lips and your bud strung when Katsuki leaned back. 

It didn’t take much between his mouth that latched to your nipple again and his command, your pussy fluttered hard around him, your hips stilling from the intensity of it all. “Inside! Cum inside me!” You begged hanging onto him for dear life as you rode your orgasm out trying to milk him. 

Katsuki snarled, feeling your cunt hug him tight and wet. “You think I would pull out of this warm wet pussy? Like chance in hell, I would.” He pounded you from below hard and fast now feeling his sack tighten trying to catch his own high before his climax hit. 

He held onto you as he filled you to the brim fucking his cum deeper, the warmth spread from your womb throughout your entire body as you slumped against him panting hard. You both clung to each other coming down from your highs. 

There wasn’t anything to be said as you pulled away from him to get dressed feeling hot and sticky. “I don’t want to ever speak about this again.” You told him in a hushed tone standing up to look at him, your chest still heaved as you covered yourself with your towel unable to meet his red gaze feeling his warm sticky load leak from your cunt. 

“You say that now princess, I’ll be waiting, don't worry! For you, I’ll be a patient man!” Katsuki called out with a loud cackle as he watched you scurry off the balcony again and back inside knowing you’d be back for more of him, and he’d make sure of it.

#Katsuki x reader smut #Katsuki Bakugo x reader smut #katsuki smut #Katsuki x you smut #my hero smut #my hero academia smut #katsuki bakugo x reader #katsuki x reader #mha smut #bakugo smut #katsuki x yn smut #katsuki x you #Katsuki x reader #Katsuki Bakugo x reader #Bakugo x reader #my hero academia x reader #mha x reader #bnha x reader #bnha x you #Katsuki x you #bnha bakugou #bakugou x reader #bakugou x you #bakugo katsuki

[saintmuses]

❝𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙡𝙖𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙨, 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙚𝙣𝙨 𝙝𝙪𝙢 𝙖 𝙨𝙩𝙪𝙣 𝙜𝙪𝙣 𝙡𝙪𝙡𝙡𝙖𝙗𝙮❞

Pairing:

Thomas Shelby x Advisor!Reader

Summary:

When Oswald Mosley flirted with Thomas’s political advisor, he could not hold back the green monster thus crossing the boundaries he had sworn was set in place between themselves for her sake.

Warning(s): Soft SMUT. Age gap (Reader in her mid-20s and Thomas in his early 40s). Spanking. Fingering. Major power imbalance. Thomas being sweet on Reader. Possessive!Thomas. Implied misogynistic only because of her job and obviously Oswald Mosley. Infidelity. Minors, dni! Note: I’m not well-versed in English politics in 1930s, and women during that time rarely had positions in politics especially as a career.

Word Count: 1.9k

Thomas Shelby’s gaze caught the figure sitting by the fireplace, his breath was caught in his lungs at the sight of her pretty presence in the armchair. However, he could tell she had her neck craning backwards laughing with a small smile painted on her face as she was speaking to someone in front of her.

He frowned, curiosity creeping through his veins as he wondered who was talking to her, making her laugh like that.

His teeth grounded as his jaw clamped together, the color of green rushed through his veins as the creature rattled in its cage of his mind when the figure stood up, stepping out of Y/N’s way as she stood up from the furniture as well.

Oswald fucking Mosley. 

He stood under the alcove, waiting for her to make her way down the hallway. His ears prickled at the sounds of heels tapping against the granite floors, every footstep were increasingly louder as she neared the alcove.

He was mentally praising his luck for the separation of offices due to his position as a member of parliament. He could pretend to put a front in public; the one where he was not a backstreet gangster who grew up poor, a soldier who had to do things no one should ever have to do in the name of the war, the one where he was a politician, but he dropped all pretense once the door was close temporarily.

When she walked past him, unaware that he was waiting for her, his hand snapped forward, fingers enclosing her bicep gently before hauling her behind him as he stormed down the hallway. Barely paying any mind toward bystanders who were still lingering in the hallways.

He wanted to punish her, for breathing in Mosley’s direction, for giving him a very brief but sweet laugh, for even entertaining him despite the fact she did not like sleazy men like Mosley.

He just wanted to punish her for giving her time to someone else when her time belonged to him.

Even though they had not crossed the line other than innocent stolen moments, longing stares and little sweetheart comments that were not made to be condescending. To her he was Mister Shelby the member of parliament, but to him, she had become his everything.

Oswald made a mistake in bringing in a powerful force to improve the Labour Party campaign in order to gain votes, someone who would make him fall in love with her instantaneously.

She had left once after her goal was completed. He had tried to do the right thing by keeping her at distance, but he ended up offering her a position as his advisor in that hallway to hire her due to his selfish desire of keeping her close again. The emotions he felt at the idea of not seeing her again held a threat against his conscience.

Oswald was right that she could help save the political party, but she ended up more than saving it, she saved him by giving him air to breathe, to make him feel alive since Grace’s death

She saved him.

And he was not going to let someone like Oswald Mosley or anyone else take her away from him.

“What the hell is wrong with you, Mister Shelby?” She asked, nearly icily as she was trying to keep up with his pace as he stormed down the hallway towards his office.

He knew what she was doing when she called him by the government name along with the position in the rank, reminding him of their circumstances, despite being nearly unprofessional with her words.

“You,” his voice deeper than usual and harsh against the quiet hall. “You are my problem.”

She huffed impassionedly. “Mister-“

He interrupted, not allowing her to form a reprimand against him. “I have been very patient with you, Y/N-,” he spoke, abruptly turning to face her once they neared the door that led to his office. His icy eyes glinting with feral before it retreated. “You say I’m your superior, right?” He waited for her to nod at him. “You do what I say in terms of what I want, correct?” He asked with his gritted teeth. His eyes were blazing with fury, not thinking straight in his head as his emotions threatened to boil over.

Despite his inner turmoil, he pushed her gently to his office, turning to her after closing the ornate door, locking it with the key.

“Yes, but-“

He interrupted her grabbing her wrists with gentle strength, “then bend over the desk.” He maneuvered her towards the wooden furniture, clear of documents and little knick knacks.

A look of surprise flashed across her facial features. “Mis-” she started, but he did not let her finish.

“Bend. Over. The. Desk.” A growl rumbled in his throat as he glared down at her since he towered over her.

She stared at him, eyes wide.

He was going to make her acknowledge the connection between them. However, he will back off if she truly did not want this.

And Y/N would not do anything if she did not want to.

He swore on his father’s makeshift grave that he could see her lips trembling slightly as her eyes dilated in soft desire before turning away from him to face the desk. He inhaled slowly when she slowly bent her upper body over his desk, pressing her chest into the furniture with her palms placed flat on the dark wood above her, curling her fingers around the edge.

He breathed heavily as he looked at her, bent over the desk and obediently exposed, like a prize. As if he was in a trance, he reached out and dragged the hem of her skirt upwards until the sight of the curves of her flesh were revealed peeking out in her light-colored underwear, not without gliding his fingers across her smooth skin, making her tremble. He tucked the hem of the fabric into the waistband.

Fuck.

He could feel himself hardening in his trousers at the sight of her bare skin. His eyes flickered to her face. She was looking forward now, though he could still see the side of her face from his position. Her cheeks were flushed prettily.

He lifted his right hand, and he hit the right cheek with a loud crack in the silent of his office. Y/N’s body jolted forward beneath him at the contact with an unexpected, guttural moan.

Something inside of him snapped.

He was like a man possessed - he couldn’t stop, addicted to the way her soft, pliant flesh felt underneath his calloused palm. It was truly the first time he had touched her skin other than shaking her hand in Mosley’s office when she was introduced to him.

One coming right after the other, causing the flesh of her ass to reverberate from his palm.

After the last one was landed with a sharp heavy smack, he heard her letting out a grunt as her thighs shafted together in response to his aggressive ministrations.

Breathing heavily, “is that it?” She asked, turning her head back toward him with defiance glinting in her gaze. 

Oh, she was challenging him. She looked delicious, all bent over with her skirt flipped over her waist.

His eyes narrowed at her, flicked his wrist to slap her fabric covered cunt, not too hard but still nice and sharp. His lips curled into a smirk when she whimpered in surprise, thighs clamping together.

It didn’t deter him as he eased her thighs apart slightly, pushing her underwear to the side, revealing her pretty cunt to his hungry gaze before sliding his index and middle fingers into her warmth. Roughly dragging his fingers back and forth in response to her own breathing patterns as moans and little whines emitted from her throat. “If I ever catch you allowing even so far as encouraging Mosley to flirt with you, I will kill him.” He did not give a fuck if Mosley was an important politician or not, he will find a way to put a bullet through Mosley’s body and bury him with some believable cover story about his unfortunate death.

Thomas removed his fingers, towering over her body slightly grinding his hardened cock into the curve of her ass, reaching around to her face and shoved his fingers into her pliant mouth. “You’re mine,” he growled, the words sounding more of a threat.

His other hand gripped her flesh when he felt her lips closing around his fingers and sucked them to clean her arousal off his skin.

She moved, pushing back at him while flipping her skirt back over her ass until he stood a step back to give her space when she turned to face him with a defiant expression on her face.

“Fuck off, Mister Shelby. I am not yours. I am not one of the whores you like to fuck.” She hissed, eyes flashing with anger.

He chuckled coldly, looking at her with disbelief in his eyes. “Sweetheart, you let me lay hands on your arse, but it’s crossing the line when I want to bend you over, fill you up with me cock while making you mine? Eh? Got that bit twisted.”

She glared at him with hostility in her pretty eyes. The ones he would see in his mind whenever he could sleep without the sounds of bloodshed from the Great War.

He sighed, raising his hands to cup her jaw, brushing the pad of his thumb against her cheek. “Trust me, I haven’t fucked anyone since I’ve first laid eyes on you. My only companion is my hand.”

“Not even your wife?” 

He gazed down at her, sliding his thumb from her cheek to her lips, brushing against them softly.

“Not even her,” he said throatily after pulling his thumb away from her soft pliant lips. “I have been patient with you, willing for you to come to terms with your feelings that you and I fucking well know you have for me.” He said lowly, his fingers gripped her jaw slightly as a reflection of his statement. “You wanted to come back after shaping up the political party, accepting my job offer, despite knowing that I crave you in that hallway. You still walked back into this godforsaken place, and this is the consequences of our own actions.,” he whispered before using his hand, he grabbed her face, pulling her into a filthy kiss and she reciprocated in return with a whine, lips biting tongues tangling, battling for dominance.

He listened to every word she said to him, ignoring the harsh words from Arthur, his brother. Lizzie, his wife at this point in the name only. Michael and Polly who berated him every chance he got. Arthur. Polly. Lizzie. Linda. Michael. He ignored the words spewing from everyone filled with contempt despite following his words as if they were the law. Except her, her words were soft and firm if needed to be.

He did not care about anyone else, about what they want. Not while he was feeling this way for her. 

He cared about what she wanted because her wants became his wants, and he knew that his wants were somewhat becoming her wants too

His wants were consuming his thoughts in the moment, his jealousy destroyed the control he had over his desires which brought them to the moment in his office.

“Say my name,” he murmured, a command etched in his words after he released her lips from his.

He heard her exhaling softly, her eyes were gazing into his. “Tommy.”

#thomas shelby x reader #thomas shelby x you #thomas shelby x y/n #peaky blinders #cillian murphy x reader #thomas shelby #cillian murphy

[illyrian-dreamer]

Dance with the devil – Part 1

Rhysand x fem!reader series

Summary: You attempt to rob the High Lord of the Night Court.

Words: 3.3k

TW: Violence, death

Notes: Morally grey Rhysand below the cuff 😈😈😈

»»——-　★　——-«« ★ »»——-　★　——-««

Tick, tick, tick.

That stern voice nagged in your mind, laced with forewarning and impatience that only frustrated you further. 

You had just minutes to find the scroll and get out. 

With gritted teeth, you leaned closer, drowning out that voice - likely your mothers - as well as the drumming of your heart, waiting for that final click. 

You were versed in charming locks, picking them when you had to, just as you did now. And what waited on the other side of this door was worth every swallow of bile, every rise and swell of panic that begged you to think of the consequence - of what would happen if you were caught. 

It was only a half-moon prior that you had snuck into the infamous libraries of the Day Court while the city slept, hunting concealed maps and etchings of Helion’s castle. You studied the corridors and winding staircases of the impressive home, squinting through the flickering glow of the small fae light you had allowed yourself to cast, anxious eyes lifting reluctantly every so often, humouring the phantom furl of a page or shiver down your spine. 

So you pressed those routes to memory – sewers, plumbing, hidden passageways marked in some maps and not others. They were your only true salvage if things went wrong.  

Weapons were now strapped to every part of your leathers that would allow, layers of magic shielding your scent and sound so strong it made your joints ache, as if buckling under their weight.

Easy in, easy out, quick on your feet and don't look back.

That mantra was your only comfort as you silently slipped into the lavish guest suite, a breath of relief that its layout matched your efforts of breaking into the libraries. Because although night never found this court, there was only a small window in which the High Lords were away from their suites, and time was a persistent foe. 

It was incredibly risky to break into the guest quarters of the High Lord of the Night Court, especially after Hellion had declared his home a neutral grounds for the High Lord’s meeting. But what Rhysand possessed was invaluable – that scroll of ancient tongue, the only one of it’s kind. It was worth the risk of your own life, of certain death if you were caught.

Careful, gloved fingers sifted through the papers on the desk, making sure not to leave anything out of place. 

The details you had gained on the High Lord were valuable – he was neat, more than neat, really – his room immaculate and organised. A paper left rippled, a chair at a slight angle, even a stray hair on the sprawling marble floor – all were things he would surely notice. 

But you could tread lightly, could play to that game of fine detail. Nimble as a mouse – that’s how your father had always described you, affection warming his face as he compared you to your boisterous brother. 

With a clench of your heart, you forced the memory out. Once you had that scroll – soon. You would be together again soon.

As you crouched low to sift through the chestnut draws, mahogany carved with the kind of finery that made you sick, a hint of gold gleamed from the corner of the room, the light catching your eye. 

Padding with quiet creaks from your boots, you allowed yourself only a moment to admire the array of scrolls that lay in the wooden chest – it’s lid tipped open, beckoning to be explored. In the centre perched the most exotic of the artefacts. Boring rings of gold, it winked at you, a true diamond in the rough. 

With gentle inspection, you traced the characters etched in it’s casing, a cryptic ode of ancient tongue. 

A whisper of magic kissed your face, stray hairs dancing as goosebumps prickling beneath your leathers. It was waft of excitement, danger, magic aged by civilisations – this was a powerful scroll indeed.

With a hand on each end of the casing, you gently lifted the scroll into your satchel, careful not to knock it or disturb the casing. You would return it after all, once traced.

There was a shift in the air then, and a sinking feeling rippled through your abdomen, like a stone dropped into still water.

Get out – that voice urged. 

You had spent too long here already. 

Swallowing the fastening hammer of your heart, you raised from your knees, eyeing the unsuspecting cupboard  – behind it a hidden door, and behind that a winding pathway would lead you clear to the gardens.

You almost scoffed – this was easier than you had thought.

How could the High Lord be so reckless to leave something of this value lying about? 

The pit of your stomach deepened. 

Too easy – much, much too easy. 

An open, gaping well. 

Oh gods, this was a–

And then darkness – everywhere. 

You gasped, catching glimpses of red and blue as you staggered back. Your back hit something solid – no, someone. Strong arms gripped yours wrists, pinning them behind you. You tried to yell, but your breath hitched as violet eyes glowered amongst the tendrils of midnight smog, choking any sound that whined in your throat. 

“Well well, what do we have here?” a sultry voice purred, a refined silhouette emerging from the darkness, tall and broad. 

A gleam of teeth pulled with a feline smile, the figure prowling closer. Dangerous, lethal, ever knowing with a hint of cockiness.

And as tendrils of night magic cleared around their master, the High Lord of the Night Court was revealed.

Rhysand’s eyes danced with amusement as he watched realisation set in – your own features taut with horror. 

“Hello, Y/N darling.”

You were dead meat.

A heavy, intrusive sensation caused a shiver to rack through you as phantom claws tore through your useless shields, and you were suddenly overwhelmed by the scent of your own fear. 

Rhysand’s pretty grin only grew.

In a hopeless attempt to flee, you barely moved an inch as you tugged against the impossible grip on your arms.

He was closing in, coldness seeping from him as his magic curling in on itself, devouring any hints of warmth from the room, from your own veins. 

And then he stopped, just one agonising pace shy from your heaving chest. 

Here he was – High Lord of the Night Court. Wickedly cruel, arrogant and unnervingly calm, a cat who toyed with its food. The legendary villain of whispered rumours and horror stories exchanged amongst children of your village in the court of Dawn, parents so tired from their youngens loss of sleep that he was a banished name from many households.

Your eyes danced with a panic as instincts forced you to look for any chance of survival. Dressed with finery, but not a weapon on him – that was good. 

But as the shadows began to clear, another male was revealed perching patiently against the wall behind, blue siphons flickering as he stood with wide legs, arms crossed and face stoic. Azriel, the Shadowsinger and Spymaster, waited patiently for your attempt of escape, his own shadows at the ready. 

Fuck.

That meant the male that bound you was Cassian – Warlord and Chief General of the Illyrian armies. 

You were as good as dead.

Your breathing stuttered as you swallowed the plea for mercy begging at your lips. They were going to kill you, that was certain. You could only hope they would do it quickly.

“My my, Y/N,” Rhysand drawled, his voice playful and sensual. “We weren't certain if you were going to take the bait.” 

Placing hands on knees, he lowered himself to your level, those violet eyes captivating you, their depth incomprehensible. You tried to break Rhys’s gaze, but you rendered helpless, realising the cruel use of his magic. 

“But I’m so glad this is how we get to meet.”

He was expecting you? 

You glared back, your breaths quickening at the dangerous proximity.

If not at his mercy, you would have spat at his condescending manner. But instead you fought aimlessly against Cassian’s hold, the male pulling you back against his chest with a jarring tug, his grip tightening until you felt your pulse in your wrists. 

Your mind was scattering with each second, frantic eyes dancing at the High Lord before you. You hadn't expected him to be so… handsome. 

“Why, thank you,” Rhys cocked an eyebrow at you, that cat like grin exchanged for a lob-sided one. 

Had he just–? You scowled, cursing him silently. His abilities as a deamanti also deeming true.

Rhysand chuckled at your foul words, his laugh unexpectedly soft. “Such a feisty thing you are,” he commented, raking his purple eyes down your body. You suddenly felt incredibly exposed, despite the layers of leathers and weaponry you wore. 

“Let me go,” you spat hoarsely, heaving against the General once more. 

“You’re not in any position to make that request,” Cassian huffed, pulling back on the little distance you had gained. His voice was gruff as it hummed through your back.

You turned your head to look at the Warlord for the first time. He too, like the other males in the room, was noticeably handsome. His long hair fell into his face as he looked down at you, his eyes almost as amused as his High Lord. 

Were you just a joke to them?

“Oh, sweet Y/N, you’re not a joke at all. We’re actually quiet impressed by you,” Rhysand toyed, his eyebrows raised with a mocking tone. “We know you’ve been trailing us for months, Azriel here picked up on your movements in our court a whole quarter year ago.”

You flicked your eyes to the Spymaster, his position and face unmoving at his mention. You couldn't help your scowl at the male who was responsible to securing your death. 

“What we didn't expect, was for you to make it this far,” Rhysand continued with a chuckle, his head shaking in playful dismay.

Great – now on top of everything else, you were completely insulted.

“That’s why we set this trap for you. So we could finally meet.”

You frowned at Rhysand. You had been so careful, so stealthy about all your work in spying on the High Lord, slaving over maps and reports until you could no longer keep your eyes open, using the little money you had to buy off secrecy, and always covering your tracks. But it still hadn't been enough.

“Don’t look so disheartened, little mouse,” Rhysand purred, before he picked a piece of lint off his fitted black jacket. “The fact that you were able to break into my quarters alone is incredibly impressive.”

It had in fact, taken a lot of work. To sneak into Hellion’s home had taken three disenchantment spells, and compromised a suite of his guards who were yet to rise from their enchanted slumber. The locks and spells on Rhysand’s chamber were another thing in itself. 

“What will you do with me?” you gritted, glaring between the males in front of you, desperate to know your fate.

Rhysand dipped his head back and laughed, his posture too calm, too casual. 

“What will we do with you, hmm?” he repeated, and a shrinking instinct finding you, one that you hadn't felt since you were a child.

“Perhaps the question is, what would you like us to do with you?” It was a lovers voice, sensual and suggestive. 

You couldn't help the thunder of your heart as his scent filled your nose, crudely laced with arousal as it found you with a phantom wind.

Rhysand was on you then, his face inches from your own as swirls of night filled your vision, his violet eyes the only light you could see. 

You gasped at the sight before you – it was beautiful, but so, so deadly. 

“I don’t like having my things taken from me, Y/N.” Rhysand growled, his voice now cold, unforgiving. Those same claws that tore your shields now traced the outskirts if your mind, talons sinking slightly in warning. 

Despite the little pain, it was instinct to scream.

You tried to make quick peace at the thought of his violet eyes being the last thing you would ever see.

Open your eyes, he commanded mind to mind. 

Without realising you had closed them, you found yourself unable to disobey.

Rhysand withdrew as quickly as he had pounced, his darkness disappearing with him as he slid his hands into his pockets, rocking on fine shoes. His behaviour was erratic, such a contrast to the moment before. 

“Of course, it would be such a waste of good talent.” He shrugged nonchalantly, as if he hadn’t toyed with your very consciousness just moments before. 

You watched him pace, your eyes flicking to the spymaster once more, before noting the exits of the room you knew well. 

“You don't stand a chance,” Azriel spoke plainly, his hand fingering one of many blades strapped to his strong frame. A warning, from one spy to another.

Rhysand grinned between you two, running a smooth hand through his black-blue hair. 

Was he entertained by the idea that you were willing to give a fight? 

You felt a low rumble from Cassian’s chest, all three males daring you to challenge them in their own way. 

Azriel was right – it was suicide to try. 

Rhysand hummed with pleasure, reading your submission as your body sagged every so slightly. 

“I’ll tell you what, Y/N. I’ll make you a deal.” 

A bargain, a promise, and perhaps a riddle from Prythian’s deadliest High Lord. 

“I’d rather you kill me,” you said tightly. 

Rhysand laughed again, and you felt the movements of Cassian’s chuckle from behind. 

“Oh, sweetheart. Surely there’s a tad more fight in you than that?” 

You scowled in return. 

Rhysand approached you again, now holding the scroll of ancient tongue. 

“What do you know of this scroll?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“Try again.”

You winced. “I don't know anything.”

Rhysand tutted. “Little liar,” he grinned at you, his violet eyes sparkling with challenge. “I’ll ask one more time,” he sang.

You felt them again, and it took all you had to not crumble at Cassian’s boots at the flooding pain as Rhysand dragged a singular, scraping talon across your mind and back. 

“Resurrection!” you yelped – a half breath, half scream escaping you as your legs gave out. Cassian held you up, your body rigid as Rhysand’s talon pierced your mind further. The pain was blinding, eliciting a howl from you as your vision flashed with white. 

Yet Rhysand’s icy threat cut through. “I have a lot of enemies, Y/N. I don't suppose you are hoping to fetch a pretty penny for anyone who might seek to bring back the rightfully dead?”

“No, n-no!” you gasped, your body spasming and contorting as he continued to toy with you. “Please, it’s for m-my family!”

Rhysand left your mind as quickly as he had entered it. You sagged in relief, Cassian gently setting you down as your crumpled to the floor, your body shaking and twitching. 

You had just enough energy to raise your eyes and meet the High Lord’s stare. Gone was his expression of cruel amusement, it was now replaced with a frown of serious, deep thought. 

He had seen them – your family, their smiles and laughter as your memory flashed at their mention. That meant he had also seen their deaths, their limp bodies piled for you to find in your own home. 

“You wish to resurrect them?” Rhys asked softly. 

All you could do was nod. You were sure you weren't noting a sense of sympathy from the male.

Rhys shook his head, his eyes closing. “If it were that easy Y/N, I’d have the missing kin to my own family here today.”

You looked up at the High Lord through heavy lids, exhaustion overcoming your body with an occasional twitch. 

“I have to try,” was all you could offer, your voice small and unsure. 

Rhysand stared down at you with furrowed brows, serious yet unreadable. After a few moments, he blinked, a few stars returning to his eyes as he raised them to Cassian with a quick nod. 

Strong hands unfurled from your arms, and Cassian stepped back, providing you some space on the marbled tiles as you shook.

Death then, at last. May the Mother have mercy, let it be quick, you prayed silently.

A gentle pull of your hand from your face, and your fingers were forced to close around a ovoidal object. 

Rhysand was crouched in front of you, his face unreadable as his cold hand kept your fingers pressed to the scroll

“I’ll tell you what Y/N. You find a way to decipher this scroll and bring back your family. And when you do, you share that information with me, so that I may do the same.”

You pulled your hand back, eyes darting between his violet ones as if you read the trick that undoubtedly hid beneath his offer. 

“And why in Mother’s name would I trust you?”

He smirked humourlessly. “Unless you prefer the alternative –“ Rhysand’s eyes blackened instantly, and your heart skipped a beat at the promise of death that beheld them. “– I don’t believe you have a choice.”

Make a bargain with the High Lord, or die. Not in a thousand lifetimes could you have predicted an ultimatum so soulless.

“Do we have a deal?” Rhysand offered his large hand as he still crouched before you, his eyebrows raising with a hint of impatience.

You flicked your gaze between Azriel and Cassian. Both of them watched patiently, their stances neutral, obedient of their High Lord’s business. It bothered you – how were both of them so complicit to his evil? 

Looking back at Rhysand – you ignored the voice inside you that screamed at you not to trust him. 

Letting out a short breath, you lifted yourself to your knees and clasped your hand in his. “It’s a deal.”

A gasp escaped you as a stinging heat spread across the hand held in his, and etched it’s way up your forearm. With wide eyes, you watched the burn and itch of a ink-like pattern forming on your skin. Swirls now covered your once naked arm, the picture of one hand shaking another stark on the inside of your palm. It was your hand in Rhysand’s – a symbol of the bargain you had just agreed to. For eternity, or until you deciphered this scroll you realised, with no lack of nausea.  

Rhysand grinned, marvelling the matching tattoo that now tainted his skin. “I’ll be checking in on your progress frequently, Y/N darling.” 

Unable to find the right words for you distaste, you snatched your hand away and pressed against your stomach, willing your self not to be sick.

You were now indebted to this hellish, sinister being.

Rhysand appeared as unfazed. “Perhaps you would consider a job in my court with Azriel?” he mused, flexing his fingers as he continued to take in the impressive detail of your bargain. “Again, we were quite impressed with your work.” 

He was teasing of course, and Azriel’s hazel eyes winced with humour as all three males watched for your reaction. 

You scowled at Rhysand, glaring up at him again. “I prefer my freedom, actually,” you snarled. 

Rhysand laughed in his sensual way, before grinning a wicked smile down at you. “Or what’s left of it. 

He straightened then, his wig men moving to his sides with grace – a practiced dance for all three. 

“I suggest you excuse yourself from my quarters the moment we’re gone Y/N, I’ll know otherwise.”

With a clasp to his shoulders from Azriel and Cassian, the three males were gone in a ripple of odourless night. 

Until then, little spy, Rhysand’s voice echoed in your mind.

»»——-　★　——-«« ★ »»——-　★　——-««

AN: Ok new series let's gooooo!! Welcome to DWTD! Hello morally grey mosthandsomehighlordofthenightcourt 💞😈 I am so so excited to explore this series with y'all. Pleeeeease let me know what you think of part 1, I wrote this over so many months lol I hope it tied together. General tag list is tagged, but if you'd like to join a tag list for this series (DWTD), comment below! La la love you guys, hope you're all safe and doing ok 💞

#rhysand x reader #rhysand series #morally grey rhysand #rhys series #rhys x reader #rhys x oc #azriel #cassian #rhys fanfic #acotar fandom #acotar angst #acotar series #acotar #acotar fanfic #acotar fanfiction #sarah j maas #rhys x fem!reader #acotarfanfic #dwtd series #the bat boys #a court of thorns and roses #dream big with nic

[em-writes-stuff-sometimes]

darilaros (princess) │ Chapter 8: Birthright

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 │Chapter 5 │Chapter 6 │Chapter 7 │Chapter 8 (COMPLETE!)

Synopsis: As the second daughter of King Viserys, you experience firsthand what it means to belong to the House of the Dragon. Your wish comes true.

Hello! Welcome to the FINAL CHAPTER of this instalment, another 8000+ word chapter! Everyone's long-anticipated 'claiming scene' is here, so please give a round of applause to our angryboi, the Cannibal! Keep in mind that I've officially retconned Luke and Daeron's ages (they're 8 and 9 in gevivys now, not 5 and 6 like they were originally - please let me know if I've missed any instances so far!), Thank you to my boobear @ewanmitchellcrumbs for beta-ing this thingo!

TRIGGERS: more abandonment issues, reference to pervy suitors.

Scarcely any time passes between that eve and the arrival of Rhaenyra’s firstborn son, Jacaerys.

’Nyra’s world changes when her baby comes. She is as perfect a mother as you think any woman could be, spending nearly all the hours of the day looking at him or holding him or caring for him. Having a babe has changed her, softened her hard edges and given her a calmness she had once lacked. All she wants to talk about is him. When she is not talking about him or being with him, she is in Council meetings, or she is with Papa performing whatever tasks the heir to the Throne is expected to do. She tries to find moments to spare for you, though it is far less often than it used to be, and she always brings her boy with her.

Jace is a pretty babe, dark-haired and dark-eyed, so unlike either of his parents, and he always seems quite serious in expression—but there is something that holds you back with him. Even though you love him—and he is one half of ’Nyra, so of course you love him—it is like a wall exists between you and him. His mother is your sister, and his father is your cousin, and you… you have no place there. You are on the outside looking in at a life you cannot have.

A part of you wants to stare down at the babe and tell him that you were here first. That you will always have known his mama for longer than he ever shall, that nothing can take away the fact that she belonged to you before she belonged to him. But you don’t. ’Nyra is a new mother, and her child should be all that matters. If you were her babe, that is what you would want. She does not need the petty jealousy of her little sister to ruin things. It is better for you, for her, for him that you find other ways to fill your days.

Daeron’s birth makes it easier.

It is almost like Alicent barely even notices the arrival of her third son, though you do not blame her. She had screamed so loud that even you had heard her in your own chambers. It was not like that with Aegon or Helaena or Aemond. The commotion had been enough to rouse you from your bed to creep toward the Queen’s apartments, to hear Grand Maester Mellos tell Papa that her belly might need to be laid open like—

No. No. The throb of nausea is so vile just thinking of it. You put it out of your mind, doing your best to ignore the prickle of an old hurt and the word ‘Mama’ on the tip of your tongue, hushed and afraid.

Alicent is weak after the birth, and so you take it upon yourself to visit your new little brother, to keep him company where everyone else would have left him to attendants. He is so, so quiet, as though he is ashamed of the way he had entered the world, the way he had hurt his mother coming out. It is like he is an apology for the pain she was made to go through. He is sweet, barely crying though he goes for times without the attention he deserves, and he never fusses when you reach into the cradle to lift him up. You are not quite strong enough to carry him around places, but it is relatively easy to take him to the chair to prop him on your lap in the nursery while Helaena plays.

When Alicent heals, she makes no attempt to disturb your routine, and it is like you have your very own baby to match ’Nyra’s. Sometimes, you imagine that Daeron is yours like Jace is hers and that you are ’El’s mama too, and that you have the important task of being their whole world. Even though the idea of having babies is beginning to scare you a great deal, being a mama is nice. Playing pretend is nice.

But then, the wet nurses come or Alicent comes, and your brother and sister are taken away. It reminds you that you really are alone, after all. ’Nyra giving birth to her next son, Lucerys—Luke—only worsens that feeling. Her family is growingand growing while yours seems to only exist on borrowed moments. Still, you take what love you can and bury the rest of it—the despair, the resentment, the soft tender parts of you that cry out for someone, anyone at all to really, truly see you—far, far below the surface, so deep that no one can touch it, not even you.

You seek solace in knowledge.

Books become your very best friends. The older you get, the easier reading becomes—you leave behind folktales and children’s myths to begin browsing through tomes with smaller letters and larger, more difficult words. Stories turn into histories and treatises on all manner of topics, with dragons, direwolves, men, and the fall of Old Valyria being but some of your preferred subjects of study. You learn the names of the Lannister kings before the Conquest; you gather as many legends on the Age of Heroes as you can; you peruse chronicles detailing the first coming of the Andals to Westerosi shores. Through books, the very land you live upon seems to unfold like a map through time itself, all the secrets of the continent opening themselves up to you through tooled leather and yellowed pages.

It makes Papa immensely proud. “If a woman is to sit the Iron Throne after I am gone,” he says, “then perhaps a woman ought to be her right hand!”

You can tell this makes his other Councilmen nervous by the way they share glances. For all that Rhaenyra has been heir for years now, there are still many among the court who believe your brother ought to succeed him. But Papa does not seem to want to change his mind, for he is as determined to see your sister continue to attend Small Council as he always has been.

Still, you take it to heart. Being Hand of the Queen someday means that you will get to stay with your sister even if you are made to be married. It means you will be important in a way that you haven’t really been so far. But a good Hand has to know so so much about all the lands and people a King or Queen might encounter during the years of their reign. You outgrew Septa’s lessons moons ago, and the more you read, the more it becomes apparent that books aren’t enough to teach you all you need to know. There is no one and nothing that can help you become the cleverest possible version of yourself in King’s Landing—at least, not one willing to do such a task. The maesters would not abide by schooling a girl in the higher arts.

Thus, you firmly decide upon the gift you would like for your name day. Standing in the King’s solar two moons before the occasion is to take place, you impart your desire to your audience of one.

“I wish for a tutor, please,” you tell Papa. “Someone who can teach me anything I wish to know.”

Papa laughs. “And what is it you wish to know, my girl?” he asks. You are unsure if he is amused or delighted by your request.

His question makes you think. What do I want to know? There is no single answer you can produce. How do you describe the feeling of wanting to know something you don’t know enough about to be sure you want to learn it?

“Anything,” is what you reply with. “Everything.”

“Anything and everything.” Papa takes a drink from his cup, his nose scrunching when the liquid inside hits his tongue. You do not think it is wine. He returns the cup to the table beside him, reaching his hand out to you. You move forward to take it. “A lofty request. But you are soon to be ten summers!” He grins. A scab at his temple cracks with the motion. “That, I think, is a milestone worthy of celebration. Very well, daughter,” he says with a grunt. “If a tutor is what you want, then a tutor we shall find.”

He stays true to his word. Not long after you make your appeal to him, all manner of strangers the Realm over make their way to King’s Landing to seek an audience with you and Papa. It is the first time you are allowed to remain by his side in the Great Hall, though it means you must balance atop a twist of melted-together swords to rest your rear against the edge of the armrest, one of the few places upon the Throne that cannot cut you should you make contact with it. Papa insists, however, for these people have gathered to seek employment with you, and so you must be the one to approve them.

There is frightfully little to approve. Several of those who come to answer Papa’s ravens ignore you wholly, their eyes sliding over you as though you are not even there. One of them, a man named Robert, outright refuses to answer your query as to what would make cyvasse lessons so appealing to a girl of your station. It is enough to put you off the game entirely. But his conduct is by no means the worst. There are younger lads who possess no more skill than the average knight’s squire, clearly hastened to the Red Keep by the promise of a lucrative wage and companionship with the King’s daughter. More than one Septon shuffles in to lecture you and Papa on the merits of providing a holy education to the female mind, sinful as it is. Even noblemen like Lord Rosby come to offer to take wardship of you, suggesting that growing up with another girl your age is more than enough learning for a Princess. You suspect his proposal has more to do with the large sum he owes over East.

You and Papa reject them all, sending them away with nary a further glance. Those who grow angered by the refusal are easily frightened off by Ser Criston’s hand coming to rest on his pommel at the foot of the steps. Since Alicent had appointed him your sworn shield some moons after Rhaenyra’s wedding, he has taken to his task with a dedication that would worry you if not for the fact that he is made to take breaks. You think that if he were allowed, he would set up a pallet beside the door to your rooms to keep constant guard over you.

Four days after your tenth name day, someone different arrives. Someone new.

“Presenting Ser Lysan Marios of… er… the Free Cities!” the guard announces.

You crane your neck in curiosity as this Ser Lysan makes his way into the hall. He is dark-skinned, light-haired, and his robes are an odd assortment of various fabrics stitched together. It appears well-made, if unusual, and the colours are bright. Reds, blues, yellows, greens, oranges—it seems as though every shade is represented in the patches making up his attire, though you note that purple is missing. Not a noble, then. The man ambles slowly inside, helped by the use of a cane.

“I am from Volantis, Your Grace,” he says when he is finally within earshot, bowing lowly. His voice is deep and rich; if a hug were to have a sound, you think this would be the closest you might come to finding it. “But I do suppose ‘of the Free Cities’ works just as well as any other epithet.”

“You have come a long way, Ser,” Papa says. He is smiling like he always does when these visits begin. You wonder how long it will take for it to fade this time. “You are welcome here in King’s Landing.”

Ser Lysan laughs. “I certainly feel welcome! Such pleasant people you have here, Your Grace. Not a single one has attempted to steal my books thus far—and I confess I have brought plenty!”

This is what spurs you to finally speak up. “Books?” you ask. “What kind?”

When his eyes meet yours, it is like they twinkle, like stars. His mouth widens, exposing pearl-white teeth. “And this must be the young Princess to whom I would be most glad to embark upon the journey of erudition with! Salutations to you, Your Highness!”

He bows again, attempting to cast his arm wide in a flourish—but it appears he had forgotten he was carrying one of his aforementioned books in hand, for it promptly clatters to the floor when he flings his hand out. You giggle, charmed. You cannot help it. He seems so kindly.

“Oh! Oh dear,” he mutters, crouching to the ground to collect his quarry. “My apologies, Your Grace, Your Highness. Oh dear…”

Ser Criston darts forward as if to help, but the man has already taken hold of his prized tome by the time he is close enough.

“Ah—might I ask what areas you are learned in, Ser Lysan?” Papa asks, clearing his throat. His brow has furrowed ever-so-slightly, which means he finds the man before him a little confusing. It is more than a little funny. “My daughter has yet to decide upon an avenue of study.”

The embarrassment slides straight off Ser Lysan’s face. It is as though a bolt of lightning courses through him, such is the sudden shift of his expression into one of sparking joy. “Oh! What am I not a scholar of? I have studied in the physicians’ arts with the Healer’s Guild of Lorath; I have attended the great histories of Westeros and Essos with the esteemed intellectuals of Braavos; I have amassed a more-than-considerable lexicon of tongues across the known world—”

For a reason unknown to you, this piques your interest. “Languages? You know different languages?”

He nods. “Oh, yes! I am quite proficient in your ancestral tongue, Princess. Valyrio Eglio udrir jaehenka issa.” High Valyrian is the language of the godly. He winks. “I am also well-versed in the Eastern dialects of Valyrian, though admittedly they have not the lyricism of their originator. But I must confess, it is my particular interest to devote my academic prowess to the Lekh Dothraki, the tongue of those who ride.”

Papa’s knee twitches beside you. “The Dothraki? How have you come to make dealings with them?”

Ser Lysan waves him off. “Oh, I would not profess to be so grand as to make dealings with the horse-riders of the East! Ah, but mine wife was a Dothraki woman, who gave herself to me in payment for preventing a Volantene herbalist from poisoning her brother. A strange and alarming custom, I once thought. She was the most marvellous of creatures.” He sighs. For a moment, he is silent—then he jerks nearly full-bodied, as though he is awakening from some reverie. “The Dothraki are a misunderstood civilisation, Your Grace,” he says to Papa. “It is my hope that, in time, I am able to repay my wife’s goodness and bring knowledge to those who are ignorant of their ways.”

“I see,” Papa says. He coughs awkwardly. I don’t think he has ever met someone so inclined to talking, you muse. “And… what of your wife now? I had thought the Dothraki were opposed to crossing the sea.”

“They are.” Ser Lysan’s expression becomes shadowed, drawn. “It is my great sorrow that she has passed on to the nightlands, to roam the skies among the starry khalasar of her people.”

“My condolences.” This sounds more genuine; you know that Papa too still mourns your mother, even though he has Alicent now.

“My gratitude, Your Grace. But”—at this, he lightens, forcing a smile to his face once more—“that is not what I have come to discuss, is it?” He turns to you. “My apologies, Princess! If I am so fortunate as to be deemed worthy by you, you may well find such tangents a price to pay for the lessons I have to impart. I am not well known for brevity, I am afraid.”

He’s the one. He’s my tutor. You know it. The way he speaks so happily about all the things he has learned; the way he cares so much about showing that some people are not always what everyone else thinks of them; the way he talks to you as though you are a person rather than just a means of earning coin or living in a palace. You want to know what it is like to be surrounded by that happiness, to spend your days learning from a person such as he rather than continue to quail under the yoke of Septa Marlow.

You readjust to curl into Papa, to lean forward and whisper into the shell of his ear. “I like Ser Lysan, Papa.”

“You do?” He exhales, a long-suffering sigh of resignation. His stare narrows at you as though irritated, though it slowly morphs into a grudging sort of smile. “Naturally.” If he were ’Nyra, he would be rolling his eyes by now. To Ser Lysan, he projects his voice far louder and says, “It appears my daughter has no taste for brevity, Ser. If you wish to take up this post, we would be… honoured… to accommodate you.”

Ser Lysan’s brows raise in surprise. “Oh! No, Your Grace! The honour is mine!” He bows a third time, and it really ought to be excessive, but you cannot help how amiable you find him. “I pray I will not disappoint you, Princess.”

“I am very glad to meet you, Ser Lysan,” you say, fighting the urge to leave Papa’s side and go forth to follow the man before you wherever he might go, to let yourself be enthralled by his tales and his rambling, half-formed thoughts. “I hope we shall have a very good time together.”

You are not to know it at this precise moment—but you will.

“We have made our introductions, Princess, and I have learned the lay of the land as best I can, so to speak.”

Ser Lysan is settled in the chair opposite you, having just completed his surveyance of the room around him. You have been granted a solar for the very first time, a whole new chamber to fill with the tools necessary to begin your education. It is empty for now, though the bare necessities are present—namely, the considerable size of the bookshelves just waiting for their occupants to rest safely upon their surfaces. These will, in time, be filled by both your own and your tutor’s collections, or so he has assured you.

The crinkle of a page rouses you from your thoughts. Ser Lysan has unrolled a scroll of parchment, the nib of his quill already inked and prepared for some unknown purpose. He stares assessingly at you.

“What is it you wish to know?” he asks, hand poised to write.

It blurts out of you before you can think to stop it. “You can only be called ‘Ser’ if you are a knight, but you have said you are a scholar. How is it that you have come to be called ‘Ser’, then?”

You wince. Your question is far ruder than you had intended it to be. Thankfully, Septa is not here—she has begun spending more time with Helaena as of late. She would surely have reprimanded you. The query only serves to make the man smile indulgently at you, though. He lays the quill to the side upon his blotting paper. The ink pools dark across the fibres.

“If you must know, Princess… I was a soldier in the Battle of the Borderland. The triarchs sent us in to attempt to wrest control of the Disputed Lands from Lys, Tyrosh and Myr. They were once under Volantene rule, did you know?”

Ser Lysan gazes at a spot on the wall just past you, and it is like he is seeing something altogether different. Something from another time and place.

“At first, we were sure of victory. Volantis has long held dominion in the East for a reason, after all. Our armies were larger; our armour finer; our steel sharper. But then…” He sighs. “Those cities joined forces. Formed the Triarchy. No one saw it coming. We ought to have. Such is hindsight, is it not? We understand now the things we missed then.”

Ser Criston shifts by the door, clearly uncomfortable. You wonder when he will interrupt, when he will instruct Ser Lysan not to tell you such dark-natured stories. You can only hope it will not turn violent.

“One morn—the sun had barely risen—our garrison was set upon by the Triarchy’s forces,” the man continues. “It was… carnage. So few of us survived. Of those of us that did, even fewer still were able to stand. The alliance’s warriors enjoyed leaving a rather particular token behind on the battlefield, as we were to learn. Severed legs are quite effective deterrents, it turns out.”

“That’s enough,” Ser Criston barks, face set in a glare. Secretly, you are glad for the interruption. The tale had grown far too frightening for you.

“My apologies!” Ser Lysan says, coughing lightly. “I forget myself sometimes. To answer your question, Princess—I was able to make my way back to the main encampment, to warn the commanders just in time for our troops to pull back from the region. Many a life was lost; but thousands more were saved that day. I was knighted in the field.” A wan smile curves his lips. “That is where my title of ‘Ser’ comes from.”

“Thank you for telling me,” you say. “I… I am sure it is not a pleasant memory. I am sorry.”

“It is quite alright. I became stronger for it. I learned that if I wish to survive, I must fight for it with everything I have in me. The fires of adversity strengthen the spirit.” He pauses, eyes locked onto your own. They are dark, almost black, like all the light in the world has been quenched. “Let this be my first lesson unto you—if you want something, you must do whatever is in your power to achieve it.”

Silence lingers for one moment; two; three. All of a sudden, he is cheerful again, shuffling his papers like nothing of import has occurred. You share an uncertain look with Ser Criston, who looks positively bewildered by the shift. Ser Lysan is an eccentric man, you decide. This is no bad thing.

“Back to my previous question, Princess.” Ser Lysan picks up his quill once more, dipping it in the inkwell and tapping it against the rim to return the excess to the bottle. “I am knowledgeable in a great deal about the world in which we live. What is it that you would have me instruct you in? Histories, statecraft, linguistics?”

Before you is a man who has lived. He has come from a strange land bearing a strange name, learned in all manner of strange subjects. He fought for Volantis. His wife was a Dothraki woman. He bears the title ‘Ser’ and yet wears a patchwork robe. What you know of him is bleak and terrifying, and yet here he sits before you, as jovial as a young man in his cups. There is a steady peace to him despite all he has seen, all he has likely experienced.

How has he come to be so merry? You think about the manner in which he’d brightened at the talk of his learning. Could one achieve such simple tranquillity through knowledge alone? Can books, can foreign tongues and foreign disciplines empower you with that sense of fulfilment you crave, that sense of belonging you have felt absent all your life?

You want dearly to discover the answer. It is this that permits you to finally settle upon your response to him.

“Anything,” you breathe. “Everything.”

You are not as brave as your sister. She is able to stand face to face against even the staunchest of her detractors—as of late, this being your very own lady stepmother, determined to discover what she believes to be ‘the truth’ of Jacaerys’s parentage, for a boy so dark of hair cannot possibly be Laenor’s, by her reckoning—without so much as a quiver in her lip. She can endure shouting, the strike of a switch, the endless train of whispers that seep through every crack in the walls of the Keep with barely a pause in her breath to mark the ignominy of it. She can laugh in the face of humiliation and continue on her way with her head held high and some cutting remark poised on the tip of her tongue like a steel barb waiting to meet its target. These are not things you are capable of. But then, you are only a girl; younger than Rhaenyra was when she was made heir.

Yet old enough to finally—finally—claim your own dragon.

It had taken you years to wear down Papa, the scar on your arm serving as a perpetual reminder of the dangers that lie ahead in seeking out your birthright. Whenever you had made the request—“oh, please, Papa! I swear that I am ready!”—he had only to look upon the mark bisecting your flesh before his eyes hardened, the musculature of his neck clenched and poised to shake in refusal.

Once, his rejection had been sufficient to prevent your asking for several moons’ turns at the least; but Ser Lysan has been of great influence in his two years serving as your teacher, your companion, and your dear friend. If you want something, you must do whatever is in your power to achieve it. These words have remained as carvings in stone within your mind since that very first meeting. It is not within your power to unleash fire and fury the way your sister might—but you have come to learn that such a thing was never in your power. Your strength lay in other qualities. Your courtesy. Your placidity. Your modesty. These are strengths in their own way.

You had continued to ask. Over time, the nature of your appeals changed from churlish, infantile insistence to restrained, unaffected enquiry. Upon rebuff, you had smiled and said, “Very well, Papa. Thank you for listening.” You had repeated this same tactic over and over, sennight after sennight, until, at last, Papa had been worn down to his bones from weariness.

“You’ll not let up, will you, my girl?” he had asked, utterly fed up.

Instead of responding, you had simply maintained your carefully blank gaze, prepared to don your quiet acceptance like armour when his denial should strike. He had sighed; rubbed his eyes. The pull of his skin had cracked open another fissure in the lines of his face, red slowly beading up to the surface.

“Fine!” he had finally exclaimed, his hand thumping down upon the table so hard that you had wondered at his not feeling it. This was before the maesters agreed to remove it from his person, and so the flesh was mottled grey and black from rot. “Do as you will, daughter. Far be it from me to dissuade you.”

Thus, the ravens had been sent to the Dragonkeepers residing on the ancestral isle of House Targaryen; the ship had been made ready; your retinue arranged; and you had been sent off on your first great journey.

The moment you step foot upon the shore in the low light of early evening, you hear it. You feel it. Like a rattling in the core of your bones, or an unearthly siren song catching faintly on the wind. It is not a sound, though, nor a sensation that you can describe in any language you know. All that you are sure of is that there is something here, something… expecting you.

Come, it says. I am waiting.

The Keepers linger past the shoreline, scarcely a stone’s throw away. “Urnēbās, darilaros!” one says, eyes darting nervously about. Be watchful, Princess! “Va īlō Zōbrios issa.” The Dark One is near.

“The Dark One?” you ask, frowning. “Who is that?”

Septa Marlow’s face pales so starkly that she looks like she has applied paints to her skin. She seems entirely distasteful of the island itself, a curl to her lip that she only gets when seeing or hearing something she does not like. Meanwhile, Ser Criston’s fist tightens on the grip of his sheathed sword. He too glances around, tracking the skies like a shadowy shape will make its appearance at any moment. He seems familiar with the name.

It must be a dragon, you think. Very few living creatures reside upon the island, save for those that had been introduced by your blood long ago. Dragons are the only wild things that can weather such inhospitable climes.

The Keeper leans in. “The Cannibal.” He shivers. “He is most wroth as of late. Beware of the beaches—too many of our Order have been lost to his appetites.”

The Cannibal. It is a story you have heard only when one had sought to frighten you—that of a winged beast so monstrous that not even his own kind would endure him. A creature so malevolent that he found his joy through death and destruction, ripping apart the younger members of his species so thoroughly that, at times, it was as though blood rained down from the heavens. The Cannibal, a being so malignant that any man who attempted to ride him had vanished cleanly from the face of the earth, consumed whole or left to rot away in some deep, dank pit below the mountainous terrain.

And yet—for all his supposed cruelties—no cities, no villages, no lands have been brought to waste beneath his flames. It is the one part of those tales that had never made sense to you. If he were as awful as that, surely there would be no one and nothing safe from him?

“Let us not waste our time, then,” Ser Criston says firmly, hand pressed between your shoulders to spur you onward. The weight of it grounds you in the present. He turns to bark orders at the attendants making their way ashore. “To the Keep!”

You are taken past the Great Hall, catching a glimpse of the Painted Table on your way to a smaller chamber. You know the name of Aegon I’s table is not quite correct; that it is made mostly of wood and rock, and that the rock itself is what Ser Lysan has told you is thermoluminescent, ‘thermo’ meaning heat and ‘luminescent’ meaning light. The table glows like lava when you ignite the candles below it, casting the great map of Westeros into fire. You should very much like to see it. But this visit is not to take in the sights of your family’s seat.

Much to the Keepers’ confusion and consternation, you reject the offer to examine the eggs they have concealed within the hatchery. Or rather, you feel that the eggs would reject you if you should try to seek your companion in one. It is difficult to explain even in your own mind, so you make no attempt at voicing these thoughts—these almost-whispers at the back of your mind, like a soft brush of fingers at the base of your skull.

Septa Marlow huffs her displeasure. “This is most unbecoming of you, Princess. You ought to know better than to refuse a gift such as this.”

‘They are not for me,’ you want to say. ‘The thought of them does not rouse me.’

You know not why you feel certain of this—that the mere prospect should stir you beyond simple anticipation. But it is as though you have always known this, for you do not find yourself disappointed by the missed opportunity nor by the censure.

A faint recollection sparks from your earliest youth, an old fear of what should occur if an egg comes into your possession and refuses to hatch, turning to stone over years and years. You do not wish for such a future. No; it is for the best that the eggs are left for another. Another time, another day, another person. Perhaps when it comes time to have your own children, you will revisit the notion.

To make matters even more complicated, however, there are no hatchlings upon the isle. It is what you had counted on all this time, but it seems that this is not to be, either.

“Zōbrios pōnte iprattas,” Acolyte Zūgis tells you, wringing his hands for good measure. The Dark One ate them all.

What a nervous man, you think. Since meeting him on the beach, he has been continuously anxious, ready to jump clear out of his skin at the slightest disturbance. You wonder if his path is best suited to Dragonkeeping if he is so afraid of it.

“Pōntālosa sikagon kostis, yn jēdraro toliot dorolviktys se dorolviktys sittaksi.” His mouth twists. Sometimes they hatch by themselves… but that has become rarer and rarer over the years. Your stomach twists at this. There was once a time where dragons hatched aplenty upon the isle. No more, it seems. “Vermithor dārligon kostā, darilaros. Yn uēpys issa se zaldrīzāeksio bōso jēdo syt mijetas. Qopsa kessa, se avy hinikilāks.”

You can try to claim Vermithor, Princess, he concludes. But he is old and has long since been without a rider. It will be difficult, and dangerous.

Neither Septa Marlow nor Ser Criston understand High Valyrian—but the name Vermithor agitates them nonetheless.

“A dragon of such size and stature is not appropriate for a well-bred lady,” Septa exclaims, fingers like claws clasped together before her. “What of Silverwing? Good Queen Alysanne’s mount? Does it not reside here? ‘Tis far more suitable beast.”

The Keeper shakes his head. “We believe Silverwing is gravid. She has shown much aggression as of late. The last of us to attempt approach…” The silence that hangs at the end of the sentence leaves no mistaking his meaning. He clears his throat. “Well. It is far too perilous at present. Vermithor is the Princess’s best option.”

“The Princess is a child,” Ser Criston says, expression flat and eyes flinty. “Vermithor is a dragon of war. I am sorry, Princess”—he kneels before you, angling his head up so he can look directly at you, and one hand folds around your elbow—“but I cannot let you risk yourself so.”

You know what you are being told, albeit in a roundabout way. The despair renders you mute. What am I to do? What am I to do? You nod, an agreement to your sworn shield’s words, though your heart is scarcely in it.

“Perhaps on the morrow,” the Keeper says, “we may… reattempt with the eggs, then. We have several, though they have been kept for some years now.”

Ser Criston makes his agreements to Acolyte Zūgis, entering into discussion with him and Septa Marlow as to the following day’s schedule. None of them so much as turn their faces to include you, despite the fact that you are central to their plans.

While they talk, another thought comes to mind. You wonder why none have so much as dared to broach another possibility—that there are three wild dragons upon the isle. Silverwing and Vermithor are not your only options.

Sleep is hard to come by, that same, pulsing sensation tingling through your limbs and keeping you awake.

Come, it seems to say. I am waiting.

You rise before the sun comes up. Septa Marlow is likely to be awake at this time, but she will not venture your way until the skies are bathed in light. Ser Criston does not begin his shift until an hour after you rise; his replacement is usually whomever can be spared.

It is even easier than usual to make your escape.

Dragonstone is an old fortress, and so there are a great many secret passages winding between rooms. You need only to check behind the tapestry along the inner wall to determine that an opening has been concealed. Brandishing the candle from your bedside, you slip into the looming maw that awaits.

Inside, it smells of damp and salt, and you can hear a faint, steady drip. It continues no matter which direction your feet take you, and you feel your breath stream from your mouth and nose in a cloud of warmth that gives the skin of your face and neck momentary respite from the wintry chill. The walls are rough-hewn, made for function rather than appeal, so you are careful where you place your hands.

Because you are so unfamiliar with the layout, you wander for what seems an age before you finally surface upon the outdoors, a dim glow emanating from between metal grates at the end of a dark tunnel. The hinges squeak shrilly as you push them open, shutting behind you with a clang. Your slippered feet sink into the sand upon the beach.

You do not know where you are headed—to find Vermithor or Silverwing, to find one of the wild ones, or simply to wander. All you know is that one of them is calling to you through the magic of old, the magic that ’Nyra and Papa have always said lives in the blood of the Targaryen line. It is how Papa knew that he was destined to be Balerion’s last rider. It is how ’Nyra found the courage to mount Syrax when she was so young. You feel it now, singing in your blood as it has since you crossed into the shallows surrounding the island.

Come and find me, it says. I am waiting.

You trudge along the beach, allowing the sand to sink into the opening of your shoes, to fill the small spaces between shoe and skin with stinging grit that collects between your toes and rubs to rawness. The wind whips at your hair and your robe—you did not bother to change from your evening wear—and the sound of the waves crash like thunder.

You walk. And, as you walk, you wait for the purpose to reveal itself, a part of you hoping that whomever you are meant to claim will find you.

You ought to be more careful of what you wish.

A dark shape swoops across the sky above you, casting you even further into shadow, and you hear the rumble of something powerful. The beat of its wings is great enough to be heard from a distance, you think, and stirs up the sand before you into a cloud of dirt and dust. The beast growls, deep and terrifying, raising the hairs on the back of your neck.

It lands ahead.

Oh, no. Oh, no.

The Cannibal.

He is enormous, far greater in size than Syrax, than Caraxes, than any dragon you have ever seen or read about. His scales are black—no—blacker than black, the complete absence of colour or brightness, and each muscle honed from years upon years of eking out his existence ripple below the skin. His lips peel back, exposing at least two rows of sharp, jagged teeth. Perfect for tearing me to bits, your mind supplies in your panic. His stocky frame hunches low, claws sunk into the sand, as though poised to attack, and he hisses, a rattling threat that fills you with the urge to run.

His eyes glow green. You feel it again.

Come. I am waiting.

What is it Ser Lysan said, again? If you want something, you must do whatever is in your power to achieve it.

Come. I am waiting.

It may be courage, it may be madness, but you are moving onward before you realise it. The dragon hisses again as you approach, and any moment you expect to be bathed in dragonfire or snapped up in his almighty jaws, but your footsteps remain as rapid as your heartbeat.

The attack does not come. The fire does not come.

Something more is at play here. You may only be twelve summers, but this you know. A dragon as fierce as the Cannibal would never let a person so close as this under ordinary circumstances. Old magic thrums through the air, a tether forming between you and the form ahead. A bond. A claim.

You reach out a hand. Skin to scale. Heat that ought to burn courses through you, but you are safe. You feel his pulse, your pulse, pounding through dermis, reforming your own to match.

Your eyes well. “Gierior glaeson ñuhon avy rhaenagon jumptan,” you whisper. I have waited my whole life to meet you. In the rumble he releases, you think he must believe the same of you.

Dressed only in your nightgown, you make the climb up his wing. He lets you, chuffing irritably as you seek out the correct handholds and footholds to make your way up. It is entirely different from mounting Caraxes; this dragon is much, much larger, and so you are forced to actively coordinate your movements to ascend the perilous terrain. Still, there is enough of memory remaining to you of that day, years ago, that you can draw some reference from. You rely on those recollections to hoist yourself up. Finally, you are able to settle somewhat awkwardly between the blunted spikes below his neck.

From far off, you can hear faint voices. Atop the crest of the Cannibal’s shoulder, you look to the horizon. The sun has risen. The world is awake, which means that Ser Criston and Septa Marlow will be leading the search for their wayward princess.

It startles the dragon. Before you are ready—before you would even have dared to tell him to fly—he shifts, growling so deep that the vibrations buzz through your legs, your toes. You jostle where you have perched, gripping frantically to the spike in front of you as he sets off on a crawl that morphs to a run, building momentum to flap his wings up and up and up—

“Princess!” echoes through the breeze as you rise. Below, you see the forms of the guards, of Ser Criston, of Septa, growing smaller and smaller as the dragon—your dragon—takes to the air.

You keep hold of the Cannibal’s spike as he soars through the skies, letting the wind billow your hair about. It is both the same and so, so very different from your first flight. It is freezing up here, for one thing, and you can discern no sound but that of the air whistling so stridently in your ears that it is like a shriek, and the dragon below you is warm enough to keep the worst of the chill at bay. Your belly swoops and twists with each wingbeat, the momentum rocking you forward every time, but none of the discomfort is enough to tamp down the sheer exhilaration.

The Cannibal turns, revolving away from the distant line where sky and sea meet toward the island again. The change in direction gives you a momentary reprieve from the rush of air hindering all noise, and you hear something else.

Beneath your legs, beneath your skin, you feel it as the Cannibal bellows to the world, a roar that pierces the still of morning and announces to all that his wait is over. That he has claimed his rider, that you have claimed your mount—that you have done what no one else has been able to and emerged victorious.

That feeling—the one that has plagued you—has changed, you realise. You have found me, it seems to say.

Yes, you think, turning your head to admire the expanse of this creature, this being who is and was always meant to be yours. I have.

When you land, Ser Criston and Septa Marlow nearly shake you from your body with the force of their panic, their vexation, their “You do not ever run off like that, do you hear me, Princess?” and their “Just wait until your father hears of this!” They try to dissuade you from your course, but the Keepers wring their hands and mutter that the deed has been done; there is no unbinding what has been bound by the magic of old.

Still, their refrain is just as shocked, just as bewildered. “The Cannibal, Princess,” they say, shaking their heads. “The Cannibal…”

“No,” you reply. “His name is Athfiezar.”

Dothraki is fairly new to you, ‘tis true, for Ser Lysan did not agree to teach you until well into your acquaintance. And there is a certain irony in the choice; many a person will surely raise their brows in question of your use of such a savage tongue, which is rather best suited for a dragon of his reputation. But the word—the name, for he has long gone without one, and it seems only right that he should have something of his own, free of the censure of old—seems apt enough. Love. That pure, uncorrupted kind, the kind you think you have been searching for your whole life, the kind you find in small moments that are never, ever enough for the gaping maw that is your heart awaiting someone to fill it. You just know the Cannibal—Athfiezar—is a creature with a soul like yours. How long has he gone without love?

Never again, you think. Not with me.

You hold onto that thought as Papa rails at you upon seeing the hulking behemoth touch upon the top of the Dragonpit, heralding your return to King’s Landing.

“You could have died! What in the blazes were you thinking, girl?” he yells.

He has never yelled at you before, and perhaps you might have cried once, but you keep firm to the memory of Athfiezar’s eyes upon yours, the life palpitating through his immense form into yours like some sort of cycle, elemental, mysterious. No matter what Papa says, no matter how he says it, it is as the Keepers said. The deed is done.

The news spreads like wildfire, bringing with it a most unwelcome attention. For much of your life, you had been largely ignored by court and commons—now, with having claimed such a dragon for your own, many a considering eye falls upon you. Their thoughts are louder than if they spoke them: perhaps we have gotten the wrong measure of this one. Perhaps she is worth more notice than we had given her. Invitations to tea come to your door with a regularity that is almost predictable; and, maybe worse, many an enquiring lord approaches Papa with the pivotal question upon their lips: “When is she to be wed, Your Grace?”

Your mother was wed at eleven—it is not impossible that you should be given to some man to settle a treaty or forge an alliance in due course. It is your duty as Princess, after all. One day, yes; but not now. Besides, all they truly desire is the power you have suddenly amassed. They do not want you.

You retreat into yourself, using all the courtesies Septa had imbued into you like plate steel to shield yourself from the worst of it. Save for your two freedoms—your Ser Lysan and your boy, Athfiezar—you commit to being the most polite, the most recalcitrant, the most dull creature you can be. You help ’Nyra with her boys where you can, for a useful girl is best kept than discarded, and your sister is the heir which means her rule will someday be law. You take on two ladies, noblewomen from Houses in the Reach, in accordance with your stepmother’s wishes. You try your very best to devote time to each, spreading yourself between what is rapidly developing into entirely separate factions in the Keep—the Princess and the Queen, the Blacks and the Greens, or so they are called. Such silly names, you think. And, over time, it all becomes less performative and more intrinsic. Your propriety is your defence, and you use it well.

But it will not last forever. One day—one day soon—you will be called in by Papa. You will be told that your life is no longer to be your own, but passed on into the care of a man you will call husband. You will be asked to choose he who will be your master, he who will use your womb to give his House sons and daughters of royal blood, and you will be expected to be glad for the opportunity to make the decision, that it was not taken out of your hands entirely.

You wait for the day, spending what evening hours you can in the Sept entreating the gods for their intercession. Please, you think, on your knees before an effigy of the Maiden. Please. Deliver to me a husband who will love me as I am.

You wait, you hold your breath, and you pray.

“The claiming of the Cannibal came as a great shock to the Realm, not least because of she who had claimed him. King Viserys’s younger daughter by his late Queen Aemma Arryn was by all accounts a diffident, well-mannered girl most unlike her elder sister… Several parties were of the view that the Princess ought to be wed quickly to keep her mighty mount out of the hands of those considered less than desirable. However, it was not until the year of 126 A.C. that the King finally consented to the courtship of the girl, with many a man seeking her hand. Of those suitors, only three were truly deemed worthy—Lord Jason of House Lannister, Lord Denys of House Tyrell, and the Princess’s own half-brother, the Prince Aegon.”

- 'Fire & Blood, Being a History of the Targaryen Kings of Westeros' by Archmaester Gyldayn

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[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

To the victor the spoils

Written for the @steddieholidaydrabbles, day 19

Prompt: Enemies to lovers

Rated: T

CW: light blood and violence; steamy kissing; very light dubcon if you squint (they're actually both super into it, I promise)

Tags: Fantasy AU; Magic AU; Guard!Steve; Thief!Eddie; Sexual tension; Flirting; Fighting; First kiss

Notes: Thought that kiss was hot in writing? Wait until you see it! @house-of-the-moving-image did an entire mini comic!

In the end, it’s just the two of them again. 

Steve jumps over another groaning pile of half-conscious guards and bursts out onto the roof, cold night air slapping him in the face and making the cape of his uniform whip. 

“Munson!” he barks. 

He is standing by the edge of the roof, a black cut-out against the starlit sky. As Steve stalks closer, he can see the smile curling at his lips, the amusement glinting in those dark eyes. 

“Stevie,” he greets, like they’re two acquaintances who’ve just met on the market square - not the new Captain of the Guard and the city’s most wanted criminal. “My, don’cha look strapping in the new get-up. Congrats, I bet daddy’s mighty proud.” 

“Shut it,” Steve growls, ignoring the way Eddie’s eyes linger on his golden breastplate, the way it makes a treacherous heat prickle at his neck. “Flattery will get you nowhere. Now give it back!” 

He jerks his head at the necklace clutched in one black-gloved hand. Eddie pouts. 

“Don’t wanna. It’s shiny.” 

Steve groans. It’s like talking to a five-year-old. A five-year old clad in black armor who’s versed in combat magic. 

“It is a priceless magic artifact that’s been in Lord Carver's family for generations-” 

“Yeah, and what a load of good they’ve done with it,” Eddie sneers. “High time it got into the hands of someone who actually knows what they’re doing.” 

“Oh, and that someone would be you?” 

“Look at you,” Eddie winks. “Pretty and clever. Now if you’ll excuse me, I gotta-” 

“You’re not going anywhere!” Steve snaps. His sword slides out with a high, metallic sound. 

Eddie raises his hands. “Woah, big boy. Careful now, you don’t wanna-” 

Steve roars and lunges. 

Eddie skips out of reach, but not quite fast enough. A lock of curly hair floats to the ground. 

“Oh sweetheart, you're gonna regret this,” Eddie purrs. 

And all hell breaks loose. 

The air crackles with the taste of ozone, a blinding light erupts from the artifact, and Steve just barely manages to parry. Something whirrs through the air, glides off his blade and a sharp, hot pain explodes all over the side of his face. Something warm trickles down his cheek. 

“Hell yeah,” Eddie whoops and comes flying at him, giant shards of solid magic whirling around him, eyes eerily alight with their glow. “That's what I'm talking about!” 

The world blurs into a frenzy of movement and adrenaline. Attack and parry, dive for cover behind the towers and turrets and battlements of the roof, attack again. It’s almost comforting in its familiarity, this dance of theirs. Steve knows all of Eddie’s little quirks, the subtle twitches of his face that indicate his attacks before they actually come. They’ve done this so often, he can read him like an open book. 

The problem is, Eddie knows him just as intimately. Steve screams with rage, forces his aching limbs to go faster, harder, but it’s no use. Every blow that he tries to land, Eddie blocks, every twist and turn he makes, Eddie’s already there, always with that infuriating, dimpled grin, that amused little quirk of his brow. 

Until Steve’s foot lands on a wet patch of moss and he slips. 

It all goes so fast he has no time to be terrified - just feels the horrible sense of vertigo as the world tilts and the cobbled street jumps at him. Then, before he can so much as scream, there's arms wrapping around him and he's being hauled backwards, back pressed flush against another body. His blade goes clattering into the shadows.

“Whoops,” Eddie chuckles into his ear. Steve can feel his chest rising and falling with exertion, can feel his hot breath clouding against the shell of his ear. “Thought I told you not to fall for me.”

“Shut up,” he snaps, tries to struggle free, but Eddie has one arm around his chest, the other flush against the hollow of his throat, and he can't go anywhere. “Don’t give yourself too much credit.” 

“Oh, do I?" Eddie’s lips twitch into a smirk against the nape of his neck. “Then why were you holding back?” 

“Fuck you!” he grits out, but all it earns him is a low tut. “Now release me.”

“What, without a reward?” Eddie’s voice tingles down his spine, sweet and potent like poisoned mead. “You know how I am about pretty things. And you wouldn't wanna deny the victor his spoils, would you?” 

“Asshole!” Humiliation coils hot and heavy in Steve’s abdomen. “Stop joking and-” 

Eddie snarls against his ear. “I've told you a million times, honey. I'm not joking.” 

Steve’s world spins again, breath punched clean from his lungs as he is flipped around and slammed against the nearest wall. Eddie doesn’t leave him any time to recover, just surges in with a hungry growl and crashes their lips together. When Steve tries to struggle, he bites down on his bottom lip, uses the pained gasp it earns him to lick into his mouth. 

Someone moans, but it takes Eddie running his tongue over the roof of his mouth and pushing a leg between his thighs before the sound tumbles out again and Steve recognizes his own voice. They only break apart when they run out of air, both flushed and struggling for breath. 

And that is when the door to the roof slams open and Lord Carver and his men push through. 

“He went this way! Seize him!”

Eddie lets out an annoyed huff and leans in for one last peck against Steve’s lips. 

“Sorry, darling. Gotta go, y'know how it is. See you next time.” 

He steps out of his space and the night air hits Steve like a bucket of ice water. Eddie winks at him and steps over the edge of the roof. 

By the time Carver and his guards arrive, the night has long swallowed him.

Part 2

All my holiday drabbles

#steddie #steve harrington x eddie munson #steve x eddie #steddie brainrot #steddie fanfic #fanfiction writer #fanfiction #fanfic #my writing #steddie holiday drabbles #steddieholidaydrabbles #hype's holiday drabbles #phantom thief au

[anantaru]

rockstar! scaramouche who likes one special, peculiar individual of all of his groupies the most— it being you and you alone.

small, lingering gifts, exclusive bouquets of flowers from distinct nations and the most intriguing one by far, expensive lingerie sets in his favorite color that he knows, seeing you in it will turn him hard, painfully so, throbbing until he can‘t help himself but hump his palm desperately in between studio breaks, cumming in his pants and cursing himself to waste his seed like that instead of tombing it down your throat.

"you’re here."

scaramouche sees you in his private area, not the vip one which was filled with all different kinds of people, but his own space where he usually gets ready for his gigs, "take off your clothes."

he doesn‘t look at you, he tries his hardest at least, instead he plays around with the translucent straw in his drink, fingers shaking— the faint, penetrative scent of alcohol lingering over your nostrils, building up the humane air in the room.

but you do as he says, slowly as to tease him, taking off your dress until it hits the floor, the pricy lingerie hugging your skin on all the right places, as if he had noted all your curves, your pretty flesh and what suits your body the best. after a while, scaramouche joins you in bed, you perceive how the mattress shifts under his weight as he settles his head in between your naked thighs, greeted by his musky smell in combination with his signature cologne.

the man sighs, kissing your clothed pussy, but you could feel him because how not? there was barely any material hiding your most sensitive part. "i knew it‘ll fit you well." he carries on, low lidded looks stealing the show, hooking both of his hands into the cloth before exposing your cunt to him, "but this, i prefer." and he leans in to flatten his wet tongue on your hole before lapping a straight line in between your folds.

you pant and lick your lips, sweat sticking on your skin and his palms are quick to find a nagging, almost burning spot, rubbing your nipples and you bite your lip as he squeezes and twists them just the way you like, just the way you taught him when you two were first starting out with this— he wasn‘t too well versed in intimacy and you remembered being shocked that a loved, cherished and idolized rockstar such as scaramouche was a little lost when it came to pleasuring another human.

"did you like the show?" he talks into your cunt, your liquids long since sticking on his chin. "y—yeah, so much."

he‘s gotten quite good at drawing noises and squirms out of you, and oh, who would’ve thought, you’re going to get him back for this later, but right now you’re enjoying yourself too much, riding his tongue when his nose repeatedly brushes and digs into your pussy, the stinging, prickling feeling on your core only now building up.

©2023 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify

#fem! reader #scaramouche smut #genshin smut #genshin impact smut #scaramouche x reader #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader

[stellamancer]

heel (gojo x reader???)

notes: um. idk what i should say. though i am not hating on feet people!! i am feet people!! if you want a non foot version of this feel free to read my other fic empty threat: also post spar with gojo shenanigans (even reused a line to connect the two lmao). part of the infinite loop! fic verse.

ageless blogs and minors do not interact

contains: gn!reader (no gendered language is used) gojo, feet (or what i like to call the steppy)??, dubcon?? (just in case), sexual implications, the use of the words dick and cock, no this isn't smut

wc: 812

You wish you knew how you ended up in this situation.

It all started with you agreeing to spar with Gojo and thinking back now, that was your first mistake. Training with him has been odd lately, though you can’t quite put your finger on why, but one minute the two of you were engaged in hand to hand combat and now he’s laying on the floor with your foot pressed firmly against his crotch.

You don't even know how it got there in the first place.

“Well?” he drawls, that stupid amused tone of his grating on your nerves as he waits for your next move.

Idly, you think it’d be nice if you could end his family line here and now by stomping down hard enough but you know that that’s just wishful thinking on your part.

Should you just back off then? Fight’s over; you’ve won, but only because Gojo let you. Honestly speaking, that fact burns you, keeps your foot in place despite your attempts to rationalize it with the notion that a win’s a win. If he were a curse, you wouldn’t care about it being an easy win.

But he’s not; he’s Satoru Gojo and there’s something off about all this.

“Enjoying the view?” Gojo asks, yanking you from your thoughts. You stare down at him, scowling, but he remains unfazed as usual. “Not that I can blame you since—”

Your body reacts instantly in annoyance, your foot jerking down, digging into his dick and, for a split second, you think that it’s the surprise of it that causes him to cut off mid-sentence.

Except for the fact that he moans.

He fucking moans.

You’ve always thought, always known that Satoru Gojo is an absolute freak but you’d never really given much thought to it.

If you could, you’d keep it that way— the last thing you want is to be giving him more mental real estate than he deserves.

This is way too much for you right now.

“Ah, so you’re into that, are you?” Gojo’s voice sounds way too entertained, way too pleased for someone who just had someone grind their heel into his crotch. “Somehow, I’m not surprised.”

Instinct bids you to crush his cock beneath your foot because normally guys find that to be pretty painful, but you have to remind yourself that Gojo is far from normal. He might actually be into it. So instead, you try to pull your foot away, to get away from him as fast as possible, but try as you might, your foot doesn’t move, as if it’s being held in place by some invisible force.

You’re mildly horrified when you realize that it is and this, you think, has the be the most disturbing use of the Limitless technique in all of history. The realization causes your self-control to slip and your foot presses even harder against him.

Gojo moans again, louder this time and you can’t ignore the slight pressure of what you fear to be a growing boner pushing against the sole of your shoe.

Nor can you ignore the electric prickle running up and down the length of your spine. What the heck? When it starts to settle in the pit of your stomach you realize what it is.

You need to get away from Gojo.

Now.

You yank your foot away from him and luckily, luckily, he releases his technique and you’re free of him. Like a frightened creature, you back away and refuse to look Gojo in the eye.

“...get up,” you say after a second of absolute silence. You hear the ruffle of clothes as he rises to his feet and slowly, carefully, you peer at him from the corner of your eye. “Don’t do that again.”

Gojo’s expression is unreadable. Figures. But who knows, maybe, for once in his life, he’ll actually listen.

Unfortunately, your hopes are dashed the moment he opens his mouth. “Why? You looked like you were enjoying yourself.”

You are horrified. What kind of face were you making? There’s no way. He has to be lying, saying what he wants for the sake of his own entertainment. You couldn't have been into it! You were mortified, horrified by all of it, but yet you still managed get tu—

Before that last thought can fully form itself in your mind you shake your head violently as if that will rid you of it.

Gojo laughs lighthearted and amused as always, “Okay, okay, if you say so.”

He doesn’t believe you, but he’s always been delusional. You glare at Gojo but he ignores it, and stretches.

“Let me know if you change your mind though,” he says casually. “I think it could be fun.”

“Yeah right,” you huff, ignoring how he laughs, ignoring how the tiniest voice in the back of your mind thinks that maybe, just maybe he’s got a point.

Satoru Gojo’s definitely a freak, but maybe you are too.

is gojo actually into getting his dick stepped on or was he just fucking around and you were just finding out? you decide.

#gojo x reader #satoru gojo x reader #jjk x reader #gojo x you #satoru gojo x you #nsft #tw feet #cw feet #infinite loop!verse

[insomniamamma]

Pigment: Ezra x f!reader w/Cee

A/N: So this idea was kind of kicking around and then the Writer Wednesday prompt gave me permission. I know for certain that I'm not the only one who headcanons Ezra using writing and drawing as a way of building up dexterity in his non-dominant hand. Apologies if this is too derivative. This is fairly early in the Prickle 'verse timeline. Takes place after "Rain." Reader's nickname is 'Artichoke' but Ezra also calls her 'Prickle' or 'Prickle-girl'. Warnings: Mentions of old injuries. Mentions of violence. Food mentions. A little anxiety on reader's part. Mild language.

           You didn't mean to look. It just kind of happened.

          Acora is a trinary system, two main-sequence stars that orbit each other in a slow precise dance, and way out, past the smattering of gas giants and icy worldlets a T-class brown dwarf that the researchers on the bench nick-named Big Pink. Two suns means that certain times of day are unbearable for suit-work, so the three of you wait in the tent. The pod is mostly powered down, so not to overtax the coolant system and even with the scrubbers and chillers running no one wants to move much. You hear Cee shifting around in the upper bunk, tinny sound from her music player punctuated by snippets of singing. She forgets sometimes and sings aloud. You don't mind. Ezra sits propped up, scribbling in a spiral bound book resting on his knee, scratching away with a nub of graphite pencil. Probably running pull numbers or orbit curves, fuel-to-mass and all that. You wonder why he doesn't just use his tablet. Seems like it would be easier. You try to distract yourself from the rising heat, the tiny pinholes lining the tent's seams that sizzle like little stars, irritatingly bright while you try to read.           It doesn't help that you've read this particular mediocre locked-room mystery multiple times. You already know who done it. That's how it goes. Most decent sized benches have some form of lending library, or at least junk dealers willing to make a trade. Paper books are surprisingly valuable out here. You don't have to charge them. They won't shit out if you drop them. Software glitches or botched updates won't turn them into useless bricks.           Acora is not a decent sized bench. A skeleton crew of ice miners to keep her fueled and the flying, other than that it's all researchers. Geeks studying the workings of a trinary system. All of them seemed a bit wiggy, like when there was a dust storm back home and you'd have to seal everything up and kick on the scrubbers and try not to murder each other while waiting for the sky to come back. These aren't even real storms, your Gran kept saying, we aint had a real storm since they started dropping ice down the well. Still, by day four or five everyone would have tight smiles and big jittery eyes and once you'd watched your two older brothers start beating the shit out of each other in the kitchen because one ate the last sweet roll without sharing and Ma had to wade in with a broom to break it up. Not that you really expected a station full of scientists to start wailing on each other, but it didn't seem like any of them had been off bench in a good while.           The rumpled botanist who's shelling out for live samples from this gruesomely hot little moon exuded that sense of being bottled up in spades. She talked rapidly and told the three of you far more than you needed to know for the task she hired you for, smiling big all the while. Your hand drifted downward to the thrower at your hip. Cee caught the motion and gave a little shake of her head. She was stimmed up to her eyeballs, she'd told you later. My father would get like that sometimes. As long as her money's good, who gives a shit, right? A quick and dirty little job while the freighter unloads and refuels, a three cycle turnover.           You try to settle in and ignore the sweat sliming your skin, juicy rattle of the chillers struggling to cope. Best to wait for first sundown, Ezra told you, we'll still have plenty of light but a lot less heat. You peer at him over your book. He is deep in concentration, taps the eraser end of his pencil against lower lip and then against his forehead as if he could knock his ideas loose, brows pushed together in thought. Kevva, he's got pretty eyes, you think, and he glances up at you, a small smile quirking one side of this mouth and you wonder if you've said it aloud, feel heat creeping into your face.           "Good book?"           "It was the first time through."           "Don't worry," says Ezra, "There'll be better pickings on Tirana. It's just a hop, skip and a jump. You can trade for more reading materials there."           "Hop, skip and a jump," you echo, the both of you knowing full well that you'll be finishing this novel and then re-reading one of the other half dozen you've got stashed under your bunk before you hit Tirana Bench. "Right."           Ezra chuckles and you turn your attention back to this foolish story. Bench-boss's asshole son gets snuffed and the plucky hero has to figure out who did it, all sealed up in a ring with the potential killers, femme fatale ship captain inserting herself into the mess. You know all the twists, familiar as the weight of your suit and body armor on a drop, as Cee's music, as Ezra's snores as he drops off into sleep, soft rasps off to your left, and you feel your own eyes growing heavy as well, a sort of reflexive slide into sleep, too hot to do much else, you rest your book on your chest and let your eyes fall closed, sinking into the unintentional rhythm of tent-noise, the chillers, soupy and rattling from sucking humidity out of the air, small comfort knowing the water is going right into the tanks, that it won't all be cycled piss, Cee's music, some Vayok synth pop she picked up two drops back, Ezra's small snores, and you're almost out yourself, right on the edge, things starting to turn soft and unreal, when a sharp sound snaps you back.

          You push yourself up on your side. Ezra's notebook lays on the dusty floor, face down, front and back covers splayed like wings, pencil not far off. Must've fallen asleep writing. You frown. He's had that notebook since before you've been crew. He would not like to see it wrinkled and left on the floor. You pick it up and brush the dust off, straighten the pages, smooth the wrinkles back down and that’s when you notice that his technical notes are not notes at all, or at least not entirely. He has drawn Cee to the life, the tilt of her head, music player covering her ears, that far-away face she gets when she's listening to something new. A Central-standard date pencilled in beneath. You shouldn't look, you should place it beneath the corner of his bunk where he's got his data pad charging, and his stash of Shock-berry Limited Edition Bitz-Bars (as if he had to stash them, they were nasty on so many levels that you and Cee had handed over your share of them in a wordless trade for the regular kind, better the devil you know).           You flip a page, curiosity getting the better of you. A cluster of heptagonal shapes, and you feel yourself smiling. The fossils on CJ's World, opaline red, winking in the sun as you pulled them out of the soft sediment. A good and easy haul, low risk. You'd seen a rainbow rising out of the distant sharp cut canyons, and found Ezra's hand folded warm around yours. That was a good day, you think, listening to Ezra's soft snores.           "You sure you stripped the aux input panels?" He asks clear as day and you freeze, but then he shifts and the snores resume. One more page, you tell yourself, then we stop being a snoop. The next page bears your face and your name, not 'Artichoke', but the one you signed on the line when you joined this little crew. You in profile, but that can't really be you, can it? You recognize your tactical gear, the webbing that holds your thrower to your thigh, your knife-sheath, the tool belt you wear in place of armor when you're on a friendly drop, but there's a small soft smile on your face, a light in your eyes that he's somehow managed to imply in a few graphite strokes and paper left blank. He's drawing weak-handed, that must be it. You flip the sketch book closed and place it beneath the corner of his bunk with the rest of this things. You lie back in your cot and stare at the  pattern of shifting light over the tent, waiting for your mind to settle. It takes some time.

          Tirana Bench is a ramshackle hub but there are plenty of stalls in the commerce ring to poke around in. This is how it goes. Once the pod is supplied and the next job negotiated, there's usually a little time for the three of you to split up and get whatever incidentals you need for the next leg of your endless trek around the Great Arm, books, music cylinders, special snacks, extra consumables. Used books, a hand lettered sign reads, one for one trade.                    You've left what you mean to trade with the man running the shop, and you've got a few promising novels tucked in the crook of your arm when something else among the junk catches your eye. A flattish metal case the length of your hand opened to show wells of bright pigment, cracked, obviously used but with plenty left, a clutch of fine bristled brushes held together with a bit of string. Paint-kit, the tag reads, near new. You fold it closed and examine it, turn it in your hands. If Cee was here you'd ask what she thought, but she's off somewhere else in the commerce ring, making her own deals.  The label is mostly missing, faded yellow against the plain grey metal. The catch is s small button and when you push it, the lid pops open on its own. That's what sells you. Ezra can open it one handed. You add it to the clutch of books. He's gonna think it's silly, you think, and the proprietor obviously agrees because the trade for the battered tin of colors is two novels.        "That's highway robbery," you grumble.        "Where else you gonna find honest-to-Kevva art supplies in a dump like this? Lose two stories or take your trade elsewhere."        "Fine," you say and take the slimmest two volumes and slide them back across the counter, "We good then?"        "We're good," he says and you tuck the remaining books and paint-kit into the bag slung over your shoulder. "Safe flight, spacer." You nod. Spacer as a form of address still feels weird, like a title you haven't earned. You wonder if that feeling will ever fade, if that small voice that says you have no business out here in the black will ever shut up.

       You find yourself hurrying along the ring, suddenly wanting to reach the pod before anyone else, because now you're wondering how Ezra will react to your gift, your present, and you feel silly. You imagine his brow arched quizzically, what's this now, Artichoke? Kevva. You can almost hear him. If you get to the pod first you can stash your things without the others seeing, your books, your vac-packed saar jerky, some new socks because you wore holes in the ones you'd gone off world in, and this little tin of used but mostly good paints. And then you can just not think about it for a while. Gods this is stupid, why are you so worked up? So nervous at the idea of giving Ezra a gift? This is something friends do for each other. Give each other little trifles. Doesn't mean more than that right?

       Of course Ezra and Cee are both in the pod when you get back, Ez arching an eyebrow at you. You're late, Artichoke. By, like, two sixteenths, says Cee, snapping one of the pods many storage compartments shut, rolling her eyes, you had a good half buffer.        "That half might make the difference between us shoving off without you," says Ezra, "Clear?"        "Clear. It won't happen again," you say, feeling heat rise to your face.        "I trust that it will not."

       You hurriedly stow your things and brace yourself for the change in grav as the can-hauler you're clipped to undocks, the flywheels spinning up to dampen the bench's spin and then transfer their momentum to the freighter's smaller ring, grav meant for passengers and cargoes that can't tolerate microgravity, a sick sideways upward lurch and it still doesn't feel right, you find yourself breathing hard, swallowing saliva that tastes metallic.        "Here," says Ezra, reaches across and hands you a wrapped piece of candy, "Spice-root. It'll help your stomach. Hold it in your mouth for a spell. You'll be alright." You take the offered candy and tuck it into your cheek.        "I always keep some of this on hand," says Ezra, "You never know when your inner ear's gonna decide that you're going backwards and sideways all at once." You try to slow your breathing and just listen to him talk, Ezra's voice is like a warm steadying hand.        "Amateur," says Cee, with a teasing grin. You crunch your spice root candy between your teeth and give her the finger. Ezra chuckles.        "Seems like you're about back to normal, there, Prickle-girl."

       Privacy is an odd thing living in a drop pod for extended periods. Clipped to a bench it's not so bad, there are places you can go, things you can look at, food stalls, bars and the like. You can get away from each other for a little bit. Clipped to a freighter? It's been a mixed bag so far. Depends on the ship. Depends on the whims of them flying her. At best there might be a grotty little mess hall where you can get a hot meal. At worst you are locked down in your pod, with no view and nothing but the same shit rations you eat downworld.        It's not entirely unfamiliar, being cooped up. The winds would kick up so high back home that the sand and flying dust could scrape you raw and bloody if you got caught out in it. Privacy is a matter of claiming it, and everyone agreeing to it. When Cee has her music player over her ears, you and Ezra know not to bother her, likewise when you are reading, or when Ezra is running points or calculations or drawing. Silence will fall between the three of you. Not unwelcome. Just everyone doing their thing, usually after you've eaten your last meal of the day, no rules, just an easy habit the three of you have fallen into.        Except tonight you can't seem to settle in. You've read the first five pages of the horror novel you traded for on Tirana Bench at least a half-dozen times. It's not that the story or writing's bad, you just can't concentrate. That little metal box in your storage compartment is burning bright in your mind like a lump of radioactive material. You glance over at Cee. She's fast asleep, music player knocked askew. You know eventually she'll take it off in her sleep. Ezra is still awake. Of course he is. Better now than when Cee is awake. She'd probably roll her eyes and call you a goof-ass, but it's not her judgement you worry about. She'd probably also tell you to quit waffling. You abandon your novel on your crash couch and fetch the paint kit from your storage locker.        "Hey, Ezra?"        "Yeah?" You turn to him, holding the little box behind your back.        "I, uh, found something I thought you'd like. On the bench." He's sitting up on the edge of his crash couch, legs hanging over, sketchbook spread across his lap, looking at you expectantly. You offer him the paint-kit. He looks at the battered metal box and then back up at you, that little line starting to stitch itself between his eyebrows. You feel yourself starting to smile a little at his confusion.        "Push the button," you say and he does and the dented lid springs up.  You set the box on the sketchpad, flat surface folded open and step back, hands worrying at each other. Ezra raises his hand to his mouth. His face runs through a complication of emotions.        "I saw some of your drawings. I didn't mean to pry, you fell asleep and dropped your book and I didn't think you wanted it getting all dirty, and I saw this kit and thought you might like to try some colors," Your face and neck go hot. You're rambling. "I mean, you always say how you gotta have the right tools for a job and I saw this and figured I'd get you some tools. It doesn't mass much more than a book. I thought--"        "Get me a squeeze bulb with some water, yeah?"        "Yeah okay," you say, and snag a squeeze, "You're gonna try it now? It's kind of late-" Ezra makes a dismissive noise.        "We've got fifteen and a quarter cycles cooling our heels in this pod," says Ezra. You look at him and he is beaming, dimples sunk into his scruffy cheeks, eyes warm and crinkled, he glows and you feel yourself warmed by him, feel yourself mirroring his smile.

       "Plenty of time to sleep," you say and plop down next to him with the squeeze bottle of water, "I think this big well is meant for the water."        "I think so too," says Ezra, and his smile falters slightly, "Can you hold the paints for me? I can finagle some sort of lap board later, maybe one of the grading trays--"        "Sure, Ez, I've got you." You rest the box on your knee so he can reach. Ezra wets the brush and dips it into one of the paint-wells, long dried pigments soaking up into the fibers. He strokes the bristles over the paper, a long blue squiggle, experimenting with pressure and thickness. Dips a second brush into the clean water and uses it to draw the blue across the paper, staining the fibers, fading color like some sort of magic trick.        "How do you know how to do that?" Ezra shrugs.        "My mother drew and painted when she had the time," he says, "I used to watch her and she'd let me try my hand at it, but I was never any good."        "Well that's bullshit," you say. The blue squiggle becomes a fractal pattern, an oxbow river seen from orbit.        "It's not though," says Ezra, rinsing the blue out and going for a deep green, "Cee got me my first blank book. I had to teach my weak hand how to be clever. I meant to teach myself how to write again. I'd copy out my letters over and over and my hand would cramp after a spell. Drawing helped me loosen back up." A constellation of green dots and drips make a forest, tiny pink pin-pricks a field of flowers.        "My handwriting is still utter dogshit though," he muses, fully focused on the sketchbook in his lap, "Funny how that works."        "Kevva might take a lot from you, but she always gives something back," you say, one of your Gran's expressions popping out of your mouth unbidden.        "Just so, Artichoke, just so."

#writer wednesday #ezra x f!reader w/cee #ezra prospect x f!reader #prickle 'verse #prospect AU #prospect fic #pedro pascal #writer-wednesday

[littledemondani]

bestie all i want in life is to surprise eddie with homemade corroded coffin merch and then have him rearrange my guts while making me wear it and recite his lyrics

dear god, pls skdkskd 😭

“go on, baby,” he cooes, gazing up at you with those big, beautiful brown eyes. “finish the rest of the song.”

you shake your head, lids closing in a dramatic fashion as the tip of his cock brushes against that one spot deep inside of you. “i-i can’t,” you choke, small tear droplets prickling at the corner of your eyes.

“you can,” he demands softly, “and you will.”

when eddie came home from work that night, you hadn’t expected him to react the way he did to your little surprise. to the corroded coffin crop top you had made earlier that day. you figured he might’ve gotten emotional, probably just a little bit turned on even, but you didn’t expect this.

the rough, possessive side of him you had yet to see, showed itself fully. he took you right there on the couch, told you to put on the crop top and nothing else, all while he buried his cock in your tight, wet little cunt and had you singing the lyrics to their most popular song — the one eddie had written about you.

the catch? if you stopped, he stopped.

while in the beginning it seemed fairly easy for you to get through, with each drag of his cock through your tight walls, and the filthy words of praise spilling from his plump lips, it became increasingly more difficult.

his thrusts slowed, waiting for you to start reciting the words again. the soft whine that clawed it’s way out of your throat made him smirk. “come on, pretty girl. finish those last few verses and you can cum. i know how badly you want to.”

that was all you needed to keep going. as you got closer to the end of the song, his thrusts sped up, hips pounding into you with fervor, chasing his own release.

with the last line rolling off of your tongue, eddie brings his hand to your cunt, rubbing harsh circles against your throbbing clit. “fuck, baby. cum for me. go on, it’s okay. let go. let go for me, baby.”

you cum right before you’re supposed to finish, the feeling so intense it has your vision blurring and hearing going fuzzy. eddie’s release soon follows yours, hot spurts of cum painting your spasming walls.

“jesus,” he pants, partially collapsing on top of you. “that was so hot.”

you giggle, entangling your fingers through his unruly hair. “i take it you really like the shirt, huh?”

“i love it,” eddie chuckles breathlessly, carefully pulling out of you to lay on his back, bringing you with him against his chest. “shit, if you wear that to our show on tuesday i’ll prolly fuck you on stage. wouldn’t be able to control myself, sweetheart.”

“oh yeah?” you look at him with a raised brow. “i don’t believe you.”

“wear it and find out, then.”

#sorry this was so late 😭 #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fanfiction

[freakfangstm]

@wildcardwheeler liked for a vampire!eddie starter!

Eddie had been leaving the factory, he was ready to hunt and had been perfectly fine till he was in the moonlight, and everything had then gone dark. It had been a full moon tonight, in fact it been the very first one he had seen in a clear sky, since he had left the Upside down. He opens his eyes to find himself buried in something heavy, his own smell washed over him and Eddie feels off. With a shuffle the small head peeks up from the clothing that covered him. Everything was bright and the other goes to rub his eye—

A squeal escapes the little black bat as it fumbles and flaps backwards, getting caught up in the silky hellfire shirt that had once been on his body. Eddie is screaming but only a sound of desperate chitters escaped him. What the fuck is going on?! Why is his body so small, why are his arms so damn wide!? Everything was loud and the creature stops its struggling to pant, the tiny chest trembled with quick breaths.

🦇 ･ﾟﾟ･｡ ･ﾟﾟ･｡ 🦇 ・゜゜・．

#the tale of the batman || writings 🎸 #the prickle of lil’ claws :: bat eddie verse 🎸 #text #wildcardwheeler

[honeybleed]

decades ⋆ reiner braun

content & warnings: fem!reader, canon verse, set around the beginning of marley arc, mentions of sex work (reader works at marleyan brothel, soooo original ik 🙄), reiner has depression, PTSD & suicidal thoughts in this so if this triggers you i advise you not to read, conflict, slut shaming, angst.

author’s note: this is depressing, as is the majority of canon verse aot fics.

part two here

word count: 3.7k

Reiner has had this reoccurring dream ever since his confrontation with the Survey Corps four years ago.

In this dream, his Titan has been beaten down mercilessly and his body is exposed. The dream is all too vivid. The steam stings his eyes he feels them prickle with tears.

Then vultures circle him, tauntingly. They swoop down and tear his flesh relentlessly. He's frozen. He wants to let out a scream but no noise comes out.

He is thrust back into reality, waking up with a gasp, sweat trickling down his forehead and chest heaving. The dream never goes any further than that.

He looks around the dark room, trying to differentiate between dream and reality. The problem is, the nightmare itself isn't too far off from his experience that day.

Dead man walking, that’s how he would describe himself.

He had no will to live. However, at certain times when thrust into battle, he came alive and was instantly a live wire. His suicidal ideation faded away during combat.

Since returning to Marley and being shrouded as some sort of war hero, even nicknamed "Marley's shield", he joined the other soldiers on their excursions.

Reiner never knew who he truly was.

When with the boisterous, raucous Marleyan soldiers on their off time in the taverns and brothels, he was one of the boys.

There were glimmers of pride and the acceptance he never had as a child whenever he felt a slap on his back, a squeeze on his shoulder with a hearty laugh.

The validation he never had as a child.

But when the moment ended, he felt awful. Despite his belief that he was a horrible person, plagued with turmoil, he knew that he did not share the same values as those soldiers.

As he entered the bar, the air was thick with the scent of cigar smoke. With the smell filling the whole room. The smoke was heavy and lingering, creating a haze that hung in the atmosphere.

He walked off from the other soldiers and headed towards the bar to drink. In all honesty, he preferred the company of Gabi, Falco and the kids rather than the soldiers.

He was dragged out of his thoughts when an intoxicating fresh scent, the complete opposite wafted towards him.

Scents are not something Reiner pays attention to, however it grabbed his attention after being on the battlefield for weeks.

His lungs thick with smoke and gunpowder, choking on the acrid stench of explosives. The sweat and dirt from the soldiers who had been fighting for hours.

But he could’ve handled all of that, what pushed him to the edge was the blood and flesh, burning flesh. The blood was nauseating.

The sweet smell belonged to you.

He had to pinch himself when his eyes settled on you. You noticed him gaping at you and gave him a wink, heading further into the crowd.

"That one is one hell of a minx." One of the soldiers guffawed as he slapped Reiner's back when he noticed him ogling you, causing Reiner to wince. "Give her a try."

Reiner stared at the man in shock. However, when your eyes met once again, he was oddly enthralled by your aura.

He pushed his way through the crowded bar, determined not to lose you amongst the people.

"Excuse me, Miss..? May I speak to you for a moment?"

Your back was still turned, as you heard his firm and deep voice. It was difficult to ignore.

You eventually stopped in your tracks, turning to face him as your eyes raked over him, with a snort.

"Now…what would Marley's Shield want with me..?" You questioned, raising a brow at him.

He cringed at the nickname.

"Marley's Shield my ass." He thought to himself, as that particular nightmare flickered through his mind, causing him to shake his head in an attempt to disperse those images.

"You don't need to call me that.." He replied, with a wry laugh. "It's kind of douchey."

"So what do I call you?" You questioned.

"Just...Reiner." He responded.

"Okay, just Reiner. You come here often?" You said with a sultry smile.

"Depends." He said. "You see me around here?"

"Nope. I'd definitely remember such a handsome face..." You said, as you leaned across the bar and reached out to stroke his cheek.

A slow smile began to build on his face as he felt your dainty hand.

“You’re forward, aren’t you?” He replied, as he met her eyes properly.

“Part of the profession.” You remarked. “We on the same page, just Reiner?”

The tavern and brothel were in the same building. The rooms where the ladies brought whoever paid for their service were upstairs.

Reiner kept his hands to himself the entirety of the walk, which you noticed. Most of the soldiers would grope and grab at you even before you were out of the bar.

His lips were pursed, you wondered if he was ashamed. He didn't seem like a man who liked things like this, but that would be a naive statement. Considering the nature of men.

"Pretty...nice." He remarked, surveying the rich velvet carpets and golden fixtures. "How is this the same building as the bar..?"

"Yeah...Madam is particular about the interior." You replied with a half smile reminiscing on her giving a verbal lashing to the barkeep about the state of the building.

You pushed open the door of the room.

A lot of buildings in Marley are the same. Especially the internment zone. People were lucky to even have a bed and a desk, however, Reiner had never seen such luxury like this in his life.

Jaw slightly agape at the delicate and elegant furniture and the pale blues, pinks, and whites. The bed had lace and ruffles.

He shut the door behind him as you lit the candle.

"You like..?" You giggled at him gazing around the room in awe.

"I never been in a fancy pants place like this before.." He said, lowly as he stalked up to you. You drew a sharp intake of breath as Reiner towered over you.

His expression was serious and intense, with his eyes sharp and focused on you.

"Looks can be deceiving.." You said in a hushed tone as you slid your hands underneath the fabric to push off his trench coat and let it clatter to the ground.

He didn't miss the way you eyed the red armband.

"You think so..?" He replied, intrigued by your statement.

"Yeah.." You said, as your fingers made their way to undo the collar buttons of his dress shirt. "She makes it all fancy...as if that hides the horrors of what goes on in most of these rooms."

He grabbed your wrist before you undid the button that was up to his navel. His eyes widened and his brows furrowed as the only thing he could muster out was your name.

"That's...not gonna happen here. I promise." He said voice determined, earning a giggle from you. "What's funny?"

"It's sweet." You hummed, pulling away from his grip to continue undressing him. The flame of the candle illuminated the room with a warm glow.

You felt your mouth unconsciously water when the flame highlighted Reiner’s muscle definition.

The veins in his arms and neck stood out prominently as you traced them gently with your forefinger causing him to shudder gently.

“You’re really hard to resist.” He said with a dark chuckle as you pushed him to sit on the bed.

“It’s a part of my charm.” You grinned. You began to press your lips against the sensitive surface of his neck and he froze.

This wasn’t something unusual, however with Reiner. Something felt off. Regardless, you pushed him on his back to continue your actions but he seemed to be…nervous.

You couldn’t do it like this. So you pulled yourself off, sitting on your knees on the mattress as your eyebrows pinched together.

"Reiner...have you done this before..?"

"What?! Of course I have!" He shot back offended at what you were insinuating as a flush crept across his cheeks.

"With who..?"

Busted.

He began to stumble over his words, attempting to create a believable sexual encounter but as you gazed at him, looking ethereal in the pale moonlight he gave up mid-sentence.

"You must think I'm pathetic."

"For being a virgin? No." You said gently as you stroked his cheek.

"I...I'm not less of a man to you?" He asked, shocked by your nonchalance.

"I could care less about that. Image...that's something important to you, Reiner. Isn't it?" You asked with a lilt in your voice.

"I thought image means a lot to everybody.." He responded, confused by your statement.

"Eh. To a certain degree. When it starts making you pretend to be somebody you're not I guess that's where it becomes a problem."

"You don't have to do this." You said.

"But what if I want to..?"

"Just figured...people usually want to keep their virginity for somebody they love." You said.

Reiner thought about it for a moment.

The only person he thought he loved was Historia.

And in his mind, hell would've frozen over before he could ever see her again.

"Usually? So what do the other people do?" He asked, curiously. You shook your head with a chuckle.

As he sat on the edge of the bed, you looked at him again. You would've never thought that the large and bulky handsome man had this naivety and innocence.

It was genuinely endearing to you.

"They don't care I suppose. It's just something people do as a gratification thing. Get it out of their system."

Reiner recalled some conversations had by the older soldiers in the trenches. It was like a game to them.

"...I don't want to do that." He whispered.

"Huh?"

"Oh...I said that out loud, huh?" He shook his head.

"Yeah.." You snickered. "What don't you want to do?"

"I don't want...to be like them."

"Reiner, who is them?"

"The guys I came in with." He began as he wrinkled his nose in disgust. "They...it's like a control thing for them."

"Yeah...you hit on the nail on the head with that one. They barge in here and don't even take a moment to realise that we have feelings...and thoughts. I doubt they even see us as people."

"But...I want to...I really want to..." He spoke gently as his tongue darted out to lick his lips and his light brown eyes softened. "Do...you want me? Am I enough for you?"

"Do you think you're not enough..?" You questioned.

He lowered his gaze and let out a sigh.

"Have you had your first kiss too?"

He groaned your name and buried his face in his hands.

"Okay, okay!" You giggled. "Look, you didn't have time for any of that. I promise it's not a bad thing..but...is there anybody who caught your eye...and who you wanted to kiss?" You grinned.

"I suppose so."

"Well, what happened?"

"She...loved another. And.."

He trailed off when he realised he was veering into confidential information.

"Yeah."

"Aw...seems like Reiner had an unrequited love." You said, gently as you tilted his chin up with a forefinger. "Would you like to kiss me, Reiner?"

His posture immediately straightened as he met your eyes, glimmering.

"It's all I've been thinking about since I saw you across the bar."

"I appreciate the enthusiasm." You chuckled. "May I be your first kiss..?"

"...Really?" He breathed out.

"I shouldn't say this...but I was thinking about that when I first saw you too.." You grinned. He immediately tensed up.

You held his arms and chuckled.

"Reiner, just relax..." You said biting your lip to stifle your laughter. "You don't need to pout, just be natural. I'll take the lead."

"Don't laugh..!" He whined as he felt the tips of his ears heat up.

"I'm sorry, I'm not laughing at you! It's just...cute."

"I'm not cute..!" He protested.

"Sulking is not gonna help you beat the cute allegations." You snorted. "Close your eyes."

He followed your instruction without argument, and you waited for a beat of silence. You then took his strong jaw in your hands to gently brush your lips against his in a chaste manner.

When you pulled away, his eyes remained shut but you could see his eyelids twitching slightly.

"Reiner.." You called out softly.

"Oh. Is that all?"

"Hey! I was tryna be gentle. If I shoved my tongue down your throat you wouldn't have liked it." You argued, you then patted his thigh.

"But if you really want it. You can’t be the only one half-naked. Mhm?” You said as you turned your back to him.

He gave you a nod, understanding what you wanted.

"So beautiful.." He breathed in awe, as he undid the buttons of the corset.

"I've been told." You snorted, you were happy you were facing away from him, so he wouldn't see the giddy smile on your face.

You were a sucker for a compliment, especially from such a devastatingly handsome man like Reiner.

"I'll be gentle with you." You beamed, stroking his cheek.

"If it's like that first kiss, then no thank you."

"REINER!" You squeaked. "I was trying to-"

"I know, you were trying to go easy on me. But I didn't like it."

He never entered the bar anymore after that first night. He stood outside like a madman waiting for you to yank him indoors.

And as much as you expressed your irritation with it, you did it regardless. He was starting to appear more anxious whenever you spoke. Nothing like the man you met in the bar that one night.

You stormed outside and glared at him.

"Reiner." You hissed.

"I don't want you to think I only see you as a... you know..." He was getting extremely flustered, a deep crimson blush spreading across his cheeks. “Let’s leave, I’ll take you away from all of this..”

Your eyes slit as you took in his statement.

"Reiner." You finally spoke, voice barely an octave. "You're delusional."

He stared right back at you as if you were the one who lost your mind. He'd never been told that before.

You felt like you kicked a puppy with the look he gave you, so you dragged him to one of the rooms.

He looked pale and it seemed like he was gonna throw up. As you sat on the edge of your bed, waiting for him he just kept staring at his trembling hands with choked gasps.

“Come here..” You instructed.

He slowly sank to his knees and lowered his head onto your lap. At first, you tensed up. You had no clue why he did that. But feeling him rest against you, there was a pang in your stomach.

Your hands gingerly reached out to stroke the side of his face then you began to gently scrape your nails against his scalp. His body shuddered slightly and he let out a content sigh, his large hands bunching the fabric of your dress.

He thinks back on his life and realises nobody touched him like that before.

You pause from dragging your nails and settle a palm on the nape of his neck, fingers threading through the tufts of his featherlight blond hair.

You could've sworn you hear him choke out a sob.

"What's the matter..?" You asked softly, hand still on his neck.

He lifted his head to meet your eyes, as he gasped for breath, each inhalation a struggle against the suffocating grasp of despair.

His chest heaved with the weight of unspoken words and unshed tears, and a guttural sob escaped his lips, tearing through the silence like a wounded animal's cry.

"Reiner, breathe." You said, eyebrows knitting together in concern at his reaction.

You immediately sat up from the bed, and he tugged onto your dress harder as if he was trying to stop you from walking away.

His breathing was shallow as he called out your name.

"Don't go, please.."

"I'm not going anywhere." You reassured, helping him to stand from his knees to guide him to sit on the bed. "Now tell me what's wrong."

You sat beside him and slipped your small hand into his large, calloused one. The skin was dry and worn out from his battles. As your slender fingers interlocked with his, you felt a few healing scabs across his palm.

Your words seeped into his mind.

"What's the matter?"

As far as Reiner could think back, nothing was ever normal.

He coughed out when he remembered the metallic taste of the rifle in his mouth and saw the faces.

Of his loved ones.

He was nothing but a fraud in his eyes. Yet he was their hero.

Soon, it began to become a cycle. Reiner arrives. Reiner has a bit much to drink. You don't want to sleep with him in his inebriated state, so you let him lay on the bed and stroke his hair. He talks about his past.

The cycle was beginning to weigh down on you, whenever he began the tirade on his mother you felt your eyebrows furrow and let out an exasperated sigh.

He never bashed her. But he indirectly blamed her.

And then one day, you snapped. This time, he wasn't drunk. He was on a few sips.

"Your mother is not a good person."

It was meant to be a statement. But it came out so harsh, laced with venom, you regret it the instant it came out of your mouth.

Reiner was used to you not saying much.

But the vitriol in the sentence blew him away, so much so, the glass of bourbon slipped from his hand and shattered onto the wooden floor.

His pupils were blown wide with alarm.

"What...did you just say..?" He finally spoke, voice shaky.

Even if you regret the way it came out, you had to say it.

"I said your mother is not a good person, Reiner." You replied, voice haughty. "You've been coming here for almost a month now, I listen to you. The verdict is that your problems lead back to her."

"You-"

His words were stuck in his throat and felt as if they were choking him.

"You are not a sin for being born. Neither is she. She should've told you that. Not make you think you had to repent for something you had nothing to do with." You said tersely as your arms folded.

"And what the hell do you know?!" He bellowed. "You're...you're just a dumb broad from a whore house!"

Another wave of shock hit Reiner when he registered what he said to you.

You nodded in a bemused way a few times with a bitter smile.

"Maybe so, Reiner. But I can tell you something..." You leaned in closer to his ear. "I don't delude myself the way you do. I know what I am, I could care less. Do you know what you truly are..?"

Then you spoke and said something that tore through him and hurt more than any slash.

"You...are...a...pawn, Reiner. You're disposable."

He stood outside the tavern despite it being daytime. He had rushed out of the room away that night. As far as his feet could take him.

Yet he always found his way back to you, lately.

The girls began to tease, about Reiner being your lover. You had to qualms about it in the beginning, since you had a soft spot for him.

But after that argument, you lashed out at one of the girls and marched off.

You gazed outside the window as you saw him standing outside, helplessly.

He barely smiled. His face was always weary.

"You are not a sin for being born."

Reiner swallowed thickly as his eyes begin to prickle with tears. There was nothing more he wanted than to sink to his knees for forgiveness. He couldn't even have used the drunk excuse.

You headed outside to confront him.

"You need to stop coming here." You said after you shoved him with force.

"I'm in love with you. Please.." He babbled, words clashing together. "I can't live without you, why can't you understand that..?”

"Well. It's not like either one of us lied. You are a pawn and disposable. And I am a broad from a whore house. I'm not dumb though."

"Of course you're not..." He frustratedly let out a groan and clutched at his head. "Y/N PLEASE! I don't know what I was thinking, really..! What can I do to make it up to you..?!"

"You really want to make it up to me...?" You asked, gently. You looked up at him and settled a palm on the nape of his neck.

He nodded eagerly.

"Anything, I'll do anything."

"Reiner...go and fuck yourself."

"I can't let you go. Please. I-"

"No, you don't." You said curtly.

"How did you know what I was going to say?"

"You Marleyan soldiers are all the damn same. Do you think I haven't heard an 'I love you' after one of 'em wallows in self-pity? I've heard your story a dozen times before." You replied. "I won't take back what I said about your mother or you."

"I don't care anymore! You were right, just don't walk away from me. You say you've heard it before but I'm not making things up. I love you...I'll do anything for you. When I'm by your side in that bed, I'm a free man. Your warmth and your touch..."

"Free yourself. From being a pawn. That's what you can do for me. Do that and I'll forgive you."

You turned on your heel and began to march off, arms folded against your chest. It was taking everything within you not to start bawling like a newborn.

But you had to let him go. For his own sake.

"HOW CAN I DO THAT...?!" He exclaimed as he felt his heart shatter for the dozenth time.

"Deep down he knows." You said to yourself internally as your back was against the door, watching your vision blur and tears splatter across the wooden planking.

author’s note: you can take reiner freeing himself when he joined paradis island folks🗿 also sorry for makin him say that rude ass shiet to reader😭 sawry for any spelling n grammar mistakes im tide man

#aot x reader #reiner braun #reiner braun x reader #reiner braun x y/n #reiner braun x female reader #aot x female reader #aot x y/n #aot angst #reiner braun angst #reiner angst #⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ nara scribbles

[ctitan98official]

Anonymous: What if reader is in love with Larrisa and they leave flowers in her office in secret maybe some notes too saying how much theyr in love and so on and Larrisa grows more curious day by day so idk maybe reader gets caught in the act ? I kept thinking about this for some thime even for Lady Dimitrescu. This is my first reques ever so I hope i made myself pretty clear especialy because my first language is not english and the autochorector didnt seem to be on my side And I hooe you like the idea bcus I think is cute and i love flowers thank youu❤❤🌻🌻

I’m honored to be your first request :D I decided to do ones for both Alcina and Larissa. Let’s get into it!

Alcina:

You stand in Alcina’s dimly lit study as you work on your latest romantic gesture. Your heart races with excitement as you carefully arrange a bouquet of exquisite roses on her desk. Each petal is a declaration of your love, a silent confession that has remained hidden in the depths of your heart for far too long.

In the secrecy of night, you have become a clandestine admirer, leaving small tokens of affection in Alcina’s study, hoping she will notice and perhaps even reciprocate your feelings. With each passing day, your devotion deepens, as do the notes you leave, expressing your love in poetic verses that dance upon the page.

But tonight, as you delicately place the flowers, you sense a presence nearby. The hairs on the back of your neck prickle, and a shiver runs down your spine. Alcina’s voice echoes through the room, velvety and commanding.

“Who could be in my study at this hour?” She purrs, her tone laced with curiosity and a hint of amusement.

Frozen in place, your heart leaps to your throat and your mind races to find an excuse, a way to conceal your identity and the depths of your affection. But before you can react, Alcina walks in fully, her towering figure casting a shadow that envelops the room.

You turn to face her, your cheeks flushed with embarrassment. The intensity of her gaze pierces through your soul and you find it hard to summon the words you had so artfully penned in your secret notes.

“I-I… I apologize, my Lady,” You stammer, desperately trying to regain composure. “I meant no harm. I merely… Wanted to show my… Appreciation for you.”

A knowing smile curls upon Alcina’s lips and she glides towards you with an elegance that defies human limitations. The scent of roses and mystery fills the air, entwining with the overwhelming presence of the woman before you.

“You have quite the poetic tongue, my dear,” She murmurs. “Tell me, what compels you to leave these tokens of adoration? Are you that bewitched by my presence?” She giggles.

You blush at the melodious sound of her laughter. You finally find the strength to speak, to reveal the depths of your affection that have remained hidden for so long. “My Lady, your grace and poise captivate my very being. Your beauty is incomparable to anything on this earth. I’m just an admirer, living in your world.”

Alcina’s eyes soften, and for a moment, you dare to hope that she may share some of your feelings. She takes a step closer, her gaze locking with yours. “You are brave to reveal your heart to me, little one. Few have dared to venture into romantic pursuits with me.”

Your heart flutters with a bit of anticipation and fear, unsure of what lies ahead. But, Alcina extends her hand to you, a silent invitation. You know you can’t resist the pull any longer. With trembling fingers, you reach out, intertwining your hand with hers. Alcina Dimitrescu is a force that will forever change your life.

Larissa

You can’t help but be captivated by Larissa, the enchanting woman who occupies your every thought. Every morning, you find yourself drawn to her office, compelled by an invisible force to leave a trace of your affection. It starts with a single flower, delicately placed on her desk, but soon grows into big bouquets that fill the room with their sweet fragrance.

As days turn into weeks, your secret gestures become more elaborate. You pen heartfelt notes, carefully expressing the depths of your love and admiration. Each word is chosen with utmost care, hoping to convey the intensity of your emotions. You describe the way her laughter lights up a room, the way her eyes sparkle with intelligence and warmth, and the way her presence fills your heart with joy.

You relish in the anonymity, reveling in the idea of being the silent admirer, the one who showers her with affection from the shadows. It becomes a ritual, a source of both serenity and excitement. You like to imagine the possible delight on Larissa’s face when she discovers the gifts, the way her curiosity might grow with each passing day. Does she enjoy them as much as you hope she does?

But as time goes on, the weight of your secret becomes heavier. The desire to reveal yourself, to confess your love to Larissa, begins to gnaw at your insides. You wonder if she feels the same way, if she has any inkling of your affection. The thought of rejection terrifies you, but the longing for her is too great to ignore.

One afternoon, as you carefully arrange an assortment of roses on her desk, you hear the sound of footsteps approaching. Panic grips your heart and you frantically search for an excuse as to why you’re in here. The door swings open, and there stands Larissa, a mixture of surprise and confusion etched across her face.

Caught in the act, you freeze, unable to find the words to explain your actions.

Larissa’s eyes meet yours, and for a moment, the world seems to stand still. The weight of your secret, the intensity of your emotions, all hang suspended in the air between you. She opens her mouth to speak, but no sound emerges. Instead, a gentle smile plays at the corners of her lips. “You’re the one,” She finally whispers, her voice barely audible.

Your heart skips a beat as you realize that your acts of love had not gone unnoticed. You take a tentative step closer to her, feeling as though a lifetime of unspoken words is about to be set free.

You finally realize that love is not meant to just be hidden in secret gestures, but shared openly and honestly. The walls that once held you back crumble, replaced by the possibility that your love can be reciprocated.

Larissa’s cheeks are rosy as she gives you a shy smile and wraps her arms around your neck. You grin and lean in to place a kiss on her plush, velvety lips. It seems that your love for Larissa is a force too powerful to be

Masterlist

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