#and...misty knight again | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

novelconcepts · 11 months

Text

There’s a line from American Gods I keep coming back to in relation to Yellowjackets, an observation made early on by Shadow in prison: “The kind of behavior that works in a specialized environment, such as prison, can fail to work and in fact become harmful when used outside such an environment.” I keep rotating it in my head in thinking about the six survivors, the roles they occupy in the wilderness, and the way the show depicts them as adults in society.

Because in the wilderness, as in prison, they’re trapped—they’re suffering, they’re traumatized, they’re terrified—but they’re also able to construct very specific boxes to live in. And, in a way, that might make it easier. Cut away the fat, narrow the story down to its base arc. You are no longer the complex young woman who weighs a moral compass before acting. You no longer have the luxury of asking questions. You are a survivor. You have only to get to the next day.

Shauna: the scribe. Lottie: the prophet. Van: the acolyte. Taissa: the skeptic. Misty: the knight. Natalie: the queen. Neat, orderly, the bricks of a new kind of society. And it works in the woods; we know this because these six survive. (Add Travis: the hunter, while you’re at it, because he does make it to adulthood).

But then they’re rescued. And it’s not just lost purpose and PTSD they’re dealing with now, but a loss of that intrinsic identity each built in the woods. How do you go home again? How do you rejoin a so-called civilized world, where all the violence is restricted to a soccer field, to an argument, to your own nightmares?

How does the scribe, the one who wrote it all out in black and white to make sense of the horrors, cope with a world that would actively reject her story? She locks that story away. But she can’t stop turning it over in her head. She can’t forget the details. They’re waiting around every corner. In the husband beside her in bed. In the child she can’t connect with across the table. In the best friend whose parents draw her in, make her the object of their grief, the friend who lives on in every corner of their hometown. She can’t forget, so she tries so hard to write a different kind of story instead, to fool everyone into seeing the soft maternal mask and not the butcher beneath, and she winds up with blood on her hands just the same.

How does the prophet come back from the religion a desperate group made of her, a group that took her tortured visions, her slipping mental health, and built a hungry need around the very things whittling her down? She builds over the bones. She creates a place out of all that well-intended damage, and she tells herself she’s helping, she’s saving them, she has to save them, because the world is greedy and needs a leader, needs a martyr, needs someone to stand up tall and reassure everyone at the end of the day that they know what’s best. The world, any world, needs someone who will take those blows so the innocent don’t have to. She’s haunted by everyone she didn’t save, by the godhood assigned to her out of misplaced damage, and when the darkness comes knocking again, there is nothing else to do but repeat old rhymes until there is blood on her hands just the same.

How does the acolyte return to a world that cares nothing for the faith of the desperate, the faith that did nothing to save most of her friends, that indeed pushed her to destroy? She runs from it. She dives into things that are safe to believe in, things that rescue lonely girls from rough home lives, things that show a young queer kid there’s still sunshine out there somewhere. She delves into fiction, makes a home inside old stories to which she already knows the endings, coaxes herself away from the belief that damned her and into a cinemascope safety net where the real stuff never has to get in. She teaches herself surface-level interests, she avoids anything she might believe in too deeply, and still she’s dragged back to the place where blood winds up on her hands just the same.

How does the skeptic make peace with the things she knows happened, the things that she did even without meaning to, without realizing? She buries them. She leans hard into a refusal to believe those skeletons could ever crawl back out of the graves she stuffed them into, because belief is in some ways the opposite of control. She doesn’t talk to her wife. She doesn’t talk to anyone. It’s not about what’s underneath the surface, because that’s just a mess, so instead she actively discounts the girl she became in the woods. She makes something new, something rational and orderly, someone who can’t fail. She polishes the picture to a shine, and she stands up straight, the model achievement. She goes about her original plan like it was always going to be that way, and she winds up with blood on her hands just the same.

How does the knight exist in a world with no one to serve, no one to protect, no reason propelling the devastating choices she had grown comfortable making? She rechannels it. She convinces herself she’s the smartest person in the room, the most capable, the most observant. She convinces herself other people’s mysteries are hers to solve, that she is helping in every single action she takes. She makes a career out of assisting the most fragile, the most helpless souls she can find, and she makes a hobby out of patrolling for crimes to solve, and when a chance comes to strap her armor back on and ride into battle, she rejoices in the return to normalcy. She craves that station as someone needed, someone to rely upon in the darkest of hours, and she winds up with blood on her hands because, in a way, she never left the wilderness at all.

How does the queen keep going without a queendom, without a pack, without people to lead past the horrors of tomorrow? She doesn’t. She simply does not know how. She scrounges for something, anything, that will make her feel connected to the world the way that team did. She moves in and out of a world that rejects trauma, punishes the traumatized, heckles the grieving as a spectacle. She finds comfort in the cohesive ritual of rehabilitation, this place where she gets so close to finding herself again, only to stumble when she opens her eyes and sees she’s alone. All those months feeding and guiding and gripping fast to the fight of making it to another day, and she no longer knows how to rest. How to let go without falling. She no longer wears a crown, and she never wanted it in the first place, so how on earth does she survive a world that doesn’t understand the guilt and shame of being made the centerpiece of a specialized environment you can never explain to anyone else? How, how, how do you survive without winding up with blood on your hands just the same?

All six of these girls found, for better or worse, a place in the woods. All six of them found, for better or worse, a reason to get up the next day. For each other. And then they go home, and even if they all stayed close, stayed friends, it’d still be like stepping out of chains for the first time in years. Where do you go? How do you make small choices when every decision for months was life or death? How do you keep the part of yourself stitched so innately into your survival in a world that would scream to see it? How do you do away with the survivor and still keep going?

They brought it back with them. Of course they did. It was the only way.

#yellowjackets #yellowjackets spoilers #yj meta #long post #shauna shipman #lottie matthews #taissa turner #van palmer #misty quigley #natalie scatorccio #the question not being how do you survive the wilderness. the question being how do you come BACK.#the way each of them tries so hard to keep moving forward #unable to untangle the girl in the woods from the adult suffering in polite society #how the world doesn’t want to hear about the pain or the night terrors or the sleepwalking or the addiction #the world wants the bright colors and the flash-bang headlines #the world doesn’t want who they are. who they had to be. it wants pretty perfect tragedy #that specialized environment lives on in each one of them every day #but it’s not a place anyone else can ever go #how do you feed that for so long and then just…stop?#constantly thinking about nat saying we didn’t make it out. none of us.#because no. no they didn’t. the girls died the minute that rescue chance did. what came back was risen from those ashes

1K notes · View notes

sprout-fics · 9 months

Text

Rotes Mädchen: Chapter 4

(Werewolf! König x Red Riding Hood! Reader)

(Art by the lovely @zwienzixes)

(Masterlist)

Word count: 4.9k Rating: PG-13 Tags: Werewolf! König, Fairytale AU, Monster Hunters TF141, Traditional German Fairytale setting, World Building/Lore, F! Reader, Sexual tension, Slow burn, Domesticity, Unlacing corsets but in the slowest most sensuous way possible Warnings: Sexual harassment by unnamed characters

You blink again, feeling the damp mist of morning swirl against the hem of your skirt as you look down the path to the front of your garden where two figures lean against the twisted trunk of an aspen tree.

"Morrrrnin'." Soap drawls at you, smirk plastered across his face at the shock in your expression- not expecting two witchers to be awaiting you outside your front door.

"M-morning." You reply after a few moments, quelling your surprise. Soap beams at you, and beside him Gaz offers a little roll of his eyes towards his companion at the clear smugness there.

"Laswell asked for you." Gaz explains when Soap fails to elaborate on their presence. "She mentioned she wanted you to pick some herbs for her and sent us to escort you."

"Escort me?" You ask with a little huff of amusement, raising an eyebrow at them. "What, like some sort of damsel in distress?"

"Aye." Soap offers as he straightens off his perch with a little roll of his shoulders. He stands before you, broad as he places his hands on his hips in a demonstration of sarcastic machismo. "We are but faithful knights to your safety, yer highness."

You have to hide a girlish smile behind your hand at that, endeared by Soap's teasing flirtations. There's an easiness about him you appreciate, that softens the anxiety of the world around you, the burden of the secret in your home that remains dozing in the loft of your home. You had refused to wake König, had instead left a small, scrawled note of your venture outside for errands and a promise to return soon.

Instead, you had found this, the mysterious presence of two monster hunters who had awaited your appearance in the misty brightness of late morning.

"What he means is that there's a dangerous monster in the forest, and Laswell would rather you not be out there by yourself." Gaz again elaborates, offering Soap a nudge in the side as the Scot cries out in feigned hurt. Yet they both look to you expectantly, offering boyish smiles as they await your response.

"Well." You sigh at last. "I suppose I can't refuse two handsome gentlemen such as yourselves."

"Aww, she called us handsome." Soap drawls, nudging Gaz in the side with his elbow. Gaz shoves him a little back playfully, mischief dancing in his eyes.

"Can agree with me, at least. Might need to get your eyes checked about him." He tells you wryly, much to Soap's displeasure.

"Oi-"

"Shall we get a move on, gentlemen?" You ask as they begin to playfully cajole each other into rough housing, until they both turn and offer their horses to you. You stride past them, put a boot in the stirrup of Soap's mare and deftly swing yourself into the saddle, offering the pair a clever smile as they stare up at you in surprise.

"You two can share." You declare, clipped, nudging the mare in the direction of the village road as they cry out after you in dismay.

----

You end up sharing with Soap after all, as the three of you pick your way off one of the more isolated trails into the gulley of the forest. You know the path well, know nightshade and chamomile grows deep in the shadows, know which leaves to gather, and those to leave alone let the thorns bite at your fingertips.

There's easy conversation amongst the three of you, as you capture their rapt attention in your ramblings about the village, herbs, Laswell, the forest itself. In turn, Gaz and Soap share their own limited knowledge about your craft, and detail that which you don't know about theirs. They share tales of gargoyles and necromancers, creatures of the night, curses and demons and dead kings.

They tell you too about the wolf.

"Werewolves are especially hard to kill." Gaz explains from his saddle beside you, voice lower now. Grim. "Especially during full moons."

"I thought they shift only during full moons?" You offer, and Soap makes a little grunt of frustration behind you. it's not directed at you, but you can feel the annoyance sit low in his chest pressed against your back.

"They can shift at will." He elaborates, voice colored with a low simmering irritation, likely at their currently fruitless hunt. "Full moon is just when they lose control."

"And bite people?" You ask, to which he and Gaz exchange a look.

"It's uncommon, but yes. Treatable too, if you catch it soon enough."

It clicks then, the herb that they must be searching for, the cure to the ailment they may end of facing.

"Wolfsbane." You breathe, twisting in your saddle to look up at Soap behind you, who smiles, pleased.

"Told ya' she's a smart lass." He comments to his comrade beside him, who chuckles in response. "Aye, wolfsbane. Tastes like shite but will cure you right fast."

You cast him a little look of wry amusement before facing forward once more. "Have you tried making it into tea?" You ask mildly. "Or...bread? Soup? Liqour?"

"Liquor...why didn't I think of that?" Gaz mumbles, barely audible beside you both. "Could have been drinking wolfsbane ale this whole time and not choking it down raw."

"Bet it still tastes like piss." Soap points out, and Gaz gives him a withering look.

"You will drink anything that has liqour." He points out, to which Soap splutters but offers no rebuttal. "Besides-"

Gaz looks at you, a little more seriously now. "We can take it, we...are a little different than regular people. A small dose for us would kill most humans within a few hours. For us we get feverish and a tad sick, but it won't kill us. It’s better than being a werewolf."

You nod at that, and want to press for more. You knew from the moment you saw the witchers that they were...different. They're broader, taller, more intent than other men you've seen. There's an inherent keenness to them that speaks of awareness, more than that of an average human. It makes sense. Mortals of your kind were not bred to hunt creatures such as werewolves, let alone all manner of other beasts that roam these lands.

Gaz must see the contemplation in your eyes, the silent rumination, because he reaches the distance across from you, between the horses and nudges your shoulder with his leathered palm.

"You can ask." He offers gingerly, eyes kind. "We don't mind."

"Gaz's right." Soap supplies. "Truth is, hen, we've taken a bit of a shine to ye. Laswell trusts ye, and we can see why."

You squirm a little at that, face tucked into your hood, abashed but pleased at their comments. It's nice, this. It's often lonely in the village, in the place where so many others don't trust you, look at you skeptically from the corner of their eyes, whisper about you even where you can hear. Here, between these men with blood that runs hotter, higher, more potent, you feel a familiar sense of otherness that to you feels like belonging.

So, you ask, and you learn more of them.

They weren't always witchers, they tell you. First, they had been boys. Orphans, or given up to older witchers to be trained, honed, broken and rebuilt. Over the course of years, the four of them had stopped being boys, had begun to grow less human, and by the time they reached adulthood they were no longer mortal.

Witchers.

Gifted with superior sights, hearing, reflexes, strength. They can easily fight with the power of twenty men, born and bred to rid the lands of creatures that stalk and kill more fragile things.

Things like you.

It had taken them many years to find each other. Price had been the first, and you knew this from when he spoke to you. He had originally met Ghost when the younger witcher was still in his trials, had spoken encouragements to him that allowed Ghost to overcome the remainder of his training in ways few others had before him. Yet by that time Price was gone, hunting down a witch in the far western lands, one with grey eyes and a thin, wry smile.

"Laswell." You breathe to Gaz, much like a little girl listening to a beloved, enrapturing fairytale. Gaz smiles knowingly at you before continuing on.

Price had been meant to kill her, but upon realizing Kate was not the dark enchantress the villagers who had summoned him made her out to be, he made a different call. Instead, he had traveled with Kate for a time, until they had once more come upon Ghost.

Soap and Gaz go quiet then, and you feel a silent sense of regret, grief between them. You're afraid to press into it, but at last Soap offers the hidden tale of the masked witcher who had once terrified you with his mere presence.

"Roba." Soap offers, voice low, grim.

Roba, the name of the necromancer Ghost had been sent to kill by the man who had trained him, only to be betrayed. Roba had kept Ghost, had tortured him, had failed to break him despite everything. When Price and Laswell had eventually found him, Ghost had already been cursed by the necromancer, a bearing that even to this day forces him to conceal himself lest others be horrified by the appearance of a dead man under the mask.

It has been Price and Laswell who had helped Ghost kill Roba, and the man who had betrayed him. It was only after the battle that Laswell declared herself tired of traveling, and had come to settle in your valley village, while you were still very young.

Price continued on with Ghost at his side, and eventually they had found Gaz, who belonged to a small coven of witchers that protected a haven for those of their kind. Yet when Gaz had listened to promises of adventure and conquest from Price, he had been eager to leave behind his keep and travel alongside them. Price had easily taken him under his wing, had guided him in all the things Gaz had yet to experience as a young witcher.

It had only been once the three of them were united that they found Soap.

Soap goes quiet then, unexpectedly, and you gingerly shift in the saddle to see the hard set of his jaw, the grimace in his expression that speaks of anger, regret.

"You don't have to say it, mate." Gaz declares softly, and Soap only shakes his head.

"My squad was wiped out." He tells you softly, but his voice is hard, stony with grim memory. "We were all too bloody green, too fresh to be hunting what we were after."

You wait for him to continue, and after a few moments of silence you wonder if he actually will.

"A werewolf." Soap finishes at last, voice close to a snarl, low and dangerous in the back of his throat.

He goes on to tell you the story, spares you the details of his fellow witchers' deaths by the beast, tells you only that he had been the one to kill the thing, had sat for days surrounded by the bodies of his friends and his sword embedded in the chest of the werewolf. It had been Price and the others that had found him, had lifted him from where he kneeled and silently accepted him into the fold.

You nod at that, trying to tell yourself it's a happy ending at least. After all, they're together now, found themselves despite all the trials and tribulations. The team they are now is one of loyalty, skill, solidarity, trust. You can think of no one else better to defend your village against the shadow that lurks in the trees.

"So then how do you kill a werewolf?" You ask after several long minutes, adjusting in your seat as the horses begin to descend downhill into a gully.

"With patience." Gaz replies with a little grunt, reigning in his mare from walking too fast. "They heal fast unless you hit them with silver. Wolfsbane helps too."

"Which is why we're finding it." You conclude, leaning back into Soap's chest as he palms the reins in one hand, wrapping a brawny armored arm across your front to keep you from slipping. Your face warms at the contact, remembering the sensation of being at Price's back as you both rode back from Laswell's those nights ago.

Strangely, the memory fades to something else, to the press of a warm, solid frame that loomed above yours, one arm slung over your shoulder as you helped him walk from the forest under the cover of darkness, where he murmured a soft, breathy "Danke, Fraulein." As he at last rested in the safety of your home.

"That-" Soap says from behind you, startling you from reverie. "-and to check the traps we lay."

"Traps?" You echo, when suddenly both men urge their steeds to a halt, Gaz easily slipping from his saddle and walking over to a small pile of crinkled leaves just a few steps from the path. Gingerly, he brushes them aside, revealing a jaw-like contraption laying open against the ground. Empty.

He makes a small sound of disapproval, turning to Soap and talking over your head.

"Not this one, thing may have learned to avoid them after we got him the other night." He comments, brow creasing in frustration. Soap's grumble mirrors Gaz's expression, discontent at their findings.

"What is that?" You find yourself asking, eyeing the strange metal contraption with a healthy amount of caution.

"Bear trap." Soap explains quickly. "Won't kill werewolves but may keep them long enough for us to catch up."

"Our werewolf managed to get himself loose before we could find him." Gaz sighs ruefully, covering the trap once more. "We tried to follow the blood trail, but lost him over a creek. Smart bugger."

You consider that, that the monster that Price and the others hunt is not just dangerous, wild, untamed, but intelligent. It knows it's being hunted, adapts to the wolves of a different breed that nips at its heels under the cloak of darkness. What Soap has said makes sense now, that werewolves are hard to kill, that you need to be patient, smart, and absolutely prepared at any moment to face the monster.

"No matter." Gaz declares, standing and stretching, making back for his horse. "We'll catch it during the full moon."

"Aye." Soap agrees, but his voice is low, a warning. "Dangerous time to be hunting werewolves. It may lose its mind, but it'll be that much more dangerous."

"So, we better finish our own hunt then." Gaz announces, swinging gracefully back into his saddle and taking point as he continues down the path. He turns so he leans over his shoulder at you, offering a reassuringly bright smile.

"Where to?"

---

It takes you the better part of the day to find the hardy purple flowers that grows from the soft, wet soil of creek beds in the hills. You gather as much as you can, and even when Gaz and Soap warn you about the soon-setting sun you try to continue pulling the wolfsbane from where it grows. You aren't like the two of them. You can't hunt monsters, you can't heal quickly, can't fight against beasts. What you can do is this, is help them how you can, and you tell yourself it is enough.

The journey back towards the village is quick, the sun setting low behind the hills and cast the forest in waning light that whispers of ominous darkness. You can't help but trace the trees where you sit in Gaz's saddle, heart murmuring in apprehension as you expect to see the sight you saw that night- of a gigantic, looming figure toeing the edge of the path, eyes glowing, a growl deep in its chest.

As you ride back into the village, you see lanterns flicker on in the houses you pass. Several torches light the square, alighting a small group of men who huddle and discuss with each other in low, grim tones. They silence as you, Soap, and Gaz pass them. Though the two witchers don't bother to glance their way, you do, and instantly wither at the disdainful wariness in their gazes. It's only once you're past them that a voice rings out in your direction.

"Whore!!"

You flinch.

Soap mutters a curse under his breath, tugs his reins back in the direction of the men, only for Gaz's gloved palm to shoot out and grasp at the Scot. His eyes are serious as he looks at Soap, mouth a thin line of disapproval as he slowly shakes his head. You can still see the fury in Soap's gaze, but it's restrained as he forces himself to swallow it down.

Gaz then turns his attentions to you, smile sad but kind as you tuck yourself back into his chest, trying to hide, cheeks warm and shoulders hunched in a mixture of shame and hurt.

"Don't listen to them." He tells you softly, one hand gently settling atop yours in your lap. You nod, shoot him a grateful look, one that doesn't ease the remaining anxious flutter of your heartbeat.

By the time the two witchers deposit you back at your doorstep it is well and truly dark, the lanterned lights of the village doing little to illuminate the lane where your small cottage resides. You try and tell them to be careful, but the pair merely shoot you playful, withering glances in the same vein of Price.

We're Witchers, love.

Even so, they assure you that the bundles of wolfsbane they carry back to Laswell will offer them protection as they canter back in the direction of her home.

You watch them go and try not to think about how much you'll miss them after they leave for good.

"You're back!" König chirps as you step inside and the door latches behind you. You smile at the bright tone of his voice, excited, eager to see you. There's an unfamiliar brightness that alights in your chest, the feeling of being welcomed so wholly, so jovially as soon as you step into the confines of your own home. It feels different than Laswell, with her easy but mysterious demeanor, different than the shy bashfulness of being around Price and the others. Here, you feel like you can be entirely yourself, allow König to see the weariness behind your smile.

He's warming himself near the fire as you step inside, hands outstretched as the scant warmth of daytime fades. He's coaxed the hearth into a slow, tender flame that licks just shy of his palms. A pot of water hovers above it, and once again the soft, grateful comfort of coming home to good company fills your chest so suddenly it nearly aches.

"You were gone all day." König offers as you come closer, deposit your scarlet cape atop a chair with a little sigh. "I-"

König pauses, breathes in. You blink, watch as a strange puzzlement passes over his features, his chest rising as he takes a long, dragging inhale through his nose.

"W-what is that?" He asks, voice wavering slightly, and you blink, a similar look of confusion clouding your features. You stare at him silently, trying to decipher whatever he's alluding to, and eventually glance to your skirt, your cape, seeing if perhaps there's something you don't recognize that could have spawned his reaction. Finding nothing, you eventually look back at him.

For a single moment, you swear König’s eyes glint yellow.

He stands, the motion rather abrupt, and his height nearly makes you startle, still unaccustomed to the sheer length of his build that towers over you.

"I-I heated some water." He manages, voice strained. "In case you...maybe wanted to bathe."

You relax a little at that, the idea of a warm soak a much-needed relaxation to the ache of being in a saddle all day. Still, you raise a playful eyebrow at your visitor, mouth quirking.

"Why, do I smell?" You ask, and König splutters, instantly raising his hands and waving them in defense.

"N-nein!" He exclaims, and you giggle at the frantic, indignant widening of his eyes beneath his hood. If you look close enough, you can almost swear there's a faint pinkness rising to his cheeks.

"I'm only teasing." You reassure him, and watch his shoulders droop in relief, failing to resist a grin.

König startles as you pass him in the direction of the wood wash bin you keep tucked to one side of the kitchen, sucking in a sharp breath as you near him. You wonder idly if perhaps you were a little too harsh with your teasing, considering his strange reaction to your proximity. He doesn't make to assist you in dragging the tub across the floor, nor does he move from where he stands as you lift the now simmering kettle to pour into the tub. Your hands briefly dip into the water, testing the temperature, watching Konig out of the corner of your eye. He seems to ease as you dry your hands on your skirt, gaze lifting to regard you more fully.

It's a bit odd, the way he watches you. It's not necessarily uncomfortable, not in the way that some of the villagers watch you. Their gazes rake across your form, scarcely conceal the apprehension, the disdain behind their eyes. You're still trembling a bit from earlier, turn in such a way that König can't see it. His eyes follow the motion, gaze keen, unblinking. There's an interest in his stare that feels far less like a scowl and more of a silent watchfulness, an unwavering focus that leaves goosebumps trailing along your flesh.

Like a wolf.

You shake away the thought, cast him a shy look over your shoulder. You catch his eyes just for a moment, see him blink as if he was enraptured at something you couldn't see. He straightens under your eyes, but tilts his head down towards his shoes, as if abashed at being caught staring.

"Would you mind, König?" You ask him gingerly, damp hands rising to the back laces of your bodice meaningfully.

Usually, you can undo them by yourself, but the ache of your spine from riding with two witchers all day, and the effort of straining your arms, scrambling up rocky creek beds in search of wolfsbane has you hard to reach the ties.

König shifts where he stands, a little apprehensively, until at last he approaches, broad hands settling at the dip of your back as he slowly tugs the laces apart. You can't tell if his hands are trembling, or if he's just unused to the motion against his fingers. It takes him more time than you expected to part the laces enough for you to have the space to shrug out of the bodice. Before you can, his hand dips in the space between your bodice and your chemise, pressing a featherlight touch against the small of your spine.

You shiver.

König pulls away at once, so suddenly it's as if he's been burned. You look at him over your shoulder, meeting his eyes and finding a matching look of surprise there at his gentle but blatant touching. König looks stricken, guilty, and there's a choked little apology on his lips, as if he too is shocked at his own actions.

You clear your throat a little awkwardly, averting your gaze towards the tub, and fortunately König instantly understands, putting space between you both and tugging the privacy screen as he goes. You hear him take a chair, and as you peek towards him you find him sitting himself facing the wall, offering you an extra layer of privacy. It's strangely endearing, the hunch of his shoulders, as if he's a boy being sent to think on his misdeeds.

You set yourself to the washtub, draping your layers over the screen until you gently scoot yourself, knees folded, into the tub. There's a little sigh that escapes your lips in relief, and though the water barely covers your hips, the warmth is a welcome respite for your tired muscles.

"We went up into the hills today." You offer in the strange silence that follows, and you hear König release an exhale as if he'd been holding his breath. "Laswell sent us looking for wolfsbane."

"Wolfsbane." König echoes, and you blink at the strangeness of his tone, dipping low in his chest with a hint of annoyance. It's gone in a moment as he asks: "...Laswell is the healer at the other side of the woods, Ja?"

"Yes." You reply, knowing he can't see you nod. "She's been my friend for as long as I can remember."

You pause, stare down into the bathwater.

"Maybe...my only friend."

König is silent.

You perk up, smile up in his direction, even if it's a little forced. "You're my friend too, König."

König sits a little straighter at that, and you think, even though you can't see his face, that maybe he's smiling.

"You're...my friend too, fraulein." He offers hesitantly. "A very good friend."

You smile a little broader at that, reach for the soap and begin to scrub off. The grime from digging in the moss and dirt soon comes clean, and you begin to start on the rest of your skin as well.

"The two men from earlier..." He offers after a few minutes of silence. "Are they your friends too?"

You pause, consider.

"I think so." You reply slowly. "I'd like them to be, but..."

You think once more about the witchers you've become friends with, of Soap's easy going amicable nature, of Gaz's trustful eyes, of Ghost's quiet but steady presence, of Price's gaze that weighs heavy on your shoulders, watching.

"But...?" König echoes uncertainly.

You heave a little sigh. "They won't stay here." You declare solemnly. "Once they catch the wolf they're hunting, they'll move on. So, I guess it doesn't really matter."

König is silent at that, and you don't blame him. There's little to offer in that regard. Not even an apology for the things you're yet to miss.

You rinse off, feeling cleaner, stand up from the water and let it drip from your bare skin. When you glance towards König, he remains steadfast, gazing into the corner and not moving. It makes you smile a bit, seeing his embarrassment at the idea of being anything less than a gentleman towards you.

"I...didn't have many friends growing up either." He offers as you dry off near the fire, voice somber, lonesome in a way you recognize all too well. "My mother, she took care of me, but the children that were in the same village as me..." He trails off, looking a little lost. "They weren't kind."

You eye him woefully, pause long enough to see his shoulders sink a little, feel a sense of heartache tug inside you as well.

"Your mother." You speak softly, as you reach for a clean chemise in the trunk near your bed. "...What happened to her?"

König is silent for a few moments, and you wonder if perhaps you've pushed too far. Before you can offer an apology, his voice softly returns to yours.

"She died." He says simply, voice a little muted. "and I was chased out of the village soon after. I've...been traveling ever since."

Dressed now, feet still bare, skin still a little damp, you turn to him. König doesn't turn to look at you, focused now not on the stone wall before him, but on his feet. He’s curled in on himself, as if suddenly he feels like he’s the only person here. You know the slouch of his spine, feel it in yourself. After a moment's hesitation you gently pad over to him. At first you rest a palm on his shoulder, feel the shudder he gives you as a result. Yet he doesn't move it, doesn't force himself to dislodge it, and slowly you slide it around to his front, draping yourself carefully across his back in an embrace.

"I'm sorry." You whisper against the soft, worn fabric of his hood. König doesn't answer except for one, large palm that settles on your arms loosely looped around his neck.

You stay like that for a while, feel the rise and fall of his breath in his shoulders, feel your own exhales tickle across his hood. You wait for him to pull away, not wanting to deprive him of this, but as the minutes tick by, you begin to wonder if he ever will.

"Would you ever leave?" He asks, barely a whisper.

You're silent for a long time, eventually turning your head to look up through the window beside you both, the one that faces the trees reaching up towards the ink blotted sky. The clouds roll past the bright moon, heavy and waxing towards fullness. You watch it, feel it tug something in your chest, an awareness you don't recognize just yet. When you speak, it's as soft as the embrace you've fallen into against him.

"...Yes."

Taglist: (If you'd like to be tagged in future updates please REBLOG this post)

@writeforfandoms @zwiiicnziiix @soapskneebrace @tealikestoread @mikrou @atenceladusiaawfytbwb @kiroshang @adorephina @equalstrashflavoredtrash @dog55teeth @seraphimcollections @pettyprocrastination @borderlinecatboybehavior @warenai @moskaisley @nachtcirce @feelingnotmyself @lovenotcomputed @rk1v35 @kikisstrawberrie @emrzennn @montenegroisr @frazie99 @graybraids @ohgraywardens @tangerines-mustache @poohkie90 @arbesa-mind @glitterypirateduck

If you are on this taglist and would like not to be, please DM me ❤️

#konig x reader #konig x you #könig x reader #könig x you #könig x fem reader #my writing #my fic #fic: rotes madchen

517 notes · View notes

rochenn · 4 months

Note

really intrigued the theoretical possibilities of "gay sit" but too rabid over your dooku not to ask about "dooku x2"

YESSS thank you!!

that's the file name of a fic called "matters of consequence" in which dooku, sometime after qui-gon's knighting, time travels forward into the clone wars, meaning that he now exists in a reality where can look his old corrupted self in the eye and also be absolutely crushed by the things he will do/has already done.

he also gets to hang out with his lineage and crawl through trenches. good times all around!

snippet of the opening chapter under the cut ->

———

Feeling lost was a curious thing.

It wasn't a state of being Dooku had often been confronted with in his forty-odd years of life. Ire, pride, ambition: those were feelings he could process, coming to him as easily as they were dismissed again.

The clink of crude pottery—a clay cup he had known since childhood—mixed with the rattle of high-security handcuffs. The cup's contents warmed his palms, the hassock beneath him soft just like his memory of it. The cuffs, however, weighed heavier than they looked. He pretended they didn't chafe his pride more than his wrists when he drank from the cup, in part to find comfort in a familiar taste, but mostly to hide. Control eluded him.

"I recall, Master," he finally managed, "one of the first things you taught me being that it is rude to stare." His voice came out terse, and it was justified. He glared pointedly into the empty space between Yoda and Mace who had both been silently regarding him for minutes that stretched like hours. He didn't care to admit how much it unnerved him.

"You didn't resist." Mace made no pretense of acknowledging his words. "Why?"

Dooku swallowed a grimace and took another sip, unable to savor the tea's candid sweetness as the Force stretched taut and wary through the room. Light fell past half-shut blinds and painted glowing bars onto the walls, as though sun itself were inclined towards horrible metaphors. This, he was certain, was an interrogation.

"Why?" Indignation, too, came to him easily. "Why is it that when I walk these halls, you pull me away," like he wasn't supposed to be there, "you practically arrest me," like some sort of criminal, and he let the cuffs rattle for emphasis, "and subsequently lock me in this chamber for no apparent reason whatsoever?"

This was all a dream, he figured. It had to be. Mace and Yoda had aged by decades. The Force's river ran polluted and vile here, nearly unrecognizable.

"Again," Mace said, and his old face was hewn from stone, "are you aware of who you are?"

"I have answered this question more than once. I cannot fathom why you should ask at all."

A wisp of Yoda's misty aura brushed against his own and Dooku had to keep himself from reaching for it. Instead, he telegraphed his displeasure through their mangled bond. If his old Master wanted to reassure him, he could well enough open his mouth to do so.

#this one is so fun but also hurting my brain a little bit #my writing #wip #count dooku #ask

96 notes · View notes

rinixo · 1 year

Text

ashamed

Din Djarin/Reader | 5.9k | Rated E | afab reader, no y/n, PIV sex, emotional hurt/comfort, angst, oral sex, reader is blindfolded, vague breeding kink, themes of religious doubt re: the creed

'I have always felt ashamed at being witnessed in the act of wanting something I could not have.' - Jennifer S. Cheng

Part 2 to Someday

a/n: wanted to play around with the ‘struggling between your faith and your lust’ trope with Din and Reader. All the mythology/constellation stuff I made up.

read on ao3

“See that star there? It’s called Tasale, in basic. It makes up the heart of the constellation Thaiell.”

Grogu looked up to where you were pointing. The two of you were crouched on the ground under the dark sky, your backs to the small campfire set up just a short distance away. Din was sitting near the flames, poking at it now and again as he listened to you talk about constellations with his kid.

The three of you had settled in for the evening after finishing a short scouting mission. After supper, you had noticed Grogu’s gaze following sparks from the fire floating up into the night and had started pointing out different astronomical bodies to the curious child. You had even pulled out a small telescope and set it up low enough for Grogu to peer through the viewfinder.

“Thaiell is a figure in ancient Naboo mythology,” you explained as Grogu made a small squeak of acknowledgment. “There are tales of when she was a young mortal priestess. She fell in love with a knight after he rescued her from a terrible monster that was attacking her temple.” You moved the telescope slightly to focus elsewhere.

“You can’t see it from where we are here, but on Naboo, I’d be able to show you the full constellation,” you continued. “The most famous tale talks about how she gave up her life at the temple to travel with her beloved, only to die tragically,” Grogu whined at your retelling, and you patted his back gently. “I know, it’s sad. But she’s always been my favorite constellation.”

“Why is it your favorite?” Din asked from where he sat behind you. Looking over your shoulder, you shot him a small smile.

“It’s a little embarrassing,” you laughed. “You see, Tasale is two stars - a binary system People say that they represent the heart of Thaiell and the heart of her beloved, eternally rotating aside one another. I guess I just think it’s romantic.”

“Patu,” Grogu tapped your knee, drawing your attention back to him. You shrugged at Din, smiling shyly from your confession, and went back to showing the child the stars.

Less than an hour later, Grogu had his fill of stargazing and had fallen asleep in your lap, snuggled against your stomach. You had moved back towards the fire as he dozed off, and sat opposite Din, watching the way the flames reflected an orange glow in his armor.

It had been a few weeks since you had left the small forested planet where you had met Tineke and Galina, and not once had either you or Din mentioned the intimate evening you had shared. You had woken up alone, wrapped up in the sheets, wondering if it had just been a pleasurable dream. The soreness between your thighs and in your jaw had proven that it had not been. You had met up with Din and a still-sleeping Grogu and journeyed back to the Crest in the misty pre-dawn light, and after punching in some coordinates it had been business as usual.

The two of you had skirted around any topics relating to that night and any hint of attraction you harbored for each other. The long silences in the cockpit had an air of tension in them - feelings said and unsaid.

At one point, you had gathered enough bravery to approach him one late-night cycle. You met him in the galley as he was tidying something up, placing a hand softly on his vambrace. He had paused, and gently pulled away from you, and you had left it at that.

“He liked looking at the stars,” Din said quietly, breaking you out of your thoughts. You looked down at Grogu’s sleeping face, the shadow of a smile on your lips.

“He did,” you agreed. “He certainly is becoming more and more Mandalorian.” You had heard Din explaining the tenets of the creed to his foundling on several occasions, imparting the knowledge he’d need to know to make his way in the galaxy. To his credit, and belying his young age, Grogu paid apt attention to his father’s teachings about navigating and traveling. Your expertise may be more theoretical than Din’s, but if what you could share with him was useful, you were happy to do so.

“I’m glad he is taking an interest in learning,” Din commented. “It’s…not an easy life.”

“So you’ve said,” you replied softly. “But Grogu has chosen a good role model, I think.”

“Have you met other Mandalorians?” Din queried, and you laughed.

“No,” you conceded. “But if they’re even half as impressive as you, then…” you trailed off, suddenly feeling shy. Across from you, Din had stilled in his prodding of the coals. The flames had died down, the fire barely more than embers at this point.

You had just been about to compliment Din, but after his silence and non-acknowledgment of your feelings from weeks ago, you stopped yourself. If your relationship was never going to progress any further, then perhaps it was best to stifle those feelings to save yourself from further heartbreak.

“You should sleep,” Din said lowly. “We’ll be off as soon as dawn arrives.”

Swallowing roughly, you nodded. Rising, still clutching Grogu to your chest, you returned to your bunk on the Crest. Deciding to snuggle with the sleeping baby rather than place him back in his cradle, you drifted off to sleep, finding comfort in the soft breaths of the tiny being in your arms.

—

Din waited a while before returning to the ship himself, wanting to wait enough time for you to fall asleep. He watched the coals die through his visor, musing on your short conversation.

The enormity of his desire for you frightened him. He could still remember how it felt to hold your soft body against his armored one like it was just moments ago. He desperately wished that he could feel you with more than just his bare hands, struggling between his dedication to his creed and his hunger for you. He felt a tinge of shame of how he had palmed himself to several releases over the past couple of weeks, remembering the heat of your mouth on him and the clutch of you on his fingers.

He thought back to his earlier promise - someday - and felt a twinge of regret. How could he promise something he wasn’t sure he could give? He had never struggled to keep to his code until he met you. Something about you stirred feelings in him he didn’t think he could have. If it was just lust, that one time would have satisfied it. No matter how much he tried, however, he could not get you out of his head.

Dropping sand over the coals, he sighed and returned up to the ship. He should have just gone to his bed, but he was pulled yet again to where you were. Your soft breathing indicated that you were out. He watched your sleeping form, curled protectively around his child, and something in him shifted.

Maybe there was a way to satisfy his need for you while adhering to the creed. Knowing he was not going to be able to sleep before parsing it out, he stomped up to the cockpit to meditate on the situation.

—

You woke up hours later, wincing at a soreness in your arm. It was bent funny, from where you had held Grogu next to you during your rest. The child was gone, and you blinked slowly and yawned before rising yourself.

The hull of the ship was quiet and empty, and you saw that the hatch was down. You could see sunlight streaming in, and as you changed into a clean set of clothes you wondered where Din had landed your little trio. You hadn’t gotten a chance to ask him, and he hadn’t asked your opinion on the next destination.

As if your thoughts had summoned him, the man stepped up into the ship - his kid noticeably absent. Pulling a light parka over your head, you shook out your hair and looked around for your shoes.

“Where is Grogu?” You inquired as Din began grabbing various things out of the storage compartments in his ship. Rations, water packs, necessities like that. Was he going on a hunt?

“With a friend,” Din answered. “He’ll be safe there.”

You frowned, confused. “Ok,” you said slowly. “But what about me?”

Din turned to you, handing you your empty pack. “You’ll be with me,” he said simply. “Pack up. Just enough for a day or two.”

Taking the pack, you looked at it dumbly, still confused. You rarely joined Din on his bounties - you were not trained in combat and would only be a liability. You usually stayed behind, running calculations or translating texts, Grogu babbling at your side until Din returned. You often joked you were an extremely overqualified babysitter, which you were sure Din rolled his eyes at.

“It’s ok,” Din said softly, noticing your expression. It almost sounded like he was trying to convince himself of his own statement, and your stomach knotted. The irrational part of you wondered if he was going to take you out into the desert and leave you for dead. You quickly squashed those thoughts, chastising yourself. Din hadn’t given you any reason not to trust him yet - and you hadn’t given him a reason to distrust you in turn. You had come to understand that he often left out details not because he wasn’t willing to share, but because he was used to doing everything on his own. You hoped this was just another one of those situations, where you’d find out his plans once he decided you needed to know.

Nodding, you turned and began to pack some basics, just missing a relieved sigh from the armored man as he continued his own packing.

—

A while later, you cursed the strain in your calves as you followed Din up a narrow, rocky trail. He had taken you on quite the hike - up and over low volcanic hills, covered in lava rock and plush layers of moss and other plant life. You realized that you were on Nevarro after seeing the spaceport in the distance. You knew Din had history here, and people he considered allies, but it still didn’t explain what in the hell was going on or why you were there.

Rounding the top of the hill, you paused to catch your breath. A warm breeze twisted lazily around you, and you scanned the horizon waiting for your energy to return.

“We’re almost there,” Din called, already several paces ahead of you. He pointed to the next rocky cliff, a couple hundred yards away. “It’s just behind there.”

“What is?” You cried out for the nth time. “Pirate hideout? Hidden cache?”

“You’ll see,” was his enigmatic reply, and you huffed before continuing behind him loyally.

The slight smell of sulfur hit your sense with the next breeze, and you scrunched your face up at the sensation. Ahead of you, Din disappeared around a rocky outcrop, and you hoisted your pack up over your shoulder and hurried to join him.

Rounding a sharp, porous cliff, you ran right into his back. He steadied you with a firm arm, shifting so that you could see around him and down into a small valley.

Steam rose in plumes, shifting in the late afternoon light. Geothermal springs bubbled and hissed below you, surrounding a small building set into the volcanic cliffs. Greenery decorated the ferrocrete structure, ivy and other creeping vines draping beautifully over its brutalist exterior. Your mouth opened into a small ‘o’, and you looked up at Din with wide eyes.

“It’s for you,” he said. “A place to relax, for a little while.”

“I don’t know what to say,” you sputtered. This was the last thing you were expecting to see, or receive. Your own private hot spring bungalow? You were expecting a cave or some other kind of damp hole you’d be crawling through in search of some criminal fugitive or piece of ancient pottery. “How did you come across a place like this?”

“Karga - the magistrate,” he clarified. “He owed me a favor.”

You frowned. “Din, I can’t take your favor. That’s not fair.”

He shrugged, continuing down the hill. “You need a break. Just enjoy it.”

—

The sun set a few hours later, and you lounged on the small porch, sipping on a cool drink. You had spent an almost unhealthy amount of time bathing in the springs, the warm water soothing aches you didn’t even realize you had. Din had busied himself elsewhere during that time - you had insisted that he also take the time to relax a little bit. The building wasn’t terribly large, but it was enough so that the two of you had privacy from one another.

You had half-expected him to dip out once you reached the building, and it had seemed like it was on his mind too. He had hovered just inside the doorway as you explored, and it wasn’t until you had gestured for him to come inside that he crossed the threshold. Almost like he was waiting for your permission.

The setting sun cast an orange light over the hills, making the bubbling springs look like pools of lava. You smiled, rubbing your calves lazily. There had been some lovely oils and creams set out, and you had picked the one you liked the smell of most to rub into your skin. The scent of medicinal spices and flowers filled your senses, all of it combining into quite a calming atmosphere. It almost reminded you of the bathhouses back on Naboo - except much more private.

“How was it?” Din’s voice greeted you, and you looked over your shoulder to see him carrying a stack of wood towards a small fire pit set into the ferrocrete floor.

“It was wonderful,” you gushed. “You should give them a try before we leave. I’ll go inside so you can get the full experience.”

“I might,” Din mused, arranging the wood and setting it alight. He settled on a small seat, hands crossed in front of him. You scooted over to join him closer to the flames.

“I really appreciate this,” you professed. “Though…I’m still a little confused. I hope you know I don’t expect things like this.” While you knew your life of relative peace and luxury was vastly different from his own, you had felt like you had settled quite comfortably into a life of being on the move and living in cramped spaces. “You don’t need to bribe me, you know,” you joked.

His helmet tilted to the side. “I know,” Din responded lowly. “It’s - more of a token of my appreciation for everything you do for Grogu and I. And…an apology.”

“For what?” You inquired.

“For everything,” he answered quietly. “For…letting my feelings get in the way. And for unpaid promises.”

“Oh,” you rasped, drawing your knees up to your chest and resting your chin on top. Guilt flooded in, and you let out a sigh.

“It’s ok Din,” you mumbled. “I should have known better. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. You don’t have to - it’s not a promise I expected you to even say, much less keep. If you want to forget about it, then I’m all right with that.” You shot him a half-smile, trying to force yourself to be ok with this development. Having it out in the open hurt, but at least you knew.

Time passed slowly, though, in reality, it must have been just a few heartbeats. The two of you gazed into the low flames. The smell of the burning wood was bright, like something you’d smell in incense. Combined with the steam and the oils, you felt a little lightheaded. You thought about excusing yourself and calling it a night early, maybe finding something alcoholic to sip before trying to sleep your feelings off, when Din let out a sigh.

“I’ve seen members of my covert leave for various reasons,” Din spoke softly. You raised your eyes and watched him through the flames as he poked at the coals, sending sparks up into the sky. “Wealth, family, fear, love. I had thought that there couldn’t possibly be anything in the galaxy that would cause me to forsake the creed.”

“I’ve felt temptation. It’s not an easy life, but it was the only one that I had ever truly known,” he continued. It’s what drives me…gives me purpose.” You nodded slowly, silence inviting him to continue.

“I knew this older Mandalorian, decades ago. We had traveled together on a few different bounties before I had started taking jobs exclusively on my own.” There was a hint of a smile in his soft voice. “I guess he was a kind of…mentor. Took me under his wing when I was first starting out. The last time I saw him was the day he laid down his helmet and left the creed. The other members of the covert watched him go in silence, but I followed him out into the dawn. I confronted him, and asked him why he would leave.” Another poke at the coals, and more sparks.

“I remember him just turning, a small, sad smile on his face,” Din murmured. “And he said ‘I just didn’t want to live another day without feeling the sun on my face, kid.’”

“Back then, I hadn’t understood. I had thought the man a fool for abandoning the creed for such an insignificant reason.” His helmet turned up, the visor facing you straight on. “Then, years later, I accepted a bounty for the kid and it was then that everything I thought he knew about the galaxy and my place in it had shifted.” You could barely hear a broken sigh as Din dropped the stick he had been using to stoke the fire, his hands resting limply on his thighs.

“And after meeting you,” he rasped, and your heart started beating so fast you were sure he could hear it. “I started to understand that perhaps that man’s words were more than just about feeling the sun on your face.”

Swallowing roughly, you trained your eyes on the man in front of him. It was like he had deflated - everything he was feeling, out in the open - guilt bare in front of you. You stood and went over to him, sitting just to his side, thighs barely touching. Placing a wary hand on his shoulder, you tried to think of what to say in response.

“I’m can’t take back how I feel,” you decided, voice soft and gentle. “Or erase what has transpired between us. But if it makes it easier for you…” trailing off, you brought your hand down to his bicep, where there was no armor, and squeezed gently. “I’m ok with going back to how things were.”

Din’s helmet turned towards you slightly, and he placed a hand lightly on your knee, squeezing in return.

“I brought you here for another reason,” he confessed and stood. Holding out his hand, he took yours and helped you to your feet, leading you inside the building.

It was lit dimly by warm, inset lights, and you followed Din into the main bedroom suite. You sat at the edge of the wide bed and watched as he went over to where his things were sitting on a table.

“Maybe it would be best if we did go back to how things were,” Din faltered, voice low as if he was talking more to himself than to you. He pulled a piece of dark fabric from his pack and handed it to you. It was soft, like silk, but made of a thick weave. “But…”

You took it from him as realization bloomed in you like a rising flame. “You want to feel the sun on your face,” you finished for him, thumb brushing over the blindfold.

“I can’t show you my face,” Din husked. “It’s not…but if you cover your eyes…” he trailed off with a shaky breath. “If you are willing.”

You hummed, turning the blindfold over in your hands. “Is this what you want?” Looking up at him through your eyelashes, you handed the blindfold back to him, keeping your hand on his, waiting for his consent.

“Yes,” he rasped quickly, the word leaving his lips before you had even finished your sentence. With a nod of acknowledgment, you turned and showed him your neck. Moving your hair out of the way, you invited him to tie the blindfold over your eyes.

Darkness covered your sight as he tightened the fabric around your head. His hands settled heavily on your shoulders and you turned back to face him.

“I know I can’t see,” you ventured, “But can I touch you?” You placed a hand on his chest and heard a low, shaken noise from the man underneath the armor.

“Touching…is ok,” Din answered, and the tone of it sounded more like a plea than anything else. You stood in front of him, hands slowly going up to his shoulders, and you felt around for the clasps and belts that held his armor in place. You wanted to undress him as he had undressed you.

As each piece of armor came off, you handed it to him to place safely somewhere off to the side. Not being able to see what you were doing made the work a little harder, but it also increased your desire with every passing moment. You were getting closer and closer to his skin with every removal, and you tried to quell the anxious shake in your hands.

You got to his waist and then kneeled slightly to unclasp the armor at his thighs. Your hand brushed over the front of his trousers, and you felt him there, hard and wanting. A wrecked groan echoed from above you, affirming his desperation. Standing again, your hands went to his chest to undo his shirt when his hands came up to stop you.

“Wait.” You held still, listening for his instructions. You felt him move away from you slightly and heard rustling and the sound of him taking his boots off before you felt his presence back in front of you.

“Ok,” he affirmed, and your heart kept at the sound of his voice, clear and strong without the helmet in the way. He had removed it.

Your hands came back up to his collarbone, and you undid the front of his linen shirt. His skin was warm underneath, and you could feel his heart thundering. It matched your own, and it spurred you on further. You tugged up, and he helped you pull it up over his head before discarding it.

Before you could continue, his own hands went to your clothing. You paused and let him undress you in turn - your top thrown to the side, your linen shorts pulled down your legs. You stood in front of him, just in your thin fiber weave underwear, when he cupped your chin and brought his mouth to meet yours.

You felt his lips, soft against you, almost chaste in their exploring. You parted your own in a small gasp, hand coming up to rest on his chest. You could feel his heart thrum underneath your hand.

The scruff of his facial hair tingled and scraped your chin as he deepened the kiss. Your tongue darted out towards his lips, and he chased it back into your mouth with his own. One of his hands came to the back of your head as he laid you back on the soft sheets, guiding you down. His mouth moved to your jaw and he placed several firm, wet kisses all along it as you sighed and began to surrender to his touch.

—

Din felt like he was on fire. His body pushed him as his mind screamed at him, confusing messages telling him to stop, no, keep going, creed versus desire no it’s ok she can’t see, it doesn’t count, please just let me have this -

Every piece of his armor coming off at your hands sent shocks of desire through him, followed swiftly by guilt at finding pleasure in something so forbidden. Then he started to take off your clothes, swallowing roughly at the sight of your smooth curves revealed to his uncovered eyes.

He channeled his guilt and deference to the creed into the worship of your body. From your mouth, down to your jaw, and then to the center of your chest. He held himself over you, careful not to crush you under his weight. You arched up, and he ran his tongue to the peak of one of your breasts. Closing his eyes, he groaned as he sucked there roughly, delighting in how you gasped at the sensation.

“Feels good,” you muttered above him, and he responded by turning his mouth to your other breast. One of your hands came up to comb through his hair, and he teased you with a soft nip to the soft flesh around your pert nipple.

“You’re so soft,” Din whispered, trailing his mouth down the plane of your stomach. A smile flickered across your face before turning into a hiss as he kneeled at the edge of the bed and spread open your thighs. “Never knew anything could be so kriffing soft.”

He nosed at your covered mound, hands gripping your thighs. The thin fabric of your underwear was losing its modesty just from your slick - and he hadn’t even tasted you yet.

“So wet,” Din growled. “Do you always get so wet? Do you walk around my ship with a dripping cunt?” He wrapped his lips around the soft, swollen mound of you, holding tight to your legs to prevent you from moving away from his probing tongue.

“Unngh,” was all the answer you could muster as his lips firmed around the bundle of nerves at the apex of your thighs. Your orgasm was approaching rapidly, bitter-bright from the sensation of the man prostrating himself between your legs. His mouth moved against you, and he pushed your soaked underwear to the side to lathe his tongue up your slit. You reached down to grasp his hair again as he edged you closer to release.

Helmetless, Din reveled in the taste of you, the smell of you. Deference to his creed defied by the roaring desire you had planted inside of him urged him on. He flicked his tongue quickly over your swollen clit, eyes closing as you tensed against him.

“Oooh,” you simpered, hands tightening in his hair. “I’m gonna co-“ you failed to get the words out as Din pushed his face further into your soft cunt, and you came with a choked cry.

Stars, he thought. The feeling of you coming on his hand had been one thing, but this? The rapture of your orgasm nearly had him coming himself. A fleeting thought crossed his mind that he was now ruined - how could he ever be satisfied with just touches after feeling you come undone by his mouth?

Body shaking and jolting with every continued suck, you pushed at Din’s head. “S’too much,” you wailed, and you swore you could feel him smirk against you.

With one last kiss to your swollen flesh, Din moved back up your body. He grunted in surprise as you pushed on his shoulders, trying to roll him over. “What’re you doing?” He huffed.

“You said touching is ok,” you pouted, and he obliged you and rolled to his side. You felt around for his chest and swung a still-shaking leg over his broad lower abdomen. Leaning forward, you bumped his nose clumsily as he chuckled lowly and guided your desperate mouth to his own. You sighed into it, tongue swiping at his lips to taste yourself on him. Din’s hands settled on the backs of your thighs, rubbing the soft skin there as you explored his mouth.

Mirroring his earlier journey, you moved from his lips to his jaw, nipping at the scruff. His short nails scratched lightly at the skin on your legs as you ventured lower, using only your sense of touch to guide yourself down him.

Din groaned as your tongue came out to trace his collarbone before you kissed down his chest. His cock jumped at the feeling of you grinding down into his lap - were you even aware of it, or were you so drunk on the need for him that you didn’t notice?

As you moved your body down to settle between his legs, reaching for the belt of his trousers, you frowned in frustration as his hand came to stop you. “Sorry, sweetness,” Din mumbled. “But I’m not gonna last if you do that, and I want to come inside your cunt.”

“Oh,” you responded lamely as he grabbed your arms and dragged you back up his body. He slotted his mouth over yours again as he flipped your roles, once again hovering over your smaller frame.

“You want that?” Din husked into your mouth and you nod feverishly. “I know - you’re drenched with the thought of me deep inside you, aren’t you?” You moan your assent, shivering at the filthy way he’s talking to you.

“Gonna ruin you,” he continues lowly, shedding his pants and gripping the base of himself. Grabbing one of your legs, he pulls you down as you yelp. He rubs his cockhead over your clit and up and down your dripping folds, spreading your thighs to settle heavily between them.

His girth dwarfs you - you had seen how big he was before when you had him in your mouth, but feeling him like this - hard against where you wanted him most - makes your head spin. With a grunt, he pushes against you, and you feel the pressure of him.

He knows he should go slow. He wonders if he’ll fit as he watches the way you split and stretch around him. He feels too big, but it’s too good to slow down - and the way you keen under him urges him on. It’s selfish, he thinks wildly. Not taking the time to prepare you for this. But he can’t help it.

“Fuck,” he rambles, speaking neither to you nor himself, but to something unseen. “This is for me. Just for me.” Rolling his hips, he thrusts up into you, watching as your covered face lulls to the side, your breath leaving you in little gasps with every punch at your guts.

’S’full,” you mumble, and he answers you with another purposeful thrust. ’B-big. You’re so big, Din. Deep. You feel so good.” He murmurs praise about how good you’ve been for him, how pretty you look under him, blissed out from his cock. You gurgle out a moan at how full you feel - you swear you can feel him all the way up in your sternum.

He wants to stain your insides. His hips piston into you recklessly, driving home so that you’ll feel him for days afterward. He wants you to walk back to his ship sore and dripping with his spend, and then he’d push you down into your cot and fill you up again for good measure.

Your cunt flutters around him, and it drives him further into madness. All thoughts of the creed are gone. He’s lost in the tight clutch of you - the universe begins and ends from where he’s anchored inside of your body.

“Gonna fill you up,” he slurs against your mouth, chest coming down to press against yours. He hisses at your nails scratching up his back, and he presses his teeth against your bared neck. He sucks a dark mark there, nipping and biting up to just under your ear. “Want it, don’t you? Gotta come on my cock first, baby.”

Your brows furrow as if in concentration - you focus intently on the feeling of him. The way his bulk spreads your thighs, the ache of a burn already growing there. The way his iron-hard cock spears you open. The way his mouth lathes over your skin. It’s too much and not enough all at the same time, and it pulls you apart.

Din groans at the feeling of you tensing below him, around him. He’s so close, and it makes his whole body burn. He has just enough sanity left to keep his deepest desires on the tip of his tongue - the ones that make him come the hardest when he’s alone, cock in hand. The ones where he comes so deep inside of you that it takes and ties you to him forever.

He almost says it. “Might fucking take, sweet girl. Want me to come in you? Stuff you full of my come? Fill you so deep, get you nice and round with it-“

He doesn’t though - not yet, that’s too much - and instead muffles a groan into your neck as he starts to come. Din slams his hips into you once, twice, and then holds himself up against the seal of your womb, rutting not out but further up. Stars, he’s coming so much, and harder than he had ever come before. It makes him see static behind his eyes.

You shiver and moan beneath him, at the feeling of him pulsing his release inside of you. Din slots his mouth over yours before lowering himself further, hiking your legs up to lock around his waist.

You shift under him, still anchored to where he fills you. You can fill yourself leaking around the tight plug of him, and it makes your toes curl. Din does not make an effort to move, merely buries his nose into the side of your neck and curls around you further. Maybe it’s the desire to keep you there, attached to him. The feeling of holding someone in his arms - so unfamiliar yet so necessary.

He might be a Mandalorian, but he’s also a man, after all.

—

Din has you twice more before the sun rises. On your knees, face buried in the pillow as he plows into you from behind. He fucks you slow and deep like this, rambling more filth into your ear until you’re shaking around him again.

You’re nearly delirious from the pleasure and exertion as he brings you to your crest a final time. He lowers you onto him, your chests pressed together. The blindfold is damp from a mixture of your sweat and your tears. His hands brand themselves on the curves of your ass as he fills you one last time, praising you for how well you took him.

You feel him shudder beneath you as you mumble how you want to be good for him before you sigh and fall out of lucidity.

—

He holds you like that as the sun crests through the thin curtains. You’re sprawled over him, check pressed against his chest. Eyes still covered - the blindfold hadn’t budged, despite the way you tumbled together through the night. A small token of grace.

Din knows he’ll have to get up soon, and put his helmet back on before you wake up. His body is tired, though, and he convinces himself to lie there - just a little longer - and tries to imprint how it feels to have your body pressed against his.

After the bliss has faded and the shame sets in, it might be all he’s left with.

#din djarin x reader #the mandalorian x reader #din djarin smut #the mandalorian smut #the mandalorian #din djarin #reader insert #din x reader #mando x reader

645 notes · View notes

queer-ragnelle · 7 months

Text

the closest thing to my vision for an arthurian tragicomedy is a knight's tale (2001) which has historical figures but only as gags. like geoffrey chaucer with a gambling problem walking into the story completely naked or the black prince played by james purfoy and an antagonist played by rufus sewell for eye candy. (they both went on to be in arthurian film/shows btw--purfoy as lot in starz camelot (2011) and sewell as mark in trsiatn and isolde (2006))

anyway the soundtrack has queen and david bowie on it, the jousting is fantastic, sir ector is there. bisexual lady blacksmith. poetic dialogue at times while also maintaining a generally light tone, excluding william's misty-eyed return home to his blind father after many years. the depth is there while still being a feel-good film. idk what has happened since then but all "medieval" stories have been so grungy. put the color back in, both narratively and visually.

episode one of my show would address the anachronism head-on. arthur sits down to conduct a meeting of the round table. fumbles the date. he doesn't know the year. does anybody know the year? shrugs and groans resounding. arthur sends someone off to get an answer--that character never returns and it's never mentioned again. creative liberties abound.

#arthurian legend #arthurian legends #arthuriana #king arthur #queen guinevere #sir gawain #sir lancelot #sir mordred #sir galahad #sir percival #sir perceval #a knight's tale #my post

82 notes · View notes

corviids · 6 months

Note

Birdie, I have something I HAVE share with you. I was reading about how Alysanne took after her grandmother Alarra Massey in her coloring and I simply must share a plea for Lucemond’s final surprise child in misty dream. Aemond’s prayers are finally answered when he gets a dark haired girl, a child who seems to be a carbon copy of her great-grandmother Rhaenys. The other children, while shocked at the late pregnancy, are somewhat relieved with their new sister. Children always seem to give Luke an energy boost and Aemond has finally gotten his dark haired daughter, but they’re mostly relieved with the idea that there will be a daughter to care for their parents when they age. Jokes on them because all this girl wants to do in learn to fight. She’s inherited Rhaenys spirit too: proud, highly intelligent, a cold and serious demeanor, stoicism and a skill with weapons that rivals Aemond own. But also like Aemond, she has no charisma—only successfully ever charming Luke and a few siblings. No rizz to be found here, just like her kepa. In adulthood, she’s taller than all her siblings except Gaemon. She’s also a staunch loyalist to Valyrian traditions. Once she claims Meleys as a child, a fiery temper makes itself clear.

Because she’s the dark haired girl Aemond has been waiting for, the spoiling gets even worse than with the others, meaning he allows her to train with weapons. In a sad way, she becomes the child he trains and hunts with, goes over military history with, flies with the most. This is something that causes a little resentment in Aenys-it would be one thing if she simply acted like the rest of his spoiled sisters, but even as child she proves herself to have the natural bearings of an heir, despite being the youngest. This causes a really strained relationship that lasts decades. She grows up during an interesting period in for Aemond and Lucerys marriage because it’s a point in time where Aemond has really matured and learned to step back from ruling Summerhall all on his own. He and Luke split the duties more evenly now which means that when his daughter is old enough to develop her personality and hold a sword, Aemond has a lot of free time to spend with her.

However this is what causes a lot of tension with Aenys. He should be having the time of his life: he has the freedom to shadow Luke, learn to rule from him—which means he gets to spend all day with his muna. However as the new sister begins to grow, he develops this idea she’s gotten the childhood he should have had, one not stifled by Aemond’s harsh way raising his heir to be. This is a feeling he’s struggled with before with Valerion, but that was easier to stomach because his brother never found interest in what heirs should be taught. Again, this causes a lot of resentment because this girl seems to be better at everything than he was at his age, and she’s smart enough to see right through him. It gets even worse when it becomes clear that while she doesn’t have her eye on the Summerhall, she wants nothing more to be to one to inherit One Eye from Aemond; a desire that only grows when her Aunts Baela and Rhaena gift her Rhaenys copper armor after Meleys has been claimed. Aenys thought he’d be free of a sibling rivalry when Gaemon left, but this new child is even worse. She’s also unimpressed with him, which fuels his inferiority complex. It’s like having a child with the personality of your father look down on you, though the actual kid looks like your mother.

She isn’t really close with Saera, Gaemon, Naerys, or Valerion since they’re away from home due to either marriage or study, nor Daenys who is fostering at Driftmark. Despite not really knowing him, she respects Gaemon the most since he’s a knight, but clashes all the time with Rhaella since a) she’s stolen Aemond’s attention in a way Rhaella can’t seem to understand (Rhaella goes through the same thing Aenys did when Valerion was born) and b) because she finds her rash behavior/personality childish. She’s protective over Maegelle because she sees her as a the perfect kind of Lady a knight and fighter would protect (actually Maegelle and her give me sapphic opposite coloring Lucemond vibes). However the two of them will eventually come to a crossroads in that she doesn’t believe Maegelle should worship the Seven (which you’ve sort of implied she’s dedicated to?). She believes the religion to be a weakness and a danger to their House. From her extended family she admires Rhaenyra and idolizes Baela, but finds herself the happiest with Viserys since he’s the only one to keep up with her intellectually; they speak for hours whenever he and Saera visit home. (Not sure if Elaena and Daena exist here but if they do this trio raises hell).

I’m not sure if you’ve made Rhaegar and Maekar official md kids, but I have thought of some characteristics for them as well if that is not too presumptuous? I like to think Rhaegar is basically a male version of Sansa. He dreams of marrying Princess of Dorne while spending the days writing poetry. Out of the entire family, he’s the one who has copied Luke’s fashion sense the most (though he’s definitely judged for it because unlike Valerion he doesn’t share the unusual nature of their muna’s body—meaning more feminine clothing can’t be explained away). Dorne is his only hope for a accepting spouse, but also like Sansa he really wants to be an official prince of the realm and manage (not rule) a great House. He takes inspiration from romanticized stories of Luke during those early years of Summerhall in that he wants nothing more than to rear children and support his wife who will run things (something he never voices aloud). (On that note I really do think seeing Luke, a man, play the part of a mother would most definitely influence the way his sons would act with their own children. Having a son who couldn’t get pregnant but still observes the way in which a man can act as a mother does and want to emulate that (but physically couldn’t) would def be something Luke and Aemond would have to reconcile with.) When it come to material goods, he’s spoiled more than anyone. Pretty boy gets pretty things. His own egg never hatched but when they’re old enough his sister takes him on rides on Meleys. Maekar becomes Summerhall’s own little Master of Whispers (nothing he loves more than gossip and reading his parents’ mail). He’s extremely devious but hides it behind a tired facade. His own dragon hatched when he was a teen, and it’s a blue version of Caraxes, the hatchling is a permanent fixture curled around his neck. There’s no one he respects more than Luke after growing up with all the trade deals he created with Essos. (Also he’s very much a dark horse in the regard that he’s the resident slut of Summerhall—no one else seemed up to the task and he definitely inherited the horny gene from his parents. Enjoys entertaining visiting lords’ sons (Lucemond def not seeing any grandchildren from this one). Maekar has a whisp of madness worse than any of his siblings that makes itself known when he hears vitriol about his brother Rhaegar (he’s beaten one or two people to near death who’s tongue became too loose in their judgements). So this final daughter sees Rhaegar as someone to protect just like Maegelle, and Maekar is her partner in crime when she needs one. I like to think of these three + Daenys as the “Post-Essos” babies. Aka the result of when Lucemond went majorly horny whenever Luke took a business trip. Daenys after that first trip he took with Rhaella and Gaemon to Pentos, Rhaegar is after the Summer Isles, Maekar after Volantis, and this last daughter after Braavos. I like to think these cities somehow influence each kid.

Make no mistake, she doesn’t want power, she only wants to fight, hunt, fly, and debate with Aemond. Btw all this time she spends with Aemond makes her develop an obsession towards Luke, less of a muna complex and more a need to protect. Lucerys actually has a special place in his heart for her, not because she’s the youngest or because of her hair color, but because of the calm that she brings Aemond; Luke doesn’t need a friend in these later years (he’s busy enough running Summerhall with Aenys by his side) but he is indescribably happy that Aemond has finally found a friend, a person to speak to in confidence (a role his brothers never filled). I absolutely adore the idea that Viserys prepares her to be the next Hand after himself (which will definitely fuel Aenys inferiority complex for the rest of his life). It’s bitter to acknowledge, but while Aemond knows Aenys is a fine heir for his legacy, he can truly entrust the safety of Summerhall’s place in the realm in the hands of his youngest daughter, with Meleys by her side and the Hand’s pin on her jerkin. Did this whole creation come from wanting Lucemond kid that Arya, Brienne, or Lyanna would look up to? Most definitely. But I also love the idea of Aenys going through a quarter life crisis because he is threatened by a child that would so clearly make a perfect heir. The only thing for this I need is a name! I was thinking Aelora or Jaenara, or maybe Luke gets inspired after a trip to Essos and chooses Shiera? Either way, I hope this is a welcome gift. By no means am I saying ‘add this oc to your story or else.’ Just me be like, hey the vibes of your story inspired this. Adopt her, use tidbits of what I’ve written, or just ignore!

oh anon i love this !!! i always love when yall come up with your own ideas for this little universe we’ve made up !!

any daughter that looks like luke is going to be spoiled ROTTEN. aemond is older and much softer by the time she comes around so he will let that girl walk all over him. she gets anything and everything and can do whatever she wants. she shows up to her married siblings keep on dragonback when she’s bored

as for the younger boys, i always envision rhaegar and maekar as opposite personalities that still get along really well. they still follow luke like ducklings but have to be more self sufficient since luke is a busy lord now 😔 they are more eccentric and wild since they are younger children and have less responsibilities. aenys finds them a bit annoying and maegelle generally dislikes anyone that stresses her out.

#asks

61 notes · View notes

maximumwobblerbanditdonut · 6 months

Text

I HAVE AN obsession with the color green. It’s a color of opposites. Green is life, growth, and health. It’s also sickness, greed, and envy. It’s good and bad at once. And it’s everywhere this afternoon as I sit down with actor, producer, author, and entrepreneur Sam Heughan — most recognized for his starring role in the Scotland-based time travel drama “Outlander.” His shirt bears a green tartan pattern, somewhere between jade and emerald. To my right, the glass bottle of his new gin is a transparent seafoam. Above my head is the leafy expanse of a tree, planted in the courtyard of New York’s Crosby Street Hotel. The gin we sip tastes green: grassy and alpine, fresh as menthol and bright as a sour apple. Most vividly is the green in my mind’s eye: the wet, rich, misty green of Scotland, a place Heughan speaks of with rapture.

Missing home is what drove Heughan to launch his spirits brand Sassenach, after the Scottish Gaelic word for an English person, or rather, an “outsider.” “When I was in London away from home, a jobbing actor, missing Scotland, I remember my first time trying a single malt whisky and I had such an emotional reaction,” he recalls from across the table, his bright blue eyes wide. “It reminded me of Scotland.”

I remark on the gin’s legs, thick and viscous, streaking the sides of my glass. Heughan nods, “I increased the strength. It just gives it a bit more weight. I love a bit of weight on my tongue.” Toasted oats give a creamy feel to the cornucopia of flavors present in the liquid: pine resin, heather, blackberry leaf, blaeberry — and, again, that sour green apple. “There’s no citrus in Scotland. That’s why I chose apples,” Heughan explains. “I remember as a kid, picking them and throwing them at people, eating them, then being really ill because they’re so sour.”

Heughan’s family — his mother, brother, and uncle — still live in Scotland. His uncle used to have a ceilidh band. “[Ceilidh is] a traditional Scottish dance,” he explains. “It’s madness. Everyone’s drinking whisky and the dancers get faster and faster and there are lots of spinning people around.” Heughan listens to a lot of Scottish music. He later sends me a song called “Blackbird” by Martyn Bennett, known for mixing dance tracks with traditional Celtic music. I tear up at its aching slants. “It makes me homesick for a home that’s not mine,” I message him. “That’s Scotland,” he writes back. “It does that to people.”

Sam Heughan Is in Good Spirits Image Float

Heughan was raised by a single mother in the south of Scotland — the rural stretches of Dumfries and Galloway. “Spent a lot of time on my own pretending I was a knight or Robert the Bruce.” The land’s botanicals now flavor his gin. Courtesy of Sam Heughan.

“It’s one foot in the present, one in the past,” muses Heughan about his country, adding a splash of tonic to my gin, whose flavor now reveals a pleasant salinity. “The castles. So many great battles. You

can feel the history. I think that’s what makes it so magical.” This history is inextricably linked to ritual, observed in Scotland to this day. Take Beltane, a pagan ritual beginning serendipitously on Heughan’s birthday, April 30. “You’re supposed to stay up all night and wash your face in the fresh dew when the sun rises, then go to bed and dream of your future spouse,” he describes. “It’s all about rebirth and nature.”

We talk about other parts of the world that have shaped him, as I remark on his fusion accent: a bit Scottish for sure, but mixed with something else, sort of American and British, too. America’s opportunity and diversity captivate Heughan. He came here for the first time at 18, hostel hopping in San Francisco. “I remember looking at the Golden Gate Bridge for hours, playing my cassette of ‘(Sittin’ On) the Dock of the Bay’ by Otis Redding over and over. I was living on $5 burritos — one a day. It’s all I could afford.” He speaks of Hawaii with reverence — the local culture’s connection to wildlife and the sea. He spent time with a fisherman and his family there who taught him the Indigenous way to fish: “Gut it straight away. Take out the heart, say a prayer, and throw it back into the ocean immediately to allow the soul of the fish to live on.” New Zealand also moves him. He was there recently and learned about tā moku, the art of Māori tattooing. “You sit with an artist and tell him your story. He chooses where it goes on your body and makes it there and then. He stuck [the initial sketch] on my left forearm here, and it was all about my mom and my brother and the absence of my father.” He wants to return to New Zealand and get the tattoo next time.

My gin has opened up even more, spreading out into softer, aromatic florals as Heughan uncorks a bottle of his whisky. “People have called you a global heartthrob.” I begin, “Is that a role you’re —”

“Who has?” His eyes grow bigger in feigned shock. (Fun fact: the Sam Heughan fanbase even has their own name — “Heughligans.”)

“Someone I talked to in the subway.”

“Right, right,” he nods gravely, pouring new glasses.

“Do you,” I continue, taking a sip, “feel comfortable in that role?” The whisky tastes like a spicy Werther’s caramel.

“My character is what some people aspire to, and I understand why. He’s this incredible human being who’s just so in love with his wife and does the most romantic things. Selfless. People then think you might be that person. I’m certainly not. But it’s something to aspire to.”

“Are you comfortable,” I press, “being an object of desire?” Heughan shares that in earlier years, he was treated in a way that would no longer be tolerated. “I’d be asked, ‘What’s under your kilt?’ or ‘How do you get your abs?’ I wish I did have abs! We were just in a different industry. I don’t have resentment or a grudge. But I would like to be seen for the work that I do, rather than my looks.”

While he’s still based in Scotland, Heughan also has a house in LA, a city he’s not exactly sold on. He toys with the idea of New York as his next home base. He loves it here. “The cocktail bars. Cycling along the West Side. SoHo. The river. Getting a ferry. I’m so into ferries! I’ll go to Staten Island, then come back again. We got a helicopter the other day back from the Hamptons — I don’t like helicopters. They’re not meant to fly. However, seeing the Statue of Liberty from there, it’s so good. New York could be my city.”

I show Heughan around some local spots that evening. We sit at the bar of Superbueno for mezcal drinks and tacos. The music gets louder and so do the crowds. Mouth full of al pastor, I semi-shout a question in Heughan’s direction, asking if he ever gets overstimulated. “No, not really,” he replies simply, between chewing. At 6 feet, 3 inches, Heughan towers over seemingly everyone. Maybe it’s calmer up there. There’s an overall good-natured quality to him; it’s soothing to be around.

We head to another bar, Mr. Fongs. The air is thick with the smell of trash and rats dart to and fro. A subway thunders overhead as we walk below a bridge in Chinatown. “This is awesome,” Heughan murmurs. We order the bar’s specialty: salty plum old-fashioneds. “I want a place where the second I walk out my door, I’m right in the center of all of it,” he says decidedly, whistling a little at the (notoriously strong) drink. “Right in the middle.”

Heughan is noticeably unadorned. I suggest some rings and an ear piercing for his New York era. A candle light flickers against his cheek, evoking another world — someplace old and rural and rugged. At this moment, I see his character, a fantasy projection of the leading man. But really, we’re just in Chinatown, weighing the pros and cons of earrings on men. “Sadly I don’t think I’m quite cool enough,” he sighs, “to pull that off.” ▪️

Our Contributors

Sophie Mancini Writer

Sophie Mancini is an editor at Departures. Born and raised in New York City, she holds a degree in creative writing from Johns Hopkins University and has a background as a writer in brand and editorial.

Diana Markosian Photographer

Diana Markosian (born in Moscow, 1989) is a Russian-American photographer of Armenian descent. Her work explores memory and place through a layered, interdisciplinary process that uses photography and video. Her photographs have been published in National Geographic, the New Yorker, and the New York Times.

Robert Ormerod Photographer

Robert Ormerod is a photographer interested in telling stories. He is based in Scotland, working across the U.K. for titles such as National Geographic, The Guardian Saturday magazine, The New York Times, T Magazine, The Wall Street Journal, and Bloomberg Businessweek.

Tom Craig Photographer

Tom Craig is a photographer and director whose work has been featured in Vogue, i-D, and Vanity Fair. His work is driven by a desire to tell stories and the urge to travel. His work often blurs the line between fashion photography and straightforward reportage.

**Full article from @departures www.departures.com

57 notes · View notes

thatmexisaurusrex · 1 month

Note

if we got a second season of tfatws what would you want to be in it 👀

Oh my gosh, such a good question to ask! 😆 A very hard one too Cassie, lemme think on this 🤔

Okay, a few things that would be a must would be:

A "Meanwhile, on the boat..." moment, or perhaps a montage of moments where things are happening throughout the MCU movies that happened post-TFATWS and Sam and Bucky are just 😂 on the boat, hearing about the events after the fact. I keep thinking about the scene in season 7 of Supernatural where they montage Dean commenting on what Castiel does with his new godlike powers while Dean fixes his car, but it doesn't have to be like that (3:16-3:46 here for reference lol).

youtube

Sam needs to save Bucky from falling. Sam had someone he couldn't save in the air. Bucky didn't have anyone to save him when he fell. Sam and Bucky both need that catharsis and it's wild that didn't happen in the first season.

Sam flying around as Bucky snipes at things 😂 Again - how did that not happen in the first season?

Sam and Bucky must either be already roommates or looking for an apartment which will be the place they will live in together.

Sarah, AJ, and Cass must be in it as well as other people we've seen like Carlos, Tommy, Isaiah, and Eli.

Another song by Curtis Harding must close the show's next sunset ending (it MUST be a good ending where they look into the sunset again, I'm sorry, I don't make the rules). Perhaps Can't Hide It by Curtis Harding?

youtube

Joaquín! There must be more Jay, I refuse to believe there wouldn't be so much more Jay in a season two.

FLASHBACKS. WHERE. WERE. THE. FLASHBACKS. Gimme Sam and Riley flashbacks, flashbacks of Sam with his family, gimme more info on Sam.

Can we???? Get more info on Sarah too???? Like was she married before??? Who are Cass and AJ's dad or dads??? How does she feel about Sam disappearing for a huge chunk of years??? I just want to know more about her.

And GIDEON. GIVE SAM HIS OLDER BROTHER.

Also, GIVE SAM BIRD TELEPATHY, YOU COWARDS, AS WELL AS A FALCON NAMED REDWING.

AYO AND ANEKA VISIT. THEY HAVE TO VISIT. LET AYO AND ANEKA BE BESTIES WITH SAM AND BUCKY.

Acknowledgment that Sam found Bucky in Europe but kept Bucky's secret and visited Bucky. Also that Sam visited Bucky during his time as a goatherder in Wakanda, possibly with a reference to the costco tub of lube 😂

MORE EPISODES. GIVE US MORE EPISODES. GIVE US TEN EPISODES AT LEAST, YOU COWARDS.

Things I can live without but I think would be a waste if they aren't in a hypothetical season two:

A huge and exciting action sequence during a New Orleans Mardi Gras Parade with Sam being the King of that parade.

There's a team of villainous jugglers in the Marvel comics called the Death-Throws. I really want them as secondary comedic villains who may or may not be kind of good people a la Jessie, James, and Meowth from Team Rocket in Pokemon movies. Just let Sam and Bucky have some comedy villains in the background doing their thing, Marvel.

Visiting Steve on the Moon. I just think Sam and Bucky deserve space shenanigans. I will also take a Facetime, if that's too out of budget, though.

Misty Knight cameo where Sam and Misty either imply or outright talk about being exes. Probably amicable, though, it would be funny if Sam's a bit awkward about it, but Misty's chill with him.

Karli resurrection. She deserved more of a redemption arc than Walker. Bring her back to life, Disney, I dare you.

Bucky and Falcon!Redwing don't get along. More because Bucky is jealous than anything else.

A VISIT TO WAKANDA! Do they go to Birnin Zana? Do they visit the town Bucky was living in as a goatherder? Do they go to Ayo and Aneka's home for dinner? Maybe they possibly only let Sam into the country while Ayo is like "I told you to lie low for a while, White Wolf" to Bucky 😂

Baron Zemo can have a cameo, if only because Anthony Mackie was bummed that Daniel Brühl isn't a part of Cap 4.

Wildest Options I Don't Think Would Happen But I Would Love:

SamBucky wedding. It all takes place the days leading up to their wedding. Or, if I'm being more realistic, a wedding. Like, if, say Sarah and Rhodey were getting married or Carol and Valkyrie or perhaps Ayo and Aneka.

SamBucky kiss? Though, again, highly doubt that and I'm really okay with SamBucky not being canon.

Fourth wall break where Feige himself walks into a room, sits down, and apologizes about how he treated Sam Wilson's character in the MCU and promises to do better. He pulls out an entire slide show and the episode is just him talking about how he will be integrating Sam more thoroughly into the MCU. I'm talking how specifically Sam will cameo, where he will cameo, pitches for other projects Sam will be heavily tied to, the works.

#tfatws #sam wilson #bucky barnes #sambucky #oh if there was a season two that would be so fun

35 notes · View notes

butcherlarry · 10 months

Text

Exercise Fic Recs 21

Sorry I’m a bit late posting this, I just got back from watching ATSV. It’s just as good and everyone has been shouting about and I don’t know why it took me so long to getting around to watching the movies. Anyway, on to the fics!

The Only by pasdecoeur (Superbat, complete. Felt like being a little sad, so I read this fic again. Bittersweet, read the tags.)

how many roads less traveled? by TopHat (Superwonderbat, complete. Polyamory negotiations between the trinity. Very sweet, features ace Bruce.)

be my kryptonite by renecdote (Superbat, complete. Clark has a sensory overload, Bruce helps.)

Courage by LemonadeGarden (Batfam, complete. Bruce has a run in with fear toxin and Dick helps him deal with it.)

Stuck in the Middle (With You) by TheResurrectionist (Superbat and Batfam, complete. A re(re)read for me, I needed some good humor. Damian gets stuck and Dick calls for help. Shenanigans ensue.)

Just a Formality by FabulaRasa (Superbat, complete. Bruce and Clark get married for work reasons, and Clark has So Many Feeling About This.)

misty by TheResurrectionist (Superbat, wip. Different first meeting. Bruce crash lands on a cold, barren planet and Clark finds him.)

Patchwork Pod by Ktkat9 (Superbat, wip. Another merbruce fic update!)

Midnight Hour by BisforBread (Superbat, wip. Medieval/fantasy au. Clark is a prince and Bruce is a knight and they have Feelings for each other.)

a world in repair by Batbirdies (Barfam, wip. Part of the Emotional Motion Sickness series. Jason and Damian go on a trip together, but not everything goes according to plan.)

Veritas by Anonymous (Batfam, complete. Batman gets hit with truth serum and talks about how he loves his kids SO MUCH.)

Jesus Is Not A Zombie by Sadsnail (uuuuhhhhh, bible fic? I blame @beachcat0772 , she posted this in our friend server and told me to read it. It’s just crack fic, but GOOD crack fic 😆)

They had a pastry with lemon curd on it, I couldn’t resist!

It was so rainy this morning! It pretty much rained the entire time I was birding. Got so cool pictures though!

The baby geese, they are growing up! They are looking more and more like adult geese everyday:

Wasn’t able to get a good picture of this guy, but it’s a brown thrasher! This is the second time I’ve seen him running around the area:

Look at this funky lil’ guy! A grackle! They were so fun to watch:

There were SO MANY swallows out flying around. They kept flying around me, they were so much fun to watch! And they’re SO PRETTY too. I tried to take some pictures of them in flight, but it’s SO HARD. This one is ok, I need to practice more. This guy is a barn swallow:

A red-winged black bird chilling in the rain:

This is also a red-winged blackbird, but a female! She caught breakfast! This is probably my favorite picture I took today:

A robin!

When I got to the arboretum, some tree swallows were flying around! Here are the best pictures I got of them midflight:

A titmouse grabbing a snack in the middle of the rain:

There’s also a big flock of goldfinches that hangout here too! I thought this guy looked handsome:

This white-breasted nuthatch was having fun hopping around on this tree:

OMG. I didn’t realize this until I got home, but these are juvenile eastern bluebirds!! Wow!!!

This has a parent and a baby!! Holy moly!!

An indigo bunting in the rain. I think my lens was starting to fog up:

A downy woodpecker. I like how it looks like they’re peaking around:

A black-capped chickadee! They snagged a treat:

An indigo bunting again:

I love this picture of a female cardinal:

Now onto some scenery!

ngl, the rain made everything look prettier.

80 notes · View notes

tqngerine · 1 year

Text

stay in the middle — 22. pick me up

SYNOPSIS: Huening Kai would do anything for his best friend Taehyun, and this one small favor is no exception. It appears that Kai’s fellow campus journalist Y/N has caught his attention, and Taehyun needs help connecting to them. Befriending someone outside of his small social circle wasn’t something Kai did often, but he comes to find that it’s easy to get close to Y/N—maybe even getting a little too close.

word count: 0.9k

Y/N didn’t have to pace the floor of the empty office for too long before hearing a knock, followed by the soft clicking of the door opening.

“Oh, thank goodness you’re all in one piece.” Kai exhaled in relief, hair slightly aloof as though he had ran all the way here. He didn’t have to worry this much for them, Y/N thought to themself, but it was admirably thoughtful of him.

“It’s not like I was stuck dealing with a kraken, Kai. I’m fine.”

“Oh, but just know I’d be ready if ever that was the case.”

For that, Y/N let out a chuckle, then turned off all the lights and exited the room alongside their knight in Adidas sweatpants armor.

He whipped out his phone’s flashlight and guided the way through the dark corridor. The only thing that could be distinctly sensed was the echo of the pair’s footsteps bouncing off invisible walls. Kai was tapping a silent beat on the side of his legs, as if his fingers always had to be kept busy.

“Sooo, how did practice with Jay go?”

“Dying to know, aren’t you?”

“I’m nosy!” Kai turned to look at Y/N’s reaction.

Amidst their warm face and giddy stomach, Y/N settled with a content sigh. “He’s a great actor, really. Like, I was honestly just awestruck the entire time.” Their eyes widened as they recalled every detail they captured of their acting partner. “He sees through the simplicity of the script’s text and catches nuances to add to his delivery. He coaches me if he gets any ideas for my lines too, it’s so—“

Y/N stopped on their heels to grab the sides of Kai’s arms. “He’s so talented, Kai, it hurts!”

Kai blinked in surprise before laughing a bit more softly than usual, hand reaching to pinch Y/N’s cheeks.

“Ow?!”

“Sorry, you’re just so ridiculous.”

That earned Kai a punch to his shoulder. “Whatever!”

Visibly stifling a smile, Kai continued the pace they were once walking. “Maybe I should ask Jay how practicing with you was for him too. That way, I’d know more about what actor Y/N is like.”

“I could try to sneak you into rehearsal again! Not too sure how much of Yunjin’s kindness I can abuse, though…” Y/N quickly waved their hand off reassuringly. “It’s okay, you’re cute, Yunjin can’t say no to you.”

Kai eyes crinkled into a smile. “I am pleased to hear.”

The pair had reached the exit of the corridor and were to cross the open field to get to the dormitory building. The view reappeared under the moonlight, the expanse of green materializing before them. Evening birds chirped restlessly over the clicking of crickets.

“Oh, I never realized how clear the night sky is.”

Kai nodded in affirmation. “It can get misty—or so I’m told. But we just so happen to be lucky tonight, I guess.”

“Do we both not go out that much?”

“To be fair, who would want to go out at the dead of night?”

“Fair, indeed.”

“Wait, what’s that—“ Something caught Kai’s attention, luring him to a big tree off the track. Y/N soon noticed it too: a glow coming from the trunk.

“That looks radioactive.” Y/N commented, and although they meant it lightheartedly, they were silently worried it was something serious.

Inching closer, Kai seemed compelled to reach out to it. Suspense rose like a violin trill until…

“Oh.“ Kai peeled it off the trunk to show Y/N. “It’s just a glow-in-the-dark poster for the upcoming bazaar.”

Y/N released a breath they didn’t realize they were holding. “Glow-in-the-dark poster? I’ve never heard of that before.”

“How anticlimactic.” Kai sniffled, sticking the poster back to where it came from.

“Hey, you could definitely make a scary story out of this.” Y/N lowered their voice in an attempt to mimic Kai. “Guys! I saw something glowing on one of the trees last night! Call me crazy but I swear those were alien eggs!”

Kai’s trademark booming laugh erupted. “That sounds unbelievable, but I just know if I told this to Yeonjun hyung, it’d keep him up for a few nights.”

“Your Yeonjun hyung’s a wimp.”

“He is.” His shoulders shrugged the last of his giggles, and Y/N begun to note how naturally expressive he was. It made interacting with him more lively.

The rest of the walk was quiet, especially now that Y/N’s nerves had calmed down completely. Usually, nighttime evoked the wilderness of Y/N’s imagination, making it near impossible for them to walk around at this hour without anxiety. Soobin and Beomgyu would’ve been a call away to come walk Y/N back to their dorm, so it made them feel guilty for asking Kai in particular, who had never done this for them before.

Well, he has already, without hesitation, gotten them coffee to survive their rehearsal. So Kai’s loyalty shouldn’t have been a question in the first place. He does things for his friends without complaint because he wants to help, and Y/N shouldn’t have to feel too guilty.

Despite that, Y/N felt an inner embarrassment because of the fact that they may have just wanted to see his face in particular. His presence was soothing, and it was just what they needed walking back.

“Okay, my dorm’s right here.” Y/N stood by their doormat, decorated with an embroidered white cat over it. “Thank you so much again, Hyuka. I still don’t know how you put up with my shit.”

“Nah, I needed some fresh air from studying anyway.” Kai’s eyes glimmered under the dim light. “And I have a cool scary story to tell my friends now. I’d say this evening was a win.”

“Good to hear, good to hear,” With one last wave at Kai, Y/N closed the dorm room behind them.

Their roommate was most definitely sound asleep at the moment, all the lights inside shut off. Thus, Y/N made sure to take their shoes off and settle their backpack as quietly as possible. Instead of heading straight to their room, they flopped onto the sofa in their living room. Grabbing their trustworthy sparkly notebook from their bag, they began scribbling some ideas that blossomed from tonight’s events.

< prev | masterlist | next >

A/N: vine boom sound effect what’s going on 🤯🤯

TAGLIST: open!! leave a comment below or send me an ask to be included in this taglist ^^ (if your name is in bold, i can’t tag you)

@kaisdefender @fairysh4mpoo @0rangemilk @beomsbeanie @hanjisungsgirl @luvsoobs @goldennika @spagettae @solarsolarity @hy2ka-i @aestheticsluut @sophie-writingtime @quitbeingawhore @destinylightlove42 @softpia @strawberry-kirby @matcharetsuko @txtbrainrot @taekwondoes @tatanbin @uno7

79 notes · View notes

sprout-fics · 8 months

Note

Hi!! I saw that you were taking requests for Gaz and was wondering if we could get more headcanons with him in the Omegaverse or Witcher au? Whichever one you’re feeling! I really enjoy the way you write him and just love it whenever he appears in fanfics. For me he seems like the sweetest of the TF so whenever he comes on screen or appears in a fanfic his presence is super calming? I especially love the way you write him because you put so much effort into writing his character and making sure he’s portrayed well. Love your content and I hope you have a wonderful day✨!

I LOVE Witcher Gaz. I see him as such a knight in shining armor persona, like all the stories of medieval chivalry and honor. Have a quick drabble of a great story idea I had

For @glitterypirateduck's GazFest

The forest is quiet around you as you stand propped at an odd angle amongst the willows, Their long, hanging branches drape like a veil across your bare shoulders, dressed in nothing more than your chemise, exposed to the misty dawn as it rises over the glade. The bark presses harshly against your back, and even as you try to struggle your bindings don’t relent. The hunters who have left you here likely lurk nearby, hidden in the ferns as they await their prey. You can feel your heart race on the underside of your jaw, skin erupting in goosebumps as the chill of sunrise whispers across your flesh.

A sound, quiet, subtle, but one that makes your gaze snap up beyond the curtain of willow branches that hangs as a curtain to shield your form.

“Stay back!” You call desperately, and whatever creature has decided to investigate your strange situation pauses, seemingly concerned. Yet then it continues, and a shape slowly draws closer to the branches before lifting them up to reveal your hostage form.

Not a creature. A man.

You blink in surprise, not expecting to see another hunter this far out into the glade, where you’d been dragged against your will and then set as a prized bait for the thing the hunters seek. The man before you looks just as startled as you do, dark skin covered in dark leather armor, boots muddied, armed to the teeth with a bow, a blade, and a sword at his side. Armed far more than what a typical hunter would be, and you blink again as you realize exactly what he is.

A witcher.

A fearsome, deadly hunter that pursues prey of a different breed, things that would easily devour you and yet pose a meager threat to his strength. Terrifying superhumans designed to kill. Yet as you regard him you take in the softness of his brown eyes, his full, parted lips, and the expression of surprise but concern painted across his gaze.

“Are you alright?” He asks, voice accented in a tongue you recognize. His arm is still holding aloft the branches, allowing soft sunlight to stream through and alight your exposed form. It backlights him in heavenly yellow, and for a moment you think he looks like an angel.

“...You’re not a unicorn.” You breathe in your surprise, and his eyebrows raise in bemusement.

“...No, I’m not.” He replies, and makes to step inside your circle. The branches tickle his broad shoulders where his pauldrons sit. “Is that why you’re here?”

You nod eagerly, making a point to struggle in your bindings that prevent your escape. “They- the hunters. They heard there was a unicorn in this forest. They dragged me out here as bait and then left me.”

The man hums, takes a step towards you. He smells like cloves and the musky scent of pine. You tilt your head to look at him, slouched as you are.

He’s so close.

“Why you?” He asks as he glances around, likely looking for the other hunters, and you feel yourself warm under his question before you mutter your response.

“Sorry?”

“I’m a virgin.” You snap, embarrassed and irritated. It doesn’t seem to surprise him, and you wonder if he knew the answer from the start. Cheeky bastard. Yet he doesn’t comment, choosing instead to examine your bindings. When he draws his blade you gasp in fright, only for him to hold up his hands placatingly.

“Easy, I’m going to cut you free. Is that okay?” He breathes, and he’s so gentle that it makes something flutter in your chest like the slow flap of mourning dove wings. You nod, and one of his gloved hands braces you forward, just enough to bend you so he can reach your wrists, and then the rope at your waist. “There, isn’t that better?”

You nod, feeling your face warm under his stare, ignoring the little ounce of self-satisfaction in his gaze. Yet it morphs into worry as he catches your hand, examines the red ring of rope burns on your wrist.

“How long have you been out here?” He asks gently, eyes soft. Your wrist feels warm under his touch. You tell yourself it’s just your inflamed flesh.

“Since yesterday morning.” You confess quietly.

He looks angry at that, and you realize it’s only on your behalf. You hadn’t asked to be out here, had pleaded the entire journey with the men to not try and kill the creature they were after. It had been to no avail, and they had left you without water or food for a full day in their crazed quest to slay their prize.

“I can’t leave you here.” He mutters, as if to himself, and your heart leaps in your throat. “Can you walk?”

You take a tentative step forward, bare feet brushing the dewey grass. The unsteadiness in your legs flares suddenly, and you stumble forward into him.

“Careful, dove.” He murmurs, and you blink at the endearment, raising your head from where it’s rested, just above his heart, up into his face. He looks a little embarrassed he’s let it slip, and for a moment you want to tell him you don’t mind. Far from it.

Before you can say as much, however, this strange witcher bends to lift an arm under your legs, hauls you up into his arms with superhuman strength. You squeak in surprise, and feel the rumble of his chuckle vibrate in his chest.

He begins walking purposefully away from the glade, and if you listen you can hear the snoring sounds of the hunters dozing in the trees.

“...My name is Kyle.” The witcher holding you offers once you’re past the clearing. “If you’d like, you can call me Gaz.”

Gaz. It suits him, you think. It’s lovely.

“Thank you…Gaz.” You whisper softly, and hope he doesn’t notice when you lean into his warmth to ward off the chill of dawn. You offer your own name, and dart your eyes up to his face to see him smile.

“You know…I actually haven’t seen any unicorns in these woods.” He tells you after a few minutes of walking. You look up at him then curiously, eyes wide as you meet the endearing softness of his brown eyed stare.

“In fact, I think the loveliest creature I’ve seen in these woods is you.”

#gaz x reader #kyle gaz garrick x reader #gaz x you #gaz x female reader #gazfest #gazfest drabbles

162 notes · View notes