#but some horses are too fucking high from the ground

[gremlingottoosilly]

Horsin' around (Centaurus!Konig x fem!Reader)

Konig is exiled from his people. You are exiled from yours. Together, you make about 6 legs and a perfect pair. Tags and CW: Size kink (duh), Centaurus!Konig(horse cocks), Konig is awkward, slight dub-con, power imbalance, belly bulge, praise kink, monster fucking. Thanks @kneelingshadowsalome for the prompt! AO3| Word count: 3016

Centaurus are not wild animals. You keep repeating it to yourself as you come deeper and deeper into the forest. You keep mumbling it to yourself as you feel the eyes watching you. judging you. Centaurus are not wild animals even if sometimes they behave like one. Not like you’re any different, any better – you’re a human, invading the sacred forests. You’re a human who is dumb enough to go foraging into the depths of their territory. Centaurus are not wild animals, but you don’t feel that repeating the same sentence over and over makes it sound any more convincing. You feel the danger in the air – with each step you take, with each fallen tree you’re stepping over. With every attempt to simply run ending up not working, you know you got lost. Long abandoned the basket you came with – you don’t recognize a single berry that grows here, not a mushroom or even some edible plant pieces to be found. This place is devoid of animals, of flowers – like something just snatched it all away. Ate it all, maybe. You don’t want to think what kind of creature could cause a migration like this. You don’t need to think though. Because the creature finds you first. 

You yelp in a mix of surprise and horror when the arrow flies right in front of you, the skill of the archer is high enough to make the arrow cut down a few bits of hair in front of your eyes. If you were a mere millimeter closer, you’d be dead. If he wanted you dead, you’d be dead. This much is obvious. You freeze in place, not daring to move an inch when you hear it. Loud, not even bothering to conceal the sound of it – the creature was confident enough that the prey wouldn’t run. Not the creature, you correct yourself immediately. Centaurs are not animals, they are closer to humans than a lot of other monster types – with their strength and warrior culture, you’d say that they are even more humans than citizens of the village who forced you out. 

The centaur doesn’t even bother to hide himself from you, concealing the sounds of heavy hooves on the ground or evading the branches that crunched against his body. This is exactly what made you surprised when you understood that instead of a rough, but mostly handsome face that most centaurus tend to have, you’re met with a black hood which only spared two holes for the icy-blue eyes staring back at you. 

Is he a grim reaper? An executioner for other centaurus? Would that mean you don’t have to worry unless your lower part resembles a horse? 

You take a quick look at your bottom half. Not a horse. 

Centaur reapers the gesture, looking at his bottom half too. Definitely a horse. 

You decide to speak first, hoping to find words that would work just fine to be your last. 

— I am really sorry for intru…

— This is not the sacrifice season yet. 

Ah, well. 

The people from your village believe the centaurs to be sacred – despite them being monsters they knew a lot about, they were still given sacrifices. Food, some farm animals, especially fatty pieces of meat, and fancy jewels along with some weapons. Centaurus kept the worst predators at bay, herding the wolves to be their pets and sometimes driving deer and rabbits away to the village. They kept you protected from werewolves and orcs – with a meager payment of never touching the sacred grounds. 

You just stepped into the deepest, most protected part of the forest. You wonder if you would deserve a peaceful death. 

— It’s not. I…I made a mistake. 

No, you wanted to be here. When the village decided to drive you out, you thought that foraging in the part of the forest, untouched by humans, would be the most profitable thing. Centaurus won’t take berries anyway, right? But they might just take your life. 

— A mistake? 

He tilts his hooded head to the side. It’s such a boyish expression, that you almost let go of a nervous giggle. Perhaps, you were going crazy…but the centaur seemed a bit nervous. As seasoned as he looked – with battle scars covering his body and a bit of silver mixed with his ginger fur on the horse part – he seemed almost awkward standing here. Tapping one of his hooved legs like a nervous child. Squeezing the bow in his hands with vigor that made you scared he will just snap it in half. 

— I just wanted to take some food. 

— Is there a hunger? 

— No. 

— Humans aren’t allowed in these parts. Why would you go if not out of despair? 

You gulp. 

— I…am not allowed back. 

— Why? 

Because you’re a forest witch who will doom them all, according to the village of a horse people worshippers. Because you’re a monster in disguise who keeps straling babies, according to the village that uses the best pieces of food to feed the horse people who can take of themselves just fine, instead of feeding it to the orphaned children. Because you’re a whore who refuses to accept the new type of sacrifices – the virgins of the village as a breeding material for the Centaurus, according to the village filled with people who would gladly push a poor virgin out in the forest once she turned of age, so she could be mauled by horse people. 

— We had…mutual disagreement. 

You stare at the mighty body of the centaur. You fight the urge to get your hands down his torso, play with its short hairs, and…you were always a bit of a horse girl. Wondering if he is strong enough to lift you up and get you somewhere safe, somewhere far far away from here. 

Centaur has this weird, almost boyish tone. Deep and yet, sounds just a bit deranged. Unhinged. Like he is going to maul you any second – and judging by the bow and arrow still in his hands, he might not be wrong. You lick your lips. He stares at them – or at least you think he is. Hood only reveals his eyes and you can already get lost in them. Cold, like the northern sea, Like the snow outside. You thought all mythical creatures were supposed to be warm-blooded. 

— You’re exiled then. 

He isn’t asking. Centaurus are omnipotent and wise, they should know about human affairs more than humans themselves. You made them into sort of gods – you shouldn’t be surprised that this guy knows way more than he should. Somehow, you still feel safer around him than other humans – and maybe, it’s more of a you problem. Maybe, you ended up eating some of the weird berries and it’s just your hallucinations before you die. 

— I am. 

He takes a step back. He is big – all of them are, you suppose, but, somehow, he is bigger than he should be. Giant, muscular torso on top of an already muscular and big horse part – he can pick you up, throw you, and break you with one finger, probably. No, definitely. You don’t want to give him a reason to, so you just stay in place. Hoping he wouldn’t deem your trespassing as a matter worthy of a torturous death. 

— My name is König, human. Repeat, ja? 

The name feels weird on your tongue. Rude, sharp. You don’t want to call him wrong and receive his wrath, so you try your best to repeat this. 

— Ko-nig. Ja? 

You tilt your head to the side, a curious little bird. Centaur – König, König, König – squints his eyes like he is smiling. You made the god smile. The horse god. The horseman. Just…man. If you don’t look down, where you already see something giant and heavy standing between his horse legs, you could forget that he isn’t a man at all. 

Suddenly, you feel light. Suddenly, you feel your legs dangling in the air as you were picked up and bumped into the broad chest. Suddenly, you feel hands everywhere. On your ass, under it, touching your chest, your stomach, trying to get to the best position so you would stop moving constantly and trying to get out. You don’t want to fight him because you’re already in the air and falling right now could result in a broken neck – but you don’t want to be suspended in the air either. You whimper, pathetic sound escaping your lips as you feel calloused hands pressing on your mound. Traveling down your stomach and touching, squeezing, petting your delicate parts. 

You spend so much time without a gentle hand or a soft touch, you can feel yourself dripping on the fingers of a centaur. Embarrassing, yes – but you know that if he were to proceed, you wouldn’t really resist. 

And oh, he proceeds. 

— They finally send us proper sacrifices. 

He mumbles it into your hair, taking in your smell. You’re nice for a human – not scared of him too much, not trying to ran away or fight. Humans are usually just annoying insects under his hooves, but König can feel your face growing on him. Your body, too. Too weird for other Centaurus, never being able to find a proper mate who could take his lack of social awareness, he found himself mounting a human. His tribe would call him pathetic. His tribe would laugh. 

Then again, he is the first to get such a delicate little gift. Who is laughing now? 

You aren’t crying in his hands, and he is a bit surprised. You smell like a proper mate, like a good bitch in heat just for him – yet, you’re not falling on your knees to present your dripping cunt. You’re just trying to whimper to ask him to be gentler, and he is happy to oblige. Calm enough to listen to you. Ripping your pants apart because this is such a useless piece of clothing – concealing your rich smell from him. 

König doesn’t waste any time when he dips his finger across your swollen folds. Playing with the slick running down his wrist, smiling as you are closing your eyes and pressing your head in his chest. He is strong enough to keep you suspended in the air without a care in the world. Weak human, he would have to spend so much time preparing you for him – taking his cock would be a task no sacrifice ever competed before. 

König stares at your dripping pussy that is already clenching around nothing just because his fingers are pressing on the hood of your little clit, and he knows you’d be the perfect wife for him. Taking him properly as his mate, moaning as his cum fills you up. he can’t wait – knows that he should, preparing you properly. His hooves are beating the ground in impatience as his fingers slide in and out of your pussy. You spread your legs, moaning louder. Such a filthy whore for him. 

— Relax, human. Be a good mate. 

— This isn’t what I wa…

— Quiet. Such a good…good girl, Schatz. Will bring me strong children. 

— We can’t have sex. It’s im…impossible.

You whimper, trying to squeeze your legs, to shut his hand. You only moan louder, knowing that you would accept everything he gives you, and ask for more. 

You don’t want to imagine his cock entering you over and over, forcing its way past your walls and making you round and soft with his children. It’s a foreign concept – centaurus shouldn’t mate with humans, it should be physically impossible. Yet, you almost want to try. A breeding mare, made for one and only. 

König gets you on…something. It isn’t exactly a natural thing – a pile of stones and trees, perfect height for you to lay your back on, with some soft leaves and animal skins to rest comfortably. His hands support you on the perfect height and you immediately know what he construction is. A mating stand. Probably for other centaurus – but you feel almost fine laying on it too. Almost normal. Your muscles sting as you try to rest your legs and then spread them wide enough for König to stay between them. He is a big guy, after all. He turns you around, on your tummy. Ass in the air, you don’t like not seeing him. The heavy musk fills your nostrils, making you suddenly aware of what is about to happen – you’re wet, spread enough on his fingers, calloused fingertips scrubbing your gummy walls from the inside. He is fingering you with ease, but it doesn’t feel like a man with experience – he is touching and probing like he doesn’t know what he is doing and, honestly, you kinda like it. He is exploring your body with his and you moan, not caring that you sound like a whore. Humans have already abandoned you as part of society – you might as well just take it. — I will prepare you. 

— It won’t fit… — It will, Schatzen. You’ll get used to it. — What if I break? 

— I will be careful. Trust me, ja?

Even his fingers are a bit much when he enters your body with a third digit. One, two, three – you are about to burst when he is massaging your G-spot, when he is smiling in your hair and gets you so aroused just on it alone. You’re about to cum when he slowly extracts his fingers, deeming your sloppy cunt as explored enough. Your walls are clenching around nothing, a beautiful display of desire – maybe, it was the right call that humanity abandoned you. König looks at the perfect centraius whore on display and he can’t wait to claim you. To make you his. 

He is exiled from other centaurus. 

You are exiled from humans. 

What a beautiful fucking pair. 

He enters your body slowly deliberately. Regrets it immediately – you are wonderful. Too perfect to be this slow, being soft with you is torture. Your walls accept him with a stretch, like a warm glove around his cock. Slowly shifting, softening, straddling his cock with each inch he buries in the depth of your warm, weeping cunt. He can’t touch you, as unfortunate as this is – dumb horse body is making it impossible, even looking at you is hard enough on his neck. He wants to mount you properly, but you’re simply too fucking small. Wants to touch your hair, to whisper some encouragement that human women would probably love to hear – but he can only breath heavily and enter you, one painful centimeter after the other. 

— T…too much, too much, please, I can’t, it’s… You whimper, you cry, it breaks his damned heart because you don’t deserve this. You need to be treated with care, with softness and yet, he can’t give you that. He wants so much to just put you in his arms and hug you, but that would be impossible. König will give you all the coddling in the world after you’re done. After he is sure that you received all the possible breeding and seed he could gave you. 

— Quiet, human. It would be nice soon. 

— It’s not…

— Touch yourself, please, bitte. I can’t…can’t touch you. But you will feel better. 

Your hand goes between your legs, playing with yourself. Spreading your folds around his cock even more, fingers sliding past your clit. Touching the little button and hoping it would be enough to make you aroused – and it is. Your cunt is a mess of your own juices mixed with König’s pre cum, and you already know that you won’t be walking the next couple days. 

König bottoms with a deep sigh, and you feel him in your stomach. Bulging with his giant cockhead, making the outline of his cock visible – you touch it with shock, not understanding how your organs are even in place. 

He starts moving and you finally feel it – the burning pleasure setting fire in the pit of your stomach. the excess liquid pouring from your damp cunt, moans spreading from your lips. You never felt this way with a human before – then again, no human cock would ever be able to compete with König. He can reach the parts of your body that you never knew existed, and the mix of pheromones and musk is making you dizzy. Light-headed. You don’t even need to touch yourself more to feel the height of your orgasm, building in as rapidly as König’s thrusts. 

In, forcing its way to hit your cervix gently, massaging the sore spots of your tight pussy. 

Out, grazing over your inner walls, touching all the buttons. 

In again, filling you up with his pre-cum. Moaning loud enough for the whole forest to hear. 

Out, dragging you back with him, as you’re still impaled on his cock. 

— S…so perfect for me. Scheisse, so pretty… He can’t touch you and it breaks his heart. König goes to praise you instead – words feel awkward on his tongue, but he knows you need to heart it. He wants you to hear it, wants you to fee wanted, entitled. Soft. He smiles when you whimper and moan, milking him for his orgasm. Your cunt is made for him and he wants to spend every waking moment buried inside of it. Gods, you are a perfect sacrifice. 

He is coming embarrassingly fast, pumping his giant cock even deeper into your pussy. Filling you up with hot cum that can’t even stay inside of your cunt. Leaking everywhere, you two are making a mess – you breath heavily, not understanding what is right and wrong anymore. Only knowing, remembering the shape of his cock. Pushing in and out, forcing its way in. God, you feel full. And ridiculous. And so, so perfect with his cock slowly starting to pump you again. And again. Konig came embarrassingly fast, but only because this is just the first orgasm in a row. Forcing its way inside, you are overstimulated already – but you will take him, of course, obviously. You have to.

König is going to enjoy breeding a new clan out of you. 

#cod #konig x reader #konig #yandere konig #cod x reader #monster!konig #yandere cod #tw: monster fucking #call of duty #konig cod #konig x you #cod konig #konig mw2 #konig smut #centaur #monster fucker #monster #monster x reader #monster x you #yandere male #yandere imagines #yandere #male yandere

[evilminji]

I woke up to this thought? And it made me smile~

Wrong way Au?

It's EASY to fly from point A to point B. Linear. Just on long, no traffic, straight line. And if you get lost? Go higher! There you are! But "normal" reporter families with Totally Human genetics can't exactly DO that.

Plus? It's part of the whole Americana thing!

Childhood.

Gotta do a road trip, see weird road side attractions, camp and hike a bit. Go somewhere other then the farm for once. Soooo~ everyone into the car! Yes, you too, Kon.

And don't look at Lois, kids. She hates this idea as much as you do. But it's for Dad. So we're doing it. Get in the car. Some times loving people means "suuuure, honey! I TOTALLY want to sit in an uncomfortable car for hours for your nostalgic dream trip!", so get comfy.

Problem is? He either can't navigate for SHIT (unlikely) or this patch of nowhere? Possibly haunted? Cursed? Fuckey. Very, very Reality Fuckey. Far more likely, honestly. They THINK that was the a same barn the passed four times now... but it looks... wrong? Off. Worse each time, in ways that are hard to place.

Where the FUCK are they Clark?

According to the GPS?

Here.

(You are Here. You are Here. You are He-)

Oh, THAT'S not cursed! She fucking KNEW they shouldn't have left the city. FUCK the countryside. She likes ONE(1) small town and it's where her in-laws live, THANK YOU VERY MUCH! If they die, she swear to GOD-!!!

Then Jon points to colorful tents up the road. A mix of the kind you buy at big box stores and Ren fairs. Balloons. What the fuuuuuck? "Fenton Family Reunion"?

Was... was that THERE a second ago?

Clark's very deliberate Not Too Tight Grip Of Panic ™ on the steering wheel? Confirms that No Honey, it was not. Kon points out? That eventually they ARE going to run out of gas. They should stop.

Words can not express how little the Kents want to do that. They have KIDS to protect. This feels "magical fuckery" to them. AKA? One of the few things Kryptonians very much CAN NOT handle.

And luck getting ahold of anybody back there kids? No? Emergency lines too?

Fuck ™.

Okay! Guess we're stopping! Stay behind us.

They park.

There are campers and trucks, modified tanks and trackers. A few horses grazing side by side with an honest to God moose and two mules. A Llama. Someone's anchored a dirigible. A boat with spindly chicken footed legs, like it's the house of baba yaga's sea faring love child. The name Fenton is slapped on everything. Peoples faces.

Grinning.

Everything grinning.

As they get closer, the racket gets louder. Crashes and smashes. Roaring laughter. Explosions. The screech of metal failing and the whine of energy overclocked. Fatty meats cooking. Spices from around the globe. Radios and instruments, at least one of which violently cuts off in a smash.

They pass an almost violently balloon choked arch, into chaos.

Grinning giants, everywhere. Every color, every shade, every race imaginable. The spectrum of humanity laid bare. Made large. Grinning, Grinning, Grinning. Crashing into each other, against, through. Smashing and laughing, as everything breaks around them. Titans.

Darting underfoot, children. Fast with wild eyes. Mad grins and fae laughs. Wives and husband's, partners and friends, dancing in and out of the chaos. Just as destructive. Perhaps MORE so. Grabbing meals from grills, laughing and joking, tossing children into the fray, all as they effortless hold conversations of their own.

Like a Dionysian revelry, all madness and joy.

Then they are noticed.

"Cousin!"

One of them booms. Locking eyes on Clark. He doesn't even have time to move, doesn't realize until too late, in all the chaos, that the man meant HIM. A running start is followed by a brutal, full body, flying tackle. Clark is taken skidding to the ground and into a headlock.

"LETS WRASTLE~!!"

He watches in helpless confusion as, with high-pitched war cries, a pair of twins jump Jon. They are wearing war paint. Krypto already taken out by a glowing green dog, now confused and wrestling off to the side. Lois has whipped out her tazer. Kon between her and who ever comes next.

By the time he wrestle his "cousin" off of him, he's lost sight of them both.

Dives into the fray.

Magic be damned, that's his FAMILY!

It... It's the most fun he's had in years. That any of them have. He finds Lois in a breathless, screaming, debate/fistfight with her new best friend. Samantha "call me Sam Or ELSE" Manson-Fouley-Fenton. Kon is in the mud pit, wrestling other teenagers in some sort of battle Royale. Jon? Has become king of the ferals. The other parents are impressed.

His years of Damian wrangling finally paying dividends, apparently.

By the time Clark FINALLY tracks down Krypto, there is already crowd and it apparently six heel turns deep into the WWE Grand Saga of the Fenton Pet's League. Krypto, what the hell. No. No you may NOT "form one last alliance against my sworn wrestling enemy, to prove the true meaning of Christmas!" It's the middle of SUMMER!

Clark... Clark is so tired.

He's also a Fenton now. Yes, he KNOWS that's not how anything works. YOU try explaining that! He's on the call list and card list. It's like the Addams family out here! They just... just DECIDED him and his family were related! They've apparently DONE THAT BEFORE!

They leave with directions, fudge, more leftovers then anyone could possibly eat, and a massive new extended family. One that honestly? The Justice League SHOULD have known about. The sheer destructive chaos they get up too? EVERYONE should be aware of them. It seems impossible NOT to be! But? According to THEM, it's a "family thing". Reality tries to ignore them for "it's own sanity"? What???

So yeah.... no more road trips.

How was YOUR weekend?

@hdgnj @legitimatesatanspawn @nerdpoe @the-witchhunter @lolottes @babbling-babull @dcxdpdabbles @hypewinter @mutable-manifestation

#minji's writing #dpxdc #dp x dc #dc x dp #dcxdp #dc x dp prompt #danny phantom #welcome to the family au #fenton family reunion

[petals2fish]

“I need you to do me a favor.” Lily Evans never knew how quickly the sound of her voice made his heart race with anticipation.

James Potter glanced up from his homework, hastily scribbled during his break on a bench in the courtyard. The autumn leaves cascaded around, creating a picturesque scene behind his girlfriend, whose hair glistened like the fiery foliage in the sunlight. With a quick motion, James tucked his quill behind his ear, took her hand, and guided her to stand between his legs.

“Of course, what do you need?" He extended his hand to trace her freckles. She was so accustomed to his closeness that she didn't even flinch as his fingertips brushed against her face, rekindling a familiar fire in his belly.

She chewed on her bottom lip adorably, like she was contemplating something, before she stated firmly, “I need you to get detention.”

James raised a brow at her with disbelief and let out half a laugh. “Are you asking me to break the rules?”

A surge of excitement tingled through him. Lily usually upheld maturity and morals, often emphasizing the need for school leaders to maintain a higher standard of behavior. Sirius dubbed it a constant high horse, whereas Lily favored the term confident leadership. James leaned more into Sirius’ path, but he knew as head boy he really ought to not be a hypocrite.

Sometimes though, detention was inevitable.

Lily settled onto his right knee, her arm draping his shoulder casually as she implored, “I am begging you actually, because I heard Mulciber is the prefect covering detention and I don’t want to be stuck in a room for an hour with him…he creeps me out.”

“Why are you stuck with Mulciber?” James asked as his finger twirled a bit of her hair, “it’s Friday, you have off from head duties.”

Lily’s green eyes rolled back to emphasis her annoyance, “no, I don’t, I have detention.”

James nearly choked on his own spit from surprise, “wait, you have detention? How?”

“I told Professor Kettleburn to fuck off,” she said it so nonchalantly, he actually let out a little laugh as she continued, “I told him to fuck off because he was telling everyone werewolves are low life bums who deserve to rot in Azkaban.”

That struck a nerve. James knew why it had annoyed Lily too. Their best friend Remus was a werewolf. Kettleburn knew that too, all the teachers did. Only a few of the students were aware why Remus looked so sickly and stayed aloof unless he was with his friends. For Kettleburn to outright say those things in class knowing there was a werewolf at Hogwarts—James’ blood boiled at the thought of the sick intentions behind the lecture.

James gently pushed Lily off and stood up, “Well, I’ll be right back.”

Lily got a dejected look as she took his spot on the bench, “wait, where are you going?”

James pulled his sack up off the ground, stuffing his quill and notebook inside. “I’m going to put tiny dung bombs all over Professor Kettleburn’s office.”

Lily tilted her head, “but he’s probably in his office.”

“That’s the point.”

“He might murder you,” Lily said, “and I prefer my boyfriend alive, for snogging.”

He chuckled at her reasoning, cheeks warm as he thought of their last snog only that morning which had made them both miss potions. “I’m breaking a rule, like you asked me too do.”

“I mean Kettleburn would deserve it,” Lily murmured as she examined chipped paint on one of her fingernails, “he’s a miserable old ass.”

James leaned down to kiss her cheek swiftly as he heaved his bag onto his left shoulder, “I’m killing two birds with one stone love, see you at five for detention!”

He leaned back just in time to watch the diamonds in her green eyes light up. She ruffled his hair in an affectionate manner before he stood up straight.

“It’s a date,” she mused, “we can snog the whole time and piss Mulciber off.”

James cackled as he sauntered off, grateful he had three dung bombs left in his school bag’s back pocket from when he’d set some off in Ravenclaw’s locker room at quidditch. They would work nicely. Aware of the inquisitive eyes on him, he pulled one of the bombs out, ignoring the titters of the portraits watching him. Any students he passed saw the look in his eyes and kept running.

The bell for class would ring in five minutes, so he had to be quick and efficient. He took a shortcut through the bougainvillea portrait, arriving at Professor Kettleburn’s office in record time. Kettleburn was at his desk, ready and available to be rained on by dung bombs.

James knew he wouldn’t get his homework done at all now, but he was doing his girlfriend a favor, and who was he to say no to a little mischief?

#no beta or edits I die like a king #petals talks #jily #lily evans #james potter #jily fanfiction #jily fic

[gallusrostromegalus]

So how much are you willing to talk about Ulquiorra?

I will talk so much about him. There are so many things wrong with that man, but to make a brief list of his most notable features:

He's dumb as hell.

I say that with tremendous sympathetic affection. Ulquiorra barely thinks. It's easy for him to do nothing and go nowhere. He eats chocolate in the middle of the night in the dark. When he gets access to a garden, he often just stands around in it. He's often waiting for things to happen.

He just LOOKS smart compared to nearly everyone else in the fic because he doesn't have much to say, so he's not constantly opening his mouth to jam his foot down it.

Consequently, Ulquiorra starts off having little to no initiative of his own. Stuff just happens to him. Some of that is because he is colossally depressed, but he's depressed because the idea that he has control over his circumstances has straight up not occured to him.

The first person he meets that shows him that "You can just do whatever you want, forever" and the boundless joy it is to be a creature of free will is, unfortunately, Aizen. And Aizen left off the key corollary "-EVERYONE is allowed to do whatever they want, forever. We are all equal in God's dead, empty eye sockets."

So Ulquiorra wanders around trying out this "doing stuff" thing without any concept of ethics.

I realize I am infantilizing this character, but I am doing so in a twilight zone "hey, wouldn't it be fucked up to watch a fully anatomically functional person who is able to speak and blow stuff up with his mind go through the emotional development steps of a toddler?", because I think that's a fun high-concept premise to explore with him. Yeah, what if a toddler could speak articulately and also destroy you? How would he act? How does he feel, learning to have feelings?

It'd probably suck for him and everyone around him, and make him very easy to manipulate, for one thing.

So I don't think Ulquiorra is evil, because evil takes intent. He is dangerous to be in the general proximity of, though

Like a horse

lose

in a hospital!

I love that sketch as much as the next person but if an IRL horse got loose in a hospital it would be bedlam, but the horse would be mostly confused and probably willing to follow around the first person who looked like they knew what they were doing.

You know, like how Ulquiorra follows Aizen around because that's the first guy he's met who THINKS he knows what he's doing, and is good at convincing others he knows what he's doing!

So Ulquiorra's entire first character arc is being exposed to more and more people and realizing he does have control over his life, and that he can take actions, and that those actions have consequences.

Like being emotionally devastated by a teenage girl because he was an asshole to her and she's willing to scream at him about it.

Hm.

Consequences hurt.

He lives through the Las Noches arc, and decides to follow his own star!

He follows it right through a portal that was not meant for him and now he's sort of trapped in somewhere he's really, really, really, really, REALLY not supposed to be.

But it's a beautiful place

And nobody is forcing him to do anything.

And for a long time, he just stands out in the garden, waiting for something.

But then

Ulquiorra experiences a novel pair of emotions that he's recently learned from his new...

Orihime is too mad at him for him to call her a friend.

-but he did learn the names and therefore the experience of two new emotions from her: boredom, and it's natural remedy: curiosity.

So Ulquiorra's second character arc is him learning how to be himself without anyone telling him who he is and what he ought to be.

He's travelling up Maslow's hierarchy with the inscrutable but unstoppable instinctual drive of a salmon returning to its spawning ground.

This has lead to an important discovery on my part: Ulquiorra is terrific for comedy because he is the ULTIMATE straight man to everyone else's nonsense, because he's immune to nearly all nonsense.

He doesn't have societal taboos to be hung up on, nor any sense of what is "normal", so the sole thing he geta hung up on is a lack of internal consistency in others, meaning he can slip between straight man to the absurdist at the drop of a single scathing observation. Yet, he retains a sort of understated dignity that compels people to try to earn his respect.

Hence, I'm having fun turning him loose on the most absurd, internally inconsistent and frankly, insane batch of characters in the series:

The Royal Guard.

:)

#AEIWAM #An Elephant Is Warm And Mushy #bleach #bleach fanfic #ulquiorra cifer #Ulquiorra #mild spoilers

[waxingrunes]

I’m seeing too much of this across all channels and I need to write a little something on my humble blog with my humble amount of followers, because how else am I going to get this off my chest.

Some of you need to remember that this whole world we created is pure, fiction. It’s based off fiction and we are building off fiction, forking off in different directions with characters we love.

The canon vs fanon debate is ongoing and quite honestly, mind numbingly pointless and you all consistently contradict and overlap one another with whatever discourse you’re riding that week. You lot wanna argue a point by saying, “these are my hc’s and I can do what I like with them stop taking everything so seriously teeheehehehe” then uno reverse that the next minute by screaming, “that would never happen *insert name* is this or is that” but fuck canon right? Fuck JKR? Or is it more, fuck the parts of canon I don’t like and I’ll take the parts I do so I can shove them down the throats of creators who represent these characters in an opposing light. The amount of posts I’ve seen floating around these sites that are people preaching to their audiences about how dumb they are (unless it’s meant to be satire, I’m not a brainless sensitive lump with no humour bone) for liking certain things, or enjoying certain things, or preferring certain aspects in a character is astounding. Take pause before jumping on your high horse over a fictional character and shaming people for moulding them into what they enjoy. Is this not the beauty of fiction, imagination; the ability to twist and turn over different traits and appearances within our palms and make them into our own little dress up dolls?

Here’s my two cents as a WOLFSTAR artist, not a Marauders— if I want to make Sirius into a teacup and Remus into a sea slug and have him curl up to sleep every night in his bowl, then I’ll do that with fine china detail. If I want to make Sirius someone who refuses to wear nothing but a specific shade of tangerine and Velcro strapped trainers, I will. One day I might throw Moony into a boxing ring and have him be a middleweight champion, stained by the blood of his opponent whilst his wolf is chomping at the bit to come out just before the full moon threatens to take centre stage. If I want to make Sirius 6ft tall and Remus 5ft1, I will. Why not draw an AU of them as the rocks from Everything, Everywhere All At Once? Maybe, they can be something as simple as a boy and a boy who look the way you want them to look, fuck the way you want them to fuck and fall in love and fight, and scream, and cry, and make up a million different ways.

Let’s get more specific as the seal’s broken. Why not make Remus plus sized and give him a beard or a dad’s bod at age 23. Or maybe because he’s lighter haired he doesn’t have dark hair like that and only has a smattering of it across the ugliest of his scars. Consider this— moony with softer hips but fuller sturdy shoulders. Or long, slender limbs with a deceptively hidden strength owing to his wolf, stronger than James though he doesn’t look it. Onto Sirius, try to tell me I’m not going to put him in thigh highs and fem the shit out of him whilst he holds a bat in one hand covered in the blood of someone who tried to disrespect his Moons. Alert the press when someone erases every single one of his tattoos only to replace them with hyperpigmentation. What about giving him a beater’s build and a long thick trail of naval hair that he likes to call his ‘seeker’s delight’. What about a hairless Sirius who has a soft life and likes to make herself pretty for her 6ft 4 boyfriend every weekend when he gets on the train to visit.

How about, I stick with my personal holy take on the boys and present you with a harmless middle ground where Moony is whatever the fuck I want him to be physically, emotionally, or characteristically but always a wet fucking cloth for Sirius. A grape, under a thumb, you could say. And a Sirius, who is too whatever I want him to be physically, emotionally, or characteristically but will always be Moony’s biggest cheerleader.

Stay with me whilst I offer you the brain stretching, risky, taboo thought for you to ponder on: stop trying to please people. Stop absorbing all these takes that pressure you into thinking you’ve got to include every fucking thing that shaves you down and boxes you into their squeaky clean little creator! Indulge in what you like. Make it public, make it known and make it as loud as you want. Feels good on this side of freedom.

Lastly, quick (none of this has been quick) circle back to myself being a Wolfstar artist, not a Marauders one. I will not be shamed into drawing the women in this fandom, I will not try to even out my art with equal parts women and men, in fear of being called misogynistic. I came here for Wolfstar and I stay for them; I get 95% of my muse from them and enjoy drawing these idiots nearly every single day when I can. I’ve a busy life, a job, the luxury of a family that love me and a couple friends I’d like to keep too. If and when I draw, it’s going to be what I want to draw and want to indulge in, not to check off your boxes of inclusion. I am not going to defend my choice of indulgence to you. I am not going to refute women or wlw ships and in fact, eat up stories or art where they’re prominent. Will I have muse or will to do a piece on them? Probably not. If I do, I will and if it’s not done to a standard deemed appropriate enough by the council, well shit I hope I get an honourable mention in one of your hate threads on Twitter.

Grow up. I am the type of person who has a more or less rigid taste on these boys and what I, enjoy representing them like and you runts will run your throats hoarse before I turn an ear. I am not the type of person to see someone who doesn’t like what I prefer and start slamming my keyboard and slap them with a red card. I’ll move on but appreciate the take in silence. Some of you really, come across like you’re stomping your feet in a tantrum, some of you sound like you’ve never been told to shut the fuck up a day in your life and some of you, some of you, really think you’re a messiah.

Fuck your canons, fanons and righteous attitudes towards people who are quite literally, not real. You are not a deity of the Marauders, you are a fucking loser offline just like the rest of us.

#mad you think this place can be schooled into your desires #I’m going to read this over and find six thousand errors #this is why I hate being online #but that’s where the good stuffs at too #a paradox of pain #the emotional intelligence #the intellectual buoyancy in general around here #slim pickings #midday and a migraine is heading straight for me I can tell #what do I tag this #remus #sirius #wolfstar #the usual then #remus lupin #sirius black #marauders era #marauders #atyd #roman you’re rubbing off on me

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

Form of Gratitude

Summary: Alone and injured, Aemond is forced to trudge through the Kingswood in urgent need of help. And when he does receive it, it surely needs a reward.

Warnings below the cut~

Links to my Taglists: General Taglist | Aemond Targaryen Taglist  

Warnings: Smut, 18+, Minors DNI, some mention of bones being where they shouldn’t, oral (m receiving), penetration, fingering

The sheer force of the fall had been enough to send Aemond into a dizzying sleep. Coupled with the height of the fall, he could feel his skin contracting around his head in a dull ache and the sharp twinge of pain radiating his upper body.

Attempting to move was futile, and so he laid there for what seemed like hours, eye firmly pulled shut and slowly building up both the courage and the will to use his good arm to push himself off the earth. The horse that had thrown him off and into the ditch had run off hours ago. And he knew now it had been a long time since the barely visible light of the sun disappeared over the horizon and he could barely make out the silhouettes of the trees high above him against the darkened sky. 

It had been so long since he had heard a human voice, he assumed the rest of the party were on the other side of the Kingswood, aimlessly looking for him. The darkness only proved that they had been unsuccessful and had probably settled in a nearby town to resume the search tomorrow. No doubt they would get a firm talking to from Alicent upon his return, for leaving the Prince in his condition overnight. 

Aemond liked hunting as much as anyone else, but he did not love it. He found the forests dark and dank, teaming with wildlife that feasted on dirt and grime. And he would grit his teeth and simply bear it. It was better than being cooped up in the Keep for too long in any case.

But now, laying here on the cold, damp ground, he found that he was becoming afraid. What if he couldn’t move? What if an animal thought him suitable for their next meal? It was not uncommon after all to be attacked by otherwise docile animals at nightfall. And he shook his head as he began to hear the loud squawks of birds and the low rumble of mammals that otherwise would hide from sunlight. 

Eventually, he managed to prop up his body using his good hand, pushing his ever-heavy body to sit upright. This is when he first felt the searing hot rips of pain through his other shoulder. Even the slightest shift would have him keeled over, almost vomiting with pain. So swiftly advancing to his feet, his good hand gripped his other arm to keep it still and tight to his chest, preventing any further injury.

Yes, losing his eye was the most painful experience. Only this was second to it.

Taking deep breaths through the gurgling in his stomach threatening its way back up his throat, he took his first baby steps at finding some or any semblance of civilisation. Hoping and praying for somewhere safe to at least sleep or get help. 

That fucking stupid horse, was all he thought as he limped his way through the moss covered forest, dragging his feet along the greenery. He could not even say that the horse was spooked, it had simply refused to jump over one particular log. This time instead of merely needing some reassurance from his rider, decided to fling the young Prince off his back. Even more unfortunately so into a dirty ditch. So not only was Aemond annoyed at the injury, but he was covered in dirt and grime, which made him feel even more heavy.

He could barely think for how bad it hurt, not even finding the strength sometimes to open his eye to look at his path ahead.

In the distance, he heard the distinct sound of a horse’s breathing and he could feel the wanting push of strength in his legs to discover his horse impatiently and nervously trotting around another large log blocking his way.

Frightened and instead of running towards his rider, fled in the opposite direction, tucking its front legs to jump over the log with ease.

Aemond sighed with annoyance, “Now you fucking jump…” he murmured with a hint of pain.

A new rush of adrenaline spurred through him at the prospect of tasting freedom and he jogged towards where his stupid horse had disappeared to, almost tripping over a path of cobblestones.

“Stop” a voice rang out through the silent air. Aemond’s air stopped dead in his lungs, eye wide at the end of a long path. Only now realising that it lead up to someone’s home.

It wasn’t large and looked worse for wear on the outside, but there was a thatched roof cottage sat at the other end of the cobbled path. Moss engulfed the space around it as well as the stone walls, lit only by a warm shroud of light that spilled through the front door. All that blocked it was the woman with the bow and arrow pointed sharply in Aemond’s direction.

The bow obstructed his view of her face slightly. But she wore a linen dress, with an apron pinned to the front and one side of her skirt was tucked into it, exposing the underskirt below. And had an arrow not been pointing in his direction, perhaps the Prince would have thought it scandalous.

Aemond had been completely caught off guard, he did not say a thing and simply stayed still. Perhaps hoping that if he didn’t move, she wouldn’t see him.

“‘Tis a bit late for hunting, is it not?” she asked. 

She adjusted her hand on the bow, pulling the arrow back against the string a little tighter to improve her aim should she need to.

He could have scoffed. He was quite possibly in the worst mood for jokes.

He licked his lips, dry from hours of silence.

“I pose no harm, my Lady” 

The flashes of pain were too strong for Aemond to conceal them with his voice. And his tone wavered significantly in his response.

She squinted her eyes and retracted her bow and arrow, lowering the weapon to the ground. It was here he could have his first proper look at her. She was quite striking in her features, unusual for someone in this part of Westeros, but it complimented her well and he could tell from the way she commanded herself that she had some fire in her.

She tutted, “I don’t suppose you’ll be posing anyone any threat wobbling about like that” 

Her mischievous look made him feel slightly more at ease. That and when she lowered her weapon.

“What is wrong with you anyway?” she asks, sounding slightly unbothered.

Now it’s Aemond’s turn to tut and he shakes his head, this in itself sending a white hot twinge down his shoulder.

“How am I to know” the words came out more forcefully than he intended, and he noted her raised eyebrow at his tone, “Is there a maester, or rather a healer anywhere?” 

Her face softens at his question, if not only for a moment, seeing how much pain he is in.

“You seem to be in luck, at least” she responds and he furrows his brows, “I am a healer”

She dusts her hands off once tucking away the bow and arrow, Aemond flinches slightly as she walks up quickly to take his other arm to lead him inside. At this point, he realises that despite who she is, or rather who she says she is, he is in little position to refuse. And with any luck, have a roof over his head. 

He lets out a pained breath as the warm air of the inside hits his body and he instantly feels his muscles calm.

The woman busied herself with boiling the water and gathering her various tools and ingredients before gesturing to the end of her bed.

Aemond paused for a moment, “How do I know you are who you say you are?”

She rolled her eyes, pulling up a stool to sit opposite him, “I don’t suppose you have much choice?” she sighs.

Aemond allows his hefty body to fall to the end of the bed, sitting high above the woman in front of him. He eyes her every movement and she shrugs, that smile floating up to her face once more.

Aemond felt the hot whips of something foreign flutter about his chest as her nimble fingers came to the buttons and fastenings of his tunic, seemingly unbothered by his reaction and more focussed on her work.

“Besides, you are in my home now. If I wanted to kill you, believe me good sir, I would have done it already”

Fair point, Aemond thought to himself. Not like she would put up much of a fight against him at his best. But right now he was not, and like it or not, he needed her help.

She went to pull the tunic from his shoulders, being careful to not bump his bad side. Aemond still hissed in pain though.

“And how do you know I am not dangerous” Aemond half-joked, scrunching his eye closed to bear through the pain. She pulled his sleeve over his good arm, letting the leather tunic rest around his waist. Now for the other side.

She scoffs, to his surprise, “You don’t look very dangerous like this”

She gingerly tugs at the collar on the other side, Aemond shivers as she brushes his hair down his back to get it out of the way. He hisses again,

“Sorry..” she says in a whisper, her breath warm against the peach fuzz on his neck. She carefully rolls the clothing off his shoulder, watching his expression for any sign of major distress. With one sleeve being off, it was much easier to negotiate the clothing off his body, leaving him in the sheer white undershirt. Eventually the other sleeve dropped to the floor and she took a step back, eyebrows furrowing and biting her lip.

Aemond could only look up at her, wondering what was going through her mind. What was she so concentrated on? 

With the shake of her head, “I’ll have to take the shirt off to see properly”

She crouched down before him with some shears between her fingers. 

“What do you think you are doing?” he asked. Her fierce eyes meet his above her and she uses the shears she has in a snipping motion,

“Unless you want to take the shirt off yourself?”

When no reply came from Aemond but an annoyed sigh, she began cutting. 

Once the rags of white were pulled from her body, she inspected the shoulder one more. One slender finger running over the tense muscle of his pale arm and he groans louder this time.

“Oh don’t be precious. I’m trying to help you” she tuts,

“And I thank you, but please sooner rather than later”

In a flash, she is pouring something into a cup and grabbing all the cloth she can, and her silence panics him slightly.

“Well?”

“There is no wound as such, no blood. But your shoulder is dislocated”

She bunches the cloth in her hand, making several knots.

Aemond raises his eyebrows, “Meaning?”

“Meaning…your shoulder has come out of its joint”

He stares at her blankly, still confused and she sighs at his expression as if now annoyed.

“Meaning?”

“Gods, meaning…I will need to pop it back in. Drink this” 

She shoves the cup into his good hand, but he does nothing for a moment and instead inspects the slightest dusty mug and the contents within, wincing at the smell.

“What is it?”

“It’s milk of the poppy, now just drink it so I can get your shoulder back in”

He gives her a cold look before downing the horrid substance in one gulp, grimacing afterwards at the texture it has left on his mouth. So much so, he barely realises that she is behind him knelt on the bed, tying one end of the cloth around his arm and shoulder tightly. He can feel that tight feeling below his waist at feeling the pressure of her breasts against his back, eye looking up to the roof to pray for the will.

“Now. This will hurt” she readied her arms with a firm grip on the cloth. Knowing he was a large man with long limbs, the risk of him flailing about and overpowering her was at the forefront of her mind, “Relax”

She orders it and Aemond scoffs at her tone. Does she not know who she is talking to?

“I doubt tha-”

As he is about to disregard her very job, she tugs at the cloth with all her force to pull the joint up and back into its socket. For a split second, she was not sure if she would be strong enough, feeling the bone grind against her grip. Furrowing her brows and placing a knee against his back for some support, she delivers a harsh tug and the bone rolls back into its home. Slotting perfect back into its rightful spot. 

She was not surprised however, when Aemond moaned out in searing pain, his muscles tense with the feeling. And then, pop, he felt it. The euphoric feeling of being able to move his arm was better than anything, and for the most part, had clouded the feeling of pain. Replacing it with pure bliss. 

He couldn’t help but let out a relieved gasp feeling his bones grab at his shoulder and he resisted the urge to fall back against the woman. All the tensing and pain had made him tired beyond words. 

As fast as she had done it, she was untying the knots. Smiling down at the exhausted man beneath her, two hands on his shoulders to guide his back to meet the bed. And now his breathing is slow and steady, as if he could finally relax for the first time.

“I don’t envy you…” she says from the other side of the cottage, standing before a boiling kettle.

Aemond finds the strength to look up to her, supporting his torso on his elbows. She was smiling back at him, waiting for the water to boil. He had to admit, he smiled back.

“...it is not the nicest feeling”

He watches her soft and calculated movements as she pours two cups of something warm. She takes her place on the stool before him once again, extending the other cup to him in a sort of truce.

The warmth comforts his chest instantly. 

“That is an understatement” 

The woman lets out a warm laugh as she tucks her skirt underneath her sitting form, fingers curling around the mug to warm her cold skin. Aemond watches her as she stares off into nothing and how the reflection of the lit fireplace bounces off the colour of her eyes. Truthfully, until now, he had not taken in her little home.

It was nowhere he would personally choose to live, destined for a life in the Red Keep, but it certainly had its own charm. It was barely even two rooms, only containing her wooden bed frame and the other mostly the kitchen appliances and a small stove. And when his eye observed the space around him, every shelf, every surface had some ornament on it and there was not a single wall sparse of any decoration.

“Are you alone out here?”

He realises how strange the question sounds when she gives him a cheeky smirk, one eyebrow ticked above her eye at his boldness. 

“It used to be my mother’s cottage. She passed away when I was quite young and I’ve been here ever since”

The story is brushed off with a mere shrug of her shoulders and he can tell that she doesn’t wish to speak any more about family.

“Seems an odd place for a woman on her own”

He can sense her frustration on the topic through the tapping sound of her nail against the cup, “I am alone for a reason. Healers are not exactly welcomed with open arms in most parts of Westeros”

“Hm” is all he responds with, which she mistakenly interprets as pain.

“How is your shoulder now?” her brows were temporarily furrowed in worry.

Aemond waved his hand in dismissal, “There is no pain. Thank you for your assistance, my Lady”

She hums a laugh at this, “Must you insist on calling me my lady. I am hardly that”

“Alright then, what is your name”

Her eyes sparkle with mischief and he watched her lips form into a smile, “Y/N”

“Well then, y/n” he nods at the mention of her name, “Thank you. I suppose I must be going”

Almost as quickly as Aemond went to get up, her now warmed hand was flat on his bare chest to push him back, propped up by the headboard.

“I would stay a while. Too much movement after such an adjustment can be even more painful”

Aemond eyed the hand that was still placed flat on his chest and could not help but send a knowing smirk in her direction. Her lips were parted as she watched her own fingers drag across his skin, seating herself next to him on the bed.

“Have I seen you somewhere?” she asks, “on the Street of Silk perhaps?”

He shakes his head, scoffing with an annoyed smile, grunting through the last layers of pain, “That would be my brother”

“So you are the other” she says, eyes boring into his form below her, casting a shadow over his body, “Prince Aemond”

He fights the urge to scoff again, “I half-thought you did not know who I was”

“Well you half-thought wrong. How many one-eyed, silver-haired men do you think come strolling past my cottage on the average day?”

“Not enough”

She turned to him with a cocked brow and a lob-sided smile, letting out a short burst of a laugh at his unexpected quip.

“I envy you Targaryens. You do not come up short on confidence”

“Mmhm…luck on the other hand”

He admires the way her eyes crinkle up when he makes a quip that tickles her and he finds himself wanting to do it again. But he simply sits there, eye looking down at her and admiring the way her tied up hair looks, the wavy tresses that sit beside her face, framing her interesting features.

She takes his empty cup from his hand, painfully oblivious to the lustful stare he gives her as she walks away having brushed her soft hands on his. Her touch burned on his skin and the further she walked away from him, the more he wanted that feeling to return and sit to burn in places that were forbidden to pass his lips. But she saw none of this internal struggle as she washed the two cups they had both used in the small sink before her.

“You may stay if you like. I will sleep in this room so you can be more comfortable” she says, scrubbing the cups.

As well as this new found desire, Aemond found himself drawn from the bed to her back. All the memories of pain long forgotten. But that feeling coupled with her deep caring nature, especially having only just met him. He could even feel himself getting unfathomably hard at the memory of her at his back, and how her tits would have looked pressed against it.

It was a shock she had not realised he was directly behind her.

“I will get you some salve-” her sentence was interrupted by Aemond’s hands resting at her waist, his fingers splayed out to feel any warmth on her skin. He could feel the way her ribs moved as she took a sharp breath in to steady herself and every single hair on her arms stood on end, as if in the presence of a predator. 

“Say the word and I will leave” his voice was so close she could feel his breath against her neck and her hands gripped the surface of the table before her, needing somewhere to place this feeling of his body pushed against her in the most delicious manner.

Swallowing shallowly, she inadvertently pushed her ass against his body earning something halfway between a breath and a growl from Aemond. 

When he understood that she would not say anything, his hand ventured to her hips to grip at the clothing that was bunched up there. The other hand wrapped further around her torso with ease, tracing the contour underneath her breast, and her eyes broke closed, wanting him to just touch her properly already.

“What are you doing…” she asked in a quiet whisper., “...you should not be moving”

A smirk tugged at Aemond’s lips, “Thanking you, for taking such good care of me”

He pulled up the skirts to her hips, letting a breathy moan out at finally touching her skin. His fingers lingered there, daring to dip in that valley between her legs, where he knew she would simply crumble.

“Now I wish to take care of you”

Her head landed softly against his bare chest when his fingers dipped before her aching heat, collecting the wetness on his fingers to spread around her waiting bud. He could feel her body in his arms sag with need,

“Have my mere words made you this wet?”

She could not and need not respond to his question as his middle finger prodded at her cunt, requesting entry and the sensation made her cry out in such desperation that her hand gripped at his thigh. Wishing that he would not taunt her in this way.

“Please…” she could barely believe the words that were passing her own lips.

“Please, what” his voice was stern which made her ache even more.

“I am no virgin, please just…do it”

Aemond scoffed, still circling her sensitive bud with the pad of his finger, the other hand was busy also fondling her breast and finding the hardened nipple underneath the linen dress. Her little outburst had sparked something deep inside of him and his hand squeezed her breast so tight as if to punish her, that she let out a pathetic whine.

“You dare to command a Prince…” his fingers once again were drawn to her hot centre. His cock twitched as she gripped at his thigh for dear life and the mere thought of his cock being squeezed in her delicate body sent a hot twinge down his spine, “...just because you are no virgin, I cannot take my time with you?”

Aemond let her breast free, pulling at the hardened nipple as he did so and she could not help the stifled moan that escaped her as his hand traveled up her chest to wrap his large slender fingers around her neck and give a soft squeeze.

“We are the only two people for some miles, I want to hear you” 

She could feel the rumble of his words with his mouth next to her ear. She nodded with eyes still firmly shut.

“Speak” he ordered.

“Yes” the words came out ragged and troubled and all Aemond did was laugh at her attempt of composure. 

“Sȳz”

He almost came in his breeches with her voice alone once he sank two fingers into her tight, hot cunt. She was tight. The mere thought of how tight she would feel around his cock gave him more pleasure than he had found in months. But he would treat her right, get her prepared for him, hoping that she would struggle to walk the next morning.

He pumped his hands into her with ease, each drag through her walls earning a moan drawn beautifully from her lips and he gave her neck a loving squeeze, wordlessly ordering her to open her eyes. The look she gave him as he stared down and fucked her with his fingers mercilessly was one of artistic measure, he then thought. Someone should paint the expression she was giving him, as if this were the most right and yet the most wrong thing at the same time.

He guided her to him, slotting his lips against hers while his fingers made light work of her. He could feel the way her legs were starting to sway, she was close. The notion of her pleasure alone made him smirk against her, accepting her invitation of her tongue and slipping a third finger into her. 

A muffled moan spilled into his mouth and he knew she would not last much longer. From this angle it was easy for his thumb to slide over her clit, applying just enough pressure to send her head into a dizzying frenzy. Several moans spilling from her mouth as her hand gripped his wrist, the unformidable gush of pleasure making its way through her core as her orgasm ripped through her. 

“That’s it…” he cooed at her ear, still fucking her but slowly and careful to not overstimulate her. There was still time for that. 

Once he felt her grip on his wrist soften, he pulled away from her cunt, the wetness still stuck to his fingers. She seemed to whine softly at the loss of his touch until he placed his fingers to her lips, a prospect which she accepted wordlessly and she moaned against his fingers as Aemond shoved his fingers down her throat. 

Aemond found himself painfully hard purely by just watching her. She pulled her lips from his fingers and looked up at Aemond through her eyelashes, making sure her ass jutted out against his erection, smiling when he closed his eyes to hold back.

“Are you sure I’ve not seen you on the Street of Silk before?” 

Without a word, Aemond’s grip came to her forearms to unceremoniously throw her to the bed, allowing her delicate form to bounce on the mattress, hair splayed across the covers and that damn flushed face that made Aemond just want to keep her to himself. 

He stared down at her from between her legs which were hanging off the bed. For a person with only one eye, he could emote his feelings very well. But this look he gave her was unreadable and practically dripped with eroticism as he untied the strings that held his breeches together. She flushed even more when she looked to his crotch to see his erection squeezed by the tight restraints of his leathers, even more so at the size of it before even having properly seen it. She pushed her thighs together to contain the throb of her clit at the man before her.

 “I am no depraved man. I do not take what is not freely given to me”

Her eyes went to his and a playful smirk made its way to her face, sensing a challenge ahead of her.

“And I am freely given to you?”

Challenge accepted, he smirked down at her, “Unless you want me to leave?”

She bit her lip, knowing he was simply toying with her. He would not leave with such a pain between his legs, otherwise he would bitterley regret it.

“You are depraved for suggesting such a thing”

She got to her knees on the bed, her eyes boring back into Aemond’s as he stood with his breeches half undone and simply watching her delicate fingers pull at the fastenings on her dress. It was painfully slow, the way the strings fell from her and Aemond took a deep breath at the sight of her shoulders peeking out from beneath the fabric. 

She pulled the dress slowly down her chest, knowing it was tormenting Aemond inside at how slow she was being. And when her dress pulled over her nipples and her breasts bounced out of her clothing, Aemond breathed out audibly, one hand on his cock to ease some of the needing sensation in it.

She watched his every reaction as she pushed the dress past her hips, allowing Aemond to see every curve, line, scar and dimple of her body. He had been so lost in watching all the shadows of her form that when she placed a warm hand against his leather-clad erection, gently squeezing his girth, he almost moaned out loud.

Aemond couldn’t look at her anymore, for the fear of climaxing right away he wasn’t sure. But he knew that she was watching every reaction from him with his eye softly closed, mouth slightly open to allow any delicious moans escape him. 

And they certainly did as she pulled his breeches from his hips and he was completely naked before her. He felt the slightly cooler air hit his newly exposed skin and sighed quietly, feeling his cock freed finally giving some semblance of relief. 

Her small hand gripped the base of his cock and Aemond bit his lip, cock twitching at the anticipation of her touch and she instantly began pumping him, her thumb passing that sensitive spot at the slit and using her thumb to smear precum over his alarmingly bright tip, just aching for attention.

A low growl filled his throat with her ministrations and he knew she was smirking up at him, relishing in the knowledge that she was making him feel utterly heavenly. But all recollection of control swiftly disappeared when he felt the lewd, wet stripe she had painted with her tongue from the base to stop just before his slit. He needed her mouth at his tip. Just needed it. And when she pulled away before reaching there, he looked down at her and thought her the most beautiful thing in Westeros at that very moment.

“Who knew that the fearsome Prince Aemond could be tamed by a mere woman…” her voice was hot against his cock and he clenched his fists into a ball, the burning desire to just shove his cock down her throat just too strong.

“Fuck…please…” 

She didn’t need to be asked twice, which he would eventually reward her for, and her mouth enveloped his tip with an infuriatingly addictive warmth. It was a surprise he didn’t come on the spot and the gasp that escaped him made him think he would have done, feeling her soft lips take him so well and venture down the length of him. Her tongue massaged his tip, swirling that sensitive spot around with such ease it made Aemond’s brows furrow together.

It was a never ending surprise, the things she did to him, as she continued to take him into her mouth all the way down to the curled hair at the base, sheathing him within her completely so much so that the tip prodded at the back of her throat. Aemond stifled a moan, and without control of himself ran his fingers through her hair to grip at the locks there, needing somewhere to place this desire for her to completely sate him.

She was apparently tired of waiting and so began slowly lifting her lips up and down his shaft, tongue dragging along the bottom to earn more addictive moans from Aemond. Never in his life had he felt such pleasure without penetrative sex. Knowing how good she was at taking him now, he felt impossibly harder at the prospect of what lies between her pretty thighs. 

He felt himself begin to thrust into her mouth with her rhythm and his head fell back slightly at the feeling of her quiet moans sending vibrations through him, perhaps it was the knowledge that she was enjoying watching the pleasure she gave him. And this turned out to be true and he smirked seeing her hand between her legs. But he knew. She was already wet enough for him.

“Fuck…” were the only words that passed his lips as she took him down her throat, needing him deep inside her. Her speed increased and her hand was pumping the parts of him that she could not get in her mouth, only serving to increase the intensity of Aemond’s groans of pleasure. The hand that was fisted in her hair, was now pushing her head against him in line with his thrusts. Her breasts bounced against him. It was too late to hold back now.

Shockingly, she stayed planted firmly on his cock, still swirling her tongue around his slit when he came in her mouth. A string of profanities in both the common tongue and his mother tongue spilling from his mouth as his strong, firm hand pushed her face against him. But she seemed not to resist and instead moaned out with those vibrations again, at the feeling of his seed coating her mouth.

They remained this way for merely a moment before she retracted from him, a string of saliva and cum connecting the two. Aemond made a sinfully lewd noise as he watched her throat contract, swallowing every bit of him, all while those eyes stared up at him, darkened and lustful. But there is a tender whisper of a moment there, as his thumb brushes against her pinkened lips and a smile graces her face. 

All at once, Aemond has her back at the bed, his own form propped above her and his lips delivering light kisses at her chest to her breasts. Pausing to look up at her, his tongue flicks out to take a nipple into his mouth, giving a light bite that makes her back arch up into him. From this angle, her cunt touches his softened cock ever so lightly, and even this contact is enough to have her gasp out. 

“Aemond…” she breathes, craving that feeling even more now that he has made her wait, “...what are you doing…”

She hardly realised the question passed her and certainly expected no reply.

He let out a low chuckle and kissed the sensitive space between her neck and ear, close enough to whisper.

“Oh, you think I am finished with you?” he asked and those gorgeous eyes looked back at him, half-lust and half-confusion until she felt that he was hard yet again against her cunt. Subconsciously her hip jutted up into him, briefly prodding against his once again weeping tip and Aemond had to close his eyes and find the will somewhere within him. To pull him back from simply shoving his cock into her as deep as he could.

But she deserved to feel every inch of him, he thought. She deserved to at least savour the feeling of his cock slowly making its way through her for a moment. At least, before he would fuck her mercilessly after. 

She gasped at the realised that he was hard again and with the threat that he wasn’t finished with her, she felt the excitement settle between her legs and electrified into her clit. Aemond grasped his cock once against and placed it there, thrusting up to collect her wetness on him.

“Look at you…” his mouth was next to her ear again, hot breath fanning across her and even that seemed to tease a moan from her own, “...whoever you were with before didn’t make you this wet, did they”

She shook her head softly, her hips meeting his once again, wanting him to just be inside her.

A surprised sound escaped her when his hand clamped around her throat once again, but it was forceful this time and his look even more so.

“Answer me”

She found it difficult to find her voice with his cock so hard between her legs, threatening to split her open, “No…please Aemond…”

He smirked at her begging. It was like music to his ears. 

In one swift motion, he sheathed himself inside of her and he moaned loudly beside her. Her walls squeezed him like a vice, but one he was happy to be enveloped by. She was warm and wet and her previous release covered his shaft, so it was easy to slide right into her, leaving some gap between his hips and hers still.

At the feeling of him filling her, a sharp gasp left her through her constricted airway. It was not difficult to breathe, but the fingers around her throat seemed to escalate the already euphoric feeling. Her hands came to his shoulders, her right immediately faltering once she realised that it had been his bad arm and her eyes softened at his gaze in an apology. But he shook his head, it did not hurt anymore.

He bottomed inside of her, his tip prodding against the spongy flesh of her cervix and he smiled in the knowledge he was filling her completely. But also at the furrowed expression she had on her face and the notion her legs widened ever so slightly to accommodate him.

“You know I am no virgin” she said matter-of-factly, sparking a brief interest in his eye, “get on with it then”

She smirked up at him, feeling mischievous, “make good on your promise, Prince Aemond”

And that was all it took to make Aemond tighten his grip on her neck, choking her slightly before dragging his cock from her to slam into her once again. That was it. She had asked for it and she would get it. She had dared to poke the dragon and now had to deal with the consequences, including that she would not leave the bed all evening. 

She whined and tightened her grip on him as Aemond pounded forcefully into her cunt, his hands found their spot at her hips, pushing down on them to find that new spot inside of her that made her eyes screw shut. Her nails dug into his shoulders and arms, a reminder for the morning that this had all in fact not been a dream.

“I still want to hear you” he ordered, delivering a firm slap to her buttock and then grabbing the raw skin afterwards. This alone is enough to earn him a delicious moan from her. Gods, he was addicted to the sounds she made. He would have to force her to make more.

She seemed to take his words to heart and when his palm lay flat on her abdomen to feel the presence of his cock within her, she moaned louder and louder as it hit a new spot within her. Aemond chuckled darkly

“Has anyone made you feel this good, hm?” he asked between breaths and your eyes were on him again and for a moment, the air seemed to die in his throat. 

“No…no, you feel so good-ah..” he cut her off with one particularly hard thrust, “...you’re so big…I..”

“Don’t you dare cum yet”

“Please…Aemond…”

“No” he replied sternly.

In an instant he had her flipped over and while she momentarily whined at the loss of feeling his cock was giving her, she squealed in surprise when he had her pressed against the bed, hand in her hair pulling at it. He stuffed her cunt with him once again, the new angle providing Aemond with a new feeling and he moaned out loud, pushing the hair over her back to see her face better.

“Fuck…you’re so tight…” he moaned out, pulling one of her legs over him to somehow sink deeper into her with his savage thrusting. He could see her hands fisted into the bed covers, her face screwed up and searching for release. 

His large hands gripped at the soft flesh of her ass, leaving marks that he knew would surely last. She needed to remember this, he thought. He pulled her up by her hair so her back was flush with his chest, thrusting up to meet her cunt with every push. As if by habit, his hand was at her neck once again, his other coming to her front to circle her sensitive bud. She almost screamed out with the feeling, already anticipating the flood of release escape her. 

But remembering his words, she turned up to look at him, face pink in the exercise of their acts. He was flushed too, that facade of power slowly dripping away and replaced with pure bliss at her cunt fluttering around him. Already knowing how close she was.

“Aemond…I-”

“I know, sweet girl…let go for me”

The sheer sound of his voice was enough to send her over the edge. He continued to rub at her clit, intent on making sure she received several crashes of pleasure through her aching body. His name barely escaped her as her release rushed through her, sending shock through her hips and making her shake before him. And had she been watching herself, she might have felt embarrassed. But with Aemond’s cock inside her and his fingers squeezing her throat ever tighter, she could not have cared less.

“Sȳz…” he cooed against her again, all while his own release threatened to spill into her.

The waves of an orgasm ripped through her and once they had subsided and her release coated the base of his cock, Aemond half-thought to slip himself out of her. At least until her ass bucked back into him and his tip prodded against her cervix again, making her cunt tighten around him. By then it had been too late. 

He moaned loudly into her ear, fingers dug into the sensitive skin at her neck, cutting off her air completely. Not that she seemed to mind. Her hand came to his body to pull him closer to her and he spilled his seed inside her, coating her walls with his thick cum and she sighed in contentment, while he let out a shattered breath at her warmth taking him so well.

Eventually, his grip on her neck softened and he could not hear her labored breathing and how her body sank against his own. He body softly placed against his as his chest rose and fall quickly. He swore he could feel her rapid heartbeat through her cunt, squeezing around him with the rhythm of it. 

“I-” Aemond went to say something, but by his surprise her lips had been slotted against his as she reached up. He had to say he was quite shocked by it, but he did not push away and accepted the warm embrace of her lips affectionately. 

When he pulled away, he smiled at the look on her face. 

“I am sorry…” he started.

“For what”

“My seed…”

The quick whips of panic flared at the back of his neck at the prospect of fathering bastards. And he sent her a confused glance as she merely chuckled weakly,

“I have moon tea, do not worry” 

Phew.

“Everyone knows how much you hate bastards” she winks.

The quip makes him smile and as she goes to get up only to be pulled back by his strong hand on her arm, she looked back confusedly.

“What?” she asks.

“You think I am finished with you?”

A flash of half-surprise and half-concern passes her face once she feels him harden inside her once again.

And the prince made good on his promise that night. Thanking her for taking care of him so well through the means of multiple orgasms. They must have been at it until early in the morning, noting that they only had a few hours of sleep before the sun threatened to appear over the horizon. Aemond had scarcely wanted to leave, feeling completely at ease in the bed with her limp, spent form laying on top of him.

She was kind and able enough after the night’s activities to feed him once again before he took his leave, thankful at least that his horse had gotten quite bored of wandering the dark woods alone and had returned to the only civilized place it could find. Which happened to be her home.

Once high on his horse, Aemond looked back to the woman stood against the door of her cottage, a contagious smile on his face and the desire to constantly look back until she was out of view. Remembering the way the morning sun shone through her messed locks and the shawl that was pulled tight about her body.

Alicent did indeed scold the two other men with Aemond at the time of his injury, earning much amusement from the Prince.

But it didn’t deter him from going hunting once again, this time, alone.

In fact, he rather enjoyed hunting now.

dividers by @firefly-graphics​

#aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #Aemond the Kinslayer #prince aemond #Aemond x Reader #aemond angst #aemond fluff #aemond smut #aemond stannies #aemond #prince aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen smut #hotd aemond #hotd smut #hotd fanfic #aemond fic #aemond fanfiction #aemond fandom #aemond x you #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond targaryen x you #house of the dragon aemond #house of the dragon #house of the dragon smut

[cordeliawhohung]

Death of Me - Part 1

Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!Reader - Part six of "soft spot"

Simon returns back from deployment. Normally he comes home carrying nothing but exhaustion, but this time he brings back something that will be the death of him.

warnings: none!! very soft! simon is hiding something!! eventual smut in the later part!

wc: 4.7k

A pristine creme envelope sat in the large expanse of Simon’s hands, and he couldn't help but look down at it with a hint of disdain.

He wasn’t the only person with one, either. Every single member of Task Force 141 had that terribly perfect letter, including their captain, who stood at the front of the room waving it around like it was a piece of evidence. It was unmarked, unaddressed, but each and every one of them knew exactly what lay inside. 

“Mandatory,” Price spoke up, his tone dripping with a bored sort of authority. He, too, appeared to be a bit irritated by the contents of the letter. 

If they were school aged boys, a series of groans would have left their lips, but they were soldiers. Not a single sound of annoyance left them, though their eyes betrayed their feelings. 

“I won’t bore you with the details,” Price continued as he tossed his envelope onto the table. It slid across the synthetic wood with a soft scratch, but Simon didn’t pay it any attention. “Everything you need to know is inside. Make sure you’re prepared. Can’t afford to make a fool of ourselves.” 

Of course they couldn’t. Not on something as high profile as that. Still… Task Force 141? For something like that? It had to be a joke, certainly. But it wasn’t. The envelope was in his hands. His eyes had scanned the words. It wasn’t a joke, and he wanted nothing more than to crumple that stupid piece of paper and toss it into the bin. 

“For now, go home. Get some rest,” Price finished before squarely crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re going to need it.” 

That was a fucking understatement. 

Still, Simon wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth, and if his captain was excusing him to go home, to go back to you, then he wasn’t going to stall any longer. He was the first to rise from the table, not much to anyone’s surprise. If there was no more talk or questions, he was never one to stick around. But all eyes flickered over to him, almost as if they could sense the anticipation rolling off his shoulders in waves. 

That feeling within him persisted even after he had left the room, hands shoving deep into his pocket and crushing the envelope along with it. He entered the hallway where various bodies scurried around the building, none of whom paid attention to him at all as he made a beeline for the exit. 

All he had thought about the last few weeks while he was gone was you. Nothing in the world could have prepared him for how much he would miss you. Sure, he would be concerned for you in the same way he had ever since you started tearing off the plates of the armor he had spent so much time encasing his body with. But once he moved in with you, it was an entirely different feeling being ripped away from you. Sleeping on the hard ground he had gotten used to rather than next to your body. Eating food out of his shitty ORPs instead of cooking you breakfast in the morning where you would dote over him in the kitchen. He had gotten used to the softness of you, and it drove him mad how terribly he craved it. 

It felt like he was dying. 

“L.T! Wait up!” 

Every muscle in Simon’s body tensed up and he found himself turning around more aggressively than he intended. Maybe it was the fatigue. They had just gotten back to base early that morning, after all, and the quick nap he took in the chair of his office before Price’s debriefing was only enough to clear his mind, not his nerves. Once he caught sight of Soap, he tried his best to relax, but he had the nagging feeling that he accidentally shot the man a glare instead. 

“You’re… telling Spook about this, right?” Soap asked cautiously, afraid to poke at the beast too much. 

At first, the nickname Soap coined for you was rather annoying. Simon found himself holding back a snarky comment every time the man tried to tease him with it, but the more that he thought about it, the more he became somewhat partial to it. Not that he would ever share that information with either you or Soap. Still, the man never gave Soap exactly what he wanted; that confirmation that you existed. Keeping you hidden, keeping you safe was the only thing he cared about. 

“I’m not in the mood for this, Johnny,” Simon said gruffly, his voice not having as much of an edge to it as he would have liked. 

“I’m being serious,” Soap said. And really, he was. It was the same type of hardness Soap carried when they were out in the field. “I’m sure she’ll want to know about this.” 

Simon laughed in the way where it was just a violent puff of air from his nose as he shook his head. The kid was stubborn, he’d give him that. They had caused a bottleneck in the flow of traffic in the hallway, but neither of them seemed to care as they stared at one another, letting any passerby sneak past if they needed to. 

“We’re not having this conversation,” he said simply. 

And they never would. Simon had made that decision long ago. Even though they were comrades, even though they bantered well enough on the field, even though they could be considered friends, brothers even, that conversation would never exist. The words Soap wanted out of him would never leave his lips. Not if he could help it. 

So he turned away and continued walking down the hallway, eyes focused heavily on the exit that would set him free, that would take him home to you. All the while, Soap continued standing there as if his feet were stuck. He watched as Simon left, and his eyes couldn’t help but flicker down to the corner of the handkerchief sticking out of his left back pocket. 

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

It was never a surprise when Simon returned home, as he was shockingly good at communicating, despite what one might think. Maybe you shouldn’t have been all that surprised, as that sort of thing was important as a soldier. Be it a text, or on occasion, even a call, you were always made aware of his plans, so when you arrived home after work and you saw his boots by the door, you weren’t taken aback, but you were certainly giddy. 

Your shoes came tumbling off your feet as you hurriedly kicked them away, the worn soles hitting the wall with a thud where your bag followed shortly after it. The soft pitter patter of your feet bounced off the confined walls of the hallway as you cautiously entered your bedroom. 

Simon slept on his back with an arm thrown over his eyes to block out the sunlight that seeped through the window. It would have been easier to just close the curtains, but you chalked it up to him being exhausted. He didn’t wear a shirt, so his torso was exposed, but had on a pair of dark sweatpants to cover his lower half. Silvery scars glinted slightly against the pale of his skin, and you took notice of a deep bruise on his arm, like he had used himself as a battering ram while he was deployed (which he probably did). 

Grinning at the sight of him, you began to shed your unneeded layers. A blazer, your socks, anything that was even remotely uncomfortable. Once you were finished, you carefully began to crawl into bed where the mattress sunk underneath the weight of your hands and knees, which was enough to stir Simon out of his slumber. His arm raised off of his face as you settled your back against the headboard, sitting next to him. Soft remnants of his eye black lined the very corner of his eyes in the crevices he couldn’t quite wash off in the shower, giving him the appearance of more intense exhaustion. 

“Hey, handsome,” you greeted softly as you lifted a hand to comb through his hair. He normally liked to keep it shorter, but whenever he was gone on missions he always returned with it being a tad longer than usual, which you always took joy in playing with. 

He only answered you with a simple grunt as he began to shift. Before you knew it, Simon laid in your lap, trapping your legs underneath his body as his head rested on your thighs. His hands wrapped around the underside of your thighs where he gave them a firm squeeze before he fully relaxed once more. 

Your breath caught in your throat as your hand returned to rest on his head. It was oddly comfortable, in a way. He positioned himself perfectly so that he wasn’t putting any pressure on your knees, and he used your thighs like they were pillows. It was so… innocent. God, you wanted nothing more than to just smother him in a hug, but instead you settled for the soft strands of his hair between your fingers. 

“I missed you too,” you chuckled, which only made him give your legs another squeeze as he settled further into your touch. 

With him on his stomach, you had a full view of his back; not that you had never seen his bare back before, but you hadn’t exactly studied it, either. There were a few scars, some of which mirrored the ones on his front, like something had punctured all the way through him. Then there was the muscle, the dip of his spine, the tendons pulling underneath his skin as they flexed to hold you tight. 

Something stirred within you at the sight of him like that. Blood seared through your veins, your heart lurched as if trying to break free from your chest and embrace him itself. Even after all that time you two had spent with one another you could never get enough of him. Not his shitty jokes or his cold exterior. Especially not the way he looked at you, the way he held you. 

But he was tired, that much was obvious. You wouldn’t be surprised if he hadn’t gotten a single night of good rest the entire time he was away. So you let him rest in the comfort of your lap as your fingers ran through his hair. 

It wasn’t until the next day that you were really able to talk to Simon. Sleep (especially sleep that was done next to you) was just what he needed to reset his mind and energy, and by the next morning he was a refreshed man. Breakfast on the table, fresh tea on the counter, and a good morning kiss. He almost seemed more lovely than normal, which you weren’t opposed to at all. You chalked it up to him missing you on his mission and you reveled in that softness. 

But things got different after his short weekend at home. Simon would go on base to do whatever it is officers of the military did, and every time he would come home he seemed more exhausted than normal. Something started to wear at him, chipping pieces of him away bit by bit until he seemed like he would shatter. Of course he never took these feelings out on you. He never even complained of being tired or having a long day. Most of what you picked up on were little hints. Extra stress in his shoulders, a slight distractedness to his tone, misremembering something. You wanted to ask him about it, but it was work, something he never talked about. 

Never talked about. Never ever. Where you would rant about an annoying patron at work, Simon would listen. Where you would talk about something funny one of your co-workers did, Simon would listen. And listen and listen but never, ever would he talk. Never ever would he relate your story to one of his own. 

And you knew it was necessary, in a way. Maybe you didn’t want to know every single detail about his job. You certainly could do without any mention of the death and gore that war often brought with it. But what about the small stories? The happy ones? Did he have a teammate who told him a funny joke? Maybe something interesting happened on base? And he could at least attempt to explain the miscellaneous scrapes, bruises and wounds he often came home with, even if just by giving vague information. 

In short, you were starting to feel a little detached from Simon, in a way. There was something blocking you from that average, everyday conversation. But it was silly of you to think that. That’s just the way Simon was. Quiet and battle hardened. Maybe he had always been that way. How was he supposed to be anything different when that’s all he had known? 

“You alright, sweetheart?” 

Simon’s voice pulled you out of your thoughts, and you paused halfway through taking a bite of the sandwiches the two of you had made for lunch that day. You pulled the food away from your lips and you looked up at him with narrowing brows. 

“Huh?” you spoke up. 

It was difficult for you to read his gaze, as it normally was. In a way, it was almost like he was trying to study you, as he didn’t leave a single inch of your face unassessed. The dark color of his eyes brightened only slightly from the sunlight pouring in through the window next to you, and you almost found yourself losing track of your thoughts again by that view alone. 

“You’re quiet,” he noted. 

That was the big drawback to talking all the time. Whenever you fell quiet, it was always painfully obvious. Brushing it off, you offered him a quick smile before raising the sandwich to your lips again. 

“Figured I’d give you a day off from my yapping,” you excused before taking another bite. 

He hummed but stayed still for a moment as you continued eating. His eyes glanced down at the table and then back to you before following your lead. “I like it when you talk,” he admitted. 

A sour chuckle rumbled in your throat only to be muffled by the food in your mouth. You swallowed, then said, “I think you’re the only one who does.” 

Silence. The painfully awkward kind. The kind that you didn’t often share with Simon. You found yourself intensely focusing on your sandwich more than was considered normal. Really, you were afraid that if you talked anymore than you had been, you would find yourself blurting out a bunch of questions at him. The countless ones that had been swimming in your mind since he had returned back from overseas a few weeks ago. 

Your only saving grace was the distraction that pulled up outside your apartment. A bright red van bearing the Royal Mail’s insignia parked in front of the mail boxes, making itself painfully obvious against the dull grey color of the streets. A worker exited the vehicle before promptly filling the boxes with the corresponding mail. Simon followed your gaze, and the two of you watched the poor postal carrier like curious dogs ready to chase them down the street. 

They left by the time you were finished with your sandwich, and you promptly stood up from your seat, taking yours and Simon’s plate from the table. He watched you with careful eyes as you tossed the plates into the dishwasher. 

“I’m going to check on the mail,” you said as you dried your hands off on one of the kitchen towels. 

Summer was almost in full swing, and its warmth was one of the first things to greet you when you stepped foot outside. That was one of the better things about London; the summers were usually fairly mild, save for when a heatwave brought blistering temperatures along with it. Though, the pollution only seemed to create a stench that radiated deep from the center of the city. You tried to avoid that as best as you could whenever you didn’t have to work. 

You bounded up to the mailboxes like a dog after a bone, or a child excited to open a present. Even with all your time spent as an adult you got excited for mail, despite the fact a majority of it was either bills or some sort of promotional content. The mail you got for that day was rather pathetic. A few bills, some window repair company promo (which you were half tempted to tell your landlords about, as that damned window in the living room was still drafty), and a simple creme envelope were all that were inside. 

Out of all the mail you got that day, that simple envelope was the most peculiar. There was no return address, or any indication of who it could be from, and even though it had your address, there was no name linked to it. A small but deep part of you began to panic slightly, concerned that it might have been something Eric sent you, but you knew he wouldn’t have put in enough effort to have the address physically printed on it, or pay for the postage, for that matter. 

Still, the very moment you made it back into the apartment, you tossed the other bits of mail on the counter and curiously ripped into that unmarked letter. Within an instant, you realized that this letter was not meant for you. The coat of arms, that formal military greeting, and fancy wording made it painfully obvious it was meant for Simon. But your eyes caught sight of the first sentence, and you quickly realized you couldn’t stop your curiosity from getting the better of you. 

“Anything good?” Simon asked, nearly causing you to jump. You had been so engrossed in the letter that you had almost forgotten that he sat at the table in the small dining room just mere feet away from you. 

Your eyes found him for a short moment before going back to the paper that sat in your hands. Every word you glanced over burnt into the back of your mind, and you felt your throat going a little dry, making your voice hoarse when you spoke to him. 

“You were invited to a ball?” 

Not much changed about Simon when you asked him that question, except for the look in his eyes. The way they softened in an anticipatory apology made your teeth sink into your lip, and you held the letter out for him to take. He didn't even look at the letter when he stood to his feet, and he carefully closed the gap between the two of you before taking the paper and setting it on the counter with the mail you had discarded. 

“Are you going?” you then asked him. 

Simon leaned against the counter with his hands resting behind him. It was obvious that he hadn’t intended on telling you about the event. That goddamn military ball. For a majority of his career, he had managed to slip out of them for one reason or another. But that time was a little different. The guest of honor had requested for Task Force 141 specifically after they had inadvertently saved some of their assets on a previous mission. A little hard to get out of something like that, even for the infamous Ghost. 

“Have to,” he admitted softly as his eyes drank in the features of your face. 

You nodded in understanding, averting your gaze to look at the pile of papers next to you instead. “It… mentioned something about a plus one. But it’s in a week and you haven’t mentioned it to me at all.” 

There were so many words pushing against your lips, trying to flood forth to fill the tight space between you and Simon. It was difficult learning to speak your mind again. Learning how to explain your feelings without the fear of being reprimanded for it was agonizing, yet you forced yourself to push through it anyway. 

“Are you trying to hide me?” you finally asked. 

Simon’s gaze softened, and you stood there and watched as he shifted his weight slightly. Throughout your time together, you hadn’t ever had an argument before, if it could even be called that, anyway. It wasn’t the usual screaming matches you had grown accustomed to, but it still caused that awkward tension to grow in your chest. 

“I don’t want to involve you with my work,” Simon explained simply. He gave you the truth, plain and simple. It didn’t make it any easier to swallow. 

“I understand that, but Simon, this is a ball. A formal event. I hardly doubt there will be any terrorists there for you to fight,” you retorted with an awkward laugh. 

Not even Simon could deny the fact that you were right. It was a simple event, something that would be done and over with after a few hours. But how was he supposed to explain that bringing you there would be like advertising the one thing that could bring him to his knees; his achilles heel? He didn’t care about being a strong man, or someone to be feared, but he did care about you. The last thing he wanted to do was get you mixed up in his work, be it formal events, his teammates, anything. 

But how was he supposed to say no when you looked up at him like that? Eyes pleading for him to give in, to take the risk, to enjoy the consequences for once? Because the truth was, he wanted nothing more in the entire world than to show you off, to parade you around and shout to the sky. To say look at her. Look at her and fear her because she is the only thing in this world that I will bend to. 

“You really want to go?” he asked stiffly. It was obvious he still wasn’t fully onboard with the idea. You weren’t exactly sure if he ever would be with something like that, yet he tried anyway. 

“Of course I want to go,” you responded a bit more winded than you had anticipated. 

He should say no. In fact, he should have shut the conversation down a long time ago. He was about to break the very deal he made to himself when he first started seeing you; don’t get her involved. Maybe it was too late for that. You had entangled yourself with every fiber of his being, every thought that crossed his mind. You were nothing but poison, and he would gladly drink the toxin from your lips just to feel you resuscitate him.

It was stupid, and he knew it. He closed his eyes and let out a heavy sigh before focusing back on you. “You got a dress?” 

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The last place Simon fucking Riley belonged was a dress shop. Surrounded by soft chiffon and bright silk, he sat on a pristine white couch that was much too small for someone of his stature, and he stuck out like a sore thumb. He was the dark black ink stain in a building that housed mostly white. It was obvious that the shop made most of its money off of weddings, as a majority of the dresses that lined the walls and mannequins donned ivory dresses with long trains and sparkly veils. The sight of it made his stomach churn, and he couldn’t remember a time he had ever felt so uncomfortable. 

Even though the only thing he wanted to do was run out of the store and leave you to your own devices, he stayed on that couch, trying his best not to stare at the large wall of mirrors in front of him. A majority of his time there was spent waiting for you to change in and out of dresses. You had tried on everything from large poofy ball gowns to long sleeved, slim fitting evening dresses. None seemed to speak to you, as you would stand in front of the mirror and instantly start to pick apart the details. Most of which he agreed with you on, as he didn’t really understand the high end fashion of dresses either. 

However, there was one dress that he was a bit bummed that you didn’t choose. It was a beautiful dark red that washed down your legs in perfect silk. Your collarbones were on display with the lack of straps, and he found he actually liked the embellishments on the bodice. Yet you complained that you were going to have to adjust the dress from falling off your chest the entire night, and so back on the rack it went. 

So he waited. And waited. 

Until he heard the familiar chatting between you and the assistant as you exited the dressing room for what he prayed was the final time. Perhaps it might be a blessing in disguise. If you can’t find a dress to wear for the event, then maybe you’d stay home, and he’d be able to keep you hidden like he promised himself he would. 

When you came into full view, all of those thoughts vanished from his brain, and his mind went blank. A black evening gown clung to your body, and the skirt swayed hypnotically as you walked to stand in front of the mirrors. Simon was at an utter loss for words as he took in the features. Beautiful chiffon layers for the skirt that danced around your legs, fabric that molded to your waist perfectly, a beautiful sweetheart neckline that coupled alluringly with the off-the-shoulder sleeves that clung to your arms. 

He wasn’t sure what exactly it was that made his mind begin to stray. Maybe it was the color? Had you ever worn so much black around him before? Or maybe it was the way you looked so elegant; but in the way a panther is elegant in pouncing before she kills her prey. 

“What do we think about this one?” the assistant asked while she helped to smooth the back of the skirt. 

“This one feels much more secure,” you noted as you messed with the neckline some. “It also feels very… light? Like, flowy. Easy to move in without having to worry about tripping on something.” 

The assistant nodded as she offered you a smile in the mirror. “Yes, the chiffon and silk mix makes this perfect to wear in warm environments as well. Even with the dark color you shouldn’t expect to be sweating all that much.”

You nodded your head in response to her as you turned your attention back to the dress. Pretty. That’s the only word that you felt like could describe it. You felt pretty. Maybe even a little confident. And you adored the way that it accentuated the necklace that you had worn pretty much every day since Simon had first gifted it to you. 

“Simon,” you called as you turned around. “What do you…”

The words were lost on the tip of your tongue as you faced Simon. He hadn’t moved a single inch and yet his expression changed so much. Arms sprawled out along the back of the couch, he leaned back as he admired you. His dark eyes lingered on the skirt of the dress for a moment as its swaying movement settled, but then they began to climb up your body. He drank up the curve of your hips, the exposed skin of your shoulders, the movement of your chest with your breathing. You couldn’t recall a time Simon had looked at you like that; or, not in public, at least. 

A grin formed on your lips and you couldn’t help but sway side to side with a childish sort of excitement. That was all the confirmation you needed from him, and you quickly turned back to the assistant. 

“This is it. This is the one.”

tags: @ghostlythots @archonsabyss

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#simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #soft spot #f!reader

[rippersz]

Her Scorn

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(A Brienne of Tarth x Fem!Reader one-shot) (No warnings apply)

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Brienne of Tarth hated you.

Everyone in the Kingsguard knew it - every soldier, every Stark left alive; Hell it would be no surprise to you if everyone in the North had been told that Brienne of Tarth hated you. Despised you, really. And that wasn’t because she went around ranting and raving, oh no she’d never stoop so low as to do that, but it was because word traveled fast when drama was absent. People made big things out of small things. People spoke and they spoke far too much.

“Ser Brienne hates her!”

“I heard Brienne despises the girl.”

“Why? Well no one really knows, but that doesn’t change the fact.”

Unfortunately, that was the thing - the one thing about the entire situation that left you at a loss.

Ser Brienne of Tarth hated you and no one had any idea why.

Not even yourself; for as far as you knew, you’d never done anything to get on her metaphorical bad side. You just minded your own business, tending to the horses and cleaning up the mess tables during the summer and making sure the training grounds for the troops were clear and neat. Well… as neat as training grounds could be.

Some part of you wondered if that’s why the soldier disliked you so much - because you didn’t do your job the way she wanted you to do it. One would think that if that were the case then surely she would have said something, but unfortunately you were met with silence. And it wasn’t as though you could solve it on your own with a little conversation. Oh no, the very idea- the very notion- of approaching her yourself and confronting her for her subtle yet noticeable behavior was enough to make you nauseous with anxiety. Because you? Going up to The Ser Brienne of Tarth? Gods, no. Absolutely not. Not because she would bite your head off - everyone knew she wasn’t that volatile - but because you harbored some inexplicable feelings yourself.

In fact, you couldn’t even look her in the eye.

She was just… she was just so tall. So tall and so strong. Strapping, really. And handsome - so fucking handsome. With those blonde waves… naturally pushed back… studded with the beauty of snowflakes…. And eyes like glaciers… Darker than those of the White Walkers… deeper than the largest ocean…. Oh you wanted nothing more to look at her without shame - you wanted to admire. You yearned for it. Longed for it. ‘Please,’ your mind said silently whenever she walked past with that stride of hers and those arms and that armor and those furs… There was a moment when you got too close to her once- it was a complete accident of course, your hands were full and you weren’t focusing- but you remembered her scent ever since. Burning firewood, rain, and steel. She wasn’t very flowery, but you certainly didn’t expect her to be. As a woman warrior, held in such high regard, with such a title… well… she couldn’t really afford to be vulnerable. In fact the only times you had seen her happy and alive were when she laughed with a close friend. Sometimes Podrick made her smirk and sometimes Lady Sansa said something funny that made her release the deepest warmest softest chuckle from the depths of her chest… And you ached to be on the receiving end of that. Really, you ached to be on the receiving end of anything Ser Brienne was willing to give.

But you knew that wouldn’t happen. You knew you wouldn’t get anything. It was a shame, but you had come to terms with it some time ago. The famed Brienne of Tarth didn’t like you - thus, you didn’t really have a chance at getting to know her better. Unfortunately, her opinion also meant that you didn’t really have any friends. Judgment and rumors would always be a defining factor in class and popularity… and when the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard disliked you? Well you were pretty much fucked.

It irritated you to no end; because despite your admiration for her, despite wanting to kiss that scowl off of her lips, despite wanting to tell and prove to her that she was the most beautiful woman you’d ever seen in your life… you were still upset. Her glares, her avoiding whenever she neared the stables and instantly approached a different stable-hand (even if you were obviously the best option), her unpleasant grimaces, her judging gazes looking you up and down… it really hurt. All of it really hurt. Honestly, when you glanced up to look for something, only to find that Ser Brienne of Tarth was running her intense blue eyes over the length of your body, barely concealing the disgust in her expression? Well it hurt more than being burned alive. Not that you knew what that felt like, but you could assume. And each time you walked past her, you were forced to put a distance between you; because ever so slightly, one could see how she recoiled.

And that? Well… that felt as though she had run through your body with the blade of her sharp Valerian steel sword.

Many many times.

—

“Y/n!”

The sound of Gerik’s voice had you looking up from your saddle polishing.

“Hm?”

He had jogged over, clearing his throat before taking a seat beside you. It was a shame that he always smelled so heavily of sweat as you contained your grimace; stable-hands weren’t the most cleanly people. It wasn’t by choice, of course. Well for some it was, but not for you.

“Hey,” Gerik smiled, pulling your eyes away from the piece of hay on the floor you were staring at and successfully dragging them to him.

“Hi.”

It wasn’t often that he approached you, but whenever he did, the moment was strange. Strange in the sense that he wanted to say something but never could. Like it was balancing on the tip of his tongue. And there was something in his brown eyes too that called out to you, but you weren’t too interested in answering it. In fact, you weren’t too interested in talking to him at all. Why couldn’t he just leave you be? Why couldn’t he just distract himself with the dinner taking place some feet away? Why couldn’t he listen to the stories and smile and let you sit alone in the dark, polishing saddles that already gleamed the moon’s reflection? Why couldn’t he let you wallow and why couldn’t he be too dumb to catch the fleeting admiring looks you shot at the tough Lord Commander?

The very same Lord Commander, in fact, that seemed to have disappeared after you peeked over Gerik’s shoulder. Hm. Maybe she had to use the restroom - or tend to other business. But her plate was still there and the food was still war-

“So I- um- I was- uh- wondering-” Gerik began to stutter and you watched (with growing disgust and panic) as he began fidgeting with his hands.

Oh. Oh dear. Was it finally going to happen? Was he finally going to get over himself and let those words fall out of his mouth and ‘make a move’? You wished you could have applauded such bravery, but since you were on the receiving end of… whatever… he was going to say, you really just wanted to run for the hills. Briefly, the thought of actually running away crossed your mind. The horses were sleeping but if you acted fast enough… and took the saddle you were holding… and grabbed some food with lightning speed… you could be off in a flash. You could find work elsewhere. Work that kept you in the dark. Work that kept you busy and away from others. After all, plain women were not usually very sought after anyway. Only men like Gerik were interested in you. And no women like you were interested in Ser Brienne of Tarth. Actually - that wasn’t true. You had seen one or two servant girls do heart-eyed double takes when the soldier went walking past. You wanted to punch them each in the face at the time; but that was before you realized jealousy was stupid. You had the least chance out of everyone, so why bother?

If Gerik were smarter, he could also have realized that he had the least chance out of everyone, too. Though, then again, there weren’t exactly women lining themselves up at your door. Not that Gerik would care. He seemed like the type of man to insist anyway that you hadn’t met the right cock yet. He’d be wrong - just as he was then in assuming you’d go anywhere with him.

“Um I was wondering if you’d maybe- want to- go on an- an outi-”

“Gerik.”

Both of you looked up in shock.

Of course you’d know that deep tone and refined accent anywhere… and of course you’d suddenly feel like fainting as Ser Brienne of Tarth walked up and stood close to your left. You could nearly feel the heat of her skin through the combined layers of clothing - and you watched with wide eyes and flushing cheeks as Gerik looked up at her. Despite the close proximity, her rich sapphire eyes were stuck on him. It was funny, you noticed, that beneath her gaze he seemed to sink into a young boy again.

“Yes, Lord Commander?” Gerik suddenly stood up as though shocked by lightning.

“Fetch Valour,” she responded succinctly, not even bothering to glance at you, “I am in charge of patrol this evening.”

“Yes, Lord Commander.” And in a flash, he was off. His original mission, it seemed, was entirely forgotten about.

You frowned as you watched him run off. The two other stable-hands were with some of the other horses, either bathing them or feeding them. The rotation was complicated but easy to grasp as time went on - you had been there for about two years, so you knew almost better than anyone. That also meant that you knew Ser Brienne was not there for chit-chat (as if she would ever wish to engage in that with you of all people), so you didn’t bother addressing her as you turned back to the saddle in your lap. She would probably walk away a second later without saying a word to you - ignoring as she usually did.

But then that second passed.

And another passed.

And out of the corner of your eye, you could still see her standing there - tall and imposing. It made you sweat, wondering if something was wrong. Had you offended her? Had you done something to garner such… well you weren’t sure what was going on. Was it attention? Was it a punishment? Your brows furrowed.

“If you polish any more, you’ll rub a hole through the leather.”

Instantly, you jumped. It was slight and strange and it sort of made the moment uncomfortable but you didn’t really care. You did, after all, get a fright.

Was she speaking to you? Was she addressing you?

Unable to even glance at her expression, you looked around quickly - checking if, somehow, you weren’t hallucinating and there was another person nearby who just so happened to be polishing a saddle at the same time. When you saw no one, you had no choice but to give into your curiosity and look up at Ser Brienne of Tarth… who did definitely speak to you first if her expectant (and beautiful) eyes had anything to say about it.

You swallowed and flushed in the face of her attention.

You’d never received it before… never positively. But as you observed her, unable to help yourself, you saw that there was no sneer in her gaze and there was no disgust pulling at her lips and she was still standing so close to you and all of a sudden you became very very confused. And very very anxious. How were you to respond? What were you to say? That was no introduction and it was no hello and Hell, it wasn’t even a proper conversation starter - it was just a statement. A witty quip. And as the silence prevailed and you stared up at her, you realized that you probably seemed like the biggest dunce on Earth.

So you slowed your polishing until your hand came to a stop, and then blinked at her - carefully running over what to say.

“Wouldn’t wanna do that.” It was a very lame, plain, stupid response and you muttered it beneath your breath, but it didn’t really matter anyway. You figured she’d probably leave it at that and walk away, forever thinking that you were someone worth disliking.

For once, you were wrong.

“Is he always so bold?” It was spoken after a moment of silence, leaving you to shiver quietly as the chilled wind ran through your bones.

The question caught you off guard. Why did she care? What was so special about Gerik that she finally felt the urge to talk to you? Was it out of some strange womanly protective trait? Was it because she planned on embarrassing you somehow? Morally and professionally, it wasn’t right for you to get angry with the Lord Commander, but you couldn’t help it. Her question seemed so… insensitive. As though she was trying to act friendly after all that time acting as the exact opposite. You felt a flame rise up within your heart and tried hard to push it down. Unfortunately, you were never terribly skilled at being subtle.

“Does it matter if he is?”

Your eyes were glued to the saddle like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

Again, silence fell. You tried not to cringe as you thought back on your tone. You sounded quite rude - so you just prayed to each God above that Ser Brienne wasn’t upset or offended. Though really if she were, you figured there wouldn’t be a change in her usual attitude at all.

“...Yes,” came the eventual response, “Self-important men are universally disliked amongst women.”

The snort that left your body came out so quickly you couldn’t catch it. Goodness, one would think the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard was a better conversationalist but it seemed she wasn’t. If you weren’t a bit incensed and confused at the idea that she was being a little friendly, you’d find it endearing. But while Ser Brienne stood there, one hand on her hip and her eyes burning into your neck, you felt yourself getting antsy. Either she should just follow Gerik and get her beautiful horse or tell you what she wanted so you didn’t combust in the following moments.

“Is something funny?”

She sounded genuinely confused. The irony of that made a little sarcastic smile curl onto your lips - and you couldn’t help but shake your head as you pulled your eyes away from the leather in your hands and clapped them on her instead. Goodness… even when you wanted to be mad at her, that striking facade nearly had you holding your heart and confessing your feelings. That charming little line between her eyebrows… and the way the corners of her lips pulled into a natural frown… and how that scar on the right side seemed far more pronounced in the shade of the sunset… You wanted nothing more than to pull her into a kiss, but of course you refrained. After all, you were supposed to be angry. And confused. Which you were - so you threw caution to the wind and shrugged.

Perhaps it was finally your moment to confront her.

“No, no,” you hummed, trying hard to seem nonchalant. “It’s just- well it’s kinda interesting how familiar you are with disliking people… all things considered.”

Once you said that, you figured she’d understand. You thought that, perhaps, she’d remember herself and realize that she crossed her own line and would suddenly give you an icy look before walking off. But she didn’t. No, instead, Ser Brienne of Tarth just continued to stand there, looking down at you with confusion painted over her fair features. You rose an eyebrow, trying to prompt a response.

Finally, she licked her lips and gave you a queer look - as though you had gone mad and your words made absolutely no sense to her.

“What on Earth are you talking about?” She blinked quickly, not bothering to hide the scorn in her tone.

You frowned.

“What do you mean? You’re- ya know-,” you gestured at her, “You’re not exactly the most… personable in regards to me.” Your tone went a little quiet. What did she mean what were you talking about? Had she gotten amnesia overnight and just so happened to forget her dislike of you? Was she turning over a new leaf? Or was she somehow just playing the fool?

By the look on her face, which you quickly deciphered as even more confused, if not a bit… hurt…. You’d say something was definitely going on. A misunderstanding, most likely. And if anyone sitting by the mess tables in the courtyard were watching you, they’d see a knight and a stable-hand staring at each other in equal amounts of puzzlement. And if anyone sitting by the mess tables in the courtyard cared enough about who you were, they’d see, with shock, that the Ser Brienne of Tarth was speaking with the stable-hand she supposedly hated. Hell, you still couldn’t believe you were having a conversation; though you figured that if you didn’t get to the truth soon enough, you were probably going to have a disagreement instead.

“Personable?” The soldier spluttered, looking around as though that were the most absurd thing she’d ever heard. “Explain.”

And then her blue eyes were stuck to you, full of outrage and befuddlement. They were glorious, you noted. And entrancing…. But it wasn’t the time to get distracted. She spoke with finality - telling you that it was an order, not a suggestion.

“Well I- you-,” you sighed, trying to sound respectful. She may have pissed you off but she was still the Lord Commander - and you were still a stable-hand. Best just get it over with so you could forget about the interaction (or think too much about it later when the moon’s high in the clouds). “Look, Lord Commander. I’ll say this as respectfully as I can,” and you met her gaze with hidden anxiousness, “It’s just- no secret that you don’t like me. So I’m a bit confused about… this.” Your hand did a little flipping movement as you gestured between the two of you.

The soldier’s expression didn’t change, but something flitted across her eyes. Something that made her twitch for just a second - and if you really had to put a hopeful finger on it, you’d coin the feeling as guilt. But that would be wishful thinking. Ser Brienne of Tarth rarely felt regret - she did what she had to and that’s how she managed to get to her position. From being rejected to being at the top and doing the rejecting. You had always admired that - but in the moment, as you watched her roll over what to say - you were nervous. She was not one to be trifled with… and you were being bold.

“I don’t know who told you I dislike you, but I’ll have you know I despise rumors,” she looked as though she was getting flustered, looking off into the distance and shifting her body weight. “It would do you well not to spread them any further.”

You scoffed and stood up, dropping the saddle onto the haybale you were sitting on.

“Me spreading them? You’re the one who hates me,” you hissed, putting your hands on your hips.

Clearly, Brienne was not expecting that as she looked down at you with wide fire-filled eyes. Her lips, in shock you guessed, fell open - completing the expression and making you glance down at her mouth. Such soft lips… such icy eyes… she was so close you could smell the familiar scents of burning firewood, rain, and steel. Her nostrils flared in the next second as she took the tiniest step forward. And her hair, you noticed, was damp from the earlier sprinkles of rain that had fallen over the lands just before dinner.

You couldn’t help but melt a little inside; for even incensed, she looked glorious.

“I do not hate you, stop talking such shit!” The Lord Commander growled lowly, looking over your features as though she were committing them to memory.

The rest of the world was forgotten momentarily. All that mattered was you and Ser Brienne - and the way the setting sun lit up the back of her head like a halo of burning light. It wasn’t blinding, but it was enough to make you squint as you thought over her reaction. Shit? She thought you were talking shit? Was she truly lacking in self-awareness so much that she didn’t understand her own actions? That didn’t sound like Ser Brienne of Tarth, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. But then again… you didn’t exactly know her, did you? With a frown, you shook your head. The fire within you was slowly dying down - crackling into a low flame as you crossed your arms and shot Brienne a tired (and admittedly dejected) look.

“What, so you just glare and scoff and avoid everybody?” Your rhetorical question made her eyes widen but you didn’t want to stop there. It was getting late and people would start to notice her prolonged absence and you couldn’t have that. You couldn’t be the reason people spoke about Ser Brienne with suspicion or confusion or anything other than respect. “Just admit you dislike me, Lord Commander,” your voice was tired, “and we can go our separate ways. I don’t want you to hurt yourself by interacting with me.”

And that moment- that exact moment- you struck a nerve.

In a matter of a few blurry seconds, you found yourself being tugged by the wrist and dragged away toward an empty stall. Her hold wasn’t terribly strong but it was enough to keep you still as the doors slammed behind you and your body was pressed to the wall - held there only by her hand and her proximity. She was close. So close. All up in your face kind of close. You could smell the red wine on her breath, and you could see the stormy outrage in her eyes. The stormy outrage and… and something else. Something you couldn’t pinpoint at all. But you supposed that, in the moment, it didn’t really matter - she looked close to killing you anyway. Her lips were parted almost in a snarl as you could see the unevenness of her bottom teeth - like she was going to lunge forward and rip out your throat like a direwolf pack leader. For some reason, you didn’t focus on that. You just focused on how badly you wanted to kiss those lips. How badly you wanted to run your tongue over those teeth. How badly you wanted to throw your arms over her shoulders and pull her into an embrace even though your chests were nearly pressed together. Even though you were both breathing heavily. Even though your heart suddenly began burning with a different emotion - one very far from anger. You prayed Brienne couldn’t see the way your pupils expanded. You prayed she couldn’t peer into your heart and pick out your adoration.

“I don’t-” she started and then stopped, like she hit a wall and didn’t know how to get over it. You watched, waiting with bated breath as the soldier seemed momentarily unsure of what to say. Hesitation ran through her body, you could see it. You could see it and you found that you needed to hear her words. You found yourself itching for her truth.

“Tell me.” She looked at you, all stern and serious. You held your ground. “Say it.”

And she did.

The Lord Commander did.

She stepped back, released you, and then pressed a gloved hand to the front of your tunic and twisted the fabric into her fist. She didn’t pull you forward or push you back or scratch you or hurt you, she just kept you there. And you let her. You figured, after all, that she was rather introverted and that she didn’t know how to be entirely honest. That she didn’t know how to express her emotions healthily. And you empathized, so you kept yourself quiet and watched her beautiful face as she tried figuring herself out. Whatever she said next, you’d roll with it as best you could. After all, as per usual, as always, you’d take anything Ser Brienne of Tarth would give you.

“I don’t… hate you…,” she muttered, unable to meet your eyes, “I am just… I am unfamiliar,” she spat out the word, “with this.”

And that was that.

You blinked.

She looked at you, urging you to understand - but you didn’t.

“With what?”

And then Brienne scoffed and rolled her eyes and for a second it looked like she wanted to stomp her foot into the ground but she kept her head instead and glared at you like you were terribly stupid. Perhaps you were, but that didn’t change the fact that you had absolutely no fucking clue as to what she was talking about. Only some minutes before, you were pretty sure that she hated you - until she said differently. And you were of course just supposed to believe her.

As if you wouldn’t. As if you wouldn’t ever not believe her. As if you wouldn’t hang onto her every word and offer good conversation and play the devil's advocate so she didn’t feel placated. As if you wouldn’t listen to her stories no matter what. As if you wouldn’t believe the tales she lived. Please. Of course you would. Of course you’d stand there, with your shirt twisted in her gloved palm, with your body relaxed and your heart pounding out of your chest. If it were anyone else, you’d be calling for help and scrambling to get away - but it wasn’t anyone else. It was Brienne… and you were in love with her. So running away would be a wasted opportunity. And you wouldn’t get any answers that way, either.

Though as silence prevailed, some part of you wondered if said answers would ever come to light. She didn’t seem too intent on giving them u-

“Lord Commander!”

Gerik.

He had returned with Valour… and you were being pushed up against a stable stall wall by Ser Brienne of Tarth.

A similar expression flitted across both of your faces. It was a good mix of panic, confusion, and something you couldn’t quite place. In fact, the situation you realized, was very strange. You weren’t doing anything scandalous - you weren’t being threatened - and yet? It felt as though you two were going to be ‘caught in the act’. Like you were vulnerable and stumbling around in the shadows, even though you really weren’t. Brienne, it seemed, thought the exact same as she frowned and let go of your tunic. The loss made your heart drop but before you could say anything like “Forget it” or “You have to go” or even (for some reason) “I’m sorry”, Brienne was cracking the silence with words.

“Meet me here tonight once the moon reaches the other side of the courtyard,” her voice was so low you had to strain to hear it, “Hopefully I’ll be able to explain better then.” She sounded frustrated but not with you - just herself.

You frowned at that, willing her silently to look you in the eyes as she went about adjusting her furs.

“Explain what, Lord Commander?” What did she mean? What was she talking about?

The sound of Gerik leading Valour to the stables was getting louder and you found yourself growing antsy; more desperate for a response.

Brienne could see that when she finally looked up. You held eye contact - willing yourself to get over your anxiety in hopes of a real answer. The gods had to be listening as it seemed your wish was finally granted.

Blue eyes, usually bright and stern and a million other different professional serious things, suddenly softened. And in slow motion, the sight of that spread to the rest of the woman’s expression - until she was looking at you with brows unfurrowed and lips devoid of a frown. You’d say she looked neutral but she didn’t. In fact, the slightest hint of vulnerability on that beautiful face had you spotting the strangest bit of sadness in her eyes. Really, in general, she was saying so much with one expression. It left you confused. It left you thinking. It left you willing your heart to please relax because you could hear its heavy beating in your ears. So heavy in fact, that you could barely hear the mutter that fled from those soft scarred lips. Thank goodness you blinked back into reality just in time.

“Explain why I don’t think I could ever hate you.”

It was said so softly. So gently. With so much experience and so much pain and so much… so much understanding….

You just couldn’t help yourself.

It was finally your turn to smile.

++++++++++++

I’m exhausted and sort of hate this but it’s fine - I’ll work on requests soon <3 - Ripley x

(I never finished GOT and it’s been a while since I last saw it so if the characterization of Brienne is off - tell me. Thx :))

++++++++++++

#fanfictionwriter #fanfic #fanfiction #rippersz #wlw fanfic #got brienne #brienne of tarth #got #game of thrones #brienne #lady brienne #ser brienne of tarth #ser brienne #gwendoline christie

[lucid-ivory]

COD men & equestrian reader

characters: ghost, soap, gaz, price & alejandro X female reader

genre: fluff, platonic, slight crack?

format: bullet headcanons/ bullet fanfic idk

summary: one of the operators of the task force seems to be *too* good at horse riding and it's the last thing they expected

notes: reader is young, this is for all the equestrians if there are any in this fandom😭 and characters may be a bit ooc + this is very long and VERY specific

ghost

has never ridden horses, wasn't planning on it

saw you as somebody interesting when he first saw you on a big horse

you seemed really confident so he just went along with it

little did he know

he was gangsta until you started cantering

like okay, maybe you just wanted to impress your teammates since everyone was watching

he knows shit about position, leg aids and all that so you could be doing anything wrong and he wouldn't realize

he slightly raises his eyebrows when he sees you approaching a big ass jump

like where u goin?????

it's one of those 1.30m oxers

he thinks you're taking it too far

he was already impressed by your skills, why would you jump that high

he's prepared to see you on the ground

obviously a horse goes faster the higher the jump is

the fact that you keep up with the animal is already making him feel like "huh?"

when he sees the horsey getting on his two legs and ready to jump he feels humbled

you're perfectly fine, you can keep up with the horse's speed and you seem proud of yourself

by this point it's already obvious that it wasn't your first time

now that he sees your confidence and level, he would like to see you jumping higher

he doesn't really know how high a horse can jump anyway

(for general knowledge, the record is 2,47meters)

after a few more small and bigger jumps, you go for one that's 1.50m

(which is usually the height of competitions)

you do it casually, enjoying the moment. the horse jumps well and looks sick as fuck, which equestrians call "scope"

so you yell out

"SCOPEY!"

smiling all wide and happy

he mishears it and thinks you're talking about somebody scoping with a sniper or something

everything is going smooth, the horse listens to you and you are humiliating many olympic riders because you are "y/n" and y/n is perfect

the horse is fast, very fast and you're going for the next jump again

but who is y/n without a bit of trouble

the horse refuses to jump, stopping abruptly right in front of the obstacle

but you stayed on because you're cool like that

it did "shake" you a little, you were preparing yourself for a jump after all

but your seat is great and you managed to control the horse

ghost was scared, not expecting the animal to stop at that speed

you knocked a few poles and he offered to put them back for you

you're a crazy bitch so you decided to ride a young horse

and young horses are sometimes spicy

bucking, rearing or getting scared for everything

he's surprised at how calm you look when the horse is like a bull around the arena

when you finally lose your balance and fall off, you manage to fall smoothly on your feet

he's scared, thought you were going to be hurt

"DID YOU SEE THAT?"

how were you so calm?

you just fell off

the horse is still bucking around the arena and you're laughing

soap

i have 0 idea of scottish dialect

in fact i cannot understand it if a scottish person speaks to me so this will be hard

soap is next to ghost, he sees you jumping

you know the position riders do in order to jump? almost standing up and bending over the horse's neck

he checks you out for a milisecond when you do that

apart from that, he's impressed

why are you flying

how are you keeping yourself on the animal with only two irons on your feet and holding some leather in your hands

get down from there

you're just smiling while casually jumping 1.50m

when the horse stopped in front of the jump, he almost screamed

"shit"

he just murmured

smirked when he saw how you stayed on

gg well played

ghost put the poles up for you again after you knocked them down and smiles slightly as you struggle to convince the horse to jump

great horsemanship, or horsewomanship

you let the horse approach the jump and smell it so they calm down

he has no idea what's going on but he thinks you're very gentle for that

eventually you make it over that jump and he feels very happy for you!

then you fall off and he thinks it's badass how you fell on your feet

STANDING UP

so you get on again

when you're done jumping and you're trotting around, you want to show off

"did you see that, Lt?" he asks Ghost, and he simply nods.

while trotting, you play a little bit with the horse's controls

WASD to move shift to crouch ctrl to run ,,, jk

you start doing little dressage tricks

those ones that look so elegant and the horse is almost dancing

passage, piaffe, etc (look that up, it's BEAUTIFUL).

the horse is so cutely and smoothly bouncing and you're embracing the elegance

this is all probably happening while you're in your spec ops gear but it's okay

soap is surprised, ghost next to him simply admires

"why is the horse doin' that?"

he thinks it's pretty, but why and how would a horse move like that

"oh, you're telling him to do that?"

then he realizes you're the one using your legs and amazing skills to make the horse do all that

would like to see you in the classic equestrian competition look

gaz

okay what the fuck

he now understands where all of your leg & core strength is coming from

mans is flabbergasted but secretly wants to keep looking at you

i headcanon that he did ride horses in one of those school trips maybe or something of sorts

and i don’t think he would want to do it again

when you’re about to fall at that speed in front of the jump he’s a bit scared for you, immediately feeling the relief when you’re still on and not on the ground

when you actually do fall but it’s obvious you didn’t get hurt he simply smiles

he knew it was going to happen

but then you got on the horse again and he was like ???

why?

he appreciates your enthusiasm but visibly relaxes when you stop jumping and you stick to a more slow pace

“are you trying to impress us?”

girl you were in full uniform geared up & everything and you casually made the horse do the most complex and supreme movements that literally any other rider would kill for

you DID NOT do that for your own pleasure

gaz did appreciate a little bit more the horse’s posture

y’know ‘collection’ and all that, when the horse walks all pretty with their head down

he was not as clueless as soap and that’s why he teased you

you simply giggled and he smiled in response

now…

why was the horse drifting how did you do that

the horse was casually trotting but you did a few subtle changes (that he didn’t see) and now the horse trots in diagonal

almost crossing his feet while trotting

HOW

he raises his eyebrows

he thinks that this is a useless trait for a soldier cuz i’m telling you no police horse does cute little steps like wth

but even if it’s a useless trait for a soldier, it’s a great ability for who he considers almost a sister

he’s very happy for you and constantly cheers you up and then may ask a question or two about how did you do that

the moment you start explaining technically with all the “WELL YOU PUT YOUR OUTSIDE LEG AND THEN THE HEAD HAS TO LOOK SLIGHTLY INTO THE INSIDE WITHOUT BENDING THE NECK—“ he gets scared

he thought it was easier

+10 appreciation because it really is hard

price

let me tell you this man is almost shaking

he trusts your skills but he knows you're also young and you may not act responsible in order to just feel adrenaline or to impress somebody

while you jump, he holds his breath and then he releases it when you actually land perfectly

just like gaz, he relaxes a lot when you stick to the slower pace

he loves to see your reflexes in other contexts, such as riding

very proud of how you fell on your feet when the horse was bucking but appreciated it even more when you actually wanted to get on again

since this man is older i think he would have ridden horses in his golden era but not as in equitation, more like simply going for trail rides

he considers everyone in the team his little siblings, and since you appeared he may have this father instinct

he helps you with the stirrups and to tighten the girth

loves seeing you happy while riding, he thinks you deserve it knowing how young you are and how easier it is for you to get stressed with all the work

he tells everybody not to approach the horse's back because they may kick

"the horse has a green ribbon on his tail. he's young" he explains proudly to the rest of the team

(he didn't know shit about this, you told him about the ribbon meanings a while ago)

I HAVE THIS FEELING THAT HE WOULD RECORD YOU AND ACCIDENTALLY GET HIS FINGER ON THE CAMERA

this man would probably ride with you

"i don't need a saddle, i'm used to riding bareback"

he does need a saddle.

i feel like if he rides with you and he trots or something he would slightly hurt his back because his position wouldn't really be great

(there was a time where my back hurt like hell too because i didn't know how to canter properly LMAO)

would count strides with you between each jump

i feel like he would like english thoroughbreds

man worships secretariat probably (he'd be so real for that)

jockey potential

don't talk to him about technique

he genuinely thinks it's stressing

the whole "outside rein inside leg, shoulders back, chin up, heels down" shit is very much complex to him

he actually thinks that he would be able to race a horse

can't lie, i think so too (i almost fall while walking)

would pat the horse when you stand next to him

when you dismount, if you are the kind of person that kinda just throws themselves off the horse (i have no idea how to gently and normally dismount) he'll be behind you to slightly grab your waist or back to keep you in place in case you lose balance

ALL PLATONIC

when you're done riding he offers to keep you company while you go to the horses stall

he thinks the horse is following you because you're not holding the reins or anything and he's surprised at the bond between you and the animal

he doesn't know that YOU are actually following the horse because he just wants to go to his stall and eat

when the horsey starts eating, price would approach him and look at him

would be startled when the horse has his ears laying flat on his skull

horsey doesn't want anybody near his food

would help you carry the saddle

if he's brave enough he will try and give a carrot to the horse

if you start picking the hooves after riding, he would be slightly concerned

"does this hurt the horse"

he is like a man proud of his daughter

100% would go to see you in competitions

alejandro

GRRRRRRRR

"vamos, vaquera!"

he would constantly try to cheer you up and would smile widely while you do your "little" jumps

would probably prefer western riding because y'know... los vaqueros

he would probably crush on you a little

i feel like he saw showjumping many times but he is still surprised to see a horse jumping that high in person

i think he's almost the only one that isn't scared when he sees you jumping. if you approach the big jumps so confidently then you know what you're doing

he would actually want to ride with you too, he's so excited

wants to feel like a true vaquero and the first step is riding a horse

i'm sure he focuses on your legs and sees the aids and cues you give to the horse to make different tricks or play with his speed

he looks at your posture and everything like he knows about it or something

he's the kind of person that would surprise you

horses tend to follow each other so whatever you do with your horse, his horse does it with him.

you look back at him when you are both cantering and you smile AT HOW GOOD HE IS

his hips sway back and forth smoothly following the horse's back

his lower leg moves a little but nothing too serious

you felt like he was really close to jumping the 1.50 and reveal he was a showjumper too or something

and the rest of the team didn't expect alejandro to be so good either

you lower the jumps to like 0.50m and you both try to jump

he doesn't jump it perfectly, but he doesn't fall either

impressive for a beginner

trust me he did try to ride your horse and do the same dressage tricks as you but it didn't really work

quickly dismounted after that, he saw the horse bucking and doesn't wanna fall off

after that, i feel like he would get more interested in barrel racing and other western disciplines

he wants to take off the helmet and ride with those cowboy hats.

(saveahorserideacowboy)

you don't let him do that

dangerous D:

he appreciates it, thinks you care a lot for him

he thinks riding together is a new form of bonding for you two.

that was long, i warned all of you

please remember that my requests are open and i'd love to see and write what anyone says!

#cod #call of duty #call of duty x reader #ghost x reader #ghost cod #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #ghost #gaz #gaz cod #kyle garrick #kyle garrick x reader #kyle garrick x you #price #alejandro #price x reader #price x you #john price #john price cod #headcanons #cod headcanons #alejandro x reader #alejandro x you #alejandro vargas #alejandro vargas x reader #alejandro vargas x you #alejandro cod #cod fanfic #cod fanfics

[cairavende]

Worm Arc 14 thoughts through 14.7 (there is too much for one post, I mean I could probably get four to five posts from 14.11 alone):

The team figures out Siberian's whole "is a projection" thing pretty quickly. Good for them.

I really want to know who ripped out page 325 for the "how horrible of a thing have I done that I don't want shared" check. I strongly lean Trickster but I'm not sure. I want more details on the Travelers and TiaV dammit!

Amy is having a bad day. Probably really a continuation of a bad few days. She probably didn't really need those fingers right?

Skitter criticizing Amy in her head for not being "creative" enough with her power is so on brand. Of course my daughter has already detailed out the complex ways she would use a power she doesn't even have. I love her.

I really wish the Undersiders/Travelers combo would stop splitting the fucking party. If they had just sent everyone after Siberian I bet the could have gotten the dude.

I do have have Skitter has gotten to a point where one of her "start of combat" actions is to just make a fuck ton of bug decoys. Almost without thought at this point.

Have I mentioned how much I love the "writing words in the air with bugs to communicate with people"? Cause I do. It makes sense. It would work. It lets her communicate long range. But it's also very silly to imagine. Very Silver Age in the best way.

Then it gets even better! Skitter makes a full blown animation to tell Amy that Siberian is trying to drop a building on her. Absolutely fucking perfection.

Tattletale maybe misjudged ever so slightly in what she revealed to Siberian. The combo of Siberian just flickering out of existence and everyone being like "oh fuck" was very good.

Amy trying to do her bullshit again and Tattletale having none of it, just destroying every argument before Amy even makes them until Amy agrees to come and help. More than makes up for any mistakes Tattletale made with Siberian.

The relay bugs are super neat.

Fucking high speed mutant dog/car chase. Absolutely fucking AMAZING. I loved every part of it. Ending with Sundancer just dropping a 50 foot wide sun on the road.

Tattletale trolling the shit out of Piggot and the heroes gives me life.

Also, Piggot's phone conversation with Tattletale was basically a villain monologue. For Piggot. Just all the shit about why she was doing it, why it was for the best, the coy little "sorry your teammates are gonna die, it's just an unfortunate side effect". All of it. This bitch is evil.

My daughter fucking tying up Crawler with spiderwebs. HOLY SHIT KID. God damn.

Very Mulan "Get off the roof, get off the roof, get off the roof" energy as they all run the fuck away from the bombing zone.

BUG HORSE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

BUG HORSE BUG HORSE BUG HORSE BUG HORSE BUG HORSE!!!!

AMY MADE MY DAUGHTER A FLYING BUG HORSE I'M DYING!

TAYLOR CAN BE THE (BUG)HORSE GIRL SHE WAS ALWAYS MEANT TO BE!

It rescues her and she has to teach it how to fly and they form a bond and she saves it and it saves her and and and she gives it a NAME! EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!

She's only had Atlas for a day and a half but if anything happens to him I will burn the world to the ground. Then I'll find another world and burn it to the ground too.

Firebombs don't really do shit but destroy a chunk of the city, probably kill some civilians, and make the heroes lives pretty fucking hard as they have to rely on the randomness of Clockblocker's power.

Also weren't there supposed to be a bunch of Nazis also getting hit by the bombs? One of the only somewhat maybe kinda almost decent parts of the plan Piggot and they aren't even here!

Piggot's plan is terrible and evil is what I'm saying.

The only reason nearly every hero doesn't end up permanently trapped or whatever inside Cache's bag of holding is cause Skitter was there to keep him from being crushed by a car. Well, Skitter and her bug horse (BUG HORSE!)

Skitter got to shoot Mannequin in the back. Very satisfying even if it didn't do long term damage.

Sucks to be Cache. He's . . . probably fine? I mean at least he got everyone out as he was melting.

Really sucks to be Glory Girl. She is . . . uhhh . . . hmmm . . . not dead. I can at least say that.

I mean Skitter got her to Amy. And Amy did stop her from dying. So like . . . she's probably going to be fine. Yep. Juuuuuust fine.

(Look if Amy wasn't a bitch about giving Atlas a digestive system I might be willing to forgive a lot. My daughters (bug)horse comes first. But Amy didn't so I won't. At least Grue was able to help. He gets a lot of brownie points for that.)

Anyway, Victoria needed to take some time to heal the rest of the way so she left completely under her own free will. And it will never come up again.

Bombin' 2: Electric HOLY FUCK PIGGOT YOU REALLY ARE CRAZY Bombgaloo

Kill a few more civilians and maybe Crawler and Mannequin. Destroy more of the city (including the library!) in a way that will probably never be salvageable (I mean at least some of it is stopped in time for god knows how long). Jack, Bonesaw, and Siberian escape. And because of what was done Bonesaw is going to activate her bio-weapon.

Great job Piggot. Gold star. You fucking did it. You saved the city. You motherfucking idiot.

#Worm #Worm Web Serial #Parahumans #Cairavende reads Worm #The Slaughterhouse Nine #Taylor Hebert #Victoria Dallon #BUG HORSE #Atlas is the best #I love him forever #For real though I'm sure Amy is gonna go ahead and fix Vic right on up and set her brain right and then Vicky will be good as new #Won't need any therapy at all #Cause she'll be fine #It's not like Amy has already shown that she will justify literally any action she does as not her fault #So no reason to expect this to go any different then she says it's gonna #Thus Victoria is clearly fine. No further questions. It will never come up again I'm sure. #BUG HORSE!

[ms0milk]

𝟐 | 𝐈𝐧𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞, 𝐒𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠

ー✧ prince!bakugou x royal guard!reader

"Magic can manifest a million ways, but from forever til today the only way you ever pictured proper magic was flowing from sweaty palms and jagged fingers."

no cw the Terrible Roadtrip™ pt 1/2, bkg is a huge asshole, i can't promise you won't fall in love with kirishima, you have to put your faith in me for this fic, pls trust me. 3.1k

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Kirishima Eijiro has always been kind to you. A wave, a nod, a sharp smile, he never ignored you in the castle when you happened upon each other, but thinking about it, you’ve never actually spoken. There was never a need and the prince always maintains the perfect amount of hurry to keep his companions from acknowledging staff.

Kirishima likes to dance with the girls who work in the kitchen so they’re too giddy to lecture him about stealing snacks. He likes to sleep in, and for some reason he likes training with his violent prince. Kirishima gets bruises but not cuts and you think it’s probably because of his magic. He sometimes cries while feeding the birds. Now Kirishima crouches so close to you that your shoulders touch and his warmth feels so familiar.

“Like this,” you correct. You stop him from placing another log on the fire before he knocks over the entire structure. Across from you, Sero huddles closer in the chill of evening while Denki investigates the kettle hung on irons to check if hot water is ready. Mina rummages for mugs. Camp tonight is tucked in the clearing of a felled maple tree much to the prince’s dismay, as it’s too dark to read by the sunset under foliage. So he busies himself untacking horses and with anger taken out on leaves, twigs, and the general inanimate.

Early in the morning, just an hour into the journey, a pink finger poked out of the carriage window ahead of you and beckoned you closer. The pink finger was of course attached to the pink girl, who rested her head on her arm while you rode beside her. “I don’t think you know who I am,” she cooed and you were quick to apologize to the nobles; they must be noble if they were guests of the prince; and if you had been on solid ground you would have taken a knee.

“My Lady, please forgive my behavior this morning.”

His Highness scoffed and you didn’t dare look his way.

Mina, Denki, and Sero. Kirishima introduced the travelers to you from his spot beside the prince, who took up at least a quarter of the small space with his spreading and growling and kicking of friends.

From what you could see on horseback, the inside of the carriage was just as delicately beautiful as the outside. Silver stars held the royal blue quilting in place and a little chandelier twinkled in the very center of the ceiling. White silk draped above them. Bench cushions trimmed with silver tassels and decorative knots, and when you dared to lean closer you could see the wallpaper wasn’t all quilt– there were rows and rows of flat ribbon with embroidered shells, and figures depicting some sort of scene across the trim.

“Get your bigass head outta here!”

It was your turn to be snapped at by the prince and it startled you backwards a bit in your saddle. His showy red eyes trained on yours for a second before he shut them tight and leaned back in a cross-armed huff, “Already got four fucking twats suffocating me, I don’t need more hot breath'n my ears.”

“Apologies, Highness,” you spoke this line clearly in lieu of, once again, formal introductions. But you couldn’t be fazed. It counted as the second time he looked at you, twice in a day, and that was more than the last fifteen years combined.

A sneeze from Denki ignited the prince’s fury in full and soon the carriage was a ring match. Sparing a glance to Shinsou, who chuckled at Denki’s misfortune on horseback through the window opposite yours, you slowed to let the travelers sort out their frustration alone. As you fell back, the silver of the window framed Mina’s pretty pink smile.

Mina is very nice. Across from yours and Kirishima’s little fire now, she hoists a red tin cup above her head and mouths, “Tea?”

“Please. Thank you, M’lady.”

She beams every time you call her that. This time she shouts through the clearing to the prince and all of the horses, “Hear that Kats? I’m a Lady.”

“You’re a fuckin' menace is what you are.”

These were strange nobles– friends, even. To be speaking with the prince so casually. What was Sero doing in soldier’s gear earlier?

Before departing, you and your travelers were instructed to change into the riding clothes provided to you. “No gambeson,” droned Aizawa when you tried to avoid removing your red Aldera uniform. “Your measurements were sent to our royal tailor, I promise these travel clothes are much more comfortable for riding.”

So now your dragontooth brooch, pinned rebelliously to your collar, is all you’re allowed to remind you of home. It clicks softly against the silver details of your lifeless white blouse. You feel sick riding another queen’s horse, and wearing another queen’s colors is almost all you can handle. On solid ground beside warm Kirishima, you’re sore and thankful to be finished traveling for the day.

By the time the sun began to set, the prince had a sparkling fist swung out the window and his companions let out yelps of pain from the receiving end of his anger, “I’m sick’a breathing your stinkass air!”

Mina and Sero, both carried under one of Kirishima’s strong arms, melted from the carriage doors with much moaning and many grumbles. Denki tripped on the single step again, directly into Shinsou’s back and the two of them hit the ground. Only the prince seemed to have any amount of energy left and took to immediately examining the grounds Aizawa chose for camp.

“No bitchin,” Master Aizawa grumbled before bundling himself up in the driver’s seat of the carriage in a thick woolen blanket. The blunt interaction was all you would get from him tonight.

These woods gnarl with the same vines and fruit that wrap up your Aldera castle so safely, which meant Jeanist’s halberd made quick work of the familiar trees when it came time for you to chop firewood. Kirishima loved watching this part most, as you instructed and explained the basic nature of maple and the best angles to hit it. “The axehead here,” you tossed your halberd higher into your grip to point at the blade, “isn’t at all made for this. But the carriage ax is too heavy for me.” You were quick to nurse your finger between your lips after forgetting just how sharp your mentor keeps his tools and Kirishima jumped at the opportunity to take over.

Jeanist takes you camping sometimes. He calls it playing favorites when other soldiers ask, but rarely do you do anything with Jeanist besides train, camping included. Splitting wood was day one. You can recognize nuts and leaves, hunt creature and beast by bow, dagger, and lance. A fire was the simplest thing you could think to do tonight and it has Kirishima drawn in with sparkling eyes, begging you to teach him how to lean the sticks to one another or shave kindling from bark.

“Y/n, won't it go out?”

Your name brings you back. You place a hand over the Champion’s before you’re completely aware of your surroundings, to keep him from fiddling with anything else, “I promise it won’t. Look.” And point to the white hot hollow just below the tent of flames. Embers are what’ll keep your campsite warm all night, not a raging fire on big logs. It’s a simmering sense of pride you feel that if you were good for nothing else, you could at least start a fire in a rainstorm.

Aizawa is long-asleep on the driver’s bench. The carriage twinkles at the very edge of the clearing, you imagine to keep it safe from flames or potential explosive fury in conversation around the campfire. You smile behind the hot mug that Mina hands you at the thought of arriving in Takoba on a single singed platform– all that would be left of the fairy carriage after the prince’s companions antagonized him a few words too far.

“For you,” Shinsou murmurs while he winds his way around the campfire with bedrolls for each traveler. He drops yours beside your seat and overcome with– something– laziness? His master’s contagious exhaustion?– tosses one over the fire to the prince who is approaching camp, having given up on his mission for readable light.

You’re one step closer to that singed carriage, you think, when the prince catches the bedding in a fist and drops it where he stops at the farthest point from all of you in the circle. His broad chest vibrates inside furs.

“Keep it down.”

This is a very obvious assertion to everyone but you, that it’s time for the prince to go to bed. The sun just set, you bewilder and then he does in fact kick open his roll beside the fire and settle down with his back turned. Other than yourself and Shinsou, the company lets up a knowing chorus of, 'G’night Bakugou's that catch you by surprise. You look to Kirishima for confirmation and when he’s too busy poking at your fire to notice, you lower your face into the steam coming off your mug.

“Is that your magic?”

When you cast your eyes up to see which company member has taken to immediately disrupting the prince’s peace, Mina is the one watching you. You’re supposed to be checking the carriage for wear and reinforcing the perimeter before tucking in for the night, and you suppose it was only a matter of time before someone noticed you slacking in your duties. You breathe the steam in from your tea slowly, so it doesn't burn you, but enough that it warms your motivation to move away from the fire. Kirishima is looking at you now too, when you pull your dark Takoban cloak around your shoulders and dust off your knees.

“Y/n?”

“Stay,” you smile at him, “Eat, be warm. I have to check in with Master Aizawa.”

Shinsou peers up at you from his seat between Denki and Sero. Mina clears her throat, “But you didn’t answer the question.”

Did you miss something? You glance between the faces of your sitting company to try and sort out the pieces of their conversation, but she’s looking only at you.

“Are you a flame mage?”

“What?”

Then Sero laughs. He laughs like he doesn’t mean to and covers his mouth, which ignites the purple blush across Mina’s face. “I–I didn’t–! Was that weird? You guys are thinking it too, c’mon–”

“I don’t say everything I think, Mina.”

“Spare me, yes you do!”

The prince, laying deadly still and very much not asleep, grunts. The Champion leans back to look up at you as you stand above the group, still a few steps behind in their conversation. He offers you up your mug again as an invitation to sit, “They’re just curious is all.”

“I don’t do magic,” you murmur, only to him. You take your cup from his hand but before he lets go, he tugs downwards to pull you back to his side. The fire is hot but not so big that you can’t sit exceptionally close to it.

“So no to fire magic?” Mina pipes up again, “What do you do?”

“I don’t, M'lady.”

“Don’t…do anything?”

“I do plenty,” you chuckle, “but I can’t do magic.”

A growl sounds off from the prince who’s dragged himself up to sitting in the single blink of an eye. He seems less irritated with the lack of sleep he’s getting and more by your apparent lack of magical aptitude. Like it’s a personal slight.

“What’s the point of you then?”

You don’t dare eye contact when he speaks, but you’ve heard this kind of intimidation from his mother. Kirishima is looking, and he points sharp in his prince’s direction to clip short whatever might come next.

You rally, “I swear I’m no less competent than any fighting mage.”

But Prince Bakugou is no longer interested in you, and only barks when Mina throws an acorn cap at the back of his head. Kirishima nudges you a bit when you try to dip into your mug again.

“Have you ever tried?”

“Tried what?”

“Magic.”

What used to be your smile twists into confusion, but the Champion presses on, “You’d be surprised how many people think they can’t do any magic at all, when really their gift is just specific! Like, uh— the man who works proofing ovens in the kitchens at home only has one fireproof hand,” The redhead has himself chuckling along with the rest of his friends but presses a flat, gentle hand into your back to keep you safe from his enthusiasm, “You can imagine the day he found out his other half wasn’t so flame retardant.”

The prince looks like he’s winding up to yell at you all again over his delicate sleep schedule so Denki is quick to butt in with, “Why not try now?”

Today is a lot to take in. Promises, apologies, a lesson in campfires, but you aren’t going to add mage training to the list. You balance the mug under gentle fingertips, “I don’t need magic to do my job.”

“That’s badass.”

“But Y/n, what if you have some crazy world-ending power?!”

You look to Shinsou for a bit of level-headed support but he turns away to let you simmer in the attention alone, smiling.

“Or what if you can, like, bring back the dead? Or heal the sick! How many sick people have you touched recently?”

“Or dead people?”

Mina and Denki try to bounce as many ideas off each other as they can fit into the next few seconds before the prince blasts their heads off and you feel like a real afterthought in all. But the questions subside, the prince doesn’t blow, and now you’re expected to answer. Even the Champion at your side is looking at you with those soft red eyes of his. You dip your lips back into your mug for a warm sip before responding, “I wouldn’t know.”

Kirishima’s the only one who really understands what you mean and tries to change the subject but Mina scrambles across the small clearing and gets a hold of you before he can speak. She’s gentle when she takes one of your hands and stretches it out towards the fire.

“When I use magic, I relax my arms like this,” she wiggles her fingers, “and it just oozes outta me.”

“Literally,” Sero chuckles. Mina shakes you back into focus before you can ask him what he means.

“What if you relax real good– here hold your hand just like this– and then boom! You blow up the whole campsite. Your magic could be really powerful like that.” She has your arm outstretched, the one not holding tea, and she’s miming going limp with her own hand. You give in. She’s a royal guest, and you’re in no position to deny her. Your eyes flutter closed.

You used to try this as a kid, willing your own magical gift to manifest in your bedroom after Jeanist called for curfew. It feels the same now as it always has, not that you’re concentrating as hard as you used to at eight years old. It feels like nothing. Magic can manifest a million ways, but from forever til today the only way you ever pictured proper magic was flowing from sweaty palms and jagged fingers. You curl a little closer to your knees but commit, and flex your fingers the way you’ve seen beautiful magic made before.

“Try to picture something pretty.” You’re not sure who says it, and gods you feel silly, but you comply and focus on the warmth that tingles your fingers from the fire in front of you. For some reason, the first thing you imagine is velvet.

Immediately your hand is so hot you have to open your eyes to keep from snatching it back to your chest.

It’s the light that you see in your dreams in that little cup your fingers made. It’s the stars that fall from the sky in corners of the castle at night. White, purple, orange, and blue. It’s the same as the prince’s beautiful magic, in your own outstretched fingers for a single fleeting, flickering moment. Your heart is in your head. Your eyes wide and trembling. It’s just a second of pure bright light before the spark bounces off your palm hot enough to make your eyes water, and dies as quickly as it is beautiful into the campfire.

Beats of excitement tap your chest as you look to the group, but the prince’s eyes are the first ones you see and he looks altogether too happy with himself for you not to realize. Bakugou shakes the rest of the sparks from his fingers and doesn’t fight the smirk spread across his lips, though, the very second you meet his gaze he bristles. The group around you shifts uncomfortably. What’s he supposed to do with those big eyes of yours, huh?

“Don’t be an ass Bakugou, we’re just having fun.”

“s’not my fault she’s gullible.”

Kirishima’s warmth isn’t enough to keep you at the campfire. The horses started snorting at the fireworks and so you nestle your cup in the dirt around the fire to regain your focus, “Apologies, Highness. I’m acting unprofessionally.”

“Y/n don’t–” Mina tries to salvage your company but you smile,

“I got comfortable before even feeding the horses.”

And you do mean it. You’re standing now and you make sure to nod to every member of the company before you back into the dark of the far camp, “Good night everyone. Thank you very much for the tea.” It’s okay. You’ll set up your bedroll near the carriage in the dark so that the crackling fire doesn’t keep you from hearing footsteps. Yes, you’ll sleep alone like you’re used to, with the familiar smells of horses and finally get some rest.

“Good night Y/n,” Mina whispers. Denki throws a disapproving acorn cap across the fire at Bakugou’s bare shoulder. He ignores it and takes a sip from his mug. Sero throws another.

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tagged angels ✧.* nnubee cherrykamado nonomesupposedto zombiewarprincess kotarousproperty strawberry-mentos69 sveetnn eirlysian lunrai cherripunch26nch26 km74744 arayoflia

(tumblr keeps deleting the end of my fics, including my reader tags! I didn't re-tag the lovelies above because I'm sure they're getting sick of the notifications as I try to fix it. tags will be back to normal next ch! if you've signed up for the tag list, have no fear, I think I've figured it out)

#thank you so much for your support!! #this story is my baby #my slow moving baby #trust is the name of the game folks #theres only excitement from here on out #swearsies #a hymn to black water #bakugou x reader #bnha #bnha x reader #mha #mha x reader #bakugo x reader #mha fantasy au #bnha fantasy au #fantasy bakugo #fantasy bakugou

[middleearthsdreams]

New World

Chapter 2

A/n: here I am, again, hoping that you're enjoying this work. I won't be long, so here it is. xoxo

Warnings: none.

enjoy <3

chapter 1 / chapter 3

You wake up feeling cold, again. You hope this isn’t going to be of routine. You flutter your eyes open, frowning by the headache spreading at the centre of your forehead. You sit up, yawning lightly, wondering where the fuck your glasses are. You try to get up but fall miserably on the ground, the bed far too tall to be yours. You hear a light snore from across the bed and that’s when your eyes widen. ‘Ahh, right’ you think to yourself. You put on your glasses to find that you are – indeed – still in Westeros. Your half-closed eyes fall to the great silhouette of Sandor still resting on his pillow.

You huff silently, not wanting to wake him up. You look around the dark room, eyes setting on the window, hearing too many sounds this far in the night. You go up to the small window, looking down. You wonder what the time is, since there are men readying horses and departing all around. Children scurry along, wearing poor clothes, assisting the men for some coins. It’s still dark but you sense that dawn isn’t far away. Your eyes fall to one small boy in particular, you don’t know why. He looks up at you and you smile towards him, then he runs into the forest.

You turn around a loud snore breaking the silence. He’s fallen in a deep sleep, from all the drinking you had last night you wonder why you’re awake. You sigh, deciding to do the same, so you lay back down. This time you turn towards him. You know you won’t get a second chance, so you enjoy the brief moment of his unconsciousness. Your shaky fingers brush away his hair, revealing his burnt side of the face. You caress his scar with feather touches, sighing and making yourself more comfortable on the hard pillow – closer this time. Giving one last look at his rough profile, you close your eyes.

Some minutes later you have to open them again, because your door is opening and some men are getting in. You recognize some faces and decide to act asleep: the Brotherhood. You grasp silently Sandor’s hand, although you know he’s sleeping far too deeply to feel you. You just want to be with him, knowing what will soon happen. The men put a sack over his head, then turn him around to tie his hands back. You feel the hold on your hand tighten slightly. “Havin’ fun are we? Didn’t know he had a likin’ for little girls” One of them say, turning you around and tying your wrists too. You hold your breath, feeling one of the man’s hand touch your rear. You kick the man back with your bare foot, hearing him groan in pain. “Strike, you fucker” You mumble, laughing to yourself, high fiving in your head for your extraordinary aim at his balls.

Sandor stirs, the commotion wakening him up. He turns and struggles, the ties too tight for him to break them. “What’s going on?” He asks tiredly, sitting on the bed but falling miserably. You snicker in your head by the loud thump. You turn back, sitting on the cushions and waiting for the men to do what they have to do. It takes three men to pick Sandor up, his mind too dazed by the wine you had last night to protest the assault. Since he can’t see he just gives up, stumbling to walk out the door. You don’t put up much of a fight, you only glare at the man who dared to touch you. He receives a whack on the back of the head by his companions, apologizing to you for his brother’s behaviour. Still, they keep you tied up.

You don’t say a word as the men bring you along, following Sandor’s ass downstairs and outside. The Sun has crept up by now, you notice. The men chat and laugh, as they shove him inside the diner’s door. He has to bend his neck to enter it, given his absurd height. As you enter the door, people start cheering and clapping, then you hear a famiiar voice. Thoros exclaims drunkenly: “That’s an uncommonly large person!”. Then he stumbles to get a closer look “How does one manage to subdue such an uncommonly large person?” he questions, you can smell the same shitty alcohol you drank last night in his breath. The archer responds – quite proud of his work – “one waits for him to drink and have fun ‘till he passes out”. You try to cover your mouth, a humoured smile creeping on your face. Despite the rough ways, the Brotherhood without Banners always managed to make you laugh. Especially in this scene. Only, this time, you could witness it. Then you remember that you’re tied up too, your smile retreating from your lips. Thoros speaks again, knowingly “Poor man, you have my sympathy” as he proceeds to unveil Sandor’s gruff head. His hair all messy and shoulders up, probably from the sudden light. Thoros chuckles excitedly, as much as he can of course, then turns around like he’s on stage “Aha! Not a man at all… a Hound!”. The ‘crowd’ cheers and howls, making fun of the man. Your scowl deepens, unhappy by the treatments reserved for Sandor. He just stands there, used to this joke about him being a dog. “So good to see you Clegane” Thoros turns back to chat with the tied man, his eyes glance to you briefly so he scoffs “did I interrupt a night of fun?”. Sandor doesn’t take the bait and looks at the drunk man annoyed “Thoros, the fuck you doing here?”. You roll your eyes as the men exchange a few hateful words for each other, little kids. Your interest goes to the little girl, standing and ready to leave. Arya, fearing of getting recognized, hastily reaches for Hot Pie and then Gendry, urging them to leave. You stop to observe her, all eyes on her, as she passes by. As she passes, you notice how short she actually is, a little girl. Your eyes soften, she’d already gone a great long way. You shake your head, this is just the beginning.

“Girl!” Sandor exclaims, looking deeply at Arya, obviously recognizing her. “What on Seven Hells are you doing with a Stark bitch?” He almost bites at Thoros’ face, turning to look at her. Arya looks back, eyes wide with fear, stopping her escape. She was almost there.

By the time Thoros decides what to do with the new turn of events, you have had some boys cut your bonds. But not wanting to leave Sandor – of course – you stick with the Brotherhood, following them around as they prepare to take their leave. You go up to the archer, the one that seems to have made his living purpose to torment Sandor. After some denying he finally accepts to bring you with, tired of your insistence. You sit on the carriage that’s reserved for Sandor, followed shortly after by him – not after the same archer made him bump his head on purpose. They make him sit next to you, thank god. The Hound seems to notice your presence, so he turns his – covered – head towards you “The fuck are you still doing here?”. You expected this reaction from him; who are you to follow his every step like a puppy, after all? You shrug, sitting more comfortably on the hard wood: “I don’t have urgent matters to attend, and I don’t know what I would do without your company” you joke – but you’re not really lying. He grunts, not enjoying this situation one bit. You smirk shortly, crossing your arms and wait. As the other men take place inside the carriage you sit straight. The one across form you looks apologetic, but covers your head too with a bag “Nobody can find out our secret location, sorry lady”. You shrug but roll your eyes, like you didn’t know already. You wanted to, at least, enjoy the trip by looking around. Now you have nothing to do, your hands on your lap to play with your fingers to pass the time. At least they didn’t tie you up again.

The ‘journey’ goes pretty quickly, having made conversation with some of the men. They were pretty chill, so you opted to gossip with them about the scandals going on around all Westeros. You needed a little catching up to do, your memory could do so little against this enormous world, so you thank them silently for reminding you of things you completely forgot about. All the while Sandor remains silent, his legs open wide and stance stoic, he doesn’t change position for one moment. Only a soldier could be like that.

Arriving at the cave, you can hear the water flowing against the rocks. And they thought they were smart by putting bags on your heads. However, they bring you inside, only lifting the bags when you reach the core of the cave. Torches lighten up the place, a great fireplace stands in the middle of the crowd. The men make you sit on the ground, while the great Beric Dondarrion stands. His stance is stoic but offers a little bit of challenge, to whoever dared to question him. His face is scarred and you’re thankful his eye is hidden by the eyepatch; however, you find his gaze very welcoming. He lures you in, so all you can do is stare at him, while he talks. You miss the first part of the conversation but quickly pop in when the Brotherhood starts to accuse Sandor – utmost his family – for killing the Targaryen children. Sandor responds promptly – still bound – “Do you take me for my brother?”.

He turns and looks everyone in the eye then continues “Is being born Clegane a crime?”. His voice quivers, his eyes still set on the flames surrounding him. “Murder is a crime!” Someone exclaims, so Sandor plants his feet and spells clearly his next words “I never touched the Targaryen babes! I never saw them, never smelled them, never heard them bawling! You want to cut my throat: get on with it” his eyes water slightly and so does yours, your breath hitching. If it weren't for his brother, his life would have gone a much different way. He'd still have a family. He'd still have half of his face. He woulnd't so vengeful. “But don’t call me murderer and pretend that you are not” He finishes, and you think he’s right. You nod, already knowing what’s going to happen, but letting the events unfold before your eyes. “You murdered Mycah” Arya yells, standing two feet from you, all eyes turning to her. You look up, almost wanting to kick her little butt. “The butcher’s boy, my friend: he was 12 years old and unarmed. You rode him down and slung him over your horse, like he was a deer” she is cut off by Sandor “Aye, he was a bleeder”. You turn to him now, kicking a rock at him, hitting him in the knee. He didn’t care that he was going to be killed. You roll your eyes at the rest of the bickering. Everybody knows he only did as Joffrey ordered him to. You try to talk against the accuse but Beric states his final judgement “I sentence you to trial by combat”. You stand now, glaring at Beric but a hand holds you in your place. You see the archer, warning in his eyes. You know you can’t interfere, but anger boils in your chest. It’s unjust how so many people point their finger at Sandor, without even knowing what he really did. You sit back down, and so does Arya and a few other men.

Thoros chants his magic words – nonsense to you – and other people reply back. Sandor is set free from the ropes; he massages his shoulders and stretches his back from the pain. You get distracted by him twirling his sword back and forth, when a sudden light comes from Beric. You turn your head, able to witness one of the most incredible sights in all Westeros. Beric’s sword, caught a flame, tall and almighty. Your eyes light up – literally, in awe by this sort of miracle. Sandor takes two steps back, frightened by the fire. His worst nightmare coming true, but still he wields his sword tightly and holds a wooden shield in his other hand.

And so, the battle begins, the crowd getting farther from the fighters as the move. Swords clash ferociously fast; you barely see their movements. They turn and move, as if they’re dancing, grunting and yelling. Well, not a fancy and elegant dance. Their movements are harsh and strong – Sandor cuts a wooden pillar in half with just a swing, you fear they can hit someone nearby, by the force. Arya gets taken away by Thoros just in time, Sandor’s sword hitting the ground. She is thrown in your arms, so you hold her tight. Regardless of her spite for the Hound, right now, you hold her dearly. Her fierce eyes scan the situation, examining every slash and swing, every vacillation of the two opponents. “Kill him!” Arya yells, and you let her, but grip her tighter. Sandor gets taken down for a few beats, but yet he stands, throwing Beric away. His terror of fire showing clearly on his face as his shield sets up aflame. The peak of the fight lingers for a few more seconds; Sandor’s panic enraging him more and bringing him to the edge. Finally, the sound of flesh and bones ripping apart fills the cave. You close your eyes, not before you catch the sight of Beric’s shoulder almost falling off. The picture is already buried in your mind, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t disgust you. Arya stills in your arms, you loosen your grip completely, relieved by the end of the trial. Thoros jumps towards Beric’s lifeless body, whispering prayers in his ear and touching his bloody arm. You slide to Sandor, kneeling before him, his tired body lying on the ground. You take his arm – to which he huffs – and slip the rest of the crumbled and burned shield off of him. He grunts but smiles, like a cat. Arya’s cry crosses the room, you see her stealing someone’s knife – ready to kill the Hound with her bare hands. She runs to you and Sandor, but gets taken by a few companions of the Brotherhood, led away from you. “Noo, let me go!” The archer holds her down, putting much effort because she’s turning and wiggling like a madwoman. Sandor laughs, you look down to him, your eyes warning him but he ignores you “Looks like the God of Light prefers me over your dear butcher boy’s life”. You hit his shoulder, scolding him “down boy, don’t tease her”. Arya yells “Burn in Hell!” almost crying from the effort. Your eyes set on the dead body of Beric, covered by Thoros’ form, waiting for him to resuscitate. Beric’s voice cuts the silence “He’s already had”. You cringe, furrowing your brows, why did he change the sentence? You don’t have time to think about it because the second miracle of the day happens before your eyes. The man sits, limping and breathing harshly of course. His shoulder completely healed, attached to his neck again. The shock escaping Arya’s face distracts her by her madness, luckily. You gasp, your native language spilling quietly from your lips “Santissima, manco Gesù Cristo”.

Beric smiles, already able to walk and move, declaring the trial done and finished. For good.

Arya’s temper is on fire, maybe that’s why Sandor was intimidated by her – just a little bit. Not that he will admit it. After the trial, they let you help Sandor, clean him up and give him water. He grunts but doesn’t reject your help, too tired to fight with you too. The Brotherhood decides to let you go, thankfully, but keeps Arya with them. You protest, arguing with Thoros about Arya’s wellbeing, telling him that she would be safer with someone who could actually defend her. He philosophises about what the conception of trust was and stuff like that, so you groan and leave him be. He smiles triumphantly, while you look back at him.

 You sit down next to Sandor, who’s tying his boots back on and adjusting his belt. You hold your gaze with Thoros, still a bit mad at him but pondering: what wonders he could do, as a priest. That’s one thing that always intrigued you, the Lord of Light and red priest/priestess stuff. The mystery and dark shadows that it cast upon everyone’s fate. Much like the mystery of your presence in this world.

Thoros knows you’re observing him, that’s why he stands up and reaches you. Sandor goes to ready the horse, leaving the spot close to you empty. Thoros slumps down, offering you a sip of the shit ale he was drinking. You shake your head, crossing your arms to your chest. He shrugs, eyes half lidded as always, knowing. He begins “Yer not from around here”, and again someone makes this statement. You wonder if you could tell him the truth: he probably wouldn’t give half a shit if you came from another world. And he is a priest, you wonder if… “No, I’m farther from home than you could think, actually” you decide to answer saying half the truth. He nods “Aye, I figured as much” taking another sip. His hands go intertwine under his chin, resting his elbows on his knees, observing your face. You decide to question him “It’s incredible what you’ve done in that cave, what you can do” he tilts his head flattered, smirking, you continue holding his eyes “I wonder what other fascinating things can happen in this world”. He rolls his eyes but keeps smiling “I’m sure that’s not what you want to tell me, so quit playing around and ask me” he clears. You freeze for just a moment but decide to confess: “Is it possible to travel through worlds?”. You observe his reaction on edge, not really sure of how he would react. His eyes widen, only in a beat, then he holds your hand and stands up. You let him drag you but keep your other hand on the hidden dagger on your side, still not sure if you can trust him. You discover he’s leading you towards the nearest fire, stopping in front of it with your hand still tightly held in his. You hiss, his strong fingers now becoming very hot: “can you let go, please?”. He shakes his head with his eyes closed, mumbling something under his breath. You can’t make out the words but you’re sure he’s praying, or something of the like. He suddenly gasps and lets your hand go – you’re eager to massage your red fingers. He just motions you to the flames so you get the message. You stand closer to the fire, squinting your eyes trying to understand what you’re supposed to see. Then it hits you.

You and Thoros have a long talk.

You’re standing in front of Stranger, petting his soft coat absentmindedly. Sandor’s refilling his last water and food supplies, kindly offered by the Brotherhood. You’re still going back to the conversation you just had with Thoros, your thoughts racing. Stranger cuddles you with his snout, letting out appreciation sounds which distract you from your mind just enough. You smile kindly to the horse, thanking him with the eyes. “Are you done making love with my beast?” The sudden harsh voice of Sandor makes you jump by the surprise. You roll your eyes but leave Stranger be, he neighs disappointed, and retort “You’re so jealous it’s almost embarrassing, Clegane”. He looks you up and down, unfazed, then closes the last bag. He turns his back to you, holding Stranger’s reigns, stating: “Farewell” and with that he starts to walk away. You glare at his broad shoulders, catching up with him walking side by side with him. “And what am I supposed to do all alone?” You try to manipulate him “you can’t leave me”. He stops and looks at you, unsure and diffident “Why do you want to follow me, uh?” he exclaims – his eyes wary. “Do you think I’m some kind of freak you can play with? You trynna have a good laugh? Perhaps you seek me out for protection but bad news: I won’t” His breathing goes short, his shoulders raising and falling deeply. You are taken aback, unable to talk by the sudden tone. You feel ashamed, looking to the ground. You can’t tell him why you’re following him, but you surely don’t want him to think of you that way. You’re hurt by his distrustful nature, of course he thinks you want to taunt him: why would you be interested in him otherwise? He doesn’t know you. Maybe you took things faster than they should have been. He waits for you to say something, uncertain but hopeful – that maybe he’s wrong. You sigh, deciding to tell him the truth – well, half of it.

“The thing is: I don’t know either why I’m here; I’m lost in an unknown land and I don’t know why or what I’m supposed to do” you take a deep breath, trying to find the words to describe how you feel, your eyes faltering between his cold ones “When I woke up in that forest I thought I was dreaming, then I found you and I feel like you’re the only one I can trust. I’m not looking for someone to defend me or else, I’m just lost. So, please…”. You struggle to continue because of his intense stare, you gulp “Please, don’t leave me alone”. His face sets on a scowl making your heart pump fast under your ribcage, your palms sweating. You really don’t want to be left alone, and he really is the only one in the entire world whose acts are genuine. He pats Stranger and begins walking again. Your whole head slumps: he’s leaving. You look down, hoping the ground would open and bring you back home. Your eyes glistening, you start to walk opposite him.

“Where are ye going?”

The silence is broken by his rough tone. Your boots stop you from taking another step, you look back. He’s glancing at you with one brow raised. You stand like a deer hit from car lights. “I won’t ask a second time” He grunts out. You stupidly run back to his side. You hold his waist tightly, hugging him so suddenly he has to take a few seconds to understand what you just did. You mutter quietly against his cold armour “Thank you”. He lets you have your intimate moment for a few seconds more, then scolds you “Alright, that’s enough”. You let him go, blushing by your own unexpected action. To repair the uncomfortable silence, you walk up to Stranger’s big head and litter it with kisses, talking to him with the ‘cute pet’ voice: “Looks like we’re gonna be travelling companions for some more time”. The horse grunts happily and leans his head to pet you as well, the intelligent animal he is. You laugh at this and accept the cuddles. Sandor sighs, but his mouth is slightly turned upwards – not that you can see it. “Feels like you’re in love with that animal” He mumbles. You take place to his side once more – not leaving it this time – and say “Maybe I am”. Your eyes aren’t on the horse but – in fact – on Sandor, your sentence having a second meaning behind it. He looks down at you and notices your eyes set on him, making him – gasp – blush. He clears his throat and turns his head “Whatever”.

You smile, happy that he didn’t ask you more about yourself, but most importantly happy that he’s accepted to bring you along. You’re determined to come through with your ‘mission’, now that things are starting to get better. Finally able to proceed with your plan, your journey with the Hound begins.

#sandor / reader #sandor x reader #sandor the hound clegane #sandor clegane #game of thrones #got #fluff #eventual smut

[softpascalito]

Pedro Pascal Kinktober Day Seven

Wax Play - Joel Miller/Reader

Summary: Joel and you are paired up for patrol. There are a lot of things unsaid, a snowstorm rolling in and some candles. Go figure (or go read i guess).

Relationships: Joel Miller x Reader

WC: 1900

Tags/Warnings: Smut, Explicit Content, Genderneutral Reader, Wax Play, Nipple Play, Infected, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Temperature Play, Snowed In, Two decade old ravioli

AO3 LINK

notes: hi babes! another joel piece today, one that is actually one of my favorites! if you enjoyed the first week on kinktober, lmk in a comment <3

_______________________________

The day is cold.

It's a normal patrol and you stomp through the snow that's been blown into the abandoned house, still high on the success of taking out two runners all by yourself. It's a split moment of distraction as you miss the noise coming from the open bedroom door next to you and that split moment is all it takes as the clicker shoots out of the doorframe and slams you into the nearest wall.

“Fuck!” A yell escapes your throat as you try to keep the Infected out of arm's reach, your fingers digging into the fungal plates on its chest as you stare into a face that has lost all its resemblance to the human it must've been years and years ago. 

Its mouth is wide open and for a split second you think the agonizing scream you hear is coming from the creature in front of you. Then you realize it's your own.

The moment seems to stretch on endlessly, the fear in your chest starting to be replaced by a dreaded feeling of being doomed, of the realization that this may really be it, when he appears in the hallway. 

The gunshot rings in your unprotected ears and through the fog you hear the dampened noise of the clicker falling to the ground next to you, a thud before its body finally goes still.

The grip on you is gone but you can just stare blankly into the thin air in front of you. A few moments later, likely after making sure there's no more Infected around, he's there, in front of you. And now the grip of terror that the Clicker had on you mere seconds ago is replaced by one of tenderness as Joel gently pulls at your shoulders, helping you steady yourself. 

His lips are moving but you can't make out the words. You can tell he holds his breath as he lets his hands roam over your body for a few seconds, turning your hands and bending his own neck one way and the other to check for bites. His touch seems to linger slightly longer too, but this time you're thankful for it.

His rough fingers glide over your neck, pulling at your thick winter jacket slightly to make sure there are no scratches on the delicate flesh of your throat. After a glance at your back, he finally seems to let out a small breath of relief and nods as he steps back, allowing you to take a shaky step of your own into the middle of the room.

He kicks the fungal plate on the floor that is now splattered with blood. ”Jesus, this place is overrun with them.” His gaze only lingers on the body for a few moments, then he turns to check the surroundings once more. It pauses on your form, still shaking, your gaze not meeting his.

“Come on, we're done for today.” Joel mutters and he gently nudges your elbow, staying closer than usual as he leads you back to the horses.

The patrol stop on this route is a cabin in a small resort by a lake, a few miles over from Jackson. It's quite scenic, but also harder to reach and unfortunately, more prone to attacks from Infected.

“It ain't too far now.” Joel calls to you through the snow blowing around your horses. 

It takes a little longer than usual to get both of you into the saddles with how shaken you still are and the abandoned house has cost even more time. The wind has picked up while you have been inside and now the storm seems to be getting closer by the second, inevitably making the way back to Jackson that much harder.

“Should we turn back?” You pipe up, speaking again for the first time. He shakes his head, ”No, I reckon it's best to just find shelter. Cabin should be stocked up.” 

During the winter months, it's not unusual for patrols to stay out overnight, especially if running into bad weather or blocked paths. Noone will worry if you spend the night here and go back in the morning.

Just as the wind starts to get really uncomfortable, you spot the large wooden sign marking the entrance to the small resort and Joel leads the way to the cabin frequented for the patrols. You lead the horses into the attached garage and shovel some snow into a tub to make sure they have some water while Joel secures the area.

After he declares it safe to stay, he locks the front door, ”Ain't like anyone gonna make it out this far in the storm either way.” He mutters under his breath but he is rather safe than sorry. 

You stay quiet, huddled into a corner as you wait for him to give you more instructions. He doesn't.

Instead, he gets out some cans and stirs up a quick dinner for both of you. The two decade old ravioli taste like nothing to you and you struggle to even finish the small portion he has handed you.

Darkness has fallen when you're both done eating and Joel finds the candles spread around the small cabin and starts lighting them, glancing through the curtains as he does. Then, his gaze wanders back to you, still in the same position you've been in since you arrived.

“You're awfully quiet over there.” He mutters.

“Sorry, just- It's been a long day.” You reply quietly, staring at the empty cans in front of you. You can practically feel his gaze on you as he speaks, ”Yeah, reckon it has been.”

You both stay quiet for a moment and he returns to your side, pushing the half-empty cans away with his boot before he sits down, his gaze never leaving your form. His voice is quiet and gentle when he speaks.

“It didn't get you.”

“I know.”

He pauses again for a moment. And then-

“I wouldn't let it.”

“I know.”

Your own voice is shaking and suddenly, you feel like crying. He stirs next to you and a split second later you're cuddling into him, your face resting against the middle of his chest, the leather jacket he refuses to stop wearing framing your head on both sides.

Time doesn't matter as you stay enveloped in him, taking in the scent that smells like safety, the voice that sounds like a distant lullaby and the arms that feel like home around you.

You can feel yourself falling asleep and eventually, Joel nudges you a little. He has pulled your can of food back towards you and sighs, ”Come on, finish dinner and then you can go to sleep, hm?” 

You whine into his chest and he sighs. ”Look, I'll warm it up for you again.”

He does, turning the small cooker back on to generate a little more heat, all the while keeping one arm securely around you. When he's satisfied, he turns the small flame off again and pulls you back a little. 

You gaze up at him and he sighs softly before grabbing a fork and, one by one, bringing the leftover ravioli to your mouth. You know you would never admit it, but you do feel a little better once your stomach is actually full and you yawn a little as he cleans up while you reach for your sleeping gear.

Not wanting to attract attention, you don't start fires unless absolutely necessary so tonight it's staying warm in your thick jackets and sleeping bags. You huddle into the corner of the cabin, crawling into the bag as Joel brings a candle over. He reaches for a shelf above you but the wax is already quite melted and a small drop falls down onto your exposed arm. You yank it back, hissing a bit before it turns into a whine. ”Watch it,” You mutter under your breath and Joel almost instantly stops in his tracks.

Not because he's worried. But because he knows that whine. 

It's the same noise you make when he's buried deep inside of you, when you beg him to finally move.

Slowly, careful not to drop too much, he repeats his motion, this time on purpose.

“What are you- Joel!” The hot wax hits your arm again and the combination of the warmth in contrast to the coldness that's surrounding you draws another whine from your lips. He smirks at his find and places the candle next to the makeshift bed, kneeling down so he can place both hands on the top of your sleeping bag, waiting for permission. You nod quickly and he pulls it down until it pools at your hips before tugging on your sweater:” Why don't you take that off for me, darlin?”

You comply, raising your arms as he helps you out of the thick piece of clothing. He carefully places it next to you before his hands return to you, fingers ghosting over your chest and tracing the lines and curves of it. The cold immediately gives you chills and Joel rubs the palms of his hands over your sides and your stomach for a moment to warm you up before leaning down to kiss each side gently.

Then, he carefully reaches for the candle and you watch the flickering light of it dance over his features as he tilts it very slowly right above your chest. Your gaze wanders to the source of light and you watch as the wax slowly begins to flow towards the edge until eventually a small drop falls down- and the hot sensation it creates on your skin travels through your body and from your chest right down to your middle. The whine is a breathless gasp this time and a curse escapes your lips, ”Fuck-”.

Joel chuckles lowly, clearly enjoying himself. He repeats the motion in different spots, letting a few small and then larger drops of wax fall to your skin until one hits your nipple and you gasp loudly in response, your legs clenching together as the heat from the candle seems to transfer to pool in your lower abdomen. Your hand darts out from under the covers to grab at Joel's shirt, fisting it in your hand. ”Joel, please ,” You whimper.

“Please what?” He hums, a soft tone of amusement in his voice.

“Please touch me, please, it's too much, it feels so- I don't know, I just need- I need you-” You blurt out, unable to contain yourself any longer. 

He chuckles again, a little softer now and shushes you as he puts the candle away, placing both hands on your chest and scratching at the hardened wax. It stings a bit as it comes off but it's just the right amount of pain and this time, he catches your whimpers with his mouth as he leans down to kiss you deeply, occupying what feels like every inch of your body.

He crawls over you, mouth never leaving yours as he shifts into the sleeping bag with you, his hands beginning to wander lower.

You spend the night entangled, limbs mixing under the thick fabrics of blankets and jackets and sleeping bags until you no longer know where he begins and where you end. He kisses your neck as you drift off to sleep hours later.

The night is warm.

#pedro pascal fanfiction #fanfic #tlou #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel tlou #joel miller #joel miller / you #smut #wax play #kinktober #softpascalito #the last of us

[fortheloveofwonderland]

Rusty | Chapter 4 | S.R

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Chapter Summary - Whilst you get acquainted with the locals, Spencer deals with the aftermath of his dissociation. You have a little too much to drink and another fight ensues.

A/N - tread lightly from here on out and please read the trigger warns. It’s going to be a lot going forward. I hope to not offend anyone with my portrayal of the locals, it’s meant to be over exaggerated and comical.

Paring - Spencer Reid / Fem! Reader

Category - strangers to friends to lovers | angst | smut minors DNI

Warnings - swearing, drinking, slightly pervy men, smoking, blood, accidental self-harm, mental health diagnosis, PTSD, dissociative amnesia, Spencer’s dirty thoughts and intrusive thoughts, tears, mentions of male masturbation, arguing, drunk reader.

WC - 6.2k

Chapter 4 - The Ballad of the Lonesome Cowboy

You drove for miles. You drove for miles but somehow didn’t make it very far. 

Your intent, after you stormed out of Spencer’s ranch, was to continue your drive to Mexico and never look back. You had no ties here, no reason to return. 

Spencer had coerced you into helping him when you hadn’t wanted to and when you finally agreed he’d snapped at you for doing the one thing he’d asked of you. 

No, you didn’t allow anybody to talk to you like that no matter how pretty they were. 

You tried to follow your original path, back on your route further down south but for some reason you just kept driving in circles. Up to Pipe Creek, back down to Bandera Town, back up to Pipe Creek and so on. 

You wished you’d had the forethought to grab the bottle of scotch before you’d left. Not that you condoned drinking and driving but you were just so fucking angry. 

So you continued to drive. Up and down. Up and down. The same stretch of road passing before your eyes again and again. 

Heading back through Bandera you saw it. It was like a sign from the heavens, a flashing beacon of good fortune. 

You pulled the car to a stop on the other side of the road and didn’t hesitate in jumping out. Crossing the empty street you glanced up at the old rickety looking building, that seemed to be moments away from collapse. 

11th Street Cowboy Bar. Don’t mind if I do. 

Outside sat three motorcycles and one lone horse tied to a hitching post. You gave the creature a wide berth. You stepped up the high curb, under the rusty tin awning and shoved open the saloon style doors. 

As soon as you breached the entrance, five sets of eyes landed on you and you instantly froze in your tracks at the heavy, penetrating stares.

Two old men with thick grey beards, stetsons, and dressed head to toe in denim perched on bar stools, eyeing you up as though you were a large steak and they were hungry wolves. 

The bartender peered at you between them, he was slightly younger but still ebbing into his late fifties. He had thinning dyed black hair, a comically oversized moustache and a red neckerchief tied snug around his throat. 

At a table nearby two other older gentlemen, in the midst of a game of cards, halted their game to stare at you too.  

You swallowed, unsticking your dry tongue from the roof of your mouth and tugging at the hem of your oversized sweater. 

The ten wandering eyes stayed on you as you took a few hesitant steps forward. 

To call this place a bar would be overselling it. It was no more a shack, barely bigger than Spencer’s living room. It was warm and musky, the scent of sweat and tobacco heavy in the air. 

It became apparent as you got further in the room that the man tending bar was chewing on tobacco between his rear teeth. One of the old men at the bar puffed on a cigar. You approached with an abundance of caution, rolling your lip between your teeth as you pushed towards the bar. 

“Howdy there ma’am.” The bar tender offered you a smile in which you caught a glimpse of the soggy tobacco in his cheek. “We got ourselves a city slicker, boys.” 

You ground your teeth together, figuratively and metaphorically holding your tongue from saying something you would regret. 

“I reckon you’re about as pretty as peach.” The old man and his smoky cigar breath moved closer, lingering. 

“Now, now Boone, don’t scare the little miss. Don’t mind him. Not his fault, he just didn’t know any better.” The tender spoke first to the cigar huffing old man - Boone - and then to you.

“No bother.” You replied curtly. “This a place where a girl can get a drink?” 

“‘Pends what she’s drinking for.” The other elderly man piped up. 

You narrowed your eyes on them both and from this close there were distinct similarities between the two. As if reading your mind, the bartender spoke again. 

“Twin brothers, ma’am. This here is Boone and Butch. Regulars by all accounts.” 

You turned back to him briefly, looked back at the brothers and smiled as amicably as you could.

“Charmed, I’m sure.” You nodded. 

“And I’m Cole, the proprietor of 11th Street.” The bartender - Cole - got your attention back. 

“Elizabeth.” You offered him a nod too. 

“What brings you to our neck of the woods, Miss Eliz-a-beth.” Boone spoke again, puffing smoke at you and pronouncing the name as if it was three separate words. 

“Oh you know, running from old Johnny law.” You winked at the old man and he blanched beneath his beard. 

Butch slapped a meaty hand on a meatier thigh and yee-hawed loudly, almost knocking himself back off the bar stool. 

“Funny and pretty, hot damn.” Butch cackled. 

You glanced over your shoulder briefly, the two other men had now resumed playing cards and weren’t paying a blind bit of notice to you and the others. 

“Most definitely running from something though, am I right sugar?” Cole picked up a tumbler from under the counter, eyes sparkling as he eyed you in a knowing way. 

“What gave you that impression?” You huffed. 

“See here,” he pointed over his shoulder to the clock hanging on the wall. “It ain’t even lunchtime. People only drink before lunchtime when they’re running from something or they miserable.” He nodded his head towards the twins and you stifled a laugh. 

“I’m simply passing through.” You drew your pack of cigarettes from your pocket and cradled one between your lips. 

Before you could even think about looking for your lighter, Boone was proffering one towards you, flame flickering. 

You leaned a little closer until your cigarette touched the flame and nodded at him in thanks.

“Didn’t I see y’all earlier in the General Store with that Cosmo?” Cole cocked an eyebrow which hit his receding hairline. 

He was scooping exactly three cubes of ice into the bottom of the tumbler. 

“Might have done.” You spoke between drags, following Boone’s lead and flicking the excess ash on the floor. 

“Strange one he is.” Butch spoke up now, cupping his bearded jaw in mild contemplation. 

“How so?” You gave him your attention. 

“Something…off about him. Don’t sit right with me.” 

“Nor me.” Boone agreed. “He thinks the sun comes up to just hear him crow.” 

You turned back to Cole who was now pouring three fingers of a rich amber liquid into the tumbler. Your expression asked silently for an explanation. 

“We’re friendly folk, ma’am.” Cole began, setting the bottle back in its rightful place. “Some might say we’re cliquey, maybe we are. We take care of our own for sure, but we’re amenable to new faces. Cosmo never so much as stepped foot in here, never said a damn word to any of us. Heard more outta your mouth right now than I ever heard him.” 

“What d’ya know about him?” Boone leaned closer again. 

“Nothing really. Only met him yesterday, he was in a spot of trouble and I helped him out.” You shrugged. The tumbler of amber was being slid towards you and you gave Cole a curious look. “I didn’t order.” 

“I know what folks are hankering for, Miss Lizzie.” He winked at you and you fought back a smile. 

You picked it up with your free hand and swirled the liquid and ice around the glass. You brought it to your nose and sniffed. You detected notes of woody grains, a mild hint of fruit and after a second sniff, even a touch of caramel. 

You tentatively lowered it to your lips and took a small sip. You held the liquid in your mouth and swilled it around a few times. It was smoky and a little nutty with undertones of that fruity scent. Certainly whiskey but not a variety you had ever tasted before.

You swallowed it down, it burnt a little as it went but it was pleasant. Strong though, incredibly strong. 

“You like that missy?” Cole smirked at you and you nodded. “My own concoction. Stronger than any other whiskey you can buy from that damn general store.”

“Stuff’ll put hairs on your chest.” Butch cackled again. 

You took a drag on the cigarette, flicked the ash on the floor, and brought the glass to your lips again. The three men watched in amazement and mild horror as you downed the remains in one.

Once it was emptied you slammed the glass on the counter and pushed it closer to Cole who looked utterly speechless.

“Keep ‘em coming.” You told him with a tilt of your head. 

“Sure thing, sugar.” He took the glass and poured you another while Boone and Butch stared on.

***

When Spencer came to he was sitting in his bathtub, completely naked aside from the cast on his arm, the shower was off. The first thing he was consciously aware of was the pain which seemed to encompass every fibre of his body. 

The second thing was the fact he was covered in blood. 

He blinked against the pain, trying to piece together how in the hell he had ended up here. He remembered your argument, you storming out and the rage bubble brewing in his stomach. And then...nothing.

His first experience suffering a dissociative episode was a few weeks after his release from prison. It was possible that he’d undergone a minor one when he had Cat Adams up against the wall with hands around her throat but he couldn’t be sure.

But the first one he was aware of happened a few weeks after his release. 

The last time he’d dissociated was the day after he’d arrived home from being held hostage by Ben’s Believers. 

That was when he made the decision to leave, to walk out on the team and move somewhere far away in the hopes of protecting those he loved from his inner Hulk. 

But the anger still swelled inside of him, the bitter pill that was losing someone he loved because of the trauma he’d sustained in prison, the trauma which had been completely out of his hands. 

He had let the anger consume him and he’d dissociated. When he came around that last time after his close brush with death, his apartment was trashed, books ripped apart at their spines, pages torn into confetti. His beloved chess set was even snapped clean in half.

But the more worrisome thing was the blood. 

He’d found the source of the bleeding with ease, a six inch cut down the centre of his left forearm starting at his wrist. Blood poured from the wound and he’d quickly tried to stop the flow with a shirt he’d found on the floor. 

He’d had to drive himself to the emergency room, given the amount of blood seeping through the shirt he held pressed against it, they saw him pretty quickly. When he was asked by the kind nurse who was stitching him up what had happened he told her the truth: he didn’t know. 

Well, that’s not to say he didn’t have an idea. There was no one else in his apartment and he was almost certain he hadn’t gone out in the time he had been detached from reality so it stood to reason the wound was self inflicted. 

And that was why Spencer knew, as he laid in his bathtub now with blood coating his one good hand, he’d inevitably hurt himself again. 

His left arm was encased in his cast so he looked further down his body. Sure enough it wasn’t long before his eyes landed on a series of horizontal cuts on his left inner thigh; six of them to be precise. 

The wounds weren’t entirely shallow but weren’t as deep as the cut he’d inflicted on his arm before. The blood had mostly pooled in the basin of the tub, trickling down towards the drain which he sat upon. It was then he realised he could feel the sticky substance coating his backside. 

He groaned viscerally at his utter stupidity. Spencer had, what was surely, a multitude of mental health issues, both diagnosed or not, but he’d never entertained the idea of self-harm, at least not until he dissociated. 

He had been diagnosed after prison with PTSD and mild Dissociative Thematic Amnesia. Combine that with a sprinkle of social anxiety and you got a Spencer Reid cocktail. 

But he wasn’t depressed, he wasn’t suicidal - was he? No, he didn’t think so, at least Spencer Reid didn’t. But maybe his inner Hulk did. 

The weapon for his self-inflicted wounds lay abandoned in the tub. He wasn’t surprised it was the same culprit as last time: the shiny blade from inside his shaving razor. 

Without thinking he brought his good hand to his face and rubbed but stopped quickly when he felt the sticky claret transferring to his skin.

He groaned, throwing his head back in frustration against the lip of the tub. The effort caused his back to hum in disapproval but he ignored it. 

“Why am I like this?” He mumbled under his breath, staring up at the shower head. “No wonder he left you, it's no surprise he walked out, you’re a goddamn lunatic!” 

He let out a scream, sitting back up and once again ignoring the pain pulsing through his spine. 

“Jesus Christ, you’ve got to get your shit together, Reid. Fucking hell you’re a mess. A fucking goddamn mess!” He slammed his hands against the side of the tub, his cast thumping against the porcelain and the impact vibrating up his arm and ricocheting through his broken bones. “FUCK!” 

He started screaming at the top of his lungs, a long, constant sound that would be swallowed up by the rolling hills outside long before they met any prying ears. He screamed until his throat was ravaged, his voice tapering off when he physically couldn’t scream anymore. 

By the time he was done, hot tears seared down his face. He shook his head, huffing out a breath. He needed to clean himself and try to shake this off. 

He braced his right hand against the side of the tub and trying to use only his uninjured leg, attempted to push himself up. He groaned in pain, which irritated his scratchy throat. It took several failed ventures and caused a lot of agony, but eventually he was on his feet. 

His knee throbbed with the effort, his back achy and his arm pulsed beneath the cast. He switched on the shower, only realising his oversight once it was too late and the water was already flowing.

He hurriedly stuck his casted arm out from behind the shower curtain in a vain effort to keep it dry. He had the sleeve the doctor had given him but would cause further irritation to his sore limbs to try and scrambled out of the bath and back in again. 

Instead he tried to shower with one arm sticking out to his side, which was no easy feat. He picked up the bottle of body wash, rolling his eyes as he popped the end of it in his mouth. He held out his right hand and using his teeth, squeezed the little bottle until enough pooled in his palm. He dared move his face towards his left hand peeking out of the shower and managed to deposit the bottle between the fingers sticking out of the cast without getting it too wet. 

He was gentle in rubbing the shower gel against his inner thigh, lightly lathering it over the dried blood and open wounds. The blood mixed with the soap creating some kind of pink froth which made him oddly think of Penelope. 

Once the wounds looked clean he moved his lathered hand around to his backside where he could still feel the blood clinging to his skin. 

In an attempt to distance himself from the idea that he’d hurt himself in this way again and he was having to clean his own blood from his skin after another episode, he closed his eyes and thought about you. 

He focused his mind back to earlier in the day sitting in your car outside his lodge and the words you’d uttered which had caused a flurry of excitement in him. 

“They aren’t the kind of stallions I usually like to have between my thighs, if you know what I mean.” 

“Fuck,” he mumbled under his breath, the same vague twitching it had elicited in his groin when you said it afflicting him now. “Come on, come on.” 

He pictured your face, the flirty smirk you sent his way. He imagined your sinful lips on his body, trailing lower…lower…lower… 

Another fluttering in his stomach and a twitch of his groin. His hand moved from where it had been cleaning himself to glide across the planes of his stomach. 

Lower…lower still until they reached right where he needed them to be. He screwed his eyes shut tightly, picturing you on your knees in the tub, water droplets beading on your flesh. 

“They aren’t the kind of stallions I usually like to have between my thighs, if you know what I mean.” 

Another flurry, blood was unhurriedly rushing south. He inched his hand lower until his fingers were in his pubic hair. 

Your lashes wet from the shower, large eyes looking up at him as you took him in your hand. 

With that he dared wrapped his hand around the base of his semi-erect cock. It was the most tumescent he’d been since…since - 

“Oh my god, he’s enjoying it! Fucking punk is enjoying it!” 

- Prison. 

In an instant his shaft was flaccid again and his hand fell to his side as his eyes shot open. 

“GOD-FUCKING-DAMNIT!” He screamed, tearing his throat further as he slammed his fist against the wall. 

It didn’t hurt. Or maybe it did. It wasn’t any worse than any other pain he was suffering at that moment. 

Hot tears escaped his eyes again and not caring if he was clean or not, he shut off the shower. He lowered himself to the lip of the tub gently before swivelling his way out, disregarding the pain it caused. 

He hobbled to the towel on the back of the door and slung it around his waist, tears still hindering his vision. 

In truth, Spencer had never been a regular at self pleasure. He wasn’t an overly sexual person, didn’t necessarily find himself getting turned on unless he was with another person and there was kissing and touching and preamble. 

There were odd occasions when he used masturbation as a tool for escapism. After particularly bad cases, when his stress levels were high. Self stimulation allowed the logical side of his brain to shut down, to turn off all the insipid thoughts that followed him after bad cases. 

The flood of dopamine, the pleasure chemical and oxytocin during orgasm was a nice reprieve to him when he was low or frustrated. But it was merely a coping mechanism, not something he held much stock in or something he was bothered to indulge in most of the time. 

But it was always good to have that on the table, the idea he could do it should he need to. 

But that ability had been taken away, snatched from him as though in punishment for lack of use. He couldn’t masturbate if he couldn’t get an erection. And he couldn’t get an erection without thinking about - 

“It’s not…stop it, please? Please? It’s n-normal.” 

“He’s enjoying it! Hah!”

“It’s a-adrenaline. It happens when we-we’re excited or scared. S-sexual arousal and fear a-arousal have many of the same bodily f…please stop!” 

It was a natural response, logically he knew that. Fear caused a narrowing of attention - tunnel vision - making it difficult to think of anything other than the perceived threat. If the threat is external then it can cause a groinal response. 

Fear increases the heart rate which in turn increases blood flow. It made perfect, rational sense that while his heart was furiously pumping his blood through his veins that some of that blood would travel south. 

He’d been in a horrifying situation and his body had simply acted on impulse. And the irony was that in getting aroused at quantifiably the absolute worst possible time, he now couldn’t get erect at all. Not without an immeasurable amount of guilt setting in before inevitably becoming flaccid soon after anyway. 

He padded over to the medicine counter, grabbed his bottle of pills and swallowed one dry, ignoring the ache in his throat from his previous screams. 

Prison had taken so much more from him than anyone would ever know. What he’d endured in his time at Milburn, he’d never told another soul. How could he? They would never look at him the same again. 

He’d never been exactly normal but this just made him a whole new level of unusual. 

He grabbed the first aid kit from the cabinet before closing it and hobbling to the toilet. He lowered himself slowly until he was seated on the lid and used the towel to pat dry his inner thigh. 

On further inspection now the cuts were clean he could tell they weren’t deep enough to warrant medical attention. What a relief that was, he had no way of getting to the hospital anyway. 

He retrieved a large reel of gauze from inside the kit and began wrapping it around the wounds. Round and round it went, creating layer upon layer of barriers between his eyes and his idiotic dissociated cutting. 

He pinned it together with a safety pin to keep it in place and it took great effort to push himself back to his feet. He limped his way back to the bedroom to dress in a pair of clean jeans and a fresh t-shirt. 

As he wondered, in absent-mindedness, where you may have gone, if he ever might see you again, the landline in the kitchen started to trill. 

A frown adorned on his features, in two years of living here that phone had never rang. He sometimes wondered if it even still worked. 

Using the kitchen counter to aid his balance, he dragged himself over to the handset, brow still furrowed. He picked it up off of the latch and held it to his ear. 

“Uh, hello?” He leaned against the wall. 

“This Cosmo?” A thick southern drawl met him. 

“I, uh, I guess so.” His frown was still deepening. “Who is this?” 

“Names Cole, I own the 11th Street Bar.” 

“The old bar down on 11th Street?” The words came out of his mouth before he had a chance to realise how stupid that sounded. 

“Well looky here we have a smart one.” Cole chuckled. 

“How did you get my number? I don’t even know my number.” 

“You live out at the old Clements ranch. Jimmy Clements and I, we went way back.” 

“Uh…okay? What can I, uh, help you with?” 

“Git a friend of yours down here in a spot of bother.” 

Spencer straightened against the wall. 

Friend? What friend? 

His brain started firing off thoughts quicker than he could focus on them. Penelope? Emily? JJ?…

…Luke? 

“Sorry, what friend?” He forced the words out. 

“Pretty young thing. Elizabeth I think?” Cole huffed out. 

Elizabeth? Who on earth is…

“Clyde Barrow and Bonnie Elizabeth Parker of Bonnie and Clyde fame.” 

Goddamnit. 

“Right, uh, is she okay?” 

“Just a little on the dangerous side of tipsy is all. I had to confiscate her keys so she wouldn’t go and drive herself to her death. Said she knew you, chance you can collect her?” 

God-fucking-damnit.

“I don’t have a car.” Spencer scratched the back of his head. 

“Git a horse dontcha? Seen ya riding her around town.” Cole scoffed.

“Yes but I’m…” he trailed off. Doctor Rhodes had advised him not to ride until his pain subsided. But this was an exigent circumstance wasn’t it? “I’ll…I’ll be by as soon as I can.”

“Right you are. I’ve cut her off and I’ll keep an eye on her for ya.” 

“Thank you.” Spencer breathed with a nod of his head before hanging up the phone. 

You were starting to become a hindrance. He’d asked you for help but you were causing him more grief than anything. Frustrated, he threw his jacket on and toed on his boots whilst using the wall to try and alleviate some of the pain warping his spine and flooding his knee. 

He grabbed his keys and hobbled out of the lodge, cursing you as the pain shot spikes though his leg as he pushed up towards the stable. 

It was still light out but due to his dissociation he had no idea what time it might be. A glance up at the sun's position in the sky he would estimate it to be around three pm. 

It took him longer than usual to trudge up to the stable and his leg was howling by the time he made it. He unlatched the barn and was greeted with three sets of happy mewls from his companions. 

“Hey guys,” he whimpered a little in pain. 

He patted Franklin on the snout and the younger of the two stallions neighed and nuzzled into his owner's palm. He gave Wilbur the same treatment but he wasn’t quite as receptive, slightly more aloof than Frank. 

Willow actually seemed as though she lit up when she laid eyes on him, she often had this look when she saw Spencer. Her large eyes grew larger and she tapped her front hooves in a little dance. 

Spencer couldn’t help the smile he offered in return. Willow was his lifeline. He loved all his animals but he had a special bond with the blue roan. Willow had given Spencer a reason to get out of bed in the morning even on the days he felt crippled by his trauma. She tethered him to reality when nothing else could ground him. 

Maybe Alvez was wrong about dogs being man’s best friend, because Willow was without a doubt Spencer’s. 

“Hey girl,” he patted her head and then frowned a little upon seeing her riding gear still atop her back. He shook his head in displeasure at your oversight. “I’m sorry Will, she doesn’t know.” 

Willow snuffled and then neighed, as if trying to tell him it was okay. He unlocked her paddock and took hold of her reins, leading her to the mounting block which she happily complied. 

Stepping up on the block was a struggle in itself and he used Willow’s strong body as leverage. Leg throbbing, he clenched his jaw as the realisation hit him. 

He’d been taught to mount a horse from the left side, the only way he’d ever mounted a horse. However this meant his left foot was the one slotting into the stirrup, essentially taking his full body weight while he swung the other over the horse's body. 

His left knee was his injured knee. And given his left arm was in a cast it meant he couldn’t use it to counterbalance any weight off of his leg. 

“Jesus Christ,” he hissed, eyeing up the stirrup. “This is going to fucking hurt.” 

He let go of Willow’s reins for a moment to grab his wallet out his jacket pocket. If he screamed he would startle his horses and he didn’t want that. Instead he stuffed the leather wallet in his mouth, between his teeth and bit down on it. He took hold of the reins again and counted to five in his head. 

He stepped up, toed his left foot into the stirrup and tugged himself upon the horse using the reins. His weight bared down on his leg, sending stabbing pains through his knee.

He moaned around the wallet, a few tears pricking at his eyes as he tasted the leather on the roof of his mouth. 

He got situated on the saddle, got his right foot in the other stirrup while removing the wallet from his mouth. A trail of saliva dribbled down his chin. The teeth indentations in the leather were so deep they pierced through it. 

He continued to grind his rear molars as the pain didn’t let up. On top of his knee, his fresh thigh wounds were rubbing against Willow’s body and they hadn’t even started moving yet. 

This was going to be hell. 

His heart was hammering from the intense pain and his hands were sweating around the reins. The hardest part was over. He would be okay. 

He took a moment to calm his breaths before giving Willow an almost imperceptible tap with his right heel and immediately she started trotting forward through the gate. 

His face was contorted in his anguish as he passed by his two stallions. As was customary, Willow stopped in her tracks outside of the stable so Spencer could lean over and lock the barn door behind himself. 

It was made considerably more difficult with the use of only one hand and took longer than usual to achieve. Once he had it locked, he tapped her gently again and Willow was on her way.

***

You sat on the curb outside 11th Street Bar, sucking on a cigarette and hugging your free arm around your body. 

The street around you spun from the alcohol consumption. You couldn’t see straight, not even as far as your car on the other side of the road. 

It was still daylight, not late enough to warrant being this drunk. 

The cigarette was acrid on your tongue and you ended up dropping it on the floor and trying but failing to stamp it out. 

You lost track of time but at some point the sound of hooves on the asphalt alerted your attention. You could make out the blurry outline of a large horse with someone on top of it heading your way but Cole’s homemade whiskey didn’t allow you to make out any features. 

“I hope you know what a huge inconvenience this has been for me.” A male voice you recognised but couldn’t place entered your ears. 

“Huh?” You swayed where you sat. 

“I am in agony, Y/N! Or should I say Elizabeth.” 

That tone…that irritating, grating, slightly whiny…

“Spencer?” You frowned. 

“Yes it’s me, who the hell else would it be?” He came to a stop in front of you and you glanced up at him, blinking against the sunlight. 

“How’d you find me?” You slurred. 

“Doesn’t matter. I’m taking you back to the ranch.” 

You tried to stand but stumbled back down. You tried again and were slightly more successful. 

“I’m not getting on that…” hiccup “creature.” 

“Well there is no way I am getting off of her without the help of a mounting block so you’re either getting on or walking. Your call.” He spat. 

“I don’t want to go anywhere with…” hiccup “you!” 

“Too bad. I pride myself on being private, and you’ve been here all of five minutes and the nice lady at the general store thinks we’re screwing and now the bartender of a place I’ve never been to has my phone number. You will come back to my ranch and sober up and then you can do whatever the hell you want.” He was gripping Willow’s reins so hard and the leather was abrasive on his palm. 

“You’re a real jerk do you,” hiccup, hiccup “know that? No wonder you want to keep yourself to yourself! No one wants to know you!” 

Your words were knives, flying from your tongue straight to his chest. He wobbled a little on Willow’s firm back and grit his teeth hard. 

“You want to be a petulant child, fine. I offered you a place to stay. I can see you’re running from something, whether it be real or imagined I don’t know. But I was trying to help you because god knows I’ve been there. And no one helped me. 

“I know what it’s like to feel as though the world has turned its back on you and I thought, hey maybe we can be of assistance to each other. But if you’re going to be like this then you’re on your own.”

With a light tug on the reins and an even lighter tap of his right foot, Willow turned back to face the direction she’d just come and started trotting back down the road. 

You clenched your hands into fists at your sides watching them go. A fury rose within you, you couldn’t let him have the last word. 

Your legs wobbled as you started after him, jogging to catch up with the mare and swerving on your feet as you did so. 

“F-fuck you!” Hiccup. “Did it ever occur to you that I didn't…” hiccup “want your help? You self right…right…” hiccup “righteous asshole!” 

Spencer didn’t look at you, kept his eyes trained forward and kept a tight grip on Willow’s reins, his casted arm resting against his chest. 

His leg was on fire. From his knee up to his thigh. He was taken back to his early days of learning to ride and the burning in his thighs as they rubbed against the horse.

“Does it always…chafe so much?” 

“You’ll build up a tolerance to it.” 

And he had over time. But the wounds on his leg, despite being wrapped in a thick layer of gauze, were rubbing rampantly against his trusty mare’s side. 

“I’m so sick of arguing with you.” He sighed with a soft shake of his head. “I have barely had any human interaction in two years and you are exhausting me.”

“I’m exhausting…” hiccup “you?” 

He took a corner with a nudge of Willow’s reins and you scrambled to take the turn with him. 

“I appreciate you helping me yesterday but consider yourself off the hook. I’ll make do on my own. I always have.” He hated the self pity dripping from his words. 

“Fine.” You huffed but you continued following him anyway. “Why are you…” hiccup “like this? You asked me for help and then when I actually tried to help you, you…” hiccup “push me away!” 

“It’s better that I do, trust me.” He petted Willow’s neck encouragingly. 

“There you go with your damn self deprecation again.” Hiccup. “Goddamn fucking hiccups!” 

“It’s not self deprecating, it’s a fact.” He hissed through a new wave of pain in his thigh. “I am not good to be around. I have a lot of issues that I would rather not drag anybody else into.” 

Willow seemed to speed up, or maybe you slowed down but you hurried to catch them up. 

“That’s what paroxetine is for, right?” Hiccup. 

Tugging on her reins, Willow came to an abrupt stop and so did you. Spencer turned his head and looked down at you, scorned. 

“How the fuck do you know about my medication?” He growled, feeling the telltale signs of the rage bubbling in his stomach once more. 

He knew how, it was a redundant question. The only way you could know was by going through his things. 

He was partially to blame for letting a stranger into his home while he wasn’t there. Some of that anger was directed at himself. But he’d thought himself a good judge of character, he had not seen this betrayal of his privacy coming. 

You didn’t speak. You averted your gaze to the floor with another hiccup hiccup hiccup, whilst scuffing your toe in the dirt. 

“You went through my things.” He answered for you. “Unbelievable.” 

He gave Willow’s side a light pat with his heel and she was moving again. You looked up when you heard the hoofbeats on the ground and quickly followed. 

“I had a headache,” hiccup “I was looking for pain meds.” Despite your inebriation, the lie came easily to you. You hurried after him but he wouldn’t look at you, wouldn’t talk to you. “So what is it? Depression? Anxiety? PTSD?” 

You saw his jaw twitch at the last one, barely perceptible but even in your intoxicated state you noticed it. He clasped his hand around the reins, squeezing, releasing, squeezing, releasing. 

“That’s none of your goddamn business.” He spoke harshly, keeping his eyes on the road ahead of him. “You shouldn’t have been going through my things, it's a complete invasion of privacy. I am not well, okay? Mentally speaking. And I think it best once you sober up that you leave. It’s safer that way.” 

You opened your mouth to speak - hiccup hiccup - but before you could reply he’d given Willow another soft tap to indicate to her to pick up her speed which she did. She went from a slow trot to a canter, not so fast that you couldn’t keep up but it was certainly made a lot harder and you assumed that to be his goal.

The last thing you remembered was running to stay close, your lungs on fire with the exertion, before the alcohol cleansed you of any more memories. 

@andiebeaword @measure-in-pain @muffin-cup @dreatine @matthew-gray-gubler-lover @justreadingficsdontmindme @spencer-reid-wonderland @theblooomingeagle @kalulakundrum @small-and-violent @voledart @katrina0_0 @bakugouswh0r3

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x fem! reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n

[acourtofwhatthefuck]

Fireleaf (Part Nine)

Lucien Vanserra x Reader

Hello, hello! I'm super excited to post this part - especially because @greeneyedivy wrote some of it (she’s bloody amazing) and I fucking LOVE it! We really hope you enjoy! 💋♥️

Warnings: SMUT 🌶️🌶️🌶️

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You just…needed to be away from the camp. Away from the others.

None of them could possibly understand what impact Jareth’s words had had on you. First Beron’s verbal lashing and now his…

You may as well have been walking around with every one of your flaws carved into your skin. Everything you’d ever done to disappoint your family, the people you cared about…it was no wonder, really, that they all seemed so disappointed in you.

So you walked. And walked and walked and walked. You didn’t care how dark it was, how far you wandered. You just wanted to put as much space as possible between you and that camp. You and the Vanserras. 

Did all of them discreetly think of you the same way Jareth did? If your secrets were, in fact, not secret at all…maybe they were smiling at your face and sneering behind your back. Maybe they pitied Dion, for being weighed down with you. Jareth had said it himself; good luck marrying that, brother.

That.

You barely noticed the rain that began as you slumped against a tree and buried your face into your hands. You wished Linden were here…wished you could talk to him, ask him what to do. Would Linden be disappointed in you, also? Gods, you hoped not. He was the one person you couldn’t bear it from; the one person you needed on your side. Especially now, with Dion and Willow being all about each other.

Hunched there against that tree, rain pelting down on you, it was as though the force of the last couple of months finally barrelled into you. All the stress and the pressure and the high stakes and the cutting words and glances. Everybody knew you would let them down. And you already had. It wasn’t like your behaviour since you’d arrived at the Vanserra Estate was anything to be proud of. And if your parents knew–

The sky rained down on you harder, and you cried harder. Sobbed into your hands. You didn’t know how long you sat there for as the storm stole the skies. You didn’t give a shit that you were being soaked by both raindrops and teardrops, didn’t care that your clothes were already wet-through. So be it, you thought. So fucking be it. You’d stay there all night, let the weather batter and bruise you like you deserved.

Thunder roared through the sky, a sudden clap of brutal noise that had you flinching. But still you didn’t move from the tree. Let the rain come down on you, the thunder scream at you, you wanted to feel all of it punishing you and–

Another sound reached you from behind, and you barely had a chance to look up before a horse was galloping your way. Lucien’s horse. He, too, was soaked-through as he approached. 

“What are you doing?” He yelled over the torrential rain. “You’re drenched!”

You said nothing. Made no move. All you could do was bury into your hands and cry.

There was a pause, and then the light thud of feet hitting the ground. Lucien knelt before you, peeling your hands from your face.

“Fuck, you’re freezing.” He hissed through his teeth, eyes darting to the sky as another clap of thunder sounded. “Look, we need to find some shelter–”

“I’m not going back to the camp.”

“Fine. But we need to find a cave to wait in until the storm has blown over.”

Part of you wanted to tell him to leave. To go back without you. But when another rumble of thunder had you flinching once again, he took matters into his own hands. Took you into his own hands, scooping you up as though you weighed nothing and setting you atop his horse.

He jumped up behind you, grabbing the reins. And as though he sensed your protest, he gritted out, “Don’t bother fighting. I can hear your teeth chattering from here. We’ll find a cave and make a fire.”

Whatever. You didn’t care. Not as you hunched over, gulping down the sobs that still wanted to break free. You did nothing, felt nothing but pure shame and self-hatred, as Lucien guided his horse on a brisk journey through the trees. 

You cried. And cried and cried and cried. You thought you might never stop.

⤲

It took you a while, but…you did stop.

You were still crying when Lucien led you into a cave hidden amongst the rocks. Still crying as he got to work setting a fire that simply roared to life thanks to his magic. Still crying as the rain and thunder – and now lightning, also – continued outside.

Only when you were sitting before the flames a while later, your head pounding and your clothes drenched, did you realise the tears had stopped. 

You watched the fire cast shadows on the cave wall as Lucien dug through his satchel and finally turned to you, a bread roll in his hand. He took one look at you and bit down on his lip.

“You’re still shivering,” He said.

You shrugged indifferently. “I’m soaking wet and freezing.”

With a soft sigh, he approached you. “Eat this. You didn’t have any dinner.”

He gave you no chance to argue as he dropped the roll into your lap and then moved around you. All you could hear was the rustle of his wet clothes as he eased himself down behind you. Close behind you.

“What are you–” You yelped as his hands fastened on your waist. And then he was tugging you back against him, slotting you between his legs and pressing your back to his front.

“Eat.” Was all he said.

So you did – although it was hard to concentrate on chewing and swallowing as his pleasant body warmth seeped into you. With the fire in front of you and Lucien at your back, your teeth ceased their chattering in seconds.

“How are you not cold?” You swallowed your last bite of bread. “Your clothes are just as soaked as mine.”

“Vanserra blood.” He murmured from behind you. “It’s said we have flames living under our skin.”

“Of course. How silly of me not to have assumed.”

You could almost hear him rolling his eyes. “I thought you were supposed to be upset.”

“Are you saying you want me to cry again?”

There was a pause. Just a slight, quiet pause. And then, “...No. I don’t.” Lucien seemed to swallow, hard. “I much prefer the sarcasm. I’d rather listen to you insulting me than crying.”

Whatever implication may or may not have lay in his words…it squeezed your heart, just a little. Even if he didn’t like you…even if he found you to be a nuisance more than anything…he didn’t want to see you upset. Because he was good, you supposed. Lucien was good.

Unlike Jareth. Unlike Beron. You didn’t understand how they could be from the same family. Such polar opposites. There was such a stark divide between good and bad in the family you were going to marry into.

You embraced that brilliant Vanserra warmth as you sat in silence. As you watched the flames dance around each other, so like the way you and Lucien danced around each other. Around whatever this situation was between you. He’d made it clear enough that you irritated him, but…surely he must care a little bit. Surely–

“Are you alright?” He said quietly, cutting your thoughts off. His arms held you so close against him, you felt the reverberation of his deep voice through his chest.

No, you wanted to say. But you bit out, “I’m alright.”

“You didn’t seem alright back there.”

“...Jareth just…hit a sore spot.” You could feel it – the way your head and heart wanted to recoil from being bared to somebody. Your mouth practically tried to hold itself shut as you said, “...I don’t regret what I did all those years ago. With Linden. Not one bit.”

You didn’t know why, exactly, you were telling him. If he even wanted to hear it, but…you thought that maybe…maybe you wanted to say it.

Maybe you were looking for reassurance that your lack of remorse for your actions didn’t make you a terrible person.

Lucien didn’t speak a word – and for that, you were thankful. You couldn’t…couldn’t speak about these things, while looking somebody in the face. Couldn’t bear to see the judgement in their eyes. It was a small mercy that Lucien was at your back.

“It was my choice…giving myself to someone for the first time…for it to be Linden.” You said. “He meant a lot to me. He still means a lot to me. Probably my only true friend. And our friendship was only frowned upon because he worked his way up from a poor family. But nobody had ever shown me such kindness and patience and care. Even when he was training me to my very limit, I felt good around him. And I knew what my family would one day expect of me…I knew that my life in this world holds very few choices that belong to me. So I decided to make that choice for myself. To give myself to someone who actually cared for me, even if people thought I was sullying myself. And I’ve never regretted it. Not once.”

Lucien shifted behind you; pressed you closer to his warmth. “Even when people hold it over you?”

You dipped your chin. “Even then. Maybe it was selfish and foolish of me, I don’t know, but…when people try to keep you in a golden cage, you will take any ounce of freedom you can. I was lucky I had a friend that was willing to offer me a sliver of freedom in that golden cage. And that’s why I will never, ever allow myself to regret it. No matter how much shit I may get for it. I don’t think I’d still be alive if Linden hadn’t been there for me.”

You felt the tautness of Lucien’s body behind you. Felt him tense and then relax once more. But he said nothing, did nothing, in response. 

It surprised you that it bothered you a little. Or a lot. What…what he thought…

“Go ahead,” you said quietly. “Judge me for it, if you like.”

He tensed again. And then – just slightly – the arm that was wrapped around your middle squeezed you. “Why would I judge you when you only wanted what so many of us take for granted?”

His words…the understanding…they almost had you crying all over again. Breaking all over again.

But you didn’t want to break and cry. You’d had enough heaviness weighing on you for one night. You wanted ease…the sharp-shooting banter between you and Lucien, just like he wanted your insulting, your baiting, instead of your tears. 

And if he wanted baiting and insulting, well–

“If Vanserras have fire beneath their skin,” you suddenly said, turning in his arms to look at him, “shouldn’t fucking you be outright magnificent?”

Lucien met your gaze, raising his eyebrows. “...I’m sorry?”

“Well,” you shrugged. “Your stamina could use some work.”

“My stamina?”

“Your flame did burn out rather quickly. Twice. I would think ‘spark’ would be a more appropriate description.” You stared up at him with innocent eyes. “Perhaps you should work on your technique.”

A soft snort; you felt yourself relax slightly. Felt some of that twisting in your heart ease. You needed this – needed humour and banter and lightness. You needed to spar with Lucien in the way that had become so typical for both of you.

In the way that set every one of your senses alight.

You smirked as you faced forward once more, and Lucien’s arms tightened around you.

“Tell me, lady,” His breath was hot against your neck, causing a shiver to pulse through you. “What about my technique, exactly, was not to your liking?”

A challenge – he was meeting your challenge with his own, head-to-head, and it felt good. You bit down on your lip to hide your smile as you felt him already hardening against you.

“Well,” you said. “There’s a lot which remains to be seen in the orgasm department.”

Lies. You and he both knew how hard he’d made you cum in that little gamekeeper’s cottage. How hard he could make you cum with a few filthy looks. But it was all part of the wicked, wonderful game.

He chuckled darkly. “You doubt my ability to give you what you need? You don’t think I could make you scream and turn this cave to rubble with just my fingers?”

Gods, the words made you want to claw at him, devour him. To tear his clothes off and taste every part of him.

His lips brushed the side of your neck, causing your eyes to flutter shut. And then the hand that had splayed flat against your stomach began to move.

Down.

“Perhaps,” you said a little breathlessly. “Perhaps not.”

Down.

“Perhaps,” he mocked the word. “I should remind you how to make those sweet sounds you made for me at the hamlet.”

Down.

Fingers crawling downwards slowly. No real rush.

Thank the gods, you thought to yourself, that you’d changed into leggings when your group had set up camp earlier. No real barriers. No laces or buttons–

Lucien’s fingers brushed your waistband. His other hand tugged on your body, pulled you back, back against him.

“Are you wet already?” His voice was deep, guttural, as he allowed the tip of his forefinger to run along the elasticated top of your leggings. 

You swallowed. Tried to hold onto your quick-witted, swaggering responses. “My clothes got pretty soaked–”

“No.” He interrupted. “Here.” His fingers dipped beneath your waistband, finding your bare centre, no barrier of undergarments blocking him. “You are. Whatever for?”

The smug bastard.

But you were – absolutely soaking, sopping wet already, the seam of your leggings a torturous brush of friction against you. You didn’t even care that a pathetic whimper left your throat as your hips bucked, and Lucien chuckled again, his fingers dancing just above your clit but not…not touching.

“What is it that you need, Y/N?”

It almost stunned you – how much you needed this. Needed him. The release that he could give you. And it was with unbridled desire that you bit out, “Touch me.”

The first press of his finger against your clit had you absolutely feral. Pleasant coldness shot through you. Flames of ice and fire and pleasure. But instead of rubbing you like you wanted, Lucien’s finger merely pressed against you. Like he was pushing a damn button.

“Do you need my fingers rubbing you right…here?” He spoke into your ear. “Or do you need them inside you?”

You bit your lip, writhing against his hand, pleading for that movement. “Why not both?”

His teeth grazed your neck, giving a light nip. “Why not, indeed.”

Down his fingers moved, dragging away from your clit, through your soaked folds as he gathered up your wetness. He seemed to growl in appreciation, and you wanted to swallow the sound, to feel it singing in every cell of your body.

A moan fell from your lips as you writhed against him – but he quickly scooted himself back, still maintaining his light touch. “Oh no you don’t. I’m not finished yet.”

“Neither am I.” You quipped back.

Those three words seemed to rip into him with force. He growled again, deep, hungry, and moved his fingers back to your clit. And your hips jerked, a gasp slipping past your lips as he began to rub circles into the sensitive nub.

“Wicked little mouth.” He nipped at your earlobe. “Doubting I can have you finish like this. Because there’s only a mere spark under my skin, you say? Need I remind you that it takes but a spark to set off an explosion?”

And then he slipped his other hand into your leggings. Slipped a finger into you.

Your hand immediately flew down to keep the one that was thrusting into you in place, hips canting forward in tandem with his finger.

He chuckled against you, and the pleasure was a song in your veins, your body, your entire existence. Both of Lucien’s hands worked in perfect harmony, the fingers of one toying with your clit as the other pumped in and out of you. It was too good – too damn good – and you knew you were soaking both of his hands. Absolutely drenching him.

“That’s it. Take what you need.” He licked a stripe up your neck.

“Gods,” Your head fell back against his shoulder. “Fuck,” you whimpered out.

Already, you could feel release tightening your body. The most delicious build-up of sensations as Lucien rubbed and circled and pumped, and you were little more than a moaning mess between his legs.

And by how hard he’d become against your backside, you thought he may just like it. Love it. Live for it.

“Is this what you do to yourself?” He asked. Slipped a second finger in. Pulled them both out. Pushed them back in. “What do you think about when you do?”

You couldn’t possibly think. Or talk, besides the noises that broke from your throat with every stroke and thrust of those expert fingers. You vaguely knew he’d asked you a question, but…no more. You knew no more–

He ceased movement. Went still. “Well?”

“What?” You gasped, rocking against his hand.

“You already told me once before about having your hand between your legs.” He used one finger to drag a stripe of your juices up, up around your clit. “And I think this is exactly how you do it. What do you think about?”

Him. You thought about him. His red, flowing hair and his strong jaw, those profound russet eyes, the sculpt of his body, how his cock had felt pounding into you–

He pressed down on your clit, and the word tumbled from your lips. “You.”

“What about me?”

“You–” You repeated on a gasp. “How you felt inside me.”

“Fuck.” The curse was a growl, and you felt him shift behind you, felt him sit the two of you up as he began thrusting his fingers once more, in and out and in and out, the other hand rubbing at your clit. “Cum. Come on. Cum for me.”

And Mother above, you did.

All words died on a staggered moan in your throat as release tore through you, scorching every inch of you. It may have even lifted you momentarily from the ground.

You were throbbing and tingling and twitching, and Lucien stroked you the whole way through it, even as your clit became all too sensitive and you didn’t know whether you wanted him to stop or continue until you were ready to cum all over again.

And then you collapsed against him, your heart utterly slamming against the walls of your chest. The pleasure was too much and not enough at all. You wanted more, shook with how much you needed more…

“How’s my technique now?” Lucien breathed the words into your ear, a smirk teasing his lips.

But you weren’t done playing games just yet. You angled your body to him. Maintained eye contact. Peeled off your wet shirt and threw it aside.

His eyes immediately fell to your bare breasts. And he swallowed.

“I’m starting to doubt you actually know what screaming sounds like,” you said, a wicked grin spreading on your lips.

He met your stare.

“Lift your hips.” He said, and you did.

Your leggings were yanked down to your ankles, leaving you mostly naked. There was only one person you’d allowed yourself to be so utterly bare to, and you’d trusted him implicitly. Did you trust Lucien?

Yes, you thought, you did.

And that was why nothing but sheer thrill wracked your body as you faced forward once more and heard him unbuckling his breeches. You were fighting with the urge to turn around and get an eyeful of him, to touch him, to taste him–

But he was yanking you back before you could complete any of those thoughts. You felt his hard, solid length against your backside. 

“Greedy, insatiable female. You need me to fuck you until your throat is raw from screaming?” He murmured, brushing your hair to one side, his fingers toying with your braid momentarily before he pressed a kiss beneath your ear.

“You can try.” You taunted, knowing perfectly well the male beneath you was on the brink of fucking you so thoroughly, your throat wasn’t going to be the only sore part come tomorrow morning. 

Strong, callused hands lifted your hips, and you felt the head of his cock poke at your entrance. So agonisingly slow, he pushed into you.

Those first few inches threatened to end you entirely.

You didn’t know which of you was taking the reins as you braced your hands on his legs and sunk down onto him. Down and down until he was seated inside you fully. And he was deep. So incredibly deep–

“Fuck.” He hissed, his hands still at your hips. “You have no idea what this does to me. How it feels.”

But you did. Gods, you did. Because as you began your movements, began to steadily ride him, you didn’t think you’d ever felt so alive.

Lucien used one hand to encourage the movement of your hips, to guide you on him as he reached the other up to knead at your breast. And with him inside you and touching you and hitting a spot so deep within you, you couldn’t imagine ever finding anything so utterly right as this.

“How can you feel,” he grunted, grabbing both of your hips, “even better than the first time? Gods, I can’t–”

“I know.” You gasped, rolling your hips against him. “I know.”

You weren’t going to last. You weren’t going to last, and he wasn’t going to last, and you didn’t damn well care because you wanted to feel his release meeting yours. You wanted him hitting his limit and spilling inside you.

Both of you became a frenzied flash of movement as you rode him hard and fast, your moans mingling with each other and bouncing off the walls of the cave. And when Lucien reached down and rubbed at your clit once more, you lost it – utterly fucking lost it.

“Lucien,” You jerked against him, fastening a hand on his wrist. You were scratching and clawing at his hands, drawing blood, the feeling too much, “Oh, gods.”

The scream that tore from your throat didn’t even sound like yours as your release slammed into you and you were shaking and writhing and clenching around Lucien’s cock, his hands the only thing keeping you upright as he guided your hips and circled your clit and somehow managed to touch you in every single place you needed.

“Shit, Y/N,” He choked, his hips bucking harder, faster.

An animalistic growl fell from his lips, and the cave was filled with a sensual cacophony of your moans and his groans and his skin slapping yours.

Still shaking from your orgasm, you reached back, threading your fingers within the silken strands of Lucien’s hair. And it was something in that action alone that seemed to tip him over the edge entirely.

You heard the groan hitch in his throat. You felt the way his movements seemed to falter, and he planted a hand on the ground to steady himself. He slammed into you again, again, again–

And then he was throwing his head back, roaring a sound of utter filth as he came deep inside you. The sound itself had release finding you again.

Neither of you could move. Not as your bodies seemed to twitch and tremble of their own free will. Not as you felt yourself clenching around him, his seed warm inside you, dripping from you and down his length.

You didn’t know which was your trembling and which was his. Only when he finally pulled out of you did you realise you were shaking like a damn leaf. That he’d rocked you to your very core, and you couldn’t remember how to think or speak or move.

And it seemed to be the same for Lucien – for a while, anyway, while he steadied his breaths. While he sat there behind you, his heart thudding as much as yours was. The two of you were so caught up in the wake of your releases that you barely noticed the silence that followed. The stillness.

And then gradually, the rest of the world seemed to seep back into your awareness. You heard the pounding rain once more, the boom of the thunder, the crackling of the fire before you. Felt the bite of the cold air against your skin.

Lucien was the first to move, tucking himself back into his breeches. You followed suit, pulling your leggings back up, tugging your wet shirt back on. Your clothing had already partially dried, thanks to the fire Lucien had lit. And the fire under his skin.

That fire…that fire that had just ravaged you.

“We should…probably sleep.” Lucien suddenly said from behind you, his voice gruff. “It’s no use attempting to find our way back to the camp in this weather.” 

You nodded, swallowing. The air around you had shifted. Changed. You didn’t want to meet his eyes–

Didn’t want to find the same and regret that undoubtedly lurked there, in the wake of your pleasure. 

So you simply kept your back to him. Laid down on the hard cave floor and tried to appear unbothered. 

“Goodnight, then,” you said softly.

There was a pause. A rustle. And then Lucien was at your back. 

For the warmth. Only for the warmth.

“Goodnight,” he said.

⤲

Come late morning, the storm had cleared.

You and Lucien barely spoke. Barely looked at each other. It was hard to believe that such desire had existed between you the night before.

You found your way back to the camp in silence. How the others had managed to shelter, you didn’t know. But they each looked like they’d had just as bad a night as you had. 

“I was so fucking worried.” Dion said, helping you down from Lucien’s horse.

“Sorry.” You mumbled, unable to meet his eyes. “I wandered too far and got lost and by the time Lucien had found me, the storm had started. We found a cave to shelter in.”

The kindness in his eyes almost broke you as he hugged you gently and murmured, “I’m just glad you’re alright.”

You didn’t have it in you to glance at Jareth or Rian or even Eris. Certainly not at Lucien. You merely allowed Dion to hold you – that strong, friendly embrace that kept you together as the others packed their stuff up to leave.

“Father’s going to lose his shit.” Eris commented. “He’ll go mad if we’re not back in time for this meeting in the morning.”

“Just tell him the truth.” Jareth said with a shrug. “We would have been on track if Lucien hadn’t had to go after Y/N. And this is why females shouldn’t come on The Hunt.”

You couldn’t muster the energy to react. Neither could anyone else, it seemed. Silence clouded the group as everyone readied themselves to leave. Jareth and Rian were the first to set off, and for that you were thankful. It would be a much easier journey back to the estate with only Eris and Lucien flanking you and Dion.

“I’ll just see to my needs and we can go.” Dion announced. He helped you up onto your horse before disappearing into the trees.

Which left you between Lucien and Eris. In thick, heavy silence. You stared forward, refusing to meet either of their gazes. Lucien seemed inclined to do the same.

But Eris glanced between you, tilting his head. Like he could sense that there was…something.

And then his eyes seemed to fix on one part of Lucien in particular. His eyebrows rose.

“Shit, brother.” He said, drawing both yours and Lucien’s stares to him. “You get into a fight with a cave cat or something?”

You followed his line of sight. Right to where Lucien’s hands gripped his horse’s reins. 

And the red marks all over those hands. Scratches. Like they’d been clawed at–

Which they had. By you.

The image flashed into your mind. Your nails tearing at Lucien’s hands in pure, unadulterated pleasure as he’d brought you to release. Scraping the skin and drawing blood–

The way his eyes met yours told you that the same image had invaded his mind. You quickly looked away. Prayed to the Mother that you weren’t blushing.

Eris glanced between the two of you. And snorted.

“Those damn feral cats, huh?” He said.

And it dragged Beron’s words straight back into your head. Made them echo and clang loudly around your mind.

If you wish to take the feral cat on The Hunt with you, by all means, be my guest.

But on your head be it, son, when it lashes out.

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[finitevariety]

have to say I really loved how Shiv brought up the waiter. Does she give a shit about him, or that Kendall killed him? Nah, not really. Will she weaponise it to appear more moral in the moment? Yeah, absolutely.

It's like she said to Mencken: she's flexible. She LARPed as progressive to get her career in politics and genuinely believed she believed all these things--it's easy to believe you believe nice things, when the shit you actually do care about isn't in conflict with those beliefs. But then she wrangled Gil and Logan into a handshake, and she played her card as a woman to silence a victim--and, by shooting the one with her head above the parapet, many more victims--of institutional sexual abuse. She has even hurt herself by sailing too close to the wind in her girlboss liberal lean-in shit sometimes, with her dinosaur cull comment at Argestes, or with overplaying the hand she thought she had at Tern Haven.

She was viscerally angry at having to take the photo with Mencken, and perhaps angrier still when ATN called the election for him. Not because he's a fascist, although he is, and not because she dislikes him--although she does! She was angry primarily because the photo nuked any chance of a political career for her going forward, and because the call for Mencken hurt her chances with Matsson.

Did she ever make any of that clear in the moment, though? No. She talked about fascism and morals and things do happen, Rome. It is easier to wear that cloak that sometimes helps her--the woman cloak, where she claims to care for the group that she belongs to and steps upon its members at the same time--than it is to admit personal rage or vulnerability. That would be hysterical, and grasping, and not CEO material.

Shiv's relationship with womanhood is like Peter Pan's with his shadow. She used to be able to cast it off, or feel like she could, and now it is sewn in to her very fabric: it's everywhere she fucking walks.

She hates that there is not a play she can make that will separate her from the group of women-who-experience-misogyny. And still she makes use of that group, because it's one of an increasingly limited set of options she has. She was never allowed to gain experience--so she's inexperienced, and implausible, and shut out. It's the treehouse, again, Kendall up there playing king of the fucking castle. Shiv must have spent some holidays like that: Roman might have stayed with his mom in England on shorter breaks from military school, and Shiv was left to snotty, whickering horses and fucking tennis, throwing rocks up at Kendall whenever she saw a limb emerge from a window or doorway.

Anyway, if Shiv can't have the high ground, at least she can try to claim the moral one when it suits her. That's what I see as the context for her jab about Andrew Dodds.

#succession #shiv roy #there's a bigger thing here about like. shuffling through things that are true and using them as the face or reason for a bigger truth #that is less virtuous or more painful to admit #and that's shiv all over too: s1 'we're adults' instead of actually even attempting to talk it out #that WAS her attempting to talk it out #'love is bullshit' and 'box set death march' instead of getting into why she's so afraid of vulnerability #i love shiv so much lol #and also: KENDALL DOES THIS TOO. #fuck the patriarchy! he shouts #playing rape me on the speakers #it just hits differently for obvious reasons and is miles more transparent and manic. #roman is the only one who's not doing the dance