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medium-rare-bimbo · 9 months

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Faster than light thoughts

♡Masterlist♡

MINORS DNI

May contain stepcest, age gap, dubcon dark content

༺*:ﾟ･✧･:*:ﾟ･♡ readmore ♡･ﾟ:*:･✧･ﾟ:*༻

♡dark!!! CULT LEADER EDDIE !!! CULT LEADER EDDIE !!! CULT LEADER EDDIE !!!!!!! Imagine being his object of affection, the one he devotes his followers life to <3<3 did someone say virgin! Reader ?? 👁👁 yes me I did. He takes your virginity as a ritual, there are people surrounding your bed as he takes what's his, telling you that this is what needs to be done so you can ascend into a higher being

♡ chrissy, nancy, robin sleepover where they teach virgin! reader how to cum. Youd be so embarrassed to admit it :(( but that's okay they tell you its completely natural and to go at your own pace and not every boy is going to make you cum. Boys are useless! When you shamefully tell them that you've never EVER cum and that you havent even had your first kiss, they assure it that it's okay and robin offers to teach you <3 naturally you end up with your back against her chest and her fingers in your cunt, you had gotten fuzzy a while ago and everyone was fawning over you pretty pussy. They all take turns in fingering you and tasting you, you have the best sleep you've ever had ♡♡♡

♡ being fucked with a beer bottle <3 would be with either eddie or billy, they'd laugh at you while you cry about how gross it is

♡ cucking Jason <3 what better way to get back at your bully than fucking his girlfriend, chrissy deserves her tits in my mouth

♡ stealing their shirts so you can put it on a pillow and hump it later !!!!!

♡ making you squirt infront of people!! Maybe billy, thinking he gets an ego boost after it. Or eddie think he would let everyone have a go of making you squirt <3 such a sweetheart

♡ hopper catching you working at a strip club then blackmailing you after you beg for him not to tell anyone <3 he makes you fuck yourself dumb on his cock then mocks you when your legs go numb

♡ bimbo! crybaby! Reader getting her clit pinched after she gets bratty

♡ hybrid reader!! Hybrid reader !!! Hybrid reader!!!!!! Bunny! Puppy! Kitty! Cow! Bird! Bear! Lamb! Mouse!! SO MANY THOUGHTS IN MY BRAIN!!!!!!!

♡ I think steve would like a kitty, all pretty and only exists for the purpose of looking good and being a hole to stuff <3<3 spoil me so much !!!! Or maybe a puppy, gets to leash me up and make me choke on his cock maybe breed me

♡ eddie would like a bunny, a soft little thing that can keep up with his fat loads of cum, or maybe a kitty who does nothing but lay there and mewl for his cum <3 he just wants a little dumb thing he can corrupt

♡ hopper likes the puppy because old grumpy men and puppies are soul mates!!! Hed be so strict but I'd love him for it !!! Make me feel so special 👁👁 piss kink with hopper x untrained puppygirl reader 👁👁 smoking a cigar while you cock warm him I'm all gooey inside

♡ I think billy would definitely be into cow hybrids 👁👁 cuz like hes the bull of Hawkins and I think he needs a little breeding cow and on milky titz to sucky suck👁👁 shy lil thing that follows him around

♡ robin would like a bird because they're so quiet and pretty!! Just so nice to look at and she would definitely love it when you try to groom her makes her feel so special!!! Or when you coo as shes eating you out omg !! loves how soft your lil wings are !!!

♡ nancy definitely be into puppygirls<3<3 I think shed love to just do whatever she pleases especially when you take everything she gives you, you're so obedient and eager to please her !!!!!!!!!

♡ argyle? Definitely a cow orr maybe a mouse, just wants someone whose soft and warm. Would let you sit on his cock while he smokes, all the praises !!! Stroke your pretty little thighs and pet your ears sucky sucky on those titties

♡ my sick little freak Jonathan? The original perv? Bear. Just something that lays there all pretty and soft, let's him take pictures!! His fav are when you're lying in the sun and he pulls your underwear to the side to see your pussy <3

♡ what if hybrid! boy/girlfriend !!!!!!

♡ AAAA WOLF EDDIE AND BUNNY READER IM GAGGING CHOKING NOT BREATHING, him wearing a muzzle!!! Spikey collar that leaves scratches in my thighs

♡ wolf steve and puppy reader 👁👁 wants to get you full of pups, all hairy and warm treats you so well<3 hunts you the biggest deer he can find just so he can prove how much of a good mate he is

♡ bear hopper x bunny reader <3<3 so big and warm so strong and smart he has to protect his little dumb cocksleeve, let's you have all the blankets for your nest!!! Soothes you when you cry because hes so big and doesnt fit in it :(( but its okay because he likes being pressed against you so tightly

♡ bull billy and cow reader !!! Hes so mean at first!! Always huffing and grunting at you making you think he hates you </3 makes all the others bully you because hes the alpha and whatever he says goes until some dumb new bulls start showing interest in HIS shy submissive mate he gets into so many fights!! Hates that they think they can have you >:00 YOURE HIS >:((( sneaks into your separated room (because everyone is so mean and the farmer cant have their pretty little Hefner sad) just so he can mark you as his. would 100% let's you touch his horns, but only you >:((

♡ dont get me started on heats and ruts

♡ breed me so good!!!! I'm going feral possibly even insane

♡ joyce + hopper with puppygirl!!! Makes my heart all gooey and gross, joyce would spoil you so much!!! Give you extra rewards and treats when you behave or when hop is being grumpy and strict! Definitely would stuff you with toys and make you lick them clean

♡ step dad! hopper digging out a bullet vibrator from his bimbo Step daughter after she gets it stuck inside her because shes so dumb </3

♡ brothers bestfriend/dealer! Eddie corrupting naive! Innocent! Virgin! Reader, him waiting for your roommate to arrive and he gets to know you so well

♡ scumbag! Stepbrother! Jonathan x innocent! Reader. making you sit on his lap, he blows smoke into your face all the time :((((( makes your eyes tear up and forget about his boner that hes rocking against your clothed cunt!! Dont get me started on his Best friend perv! Argyle who is soooo nice to you but only so he can feel you up close against him

♡ theres a belt that has a lighter attached to it omg imagine eddie using it to light the blunt in your mouth omfg I'm going insane right now

♡ mean! eddie making his artist! Girlfriend draw porn only so he can cum on it and ruin it :(((

♡ being the new secretary at the police station and befriending hopper through your husband. Staying late one night, you and hop start talking which leads to you complaining to him about struggling to have a baby and how you're so worried that you may not be able too, he assures you that theres nothing wrong and even offers to help, your husband is oblivious when you become pregnant, he doesnt even bat an eye when the baby comes out huge (giant genes jim hopper ♡♡)

♡ argyle becoming a masseuse and getting a bit too handsy with his favourite client <3<3 his hands are amazing with pizza dough they would be amazing with my ass <3

♡ would I let Vecna absolutely destroy me? Yes I'm not a coward, I want his claws to make my hips bleed is that too much to ask? "BuT nYmPH hES UgLy aND scARY" and I'm horny so what

♡ you know those baby dolls that you have to take care of for like a week? Imagine being forced to take care of one with whoever, unfortunately it unlocks their breeding kink and they cant get the thought of you and their baby out of their head so it's only natural for them to stuff you full

♡ serial killer! eddie escaping from prison and hiding in your house!! Somehow convincing him to let you live by saying you'll cook him meals and clean him up, he forces you to be his housewife until you're no longer useful to him but once he gets his cock in your sweet tiny little hole he cant stand the thought of you being harmed. When the cops arrive to search your house he takes you with him because he cant just leave his personal fleshlight behind

♡ argyle fucking the new delivery girl, he drives you to the houses because there were too many complaints about him being high </3 but that's okay because your cute little face gets extra tips and he doesnt mind staying in the car especially when your skirt flips up as you climb off the seat. Would let you ride him after you come to the car all teary eyed after you get yelled at by a mean customer who wanted a new pizza

♡ perv! Robin, nancy and chrissy convincing innocent! Reader to try on new clothes infront of them, they assure you that you dont need to change in the bathroom because "they're all girls" they grope you claiming that they're "just making sure it fits right" they then make you try on some underwear that would look sooo cute on you. You think nothing of it until you're stood infront if them and you feel vibrations coming from the fabric pressing directly to your clit, but dont worry chrissy makes sure to catch you as your legs struggle to hold yourself up plus shes holding your hands <3<3 and robin is being so sweet and 'fixing you bra' while telling you how pretty you are, nancy is the sweetest however as she reaches down to help you with false concern, rubbing your clit "trying to make it stop"

♡ hopper x fairy! Nymph esc! Reader !!! He finds you in the forest and takes you back to his cabin because a little thing like you shoudlnt be out here all alone >:(( You're so curious of this big strong creature that took you with them that you follow them around like a puppy, so he shouldnt have been so shocked when you wondered into the bathroom and watched him while he showered, as much as he tried to shoo you away it was hopeless which is why he invited you to join him. Definitely not a ploy to see you naked

♡ want 001 to gaslight me while his cock tears me in two!! "It doesn't hurt that bad, you were made to hold my children how can you give birth if you cant take my cock?"

♡ steve x bimbo reader <3 he thinks you're so dumb and hes looking at you in shock most of the time because how can anyone be that stupid? But he doesnt mind because you're his housewife and he loves that you make him feel all gooey inside, you cook him meals and bake him desserts you're so good with the kids and dustin adores with his moms new girlfriend. When you come home from babysitting with eyes watering about how you have "baby fever" and how you "cant wait to have a baby of your own" he obviously takes the opportunity to help you, he cant have his favourite girl sad now

♡ joyce and karen getting wine drink with reader, they all start talking about how awful their husbands are in bed (let's pretend hopper isnt with joyce ♡) and how they're never satisfied luckily you've bought some new sex toys and because you're so generous you cant help but share with your best friends

♡ 001 being in charge of you at the facility means he watches you do everything, sleep, eat, shower, exist, all of it. Hes all you've ever known and it feels so natural for you to come to him about the ache between your legs

♡ the way I would suck the soul out of this man

♡ dark! Reader being absolutely infatuated with mr Phil Callahan after you gets arrested at a house party, you're always getting In trouble just so you can see him not even hoppers huge cock can make you behave, you want HIM. Thankfully callahan is a good man, a good citizen who would do anything to help someone in need, so when your bent over begging him to fuck you he cant refuse, he doesnt question how you got into his house or how you knew where he lived. Your pussy is worth it <3

#stranger things x reader #eddie munson x reader #billy hargrove x reader #steve harrington x reader #jim hopper x reader #hopper x reader #enzo x reader #murray bauman x reader #phil callahan x reader #karen wheeler x reader #joyce byers x reader #jonathan byers x reader #argyle x reader #001 x reader #chrissy Cunningham x reader #robin Buckley x reader #nancy wheeler x reader #Henry creel x reader

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alllgator-blood · 14 days

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I s2g if you add the layers of these comic pages together, it's over 350 layers. THIS is why I don't do full color for my comics lmaooo- ANYWAY EVERYONE HERE HAS AN AU APPARENTLY, SO THIS IS A BRIEF GLIMPSE INTO MINE. I don't know what to call it yet but I'm thinking of calling it "famous prophets" because 1. I like that car seat headrest song, 2. it's about shamura who is prophetic, 3. it's about trying to outrun fate with the Power of Love (and failing. Like the song!!!). It takes place when all the bishops were teens/kids during the age of hundreds of gods at war, and were trying to survive as a family.

I'm really excited to work on stuff for it but it's all gonna be drawn out of order. Maybe I'll write a full explanation of what it's gonna be about when I have a better idea...I want to channel my eldest sibling angst in a productive way, and maybe establish a QPP between shamura and a completely random npc everyone forgets about <3 also kallamar is trans too cause I said so. I'll do a comic about it eventually. Instead of an absence of gender he has TOO much gender. It simply cannot be contained.

I like that nonbinary genders are normalized in cult of the lamb to the point where nobody singles anyone out for being a they/them, it's not like "THIS IS MY SIBLING SHAMURA. THEY ARE NONBINARY AND USE THEY/THEM. ALRIGHT BACK TO KILLING YOU", it's just like "don't you fucking dare make my poor sibling wake up from their nap to kick your ass. Cause they deserve better than this."

But at the same time I like having the freedom to be more specific, and say "shamura is voidpunk and their gender is best described as the feeling that overtakes you during the first snow of the year, when everything outside is deathly quiet". This comic is actually derived from the time I was walking through a forest that's been torn down for a few years, and came out to my little sister as trans. I must've been like 13 or 14 and she didn't really get it as a 10 year old, but it was better than my mom FREAKING OUT about me coming out. So it was a nice little bonding moment between just the two of us. I don't have a good memory so I don't recall how it went unfortunately...

Now, the climate is a little different. My sis tried out transmasculinity for maybe 5-6 years before feeling happier as a woman, my mom is trying to be Based and flaunt her Woke trans children, and my dad remembered "oh yeah trans natives have existed before colonization. Maybe me being transphobic is a product of my culture being erased" and has gotten better about calling me the right thing. I have a mustache (thanks pcos!!) and wear skirts and am not a repressed "tomboy" teenager anymore. But I can't help but wonder what would've happened if I could've been like shamura and just...been nonbinary without people being fucking weird about it. Or been born as a badass war god who will tear you to shreds before you can perceive my birth sex. I know they're fictional but they are my ultimate gender envy GRRRRR BARK BARK BARK

Here is the secret image for this post- I listen to mostly EDM when I draw cause it keeps the energy up, but as I was finishing up shamura's poetry part, I was like THESE ARE JUST KMFDM LYRICS so I made this

#cotl #cult of the lamb #famous prophets au #alternate universe #shamura #heket #kallamar #narinder #the one who waits #leshy #comic #violence tw #blood tw

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allthingswhumpyandangsty · 8 months

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how to write a character who suffers a PTSD from their past toxic relationship, how they can react / what they might say in certain situations

trigger warnings for abuse, domestic violence, ed

how they can react in certain situations

✘ avoid making eye contact, but will look up to meet caretaker’s eyes immediately if caretaker tells them to — for instance, caretaker is concerned about whumpee who keeps their gaze on the floor all the time; so, without thinking, caretaker says, “ look at me”. it doesn’t matter if they say it in a soft, comforting tone, they immediately regret it because whumpee quickly jerks their head up to meet caretaker’s eyes, fully thinking caretaker will hurt them if they don’t obey.

✘ whumpee is used to receiving orders. they don’t understand the concept of saying no and not being punished for it. so anything caretaker asks them to do (keyword; ask, whumpee can absolutely say no), whumpee will comply whether or not they want to (but they will do their best to make sure it looks like they want to).

✘ avoid staying in a crowded room or even an open space. whumpee will most likely seek comfort from some quiet corner where they’re away from anybody and nobody can bother them.

✘ an open space where there’s no one around can also bother whumpee, because it’s not just about being surrounded by a lot of people that’s triggering to whumpee. being alone in an open space can make whumpee feel extremely exposed, like an easy target.

✘ so mostly, whumpee will seek some quiet corner where they are alone and aren’t easily seen.

✘ they don’t like being the center of attention or being talked about. because this can also make them feel vulnerable, uncomfortable and exposed.

✘ physical touch that comes with no heads up, the ones that catch whumpee off guard, can result in a terrible reaction from whumpee, even if it’s an act of affection (a hug, a friendly pat on the shoulder, etc), because whumpee has already associated all kind of physical contact with pain and violence. so if someone touches them, they reflexively expect it to hurt.

✘ being jumpy in general. they may flinch away at any loud noise, any physical touch.

✘ lack of opinions in general. if they have to engage in a conversation where more than two people are talking about something, whumpee will remain quiet. not because they’re shy but because they 1.) think their opinions don’t matter 2.) are afraid they might say something wrong that’ll get them punished 3.) don’t want to risk speaking out of turn.

✘ whumpee expect themself to be punished if they make a mistake, doesn’t matter how small the mistake is — for instance, whumpee accident knocks over a glass of water, causing it to shatter, and immediately starts to panic, because they believe they will get punished for it.

✘ the rules whumper previously set for whumpee may still be effective for whumpee, even if they’re with caretaker now; whumpee still follows whimper’s rules because 1.) it’s an old habit 2.) they just want to stay safe.

✘ they can react poorly to food. whumpee may have no appetite at all, and can develop a wave of anxiety that can lead to nausea if they’re forced to eat. (this doesn’t mean caretaker is supposed to just let them starve though, only that it can be challenging and caretaker has to be very careful about how they approach this, how they handle the situation to help whumpee.)

✘ insomnia. whumpee having trouble sleeping at night, this can cause them to feel tired during daytime.

things they can say in certain situations

✘ “it’s okay.”

✘ “I’m used to it.”

✘ “I can be good. I’ll be good.”

✘ “I don’t deserve this.” (on being shown kindness)

✘ “it’s what I deserve.” (on being hurt)

✘ “why are you kind to me?”

✘ “I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.” (on making a mistake)

✘ “please, don’t be mad at me.”

✘ “I’ll do better next time.”

✘ “you’re not angry?”

✘ “it’s up to you”

✘ “either is fine with me.” (on being asked to pick something or to give an opinion)

✘ “it’s my fault.”

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mrsbarnesblog · 6 months

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sandcastles

masterlist ko-fi ao3

CEO! Husband! Bucky Barnes x Wife! Reader

Summary: Bucky is always working overtime, but when his best girls really need him, he leaves everything behind just to make you happy.

Words count: 1.6k

Warnings: modern setting, CEO Bucky, they have a daughter, fluff, real love

Author’s note: this one was inspired by Sebastian’s appearance in Paris. he really gave me a heart attack with that look❤️‍🔥

Bucky Barnes was a busy man. Running a multi-million-dollar company wasn’t the easiest thing, but something that he cared more about than this job was his family. His beautiful wife and daughter.

You always loved and appreciated the attention, support, and endless love that your husband gave, even when you just started dating eight years ago. As soon as you met, it took some time for both of you to finally admit your feelings, but when you got together, it was perfect. You’ve never felt that way in your life before. When you were younger, everyone told you that you wouldn’t be able to find a person because of your high standards, but when you started dating James Buchanan Barnes, you knew that it was forever.

A beautiful, respectful, and caring man who would do anything for you.

For the past two months, he has been more distant. His company was getting bigger; he had too many meetings, and too many new things required his whole attention. You understood it; of course you did. But you would be lying if you said that you didn’t miss him. Your daughter felt it too. She was totally daddy’s girl, so being away from him for too long upset her, even though she was trying to be tough and careless, just like her dad when he was working.

You talked to her about her dad’s work, and she was a smart girl for a 3-year-old. She understood that he has a lot to do right now and that he still loves her more than anything in this world.

Today he returned home only after 2 am., you heard that he went to take a shower in a different room, probably not to wake you up. But you were too eager to spend as much time with him as possible, even if it was when he was falling asleep.

Bucky came into the room quietly. As soon as he got under the blanket, his warm and strong arms wrapped around you. He pulled you closer to him, burying his nose into your neck.

"I’m sorry, doll. Again." He took a deep breath, enjoying your scent, which he missed so much. "I love you."

"That’s okay, baby." You moved even closer to him, burying your fingers into his wet hair, and left a kiss on his temple. "I love you too. Now take some rest."

You hadn't even started to fall asleep when you heard a weird noise outside your bedroom, and then the door slightly opened.

"Daddy? Mommy?" A little voice came through the silence of the room. "Are you asleep?" Your daughter suddenly sobbed, and you and Bucky immediately sat on the bed, reaching for the nightstand lamps.

"Hey, angel, what happened? Come here." Bucky’s voice was very soft and gentle, as always when he talked to your daughter. She came closer to the bed, and Bucky picked her up, putting her on his lap. She was tightly holding her favorite white wolf, which you gifted Bucky as a joke because of his nickname at work. Your daughter's eyes were a little bit red, her hair messy, and her cheeks wet with tears. You moved closer to them, gently rubbing her face.

"What’s going on? You saw a bad dream?" You quietly asked, but she just shook her head.

"I— I—" She was obviously too upset to put her words together, so Bucky started to rub her back, whispering a quiet "sh-h".

"I— miss you, daddy." As soon as these words left her mouth, you and Bucky froze, and she started crying even harder. "I don’t s-see you, and me and mom—mommy are always alone."

Bucky looked you in the eyes, and you saw that his own were full of tears. The last thing he wanted to do was upset either of you. He felt that his heart was ripping apart. You made your daughter cry, you idiot. Your wife deserves better.

You just put your hand on his shoulder and squeezed, already knowing where his mind went. He always wanted to give his family everything, and the fact that he put work above his two favorite people in the world made him sick.

"Angel, hey, baby, look at me." Bucky turned back to your daughter, grabbing her little face with his hands and gently wiping away her tears. "I promise that the day after tomorrow we will go somewhere. Only mommy, you, and me, okay?"

"But—but you’re working."

"I know, angel. But I didn't want to make you feel lonely or to stay away for too long from your mom." He grabbed your hand and brought it to his mouth to leave a kiss. "We will go wherever you want to. Maybe stay there for the week. You would like that?" He smiled at your daughter, and she happily giggled, wrapping herself around Bucky’s neck. "I love you. Both of you. You two are my whole life, and I'll do anything to make you happy."

You softly smiled at him, leaning in to leave a quick kiss on his lips.

Your daughter put away her white wolf and opened her other arm, wanting you to join her and Bucky in a hug.

That night she stayed in your bed because she almost passed out in Bucky’s arms but still held onto you both too tightly. The three of you happily curled under the blanket, with your daughter in between. Bucky knew that it was time for him to finally make the right decision. To choose his family.

As Bucky promised, one day later your little family was on a vacation where no one could disturb you. He left Steve, Sam, and Natasha, his closest and oldest friends, in charge of everything, canceled all the meetings, and took you and your daughter on the private jet that brought you here. One of the most beautiful places you’ve ever been.

It was quiet. No strangers, no annoying noise, no worries. Just the three of you on the beach with a perfect little house and warm, crystal-clear water.

You were wearing a light flowy dress, and Bucky, finally free from those annoying suits, chose trousers with a white tank top and shirt on top of it.

You two were sitting under the sunset on a blanket with food and a bottle of wine, while your daughter was playing near the water with sand. It was such an amazing evening; just everything was perfect, and as you were watching your smiling husband, you felt that you had fallen in love once again.

"You keep staring at me, doll, You ‘kay?" He finally turned his face to you, and you couldn't hold your wide smile, which he immediately returned.

"I’m okay. It’s just… everything is perfect here—the beach, the house, you two here." You covered your eyes with your hand because of the setting sun. "You know, you’ve been here for a couple of hours, but you look much better. Your skin is glowing, you’re happy, and, god, that hair bun looks really hot." Bucky’s smile grew wilder because of your words.

He grabbed you in bridal style and set you across his lap, wrapping his hands around your waist. You slightly screamed, not being ready for such movements, but then happily melted into your husband's touch.

"So you think that I look hot?" A cheesy grin crossed his face, and you playfully rolled your eyes.

"Do you think I would’ve married you if I thought otherwise, James?" You arched an eyebrow at him. Your hands found the perfect place under Bucky’s blue shirt by themselves. God, it's been too long since you spent good time together alone.

"What do you think about the idea that when we get home, we send our daughter to visit her amazing grandparents, so we could be completely alone for a couple of days?" He said it as if he was reading your mind, so you just silently nodded. "Doll, you’re too beautiful for this damn world; I can’t even understand how I was able to be far away from you for that long. I missed you so much, baby." Bucky’s hands slipped lower on your hips, while his lips were leaving sweet kisses on the side of your neck.

"Not here, Buck; we’re not alone, remember?" You nodded back at your daughter, who was honestly more interested in building sandcastles.

"Of course. Just wanted to say that I’m so sorry for my absence. I got so involved in work that I didn’t even notice that you too were hurt. I’ve never wanted to do that. I’m sorry. And I love you. So fucking much." Bucky connected your foreheads and put his right hand on your cheek.

"Don’t be sorry. I know that you want better for us and that you want to do everything right. It’s okay to make mistakes sometimes. You know, you are such a great dad because your daughter’s tears made you leave everything and spend time with us. And I’m forever thankful for this." You smiled, holding his stubbled face in your hands. "I love you, James."

You two connected with a kiss. It wasn’t too rough or desperate. It was just pure love and adoration for one another. Bucky was slowly moving his lips, feeling the need for your taste, your smell, and your touch. Your little bubble didn’t last too long, though, not after your daughter finally wanted your attention.

"Mommy! Daddy!" You pulled away from the kiss, looking back at your daughter, who was now all in the sand. "Do you want to help me build a castle?"

You looked at Bucky, who had the same smile on his face.

"Of course, angel. What do you need from us?"

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky fanfic #bucky x reader #bucky x you #james bucky barnes #marvel #james buchanan barnes

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em-writes-stuff-sometimes · 7 months

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darilaros (princess) │ Chapter 8: Birthright

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

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

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

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

TRIGGERS: more abandonment issues, reference to pervy suitors.

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

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

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

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

Daeron’s birth makes it easier.

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

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

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

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

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

You seek solace in knowledge.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Anything,” you breathe. “Everything.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Come, it says. I am waiting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Come, it seems to say. I am waiting.

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

It is even easier than usual to make your escape.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You ought to be more careful of what you wish.

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

It lands ahead.

Oh, no. Oh, no.

The Cannibal.

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

His eyes glow green. You feel it again.

Come. I am waiting.

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

Come. I am waiting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Never again, you think. Not with me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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icarustypicalfall · 3 months

Text

Sweet Cherry Wine

Phillip Graves x fem!reader

summary: I'll crawl home to you, and if you dare to push me away, I'll break into ashes, thus my dust will fill your every space.

★ comfort (reversed) fluff/angsty/married couple/ legal age gap

notes: a sweet treat for my stars, so sorry for being away, I don't know when I'll come back, it feels too good to be here, and I don't want to leave. Ilysm for everything you had done to me, your support for the last 5 months had been incredible. I never thought I'd start this journey and honestly, it's all amazing. ty <3

★

The way she tells me I'm hers and she is mine

Your husband was unusually quiet tonight. Despite being a proud man who usually took every opportunity to boast about you and his company, he remained silent throughout the evening. His arm rested gently on your waist as he absentmindedly followed the conversation. At first, you assumed he was just being protective, but there was something else on his mind.

You caught him stealing glances at your two friends dancing together on the dance floor. Sipping your drink, you couldn't help but wonder what was bothering him. He had refused to dance, citing an aching back from work. You absentmindedly traced the scar on his cheek, but he gently brushed your hand, placing it back on the table, as if he didn't want to be touched or engaged with. Finally, you understood and let go of him. Philip coughed nervously, fidgeting with his hands before deciding to step outside for a smoke. You nodded, deciding to join your friends on the dance floor. His behavior occupied your mind, but you resolved to ask him later what was wrong.

★

You slipped off your heels and fell onto the bed with a contented sigh. Philip sat on the edge, almost slumping to the ground. It was then that you noticed the furrowed brow that he wore. He was never one to easily show vulnerability or ask for help. You couldn't blame him, considering all that he had been through.

You moved closer to him, and he turned his head, avoiding your gaze. Your hand gently rested on his back, feeling the warmth of his skin radiating beneath your cold fingers. He hesitated for a moment before leaning into your touch. You sighed.

"What's wrong, Phil? Something bothering you?"

He remained silent for several moments, but then a sob escaped his lips as his body subtly shook. He turned away, hiding his face completely from you. His blond hair fell messily onto his forehead as he whispered between his hands with a broken tone, "Why me? Why did you choose me?"

You furrowed your brow, and he repeated himself, this time with a melancholic tone that couldn't be mistaken.

"I'm an old dog, nothing more than a war machine. Why me, darling? You could have had any other man— young, handsome. Yet you chose me," he confessed, gripping your hand tightly. His voice was quiet, but his words resonated louder than any shout.

"No, that's not true. I chose you because..."

He shook his head, unwilling to listen to anything. He interrupted, looking at you with a frown. "You know that I'm too old for you, right? I've got a face full of wrinkles, my hair is turning grey..." He turned away, releasing your hand and standing up. "Why can't you find yourself a younger man? Someone who can still dance with you at parties? Someone who can make you happy?"

You protested, standing up and facing him. "You make me happy."

He shook his head, looking at you once again. Affection was always present in his gaze, but fear had blinded him.

"Somebody who... somebody who won't die and leave you a widow," he said, looking into your eyes. The once bright blue of his eyes now reflected a somber shade, like a raging arctic in the midst of a storm of doubts.

"You know the end, we all die sooner or later. Why think about it now?"

"B-because you deserve better than me," he stammered.

"I love you," you said firmly.

His head snapped back, familiar with those words that were repeated daily, from dawn till dusk. But in this moment, they held more significance than ever.

"I love you. Nothing else matters to me. Why would I want another man when I have you?"

His cheeks flushed slightly, and he coughed, a weight being lifted off his shoulders.

"What about when I'm 60 and can't get out of bed without groaning?" he asked, a small smile playing on his lips. You stepped closer, wrapping your arms around his neck, a smile mirroring one from long ago.

"When you can hardly walk and your hair is falling out, I'll still feel the same about you," you reassured, squeezing his hand and smiling.

He looked at you in disbelief. "You'd do that for me? Even if I became a miserable old coot who wakes up every morning with joints that creak louder than an engine?"

You nodded. "When you reach 60, that'll still be 20 years from now. Until then, we can live without worrying about it. It doesn't matter what you become; it's about the life we've had together. No one cares about later. Let's enjoy what we have, Phil."

"God, I feel like I'm talking to a poet or something," he chuckled.

His hand gently cupped yours, his thumb tracing over the scar on his cheek. "What about my s-," he began, but you interrupted him with a tender kiss on his cheek. The warmth of your lips left a burning sensation on his skin, igniting a fire within him.

"I adore it, I adore every scar you have, everything about you," you assured him, your words carrying a depth of love and acceptance.

Tears welled up in his eyes once again, and you brushed them away with your thumb, kissing away the single tear that escaped. The weight of judgment and self-doubt he had been carrying seemed heavier than any burden he had faced before.

A wide grin spread across his face, and he lifted you up, spinning you around in joy. "Something about you makes me so happy, darling... your words are like witchcraft!" he exclaimed, his laughter filling the room.

You giggled, playfully ruffling his blond locks, earning a mock frown from him. "No! No touching the hair!" he protested, but you couldn't resist running your fingers through his soft hair once more, as if symbolically removing the last traces of doubt from his mind. He couldn't help but laugh, his resistance crumbling under your touch.

"Okay, now you're asking for it, you know," he teased, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Philip tilted your head down, gazing into your eyes with an overwhelming love. The softness of your lips enchanted him, and he leaned in, sipping from the elixir of immortality.

Your love was a delicate blend of honey and roses, overflowing with affection shared behind closed doors, a secret garden of emotions.

His warm breath brushed against your cheek, carrying a hint of alcohol from the earlier sip of whiskey. It trailed along your jawline and neck, leaving a tantalizing sensation in its wake. He whispered softly, gently setting you back down.

"You're a work of art, sweetheart... something I'll never fully understand, but something I'll forever pray for and thank God for granting me."

#𓆩♡𓆪 faith writes #on break #call of duty #shadow company shadows #phillip graves #phillip graves x fem reader #phillip graves x female reader #cod philip graves #phillip graves x reader

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roronoacherries · 6 months

Text

𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐚 𝐬𝐨𝐜𝐢𝐚 | satoru gojo

1.776 words

content: gojo is the heir to a wealthy clan; it’s known to everyone that he’s to marry another heiress. not that it matters to you. you have no interest in being a gojo anyway; brief nsfw, cheating, (non-curse) au? but could be in universe if you squint; somnophilia mention;

note: there’s a cute part i wrote that didn’t make it in </3 so, if this does well i’ll post it as a part two!

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it’s his heart that makes you fall for him this deeply. there’s not a doubt in your soul about it. satoru’s heart is limitless.

you can smell it in the flowers he sends week after week without fail, never letting your vases hold a single withered petal.

you can feel it in the acuteness of the beat of your own heart when you meet his endless blue eyes, practically scattered with stars that remind you he’s hopelessly in love with you; it isn’t something he needs to say. you know it by the way he holds on to every word you say like your voice is the only one he ever wants to hear.

you can see it in the guilt that weighs on him and the way he tries to keep you from noticing it. except, you know him too well. you see it. when he holds you close, thumb tracing circles into your skin as your head rests against his bare chest and his eyes stare up at nothing, you know – without question – that he’s thinking of her.

because satoru’s heart is infinitely kind. as self-absorbed and egotistical as the man can be, satoru cares deeply about the people in his life. even if they’re not people he chose to have in his life.

it doesn’t, not for a moment, cross your mind to hold that guilt against him; you might pity the girl, too, if she wasn’t so insufferable.

you’re certain she knows. if the daggers she glares at you when you breathe in satoru’s general direction are any indication, she’s known for quite a while. not that it fazes you at all. she can tighten her grip on his arm all she wants. it doesn’t change that satoru has never been hers. her hand is on his arm, but his eyes remain on you – and you don’t need to look at him to know.

“how are things with your betrothed?”

you trace your fingers along the ridges of his abdomen. is it wrong of you to smile at the thought that she’s never had satoru like this? never woken to see him golden in the morning light, keeping you close to him in his sleep – or better yet, bidding you a sweet good morning from between your thighs.

“i’m having dinner with her tonight,” satoru hums, his eyes stay fixed on the ceiling. his hands still on your waist. “i’ll be asking her to marry me.”

his voice is quiet, like he doesn’t want to be heard and you can’t say you want to have heard. and yet, you bury any semblance of a reaction and giving only a quiet, hopefully indifferent, “oh.”

the last thing you need is to have him stress because of you. his situation is difficult enough without factoring you into it, and you decided long ago that you wanted to be nothing but a light in satoru’s life. a shoulder to rest on. arms to hold him. a body to bury his troubles in. and above it all, someone to listen to him.

“my old man gave me the ring last week. an heirloom,” he continues. “i had lunch with her parents a few days ago. all that’s left to do is pop the question.”

everything inside of you screams that this is wrong — everything in those vibrant blue eyes that seem to be avoiding your own, tells you he’s thinking the same thing — but you know better than to trust that sinking feeling.

“she’s a lucky one. the soon to be mrs. gojo,” you try not to sound sarcastic.

“it should be you.”

satoru’s eyes finally turn to you and it’s silly but you swear your heart skips a beat.

“i don’t want your name,” you say, and it’s more than simply a consolation. you can’t picture yourself as a gojo. it’s a name that carries weight and a responsibility you could care less for. it’s name that girl will be thrilled to have and one you’ll never deserve. “you’re all i need, satoru.”

those stars, you sigh as his eyes all but shine for you. his hand reaches to tuck your hair behind your ear. “you’d hate the ring,” he whispers. “i’ll get you a much nicer one.”

you want to tell him you don’t need a ring but you know it’ll go in one ear and out the other. instead, you kiss him and don’t let go until you’re both breathless.

“i’ll call you later today,” he hums, reluctantly pulling away before slipping out of bed.

you watch him slip into his clothes from the night before, admiring the curves of his back, the perfect unruliness of his hair, and the love bites on his skin in places known only to you.

“i love you,” satoru plants a kiss on your forehead, tucking you into the sheets and you utter the three words back to him like a prayer. and that it might be: a silent prayer that satoru will never leave your side without having said those three words – and a promise that neither will you.

you could spend the entire day resting in that bed, thinking about the divinity of satoru gojo (and god knows you need it after the night he put you through), but you have your own work to attend to.

if you’d let him, satoru would make certain that you never worked another day in your life. he’s insisted upon it time and time again — “at least let me take you away somewhere. gimme a month, baby, c’mon.” — but it’s a pleasure you can’t let yourself indulge in. one reserved only for his wife, something you’ll never be.

you can let yourself be convinced to run away with him for the weekend, to crowded cities and nearby villages where no one will know you. places where you’re free to lock pinkies with him in the street and let him hold your hand; where you can rest your head on his shoulder as you sit beside him on a park bench; where he can steal a kiss from you in public and not have you turn away, completely flustered, a second later.

you let him hold you in town squares and kiss you in coffee shops. you sit on his lap on crowded subways and ride on horseback with at your back (always at his insistence and to his regret).

you allow yourself to pretend he’s not the heir to a powerful clan and that you’re not the last person his parents would want as his wife. for a day or two he’s just yours — your satoru.

and that’s enough for you, it is. to have satoru’s boundless heart and know his heavenly blue eyes shine only for you.

it’s why, at the end of the day, you don’t mind if she’s the one in his arms. and it’s why you don’t hesitate to answer your phone when that familiar unknown number lights up your screen.

“hello, this is y/n…” you say, trying to hide the amusement in your tone when you hear a giggle at the other end.

“hi, honey.” you wondering whether it’s a natural gift, to sound as subtly condescending as she does. it’s such an innocent tone, if you didn’t know any better you’d think she was actually calling out of sincere congeniality.

“you’re not going to believe this, but i wanted you to hear it from me first,” her voice overflows with enthusiasm and you can already picture her staring in awe at the ring on her finger. “gojo proposed to me tonight!”

“wow,” a feigned wonder in your voice. “it took him long enough, honey. congratulations!”

“i wasn’t expecting it, honestly,” she continues. “he went out to get us some champagne and my favorite pastries to celebrate.”

you can hear her giggle and it’s no secret to you why she’s called. you’re probably one of the first people she’s told and you’re hardly acquainted with one another. if she’s called to tell you it’s only to politely gloat that she’s won.

she’ll be mrs. gojo like she was born to be and you were nothing more than the other woman. to her, it’s that simple. she’ll get his name, his riches, and a comfortable life within the walls of the gojo home. naturally, that leaves you with nothing.

“aren’t you the luckiest girl then. i’ll bet your wedding will be fit for a queen,” you wait for her response before politely hanging up, though you hardly hear her words, too busy finding the right angle for this photo.

because as lucky as she is, she doesn’t know that all it takes is a picture in your nightgown to bring satoru to your door, or that he’d conveniently stopped for those pastries at the shop closest to your apartment.

she doesn’t know that the moment walks in through that door, his lips are on yours like he’s been depraved of something sacred; that his hands trail over your skin, desperate to worship every inch of you. she doesn’t hear the incessant whimpers of “i need you,” “you’re mine,” and “you fucking take me so well, ’s like this pretty pussy was made for me.”

she doesn’t get to feel him worship her so wholly, to see him unravel over her as he fucks every drop of his cum into her, not wanting to waste a single drop.

and she doesn’t know that when your cum draws a ring around his cock – a sight he never fails to gape at – he slides another ring onto your finger.

“i love you,” satoru whispers against your lips and you stare in disbelief at the ring on your finger. it’s subtle but unequivocally beautiful and more your style than the gojo ring could ever be. and etched within it are his initials.

“does that stand for suguru geto?” you tease and you fully expect him to roll his eyes at you, but he continues to smile at you, a fool hopelessly in love.

“i love you,” he repeats, pressing a soft kiss to your parted lips. and this time you hear it: the unspoken promise that he would marry you if you asked him to. if you’d let him.

“i love you, satoru,” you whisper back. it’s not the last time, you know, that he’ll utter this unspoken request to you. but for now, you send him back to his fiancé, only stealing one of her sweet pastries and one more gentle kiss from satoru.

she can keep his name and his riches, for all you care, as long as you get to keep his limitless heart.

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tag list | masterlist <3

previously: whimpers | satoru gojo

#୨⎯ sol escribe ☼#gojo x reader #jjk x reader #gojo smut #jjk smut

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4acoffee · 2 months

Text

Prompt: “Am I a hero or the devil’s son? Can’t figure out what side I’m on.”

pairing. todoroki x reader

word count. ~900

genre & warnings. fluff, insecure todoroki, comfort

notes. here have this edited repost of an old drabble i did a while while back... mans so difficult to write for but so gorgeous he's a trap in every sense i swear. only i would suffer stiff shoulders the rest of my life for him anyway <3

The steady hum of the air conditioner running at full speed filled the air and left your skin pleasantly chilled. Your room was dark, long curtains draped over your windows, and the soft plush of the mattress covers under you were steadily making your eyes more and more difficult to keep open.

You could have fallen asleep so easily, if it weren’t for the warm body currently pressed gently to your side.

Earlier, UA's resident pretty boy, Shoto Todoroki, had unexpectedly turned up at your room, head hanging almost sheepishly, and asking in his soft, world-peace-fostering voice if he could come in.

And although it wasn’t out of the ordinary to find him hanging around your room at the dorms, he was generally always accompanied by Midoriya, or Iida. Your cozy little room was somewhat of a designated rest area for your friend group with your extra pillows and blankets, and the fluffy pink beanbag that Uraraka often curled up on.

Which is why you peeked behind him uncertainly at the empty space in the hall, but let him in nonetheless.

When he had seated himself comfortably on your bed, you attempted to ask him if everything was ok, and the only answer you received was a simple nod.

He looked exhausted. While the young hero was not as volatile as one particular blonde classmate you have, you know he still struggles to express himself easily. You figured he would open up to you in his own time if he really wanted to. So you decided not to prod and plopped down on the bed next to him, doing your best to ignore the way your heart started to race against your will at the proximity.

As you messed around on your phone, over the course of an hour, you came to the sudden realization that the two of you had unconsciously gravitated towards each other. Soon, your legs were curled up to your chest, with one hand gripping your phone, and the other getting sore because of the deceivingly heavy head of silky half and half hair now resting, frankly, uncomfortably on your shoulder.

You would have believed he was asleep with how quiet and still he was being, but his fidgeting hands on the cotton of your oversized shirt proved that he was still awake.

Besides the coma inducing fact that his mindless fussing was making your top steadily reveal the skin of your stomach, even in your groggy state you could practically feel the current of thoughts plaguing Todoroki.

He radiated something anxious and tired at the same time, and you couldn’t help but steal glances at him to try and gauge what he was thinking.

Just when you figured that maybe you’ll never truly figure out the mystery that was Shoto Todoroki, his hands stilled, and he said something so softly you struggled to hear.

“...am I a bad person?”

Your eyebrows scrunched in confusion. Did you hear him correctly?

You tilted your head at him and hummed in question.

He sighed deeply and you watched as his lovely heterochromatic eyes turned dark and sad.

“I’m trying my best to be the hero I always wanted to be as a child, but sometimes I wonder if I actually deserve to be here. My family has been through so much trouble because of me. Mom is in the hospital because she always had to protect me from him, Touya left because I had to be better than he could be, Fuyumi and Natsuro, father always neglected them because of me. It’s my fault that we couldn’t be a normal family. My fault the we can’t be together. All the time, I see real families, happy families around me, that need protecting — and I can’t help but think, — do I really deserve to be the one protecting them? If I can’t even keep my own family safe, do I really deserve to call myself a hero? Hero’s are supposed to be good, — am I good?”

You listened in astonishment as he rattled of reasons why he was a shitty person. His speach trailed into mutters and slurred words that you could barely put together. He sounded like he was barely concious and you think that at this point, he was more talking to himself.

In his sleepy rant of self-deprivation you did catch one thing as he buried his head further into your shoulder.

“Am I a hero or the devil’s son? I can’t figure out what side I’m on.” He said, dead serious.

A sputtered laugh was the only response you could muster, why did he have to be so dramatic sometimes?

He narrowed his eyes in indignation at your laughter and looked up at you through his lashes. You grinned apolagetically. “Sorry Todoroki, I didn’t mean it like that.”

You shifted to face him better, “It’s just — none of that is your fault. You know that right? No, clearly you didn’t know that or we wouldn’t be here.” You said, and he pouted further.

“It doesn’t matter what your past was like, we’ve all done some bad things in our lives, and what happened to you was completely out of your control. Just because you made some mistakes, doesn’t make you any less of a capable hero than any of us. In fact, it makes you better, because you know what there is to lose.” You reassured him.

He looked at you carefully, “Oh, you really think so?” he asked you, so hopefully you swore you felt a part of you melt.

“Of course” you told him, he spared you a soft smile.

You smiled back and nudged him playfully, “Now if your done moping, could you get off my shoulder, — I lost feeling in it hours ago.”

Masterlist

#todoroki x reader #coffee's fics #shoto todoroki #shouto x reader #bnha x reader #mha x reader #bnha x gender neutral reader #mha x gender neutral reader #mha #bnha #todoroki x you

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inmyicyworld · 10 months

Text

Sandcastles

CEO Husband Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Bucky is always working overtime, but when his best girls really need him, he leaves everything behind just to make you happy.

Words count: 1.6k

Warnings: fluff, dad and husband Bucky, like one curse word.

Author’s note: just a cute little drabble. obviously, Sebastian’s pictures from Paris inspired me, so enjoy <3

masterlist my ao3 ko-fi