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emilvr · 5 months

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┆ ° ♡ • ➵ ✩ ◛ ° boyfriend spencer !

oh lord have mercy this man is sooooo ( ∩ˇωˇ∩)♡all my boyfie spencer thoughts in one place.. <3 this man deserves a happy ending and if cm won’t give it to him i certainly will!! click the link 4 a surprise … & also send me ur spencer reid thoughts before i collapse!!

warnings: just swearing/slight suggestive tones (like smooches..) and gender neutral reader i think !!

spencer, at least— according to derek, is a tough nut to crack. he doesn’t trust easily at all, and the fruits of your labour may not actually show until years down the line. but if there’s one thing about him you could never doubt, is his loyalty to not just you, but his entire team. especially when he tells you, “i’ll do anything you need me to. always.” and the earnest tone he whispers it in, his brown eyes flickering up to meet your [e/c] ones. the soft, glowing warmth of the love of a thousand lifetimes burns bright in his irises and you will find that you simply don’t care how long you have to wait for him to allow you to hold his heart in your hands.

he may not say i love you in the traditional sense; but it is as clear as the turning shades of the leaves in autumn. it’s clear in how he wants to know everything about you: the things you deem mundane and unimportant, the things that make you embarrassed and the things that make you avoid his eyes as you grin childishly. it’s clear in the way he remembers everything, which isn’t all that surprising given:

“did you know i actually have an eidetic memory and an iq of—“

“187. yes i know, spence. what a smart cookie!”

(in response, he flushes always when you coo the words ‘smart cookie’, although in the same breath he will stare at your face and whisper ‘angel’ in your ear like you’ve been sent down from the heavens just for him.)

he treats you like you’re made of delicate rose petals, and a touch that is too forceful will cause you to wither away. his lips graze your cheek gently in a kiss, his fingertips softly pet the top of your head and slowly follow the curve of your cheeks to the slope of your nose. and when you giggle and go “that tickles,” he’ll only grin in response and nestle his nose into the crown of your head and hum knowingly.

although, most infuriatingly, he will not make the first move. now, doesn’t mean he won’t drive you absolutely insane with soft smiles and eyes full of love and want. he puts all of shakespeare’s sonnets to shame, truly. he keeps it up until you break and march over to his apartment with wobbling lips and twinkling irises (and emily’s encouraging “go get ur mans!!!! GET HIM!!!!” text on your phone. her, jj and penelope are the worst enablers ever.) and even then, he stands still (like the whole world has come to a standstill, really) and waits for you to utter the words. he waits, quietly and patiently. his attention is on you.

“it’s okay. you can say it.”

“you’re torturing me here.”

“am i?”

“‘am i?’ i will pretend you never said that, smarty pants. you infuriate me.”

“ooh, big words.”

“hey! i can talk fancy too!”

“mhm, i’m sure you can angel.”

“not fair. i love you, by the way. more like adore you. or any other word you can think of.”

“i can think of a few.”

in the before, he may tease you when you put a hand on his shoulder or trace the outline of his knuckles; but don’t let the teasing trick you. spencer is atrocious. a mess, even— without you. when you get pulled into a case three days before him, he spends the three days with absolutely zero sleep. and when jj and emily (knowingly, grand masterminds!) ask him if he’s doing okay, he just barely grumbles out a: “i can’t sleep without them anymore. feels cold. not right.” jj awe’s at him and clutches her hands close to her chest, whilst emily barks out a laugh and goes “oooh he wants them baaaaad!”

the grumpiest thirty-something year old man you know, by the way. smug as shit, too. lays with you in bed, head on your stomach as you call him pretty.

“but am i the prettiest?”

“oh, absolutely, my love. there is not a man in the land prettier than thou!”

“ … -__- can you ever give me a normal reply.”

“hehe.. absolutely not.”

henry knows all about you. against his will. someone save this boy he knows your birth date and time of birth down to the hour. knows your big three against his will. (despite the fact that spencer says astrology “isn’t scientifically accurate” … my when i’m in a big ass loser contest and my opponent is in-love spencer walter reid….) spencer puts henry to bed and starts rambling:

“the other day, [y/n] and i were in the kitchen and it suddenly hits me how effortlessly beautiful they are, i mean seriously, i feel sick th—“

“uncle spence. please. i want to go to sleep. i’m gonna call mama.”

“not your mom. please.”

(he tells jj and will when they get back from their date. you wake up to 23 text messages from jj saying “marry this nerd please henry can’t do this anymore!!!”)

also may i propose: classical music lover spencer, rock music lover emily, pop music lover jj and [y/n]. spencer absolutely gives you shit for your music taste and jj threatens him by saying she’ll marry you before he does. he goes pale at the thought. goes even paler when jj starts calling you “her darling baby” … your whole relationship is tug of war between jj, emily and spencer. spencer won’t try tug of war with derek like ok whatever you say handsome!!!

also, there have been many times spencer has woken up in the morning and reached his hand out to stroke your cheek and give you a kiss, when halfway he opens one eye and sees either jj or emily sleeping behind you. he’s the third wheel. in his own relationship.

and it’s all great until you give emily or jj too much attention and he starts sulking at home like… bitch you are in your thirties. and then you have to kiss all over his face and jokingly (or not???) call him your ‘pookie’… he sticks his tongue out and goes ‘bleurgh!!!!!” but we all know he loves it. silly scorpio man is fooling no one.

also read: candid photos of him where he always looks good ??? and when you mutter “you make me sick.” he takes it seriously and you spend the next week buying him his favourite donuts and kissing him until his cheeks go pink. most dramatic man ever!!! now does he pretend to be upset so you kiss him all the time… who knows.

he also places his forehead on yours when he gets overwhelmed and can’t calm down. and starts giggling when you go “helllooooooo!!” but in like, the way where your voice hits several octaves. a very, very giggly boy around you. and he also always has cold hands, and goes “oh no sweetie looks like i have to hold your hands!” (emily makes a gagging sound)

but truly, he is the softest man /ever/. when you two lay in bed at night and he leans down to kiss you, he goes so slowly that his eyelashes brush against yours and your chest starts to throb with how fast your heart is beating. he leans forward slowly and the kiss he presses to your lips is so soft that you squeeze your eyes closed because looking at him sends you into cardiac arrest. doesn’t kiss you much in public, but the way he looks at you makes up for it. eyes crinkled in the corner, brown irises reflecting your beauty as if you’ve been blessed by aphrodite herself. his chest lifts and trembles slightly, index finger twitching with the need to hold yours <3 (emily catches him in the act and she grins, then goes ‘booooo’ and cackles how he’s ‘whipped’ — which makes derek’s head snap up.)

also he absolutely calls you bunny and pretty like no one say a word to me… bunny is the cutest term of endearment ever im gonna throw up and throw myself down the damn stairs!!!

&&— marriage is absolutely in the cards for you two. he looks down at you, chin tilted, and he can’t imagine a future where he doesn’t watch you style your hair every morning or watch you grumble over a stain that won’t come out of one of his cardigans. (“spence, baby, you got anymore sweaters that need washed? i’m putting a woollens wash on!” and he blushed a soft fuchsia and has to resist the urge to cradle your face in his palms.)

although he has faced many tragedies and painful memories in his life, you’re his solace. the pain of his father leaving, his mother’s illness, prison, his drug addiction— you provide him with the normalcy and soft, angelic happiness that makes him smile until his cheeks hurt.

spencer (look at the absolute beauty i pulled by being an autistic nerd) walter reid <3

#spencer reid #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid x reader

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st-danger · 7 months

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Please please please please a single ficlet expanding on Predator Aeon and “prey” Swiss! 🙏😭🙏😭🙏😭🙏

If he listens, really listens- not just with his ears, but with little tendrils of quintessence that he plucks out of the air and extends forward- he can hear just how loud Swiss's heart is racing. The stretch of his lungs when he draws a breath.

Swiss has to pause; Aeon can feel how hard he's been working, how much energy he's expended on the chase so far, and he bends over, hands on his knees, panting. Gold eyes darting around in the darkness of the woods, trying to be alert and aware for any tip off that Aeon is close.

He is.

Less than fifteen feet away, if that. A generous estimate. Aeon leans against a tree and strokes the rough bark of it, a self-soothing little gesture. He's so keyed up now, trying his best to conceal his own laboured breaths, though they stem more from excitement and less from exhaustion. Aeon can run, and he has been, but he hasn't been running the way Swiss has, desperate to keep enough distance between them where he's just far enough out of reach where Aeon cannot spin magick around him.

Alas.

Aeon squints, focusing, and caresses the air with two thin fingers. Swiss grunts with surprise, bats at the back of his neck to shake off an imaginary touch, and ends up stumbling over his own feet, falling forward in the process. The full moon above reflects enough light down on them, and the tension it doesn't show, Aeon can feel anyway. Can smell.

"Cheap shot," Swiss calls out, to the forest around him. He can't see where Aeon is; he's put too much into melting into the shadows, and Swiss's attention darts around too quickly to see anything. If he'd been calmer, he might have caught the strange distortion by the tree, the weird, warbling ink beside it.

Alas.

Throwing the disguise off like a jumper onto the floor, Aeon pounces.

He's on him before Swiss has time to turn around, to realize where the sound of feet against leaves and twigs comes from, and Aeon has him shoved into the forest floor quickly, forcing a grunt from Swiss as the air is knocked out of him. A hand on the back of his neck, straddling, pressing- Aeon sits fat in his pants. He's been excited since this started, but now that he has Swiss's exhausted, struggling form underneath him, he's filling out in earnest with little ceremony. Grinding it into his back while he struggles to keep Swiss down.

"No, no," Aeon laughs, breathless and ecstatic, "stay down buddy." He tries his best to hold him, he really does- he had been hoping to wear him out a little more, get him tired out, get those strong legs tired so he wouldn't be able to kick the way he's doing now. He usually likes to draw it out more. Subconsciously he must really have been wanting a fight. Swiss flails, grunting, trying to reach back and swat at him, kick his legs out from under Aeon's slinky frame, but the weight of him, the quintessence licking into his brain telling him to relax, to let go, to give up gives Aeon a chance. "Got you," he tells Swiss. "I won."

"Haven't won shit yet," Swiss manages, still trying to throw him off, wiggle free, drag himself away.

Aeon adores him for so very many reasons. Getting his money's worth from these hunts is one of them.

"Gonna fuck you," Aeon groans, and presses himself flush against his back so he can grind his cock against Swiss's ass. Make him feel what this has done to him, what he's going to take. The smell of rich, damp earth gets stronger as they disturb the forest floor, kicking and smearing the dirt, and the heady combination of it combined with the desperation Swiss is throwing off makes Aeon a little woozy. "Gonna give me my prize?" Punctuates the question by reaching down and grabbing a handful of Swiss's ass, squeezing hard enough to be uncomfortable.

It's a miscalculation.

The shift in weight is enough for Swiss to shrug out from under, rearing back sharp and sudden, and Aeon is thrown on to his back, trapping his own leg beneath him. It's a solid connection against the dirt, and the sense of loss he feels when Swiss slides from his grasp is devastating. Panicky, he reaches for Swiss, swiping to grab a shoulder, a shirt, to touch him long enough to force some magick into his body to stun him long enough to get a chance to clamber on top once more.

The slap comes as a surprise, a firm crack against his cheek from a large, warm hand that makes him gasp, stunning him long enough to shift the balance. Swiss is on him in a second, a hand on his throat, choking, holding. Aeon claws at his forearm, writhing underneath the weight of the thick thighs bracketing his frame.

"What a nasty piece of work you are," Swiss huffs, while Aeon kicks and wheezes for breath he does not get.

Aeon may be fast, and he might have quintessence on his side, but Swiss is strong. Swiss has enough quintessence flowing through his mish-mash of elements to recognize it, to brush it off like crumbs on a table. Another slap to his face and Aeon whimpers with it, desperate to breathe. A more seasoned ghoul could still work magick in a situation like this, he's sure, but Aeon can't find the concentration to will anything to happen. Swiss is choking him, humping him- Aeon can feel him thick and blood hot through his thin track pants, rubbing himself against Aeon's body the way he'd been doing to Swiss moments before.

Aeon taps frantically at Swiss's forearm, and Swiss releases his throat. Aeon coughs, fiending for breath, sucking deep lungfuls until Swiss leans forward and shoves their mouths together, forcing his tongue deeper than Aeon is ready for, licking in until Aeon is grabbing at his shirt to keep him near.

"Need it bad," Swiss growls, and Aeon isn't sure if he's speaking to him, or voicing his own desire aloud. He isn't sure it matters. Not really. There's a hand in his hair, a hand gripping his face, his chin so hard it hurts. "C'mon you little cunt." Another grind of their dicks together and Aeon's brain short-circuits, heart hammering away while he goes dizzy. "C'mon and give it up, pretty boy."

"Make me," Aeon says, because he can. Because there's still some fight left in them both even if there isn't much. Swiss's tongue is back in his mouth, cutting off any further challenges. Deep, wet strokes, tasting him like he means to wholly consume, fingers digging into his jaw and dimpling the skin. Trying to wriggle simply leads Swiss to lay even more of his weight upon him until he's pressed so close Aeon is back to struggling to draw a full breath.

Swiss eases up only when Aeon's struggling gets weaker, and even then, it's only for a moment. As easy as moving a pillow on a bed, Swiss climbs off, throws him onto his stomach.

"Thought you'd try a little harder," Swiss scoffs, and Aeon flushes when Swiss settles behind him, grabs his hips, and forces his ass up, grabbing the elastic waistband and yanking them down, exposing him. His face is hot, thighs trembling while his cock bounces all on it's own in search of some friction. Swiss wolf-whistles when Aeon clenches, unable to stop himself, giving him a show. "Arch all pretty for me," he demands and Aeon does. When Swiss spreads him, leans down and spits onto his hole-

Well. Winning is fun, of course, but the fingertip prodding at him, petting a very private, sensitive spot while he leaks precum onto the ground...

Losing isn't half bad, either.

#st-speaks #the band ghost #ghost #ghost fanfic #ghost fanfiction #ghost headcanons #nameless ghouls #swiss ghoul #aeon ghoul #phantom ghoul #swiss/aeon #swiss x aeon #swiss/phantom #swiss x phantom

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wri0thesley · 7 months

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when wriothesley had said there was no reason for you to leave his tea table just because he had a meeting coming, you did not expect this ‘meeting’ to be with the chief justice. nor did you expect the casual way he kept his hand on your thigh, even as the two of them discussed retention rates of inmates and how likely reformed prisoners were to commit a crime again. wriothesley’s face is serene, neuvillette’s focused; and you sit there, teacup in hand, and smile when you think you ought to as the conversation goes utterly over your head.

wriothesley draws circles on your thigh with roughened fingertips, starting above your knee. you dismiss it at first as a nervous habit, but as time goes on you realise the rule is definitely doing it on purpose - as slowly, slowly, his fingers travel higher up your leg and closer to the soft flesh of your inner thigh. neuvillette, if he notices, does not give anything away, and you cling onto the hope that wriothesley’s table is giving you some semblance of coverage.

calloused fingers reach the hem of your skirt, pushing it up as he goes. when they skim bare flesh, you have to bite back a gasp - trying to ignore the way he draws his circles so deliberately, the flutters they are sending between your legs. wriothesley smiles blandly at neuvillette, even as his fingers go higher and higher. his other hand reaches out and he takes a slow, considering sip of his own tea;

“now,” he says, as if he hasn’t found the seat of your underwear; as if his middle finger isn’t right at this moment stroking up and down the seam of your sex, making the fabric gather sticky slick against the plump lips of your labia. “about these fonta spokespeople and their blind taste testing—“

one finger pushes down, with a measured slow pressure, on your clit behind the cotton; the swollen bundle of nerves, sensitive from his teasing. you do not manage to bite back your gasp at this, and neuvillette looks at you with concern.

“n-nothing to worry about, monsieur,” you manage, your throat dry, an apologetic smile plastered on your face - and even now, wriothesley is still petting at you, his fingers still fondling your oversensitive cunt through your quickly sodden underwear.

the meeting continues. your hands tremble on teacup handles, your thighs quivering, your breathing occasionally labouring - but every time, you manage to mumble some embarrassed excuse that never seems to put wriothesley off. you teeter awkwardly and frantically on the edge of orgasm, silently begging the chief justice to hurry and leave—

you do not stand when wriothesley does, your skirts rucked up high, your underwear soaked through. but you do hear, as wriothesley walks with neuvillette to the door;

“ought i to send someone down to inspect the seals?” neuvillette sounds terribly earnest about it, but wriothesley knows better; sees the glint in his strange eyes, the almost-quirk to his lips. “the amount of liquid in the air here . . . the humidity . . . it seems rather higher than last time i visited.”

wriothesley chances a glance back at you, all flustered at his table, thighs squeezed together. he smiles like a wolf.

“perhaps,” he suggests, “you could come do that inspection yourself?”

“oh,” the chief justice replies, not without a hint of excitement. “I’d be delighted.”

#nat.txt #not sfw text #concept posting #genshin impact posting

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sayafics · 4 months

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Dance of Shadows - Chapter IV

Sorry this took so long to update, I spent a lot of time figuring out the timeline and how the story would work with the scenes I wanted to add.

I hope you enjoy it nonetheless! This is a really long chapter which hopefully makes up for the long wait!

Expect a lot more Saenyra&Daemon moments in the next chapter! This chapter was a mix between adding more depth to their relationship, as well as building one between Saenyra and other characters <3

Previous Chapter

Masterlist

Saenyra's heart ached endlessly when the news of Daemon's exile had reached her - she had expected it, of course. But the weight of her mother's death and now the absence of her uncle had become too much to bear.

Her mind fell back to her incidental meetings with the Lord Hand, and of how his words had turned kind despite his cold eyes, since her mother had passed. She understood why the man would be sympathetic to such a thing, having lost his wife to the same burdens of labour as she had lost her mother.

There was a quiet kinship there, a moment of solidarity and understanding.

Perhaps that was why he had come to her chambers today, knocking upon her door and entering with a sullen expression as she beckoned him forth.

Behind his slender form stood the broad figure of Ser Harwin Strong - she had only thought it fair to seek a Shield of her own if Rhaenyra were able to have one. Especially one as pretty as Ser Cole.

Ser Harwin nodded his head in greeting, waiting for her instructions as he stood at attention by her door. She waved the man away, rolling her eyes at his constant worrying.

Saenyra focused on Otto - the Lord Hand looked pale and stricken, eyes unfocused as he tried to string together his words.

The truth was, Otto felt nothing like the image he portrayed to the young girl, but he hoped such a performance would make her grow to trust him.

Those who were unable to see the infatuation the Targaryen girls held for their uncle were truly blind. And Otto would be a fool not to use such a bond to his advantage.

Daemon Targaryen was a dangerous man.

With all the roles within the Keep he had taken, none had sung to him more than the tireless echoes of a title so buoyant and inflamed - the Rogue Prince.

And if Otto wanted Saenyra on his side, then the only way to assure such an alliance was to remove the only person who could change her perspective.

Perhaps this method of madness was mean and trifling, but it would work. It had to.

Otto remembers the look of anguish on Rhaenyra's face when she had heard the news, when she demanded dragons be sent to threaten the man and return what was rightfully their's. He only wished Saenyra would show a reaction so similar.

"Lord Hightower, is everything alright?" Saenyra frowned softly at the man, eyes watching him with concern.

He sighed deeply, "my Princess, I am afraid I come bearing bad news."

Though her stomach sank with dread, her heart beating frantically at all the possibilities and all the horrors that could have occurred, Saenyra steeled her spine and spoke encouragingly, "you can speak freely here."

Again, Otto found his heart tremble with softness at the young girl's kindness. Here, he could not see a shadow of a dragon in sight, simply a girl who had been placed in the nest of animals and beasts.

"It is your uncle, dear child."

Saenyra frowned in earnest now, the mere mention of her uncle bringing back the flashes of the beautiful woman who pressed herself against him as though she were laying her claim. She blinked furiously, scolding herself for such envious feelings - even if that woman had not been there, it did not change the truth that Daemon was still a married man.

Daemon had not cheated her - he had cheated his wife and himself.

"What about my uncle?"

Otto lowered his head in a show of misery, "it seems he has dared to steal the egg of Baelon."

"Why would he do such a thing?" Saenyra's lips had parted in surprise, caught off guard by her uncle's audaciousness with such an act of defiance.

"We are unsure of his motives for the time being," the lie slipped off his tongue with ease. Otto was willing to do all he could to make the girl hate Daemon, but he could not risk her acting out of turn. "But we intend to claim the egg and return it to the Keep - the ships are setting sail soon, and an army rests upon it. Ready to reclaim the egg and Dragonstone by force, if needed."

"I want to come."

Otto sighed softly, not willing to disappoint the girl but knowing he will have to. He could see the anger bubbling in her eyes, but he could also see the confusion etched in her expression.

"Your sister asked us of the very same. I fear you cannot join a feat such as this - it is far too dangerous."

"Perhaps he would listen to me."

"We can only hope, Princess," Otto smiled faintly at her determination, "but it is a risk we cannot take."

Saenyra's hope faltered, hands twisting into the soft material of her gown as she bit her lip to hold back spiteful words.

Otto took a step back, gaining her attention.

"The ships leave soon, so I must take my leave. I simply believed it was important to inform you of our plans, despite the King's disagreement on the matter."

Otto watched as the girl's eyes narrowed in disappointment - had it not been for Otto's visit to her chambers, she would have been kept in the dark on the actions of her uncle.

Her father and her sister would hide such tragic news from her without a guilty conscious.

She glanced at Otto once more as he took his leave, and he smirked at the glimmer in her eyes that shone like something akin to trust.

***

It had not only been trust that gleamed in her lavender hues, but determination.

Her father and sister thought of her as weak, of being spineless and thoughtless. But she would show them. She would show them her determination, her influence, her fire.

Dragonstone was not simply a base Daemon had chosen for its view, no - its caves and tunnels homed the largest dragons - wild and crazed.

Upon the small isle was an opportunity for something more.

***

Saenyra had changed into a set of leathers she had stuffed deep in her wardrobe - they had been a gift from a Lord in a far away land who thought her to be a dragon-rider like her sister. A stark contrast from her usual soft colours, but one she hoped she could grow used to.

Her lip quirked at the idea of riding her dragon in her billowing gowns, and she whispered a promise to herself she would try.

Her heart had always weeped with disappointment at the sight of the leathers, but she never had the heart to get rid of it. It seemed all her waiting had paid off - today, she would get a dragon.

When she had changed into her leathers, she spared a moment to glance upon the jewel resting on her hand. A hesitant smile twisted upon her lips as a speck of dread bloomed.

What would Daemon think of her when he learned she had travelled to the isle to claim a dragon? Would he think differently of her? Would he be proud? Disappointed?

She tiptoed to her chamber doors as quietly as she could, ignoring her nattering thoughts. She latched it shut, hoping Harwin would leave her to her peace and not attempt entry.

Shs slipped back to the portrait above her bed, prying it open with silent breaths before slipping into the tunnels behind. She sprinted her way down tunnels she memorised a thousand times over, finding her way to an exit.

The day was bright and early, and the Keep was buzzing. But no one would expect to see Saenyra of all people in riding gear, as she had no dragon to command.

She slipped through the sea of people with ease, making her way to the ships as she dodged the sight of curious soldiers.

Saenyra knew Otto and the Kingsguard would board the ship at the forefront, so she slinked her way onto one of the smaller ships instead.

She let out a sigh of relief to see it unoccupied for the time being, rushing below the deck to hide in the shadows behind barrels and netting.

She would stay here until they reached Dragonstone.

***

The sail to Dragonstone had been bumpy, her stomach rolling with nausea as she steadied her breaths and pretended she was at home rather than upon the sea.

She swallowed harshly, thirst clawing at her throat as she wondered how much longer it would be.

It seemed only seconds, as her head raised in surprise at the shouts that carried over the ship. They drew closer to Dragonstone now, and she could hear the men prepare to anchor the ships before they continued on foot.

Just a few moments longer.

***

Saenyra had waited until the ships had emptied and the air had struck silent. Her stomach protested as she pushed herself to her feet and her knees ached. Her throat still burned with thirst and she could feel the clawing stabs of hunger pleading with her.

Still, she knew coming by boat was better than the alternative.

She was sure Rhaenyra would find her way here, but Saenyra would be damned if she asked the girl to allow her to ride upon Syrax alongside her.

Saenyra did not want the first dragon she rode to be one that was not her own - she did not want such an experience to be tainted by the hatred and jealousy that soured her relationship to her sister.

As she hiked her way towards where she hoped she would find the entrance to the caves and tunnels, her mind fell back to the dragon she hoped to claim.

Saenyra did not want a dragon that had previously been claimed. She wanted a dragon wild and free. Just as she was.

She wanted a dragon to whom she could love and dote on, to teach not with violence but patience. She wanted a dragon that was a reflection of herself, one that would burn worlds if she asked.

When she had finally reached the mouth of the cave she was panting lightly, her eyes wide with wonder as a breathless laugh escaped her. She sprinted inside, struggling to keep her footfalls quiet so as not to fall prey to any other beast that lurked within.

She spun through the tunnels, twisting and turning but failing to find the dragon she had so desperately tried to seek.

Grey Ghost was a shy dragon, calm and quiet, preferring to spin through the skies and feast in the seas. Hidden away in plain sight much like she was.

Grey Ghost is a dragon Saenyra believed she would bond well with, love strongly and protect fiercely as he would do with her. But Grey Ghost was nowhere to be found.

Her hope of claiming a dragon began to crumble as the tunnels were silent. It seemed the only life within them was her own, and she could feel defeat sink into her bones.

Saenyra sat down in a huff, eyes closed as she rested her head against the rough and craggly surface behind her.

She didn't pay mind to how long she sat like that, thinking - dreaming, hoping.

She only hoped that Harwin had not noticed her absence. Prayed that if he had, he did not report it to the King.

She doubted Viserys would care for such a thing - perhaps he would be relieved he had one less heir to worry about. Rhaenyra and Daemon were already such a handful.

However, for all she knew, the moment her deception was brought to light, a whole new shadow of chaos would be wrought upon them - one, perhaps, even Daemon could not escape.

She was still a Princess. Even if Viserys did not hold any personal regards for the girl, he would have to act in show, lest people see him as weak.

Still, she stayed. She sat upon the solid ground and listened to the sounds of her own breaths, counting every inhale and exhale and wishing she did not have to return to the Keep - knowing when she did, she could never escape the walls that confined her.

Slowly, she began drifting off. She leaned into the comforting smell of a home she would never find - a dragon she could never have.

That was when she felt it.

So lost in the tumultuous thoughts roving through her mind, she hadn't heard the gruff breaths, hadn't felt the quaking thuds. But a rough and scaly surface brushed against her cheek, slowly as though it was almost curious.

It was then she smelt it, the stench of dragon strong and high - the cloying scent of smoke coated her tongue as the brushes became firmer. She allowed herself to hope that perhaps it was Grey Ghost. That although she couldn't find him, he found her and it was a sign.

A sign that she was meant to be a dragon-rider. That the fire of a dragon burned hot through her veins - a raging blaze instead of a waning fire.

But her hesitant eyes found the predatory gaze of a dragon so monsterous it ate its own kind. So close to her, a hair's breadth away, was the slow and steady gaze of a cantankerous beast - Cannibal.

He was an inky shade of black, scales so dark that he could meld into the night sky and would cast envy from the moon, escaping its sight.

The beast reared back, but still stayed so close. Too close.

Saenyra wanted to close her eyes, to resign herself to her fate.

She was no dragon-rider, especially not to a beast so ferocious and violent. She didn't have the strength to make him submit- didn't have the gall.

But there was a subtle glint in Cannibal's eye that made her think wreaking havoc and killing her was not on his agenda.

He inched closer, almost like he was asking a silent question.

Saenyra raised a hand, fingers trembling as she took a steadying breath - the fire of a dragon ran through her veins, the ice of a thousand winters cursed her soul.

She held her breath as the tips of her fingers brushed against Cannibal's face, so close to the edge of his mouth he could break off her arm with a single twitch.

Instead he shuddered, preening as she shuffled closer and began to sit.

Surprise bound through her body, elation colouring her features - had she tamed a dragon?

Had she claimed a bond?

There was no need to violence, no yell for obedience, no fighting and no blood. There was no sacrifice because what was meant for her had come to find her.

Saenyra's eyes welled with tears, a shaky laugh escaping her as it grew louder and steady.

Saenyra had come looking in the depths of darkness for a dragon that lived in the light, hidden amongst clouds and thriving across the seas.

But that was not the fate the Seven had assigned to her. That was not the dragon she needed.

Her dragon, her fate had come to her. Undeterred and knowing.

Her dragon had come to seek her because finally, the time was right.

Her dragon - so fierce and raging and monsterous. The fire she had been missing all her life.

***

Daemon watched Rhaenyra in amusement, barely able to hold back the smirk upon his face at the pathetic attempt to pull him into line.

Had she truly thought she could command him? Call to him?

Had she truly thought he would be soft with her? Kind and adhering?

"I'm right here, Uncle. The object of your ire - the reason you were disinherited. If you wish to be restored as heir, you'll need to kill me. So do it."

Daemon could commend the girl's bravery, perhaps even her stupidity. It was a tempting thought, truly - to end all this fuss and take her head in one quick swipe.

But he was fond of the girl, despite her growing infatuations. She was his niece - his brother's child. And to hurt her would be to hurt Viserys.

"Do not bother with such words, Rhaenyra. It will gain you no favours. You would sooner leave Dragonstone empty-handed than with my undying fidelity."

Daemon couldn't help the smirk that broke across his face as her expression fell - she had been so sure presenting herself to him, a prize upon a platter, would have made him succumb and relinquish the egg.

She was sure he would give up to her. For her.

"Uncle, you do not know what you are saying. This isn't what you want. She isn't who you want."

The words she spoke were true. But not in the way she had hoped.

"Perhaps if little Saena were here, I would be happy to continue this farce for a few moments longer," he grinned at the envious expression that crossed Rhaenyra's face, "it is a pity she is not. I believe she would have enjoyed Dragonstone."

"The Princess is safe at the Keep," Otto began, his words stern as he met Daemon's glare with one just as fierce, "where you shall be unable to find her."

Daemon gritted his teeth at the show of audaciousness, but before he could speak, a set of stumbling footfalls and a shouting voice drew their attention.

"The Princess! She is in Dragonstone!"

A handful of soldiers assigned to watch over their ships had raced up to the base, panting as they waved frantically for Otto's attention.

Rhaenyra rolled her eyes, "yes. Well, if you could not tell, I came by dragon-back. Such fan-fare is quite uneeded."

She turned back to Daemon, ready to push and prod, but the voice continued in panicked insistence.

"No! The Princess is upon the isle. She entered the tunnels before my men could stop her. We followed her in, but we fear she is lost within them."

Daemon's expression of amusement fell, his heart sinking as his stomach twisted. Tumultuous waves of rage washed over him at the realisation of who they spoke of.

Saenyra.

Saenyra was in Dragonstone. And she was lost in the tunnels, surrounded by wild dragons.

He seethed and frothed at the mouth, trembling in anger as he pulled out his sword and raised it against Otto's throat - "you told me she was at the Keep. You told me she was safe!"

Otto's own eyes had widened in surprise, shock flooding his system at the realisation the Princess must have snuck onto a ship to reach Dragonstone.

But why had she gone into the tunnels instead of following them to Daemon?

Otto stumbled over his words, almost speechless at the turn of events. It was Rhaenyra who spoke in his stead, "lower your sword, Uncle. What my sister does out of her own stupidity is no one's fault but her own."

Daemon ground his teeth in frustration, lowering his sword from Otto's throat only to throw a dangerous glare at Rhaenyra instead - "your sister is lost within the tunnels where dragons feed upon everything with a heartbeat, and you stand here and mock her? You are heartless."

Rhaenyra's face fell, her own heart now stammering with fear as she realised there was a truth to Daemon's words. She had lost her mother such a short time ago, could she truly lose her sister now, too?

"If she is hurt- if she is scared, I will kill you all. I will slaughter you all, and I will show Viserys the truth of my brutality. If there is so much as a scratch up-"

His words came to an abrupt end, halting mid-sentence at the sound of a victorious cry.

Daemon watched in fascination as a black mass emerged from the lip of a cave, climbing high into the sky as it unleashed a violent burst of green flames into the sunlit sky.

He could hear gleeful shrieks and melodic laughter from where he stood, and he could feel the ground shake as a monsterous beast rumbled from its place confined deep within the tunnels.

The violent beast flew overhead, murmurs spreading across as they all watched in fascination as the dragonless princess rode upon the most horrid beast of all and laughed.

There was a softness there, still present despite the beast she rode. One that sounded in her voice and in her laughter. One that sang in her eyes as they crinkled with joy.

Saenyra had conquered a dragon, but she had not lost herself in doing so.

Cannibal circled over Daemon and his army, and Daemon watched in amusement as Otto and his men backed up as far as they could.

Cannibal landed with a quiet thud, his rider grinning with excitement and pride exuding off of her in pretty waves. She slid from his back, scratching his neck as she murmured praises to the beast.

Daemon watched the scene unfold with soft eyes, his heart swelling with pride as he watched Saenyra fret over a vicious beast who submitted to her freely and with ease.

He took a step forward, uncaring of the watchful eyes and bated breaths of those around him.

Saenyra caught his gaze, a gasping laugh sounding from her lips as she moved to meet him halfway. But a glance over his shoulder had her stumbling to a stop.

Daemon knew who she had seen and couldn't stop the guilt that stung his throat and left a bitter taste.

"Rijes aōt, zaldrītsos (congratulations, little dragon)."

Daemon's words were gentle but hesitant. Saenyra could not find it within herself to meet his gaze.

She took a steadying breath, eyes passing over him with great difficulty as she sought the calming gaze of the Lord Hand instead.

Otto nodded to the girl as she eyed him in quiet despair - "Prince Daemon," he began, so quietly Daemon prayed Saenyra could not hear him, "has stolen the dragon egg as a gift to his heir."

Saenyra's eyes flitted back to Daemon as they welled with a betrayal she had no right to feel. And yet, from Daemon's worried gaze and guilty heart, she could not help but feel that perhaps it was not all in her mind, after all.

"His whore, Mysaria is with child. And Daemon is to take her as a second wife."

As Otto concluded his words, he could see how the girl's shoulders tensed and her spine stiffened - he hadn't expected to unveil the truth to her, but as she stared at her uncle with poorly hidden anger he found that it was probably the smartest move he had made.

Saenyra couldn't help but glance at her sister and see how her shoulders had deflated with defeat and how Rhaenyra could not meet her gaze.

Despite everything she had heard, despite the tears that pooled in her eyes and despite the hopes she had hidden deep within her heart that had caved and crumbled, she stepped forward. She closed the gap between Daemon and herself with a stifling sense of formality.

Saenyra stood before him in the image of a poised princess, a stiff smile upon her face as she searched his eyes for something.

They glinted and gleamed and grew dark under her stare, as though he was trying to force every word he could not say aloud into her mind.

"Tepagon se zaldrīzes drōmon, kepus. Let us be done with this. (Give the dragon egg, uncle)."

"Daor (no)."

His voice was quiet - his eyes pleading.

Her breath caught in her throat for a moment, her mind knowing what it was he wanted - what he needed. But her heart was too fragile to concede.

"Ivestragon nyke skoros nyke jorrāelagon naejot rȳbagon (tell me what I need to hear)."

Daemon did not care if Rhaenyra heard him, did not care if the others understood.

He would be exiled, unable to see Saenyra anymore. He knew although he could succeed in this battle, the game of politics that would follow would not work in his favour.

Too many men had sworn their allegiance to Viserys, and now his newest heir - Rhaenyra.

She gave him a strained smile in return, "I cannot upset your wife."

"Ōdrikagon zirȳla mirre ao hae, issa daorun naejot nyke (hurt her all you like, she is nothing to me)."

"And what about me?"

"Brōzagon naejot nyke (call to me)."

Such words were a promise in themselves, a claim if one wished it to be. And from the glimmering darkness in Daemon's eyes, singing with desperation and anger and a plea for understanding, Saenyra let herself reluctantly hope it was.

"Kepus, give me Baelon's egg."

"Kostilus (please)."

"Daemon."

The name came out in a quiet rush, a hushed confession.

His breath caught in his throat, a raging heat battling through his body as his heart trembled and his body singed with relief.

"Daemon," she whispered again, looking into his eyes so pleadingly, "give it to me, Daemon. Prove it to me."

Daemon was ready to kneel for her should she ask it of him. He handed the egg over readily, the fight leaving his body with the same rolling ease his name dripped off her tongue in such erotic rivulets.

As she reached out to take the egg from his grasp, he allowed his fingers to trail over her trembling hands. He rubbed his thumb over the ring she still wore, despite his misgivings, despite his harshness and despite his exile.

She wore this piece of him with pride and adoration. Such a sight made his heart sting with grief, knowing he would have to leave her behind. Knowing he had done nothing but made everything worse.

It had been amusing, yes. It had been a show of power, a show of all the cards he held. But now he knew it was almost over - the Gold Cloaks would retreat and return to King's Landing, and he would be exiled. Never to return, if Otto had it his way.

Saenyra stepped away from him, pulling her hands back as his own fell to his sides.

He sighed as though he was amused and steps closer, hand reaching for her chin as he tilted her head up to meet his warring gaze. He smiles, so gentle and so soft and so kind.

Daemon closes his eyes, placing a soft kiss upon her head and breathing in the scent of her - he would be exiled in truth now, unable to return for years if it was what his brother wished. He would only have this memory of his lips against her skin, his nose buried in the scent of her hair, his hands digging into her soft flesh.

He murmured a promise against her, his voice hushed so no one else could hear - "Nyke kessa māzigon arlī. Kesan māzigon arlī naejot ao. Se pār, kesi kipagon īlva zaldrīzoti naejot ūndegon qilōni's iksis se sȳrje. (I shall come back. I will come back to you. And then, we will ride our dragons to see who's is the best)."

Her eyes fluttered closed at his claim, "kivio? (Promise?)"

"Kivio."

She stepped back from the man, her eyes meeting his in silent mourning. She held the egg close to her chest as she made her way back to her dragon and mounted him, lips pursed as she tried to hold back her tears at the realisation she would likely never see Daemon again.

***

Saenyra returned to the Keep upon dragon-back, soaring the sky with a mourning sense of enjoyment. Perhaps she would not see Daemon again, but her ventures had gained her a dragon.

And such a gift was not one she would be ungrateful for.

Still, she was inexperienced upon dragon-back. Though her beast was adept and gifted with a masterful skill at flight, she had never soared the skies upon a dragon, let alone one so large.

It did not take long for Rhaenyra to catch up to her savage dragon, and it took even less time for her to soar past them and glare down at her with contempt flooding her gaze.

Saenyra grew worried as she drew closer to the Keep - the sky had darkened as a clouded mist settled low on to the soil. She grew anxious as she landed Cannibal on the grounds, eyes flitting across the planes in search of the Lords and Ladies, maids and knights that haunted the Keep, only to see it bare of life.

Cannibal flew off at her beckoning, never one to be tied down to a place so small but ready to find her if she were to call.

She entered the walls of the Keep, the corridors silent as she tiptoed to her room. She slipped into the closest tunnel she could find, her footsteps rushed as she made her way to her chambers.

She knew the secret of her travels would be revealed with Otto's return. Until then, she would take advantage of what she hoped to be Harwin's discretion and the King's ignorance and take a well-deserved rest.

***

It was not long until a flurry of frantic knocks sounded against her chamber doors - she sat up in a hurry, the sheets slipping off of her as all she remained in was the sheer material of her nightdress.

Saenyra stumbled out of her bed, reaching for the latch only to be faced by Alicent.

The girl looked worried, her eyes full of sadness as she frowned at Saenyra softly.

"The King is asking for your attendance at the Counsel, this evening."

Her brows furrowed in confusion, "Father has never asked for my presence at his meetings. Did something happen?"

Had Daemon acted out of turn once again? Had he returned to the Keep despite his exile? Has her father truly grown so angry by her travels outside the Keep?

She was unsure, and unwilling to seek answers to such questions.

"You must come at once, Princess. I fear I am not at liberty to answer your queries."

Saenyra nodded in ascent, understanding Alicent coming to retrieve her may have been a leniency on behalf of her father as well as a well-devised ploy.

She turned back to grab a dressing robe, wrapping it tightly over her bodice as she nodded for Alicent to lead the way. Alicent conceded with one last hesitant glance at the girl.

When they had reached the hall where her father held his Counsel meetings, the doors parted to reveal a truly formidable sight.

Upon his seat, though weakened by his ailings, Viserys was seething - frothing at the mouth as a well-groomed Lord stood beside him with a predatory grin.

It had taken Saenyra only a glance at Rhaenyra's proud face and Otto's sorrowful expression to learn what truth came to light.

Her lips parted, an apology sitting upon the tip of her tongue before her father's brash voice cut off her musings - "here we have her," a dragon's rage pooled in his veins, "my youngest daughter."

"Father..."

She was unsure of what she could have said - the placative words she could have spoken. But Viserys paid her no mind.

"Princess Saenyra is to be your wife, Lord Byrch." Viserys' eyes met his daughters, sharp and unforgiving as he recalled the conversations Rhaenyra whispered in his ears that took place between his youngest daughter and his devious brother - "you are to wed and take my daughter to your lands where she will swell with your children and make me a happy grandsire."

Her eyes burned as his words echoed in her mind, heart sinking in betrayal as she glanced towards Rhaenyra who spoke with a smug tone, "congratulations, dear sister."

Saenyra could hear no more talk of the betrayal that had just taken place, could no longer restrain her cries or hold back her tears.

As the Lord Byrch stepped closer to his awaiting bride, the girl stumbled back as she fled from the room in a flood of emotions.

Viserys' boisterous laughs could be heard echoing through the Keep, "she is but a shy girl, Byrch. Take no offence, you shall get your bride. That I promise."

***

Saenyra did not leave her chamber for several days - taking to dining within the walls of her room where she was safe and away from her traitorous sister and looming husband-to-be.

In those days, it was only Otto whom she allowed to seek her audience; even Harwin, now her Shield and Commander of the Gold Cloaks, barely caught a glimpse of the girl when he would assign his men to keep watch over her.

The man would whisper his disapprovals of the King's decision, acting wary of listening ears and speaking in hushed anger. He would weave tales of her bethrothed's violent nature and greedy hands, of his narrow mind and stubborn heart.

He had laughed as he suggested that the death of her betrothed may be her only saving grace - as though such a proposition was preposterous and only made in jest.

Otto had ingrained upon her an expectation for a horrid future - unloved and hurt and bred like an animal.

That was the life Viserys had chosen for her, and such a realisation wrought her soul with anger and agony. She had known Rhaenyra was the favourite, but to cast Saenyra aside in such a manner made her feel truly unworthy in his eyes.

Perhaps this was why - angered by her father's aversion and terrified by Otto's quiet truths - she had found herself in such a position.

Otto had encouraged the girl to escape the confines of her room, to walk along the corridors of the Keep and, at the very least, find enjoyment in the activities she used to before.

She had agreed, reluctantly. And that very night, she left her rooms through the tunnel, unwilling to be trailed by soldiers that belonged to both Harwin and Daemon.

She found herself in the library, fingers skimming across the spine of large tomes and story books. Her touch was light and airy, her mind quiet in the comfort of the night sky.

But the sound of footfalls drawing closer had her grow keenly wary of her surroundings.

She turned in anticipation, hand falling to her side as she came face-to-face with the man she had been avoiding all this time.

Oh, how the needy and desperate whispers of her mind grew louder wishing it was Daemon she saw.

Instead, in front of her stood the slim and staggering figure of Lord Byrch. There was a grim smirk upon his lips, his voice hushed as he whispered, "my little bride. Oh, how I have been searching for you in all the crevices in the Keep."

She smiled stiffly, "my Lord."

She stepped back, nodding to be polite as she searched for a way around the man and to the door.

There was no escape.

He stepped closer, hands clamping around her waist as he pulled her towards him - so close she could smell the scent of strong ale permeating from his lips.

The man was shameless and crude, stuffing his face into the hollow of her throat as he took deep breaths and groaned roughly at her sweet scent.

Her hands came to push against his shoulders, but the man did not relent. He stumbled forward so he could press her against a table and lave at the delicate skin of her neck.

He hummed at the taste of her, groaning in her ear in a fervent breath - "I cannot wait to make you my bride and fuck you. I cannot wait to fill you with my children and make sure you never leave my bed without my cum dripping from that sweet cunt of your's."

She cried out in disgust, her hands reaching back to brace herself against the table as he grew hurried and frantic. He began to pull up the fabric of her dress, her heart sinking in dread as her eyes stung with tears.

Her hands reached for something, grasping at anything she could use to scare this monster away.

Her fingers wrapped around a thin and delicate item, and it only took a glance back to see the silver sheen of a letter opener held tight in her grasp.

It was at the sight of such a lacklustre weapon hope began to bubble in the pit of her stomach as her breath was stolen from her in preparation of such a feat - an opportunity.

Her heart sung with rage as a guttural cry escaped her, and the weapon in her hand found its place in his shoulder. The foul beast of a man reared back, and as he cried out in agony, she could hear a fierce cry shatter through the quiet of the night as though it shared in her pain and agony - Cannibal.

At the sound of his angered roars, she felt the dragon within her come to life, a disastrous blaze flooding through her as rage took over fear.

Saenyra was angry.

So angry.

Angry at Daemon. At her sister. At her father. And this pathetic excuse of a man who thought himself worthy of marrying her. Of touching her.

With a battle cry, she ripped the blade from his flesh, throwing herself at him and knocking him to the ground as her body moved with a mind of its own. She wailed upon the man as her screams gave way to mourning cries and the aches of a thousand days washed upon her and all the agony she felt, all the grief, was poured into a deserving beast.

Hands wrapped around her body, her dress tainted red as blood seeped deep into her clothes and burned her skin with feral delight. She fought against the touch, reaching forward after her prey as her mind went mad with hunger.

The arms only held her tighter, wrenching the blade from her grasp and casting it aside as they turned her towards a solid chest and hushed quietly in her ears.

Her breaths came back to her in quiet huffs, her racing heart settled as it was finally quiet once again.

"Princess," Saenyra stiffened at the voice, eyes glancing up to meet the determined gaze of the Shield she had escaped for far too long.

Harwin met her gaze, determination giving way to a kind softness as he frowned softly at the blood splattered against the girl's face. His hands reached up to her face, rubbing against the wet liquid and smearing it across her cheeks, making her seem like a blushing bride who awaited eagerly for her husband's embrace.

But Lord Byrch was dead.

His body mutilated, his face unrecognisable.

Harwin felt his own heart race in anger at the thought that the Princess would have been hurt whilst under his charge, his protection.

He gritted his teeth as he strained his mind for a plan - "I accompanied you to the library," he began, his voice lowered and his words fast as his eyes darted towards the door, hoping it would be his Gold Cloaks who arrived first and not the Kingsguards.

"Then Lord Byrch came and asked for a listening ear - which you granted him. He spoke of treasonous plans after your wedding, and when you refused, he grew mad. So I killed him."

She eyed the soldier in fascination, wondering why he would lie on her behalf about a deed so grave.

"I killed him. Did you hear me, Princess?"

She held her breath as she nodded, confusion still clouding her eyes.

"Repeat it back to me."

She began in a whisper, hands tightening around his arms as she continued, "you killed him. You killed him because he planned to act against my father. He was going to hurt me, so you killed him."

"Good. Good, you're doing so well. Leave this to me, I shall handle this."

"Harwin," her voice shook as she protested such a thing, tears tracking down her face as her hands trembled at the realisation of what she had done.

Saenyra had killed a Lord. She had murdered her intended husband.

But he had deserved it.

Still, she had taken a life.

"I am your sworn Shield. When I took such a position, I vowed to protect you with every inch of life I have within me. Allow me to do my duty, Princess. Allow me to protect you."

Saenyra threw her arms around his neck, heaving sobs against him as he held her tight and turned her away from the gruesome scene she had created.

Otto had found them in such a position only moments later, eyes growing dark with understanding as he realised what must have occured.

It was safe to say Harwin escaped with such a deed unpunished, and Saenyra grew to trust her Shield just as she grew to trust Otto.

Her heart grew discontent to sit with her sister and listen to her father's demands, but even her disheartened feelings towards them would not stop the fact her father sought another husband for the girl to wed.

Saenyra could only hope he failed in such a mission of his.

Saenyra could only hope Daemon would return before Viserys succeeded in his ventures, and Rhaenyra celebrated her departure.

Thank you to everyone who enaged with this series, I cannot wait to write more chapters!!

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heliiacus · 2 months

Text

a tight predicament

tags: eren x armin, sexual tension, yearly testing of ODM gear, takes place a year before the rumbling, Armin struggles, Eren helps

warnings: none!

words: 1.2k

There comes a time in every soldier's life where one must test the gear they've not worn in a long, long time. In Armin's case, the day comes with its own peculiar struggles - ones that Eren has to save him from.

"Armin."

It's quiet, the way he says it. Premonitory, almost. Before Armin can so much as breathe in answer, the man hears his steps; slow and careless, enclosing on him.

"I know," Armin huffs, hands twisting in the leather, this stark embarrassment swirling in his belly. His cheeks heat, and he turns his back to Eren, suddenly trying harder, quicker; but his hands betray him. "Don't ask," he says then, hearing no more steps. "I don't know. It's just been a while." And it has. It has been over a year, really, since he’d had to put on the gear in full earnest, and it has been a long year indeed; full of hard labour, and plentiful food, and incessant growth spurts all across his body.

He can barely believe it. He would not have, were it not for the fact that he is witnessing it all himself.

Eren, too. Right at his back.

And then Armin tries again, fingers grazing tightly against the straps. He works them carefully, the way he is supposed to, but they don't give to him with the same effortless ease he is used to. He manages one set, bit by bit; but the others fight him still.

He huffs again, chest tense. Back turned and neck warm, Armin wonders, quietly, if Eren is still watching; but he knows he is. It nearly makes his hands shake, bewildered at his own sudden ineptitude.

He tries again. As he works, one attempt, then another, he feels a pair of hands on his shoulders. Soft in their touch. Careful, almost. Armin's shoulders bunch in a tension beneath the weight, and Eren breathes a chuckle; then he tugs, mercilessly, at the mismanaged latches at his back.

"Let me help," the man tells him. He tugs again when Armin doesn't answer, and this time, this time he turns to him, sheepish and small in his frame. "What?"

"I don't know," Armin says demurely, giving into the heating in his skin. "I'm embarrassed. It hasn't been that long since.."

"But it has," Eren says flatly, and then he shakes his head at Armin. "It has," he repeats, turning Armin back around; hands, already, working swiftly at the unmanaged straps. "Besides," he continues, in a tone Armin can't quite read, "You've grown. You've grown a lot."

Armin hums, shoulders straight as he waits for Eren to fix the mess he had created.

"Come on," Eren says.

"What?"

"Stop doing that. Don't pout."

"I'm not pouting," the man retorts; he tries to turn to him, to deny Eren's insinuation eye to eye, but he finds himself held tight in place by the other man's hands.

"Yes, you are," he simply says, and Armin feels a latch come into its rightly place. "It's fine. You'll re-learn this. Don't you always?"

"I suppose." Another latch is fixed upright. "I'm just surprised."

"I told you it's cause you've grown," Eren repeats, his tone impassive. He tugs again, testing the hold, and they both hum at it feeling right. "I'll do the ones on your back now."

"Alright," Armin murmurs, chest tight once more; inexplicably, this time, and almost oddly so.

It strikes, with a suddenness, with what care Eren does this; with precision, almost – moreso than for his own gear, from what Armin has seen. He feels the man's hands graze at the latches, then at his lower back as he tugs on these, too; Armin finds his chest constrict at the touch, momentarily. His breath rattles, just a little, and his face heats again, and he wonders, quietly, if Eren had heard it.

He then feels, with an almost harrowing detail, as Eren begins to fix the latches: unleashing the strap, then pulling at it; winding tightly against his abdomen. Armin's hands flex involuntarily at the feel of it, restless at his sides. He can hear Eren mumble, kneeling firmly at his back, and he could hear the words, Armin thinks, were it not for this stark roar of blood in his ears.

Then he tugs. It's tight, and it is latched right; Armin feels that now with an almost odd sense of clarity. Then Eren's hands begin to work the one opposing it, and Armin wonders, almost absent-mindedly, if he is this slow on purpose. He near closes his eyes, easing his breathing into something, at the very least, resembling even. Then, as if feeling it; as if on cue, Eren tugs at the strap, and Armin gasps, and Eren's hands freeze.

They stay like this, for a moment; for an eternity, it feels like. Armin dare not look, and Eren, it seems, dare not speak. Time seems to stretch. Eren's hands, frozen and flush at his back, lay there unmoving; not even shaking.

Then, just like that, it all seems to thin out. Eren's hand presses, just slightly, into Armin's lower back; his knuckles brush against the thin shirt, into his flesh, and then his fingers finish the latch with a deftness. Precise still. Unshaking.

When it is done, in the absence of Eren's hands, Armin's back feels cold. He tries to look back to him; he does. But he can't. Instead, he looks steadfastly to the ground, stomach roiling in a tightness he can't quite parse through, and his heart beats, and beats, and beats.

Eren is quiet still. Just for now. Just for this. Then, just like that, Armin can hear his voice, spreading thin in a lulled murmur.

"Huh?" He finds himself squeaking, and he turns now, and he regrets it; their eyes meet, and Eren looks down at him, kneeling no longer. Armin nearly reels; he nearly stumbles, gaping at him with his lips pursed together tightly, and he tries, he tries to remember what the man had said to him, but all he can wonder in the moment is when, exactly, had the man managed to grow this much taller than him.

"Are you okay to do the straps on your legs?" Eren repeats, and Armin wonders if the words are rushed, or if it is his own ears failing still.

"Yes," he says with a swiftness, the word shooting out of him almost violently. "Yes, I can, thank you so much."

They stare then, at each other. Or he thinks that they do, at least; eyes wide and gaping at Eren, Armin stands stock-still and tries to ease his breathing, and Eren looks at him like this, something distinctly bewildered swirling in his gaze. This, too, seems to stretch and stretch, thinning into a strange sort of eternity; and this, too, seems to snap just as quickly. Eren, standing there, seems to bristle, then Armin sees him shake his head, just slightly; then he touches Armin's arm, the touch quick and fleeting and not at all what he had just touched him like.

"Hurry," he tells Armin, seeming strangely breathless, "Or they'll start without us."

"Right," Armin says, gaze lingering on the man. He watches as he leaves, one foot following the other – strict, and methodical, and not once does he turn back.

dividers by cafekitsune

#armin fanfiction #eren fanfiction #eremin #armin x eren #armin arlert #eren yeager #armin fluff #eren fluff #armin smut #eren smut #attack on titan #aot fluff #aot fanfiction #shingeki no kyojin #snk fluff #snk fanfiction #my writing

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lovesickletters · 4 months

Note

Would it be possible if you did a letter from Knight cookie? Maybe a confession of his love?

💜𝒦𝓃𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝒞ℴℴ𝓀𝒾ℯ | ℒℴ𝓋ℯ𝓈𝒾𝒸𝓀 ℒℯ𝓉𝓉ℯ𝓇💜

The handwriting is clearly heavily laboured over, each word carefully chosen and scrawled in precise ink. You wonder how many sheets of paper were tossed in the process of attempting to achieve perfection.

My Liege,

In the presence of your grace, my heart finds itself in a quandary, battling the dragons of doubt and uncertainty. Yet, in the face of this armor-clad hesitance, I cannot help but lay down my shield and reveal the truth that weighs heavily upon my breastplate.

Though I may wield a blade with ease, my armor feels heavy in the face of baring my heart. I confess, with a humble spirit, that my feelings for you transcend mere admiration. They bloom like the rarest of flowers in the garden of my soul.

Would you grant this humble knight the honor of your affection? To stand by your side, to shield you from harm, and to cherish you with the unwavering loyalty of a knight sworn to protect their most precious treasure.

Yours, with earnest humility and devotion,

Knight Cookie

#cookie run x reader #yandere cookie run #cookie run #🩸𝓎𝒶𝓃𝒹ℯ𝓇ℯ🩸#yandere knight cookie #knight cookie x reader

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nicklloydnow · 7 months

Text

“Looking from East to West in the 90s, like Alice through the looking-glass, one could feel as confounded as the residents of Animal Farm. The Russian premier Boris Yeltsin spent the 90s spearheading "shock therapy" for the former Soviet Union. This process of economic liberalization, privatization and asset-stripping led to the concentration of wealth and power in the hands of an oligarchic elite, leaving the rest of the country to impoverishment, psychological shock, endemic organized crime and corruption. To the benefit of its leaders and the detriment of its people, the East became a mirror-image of the West's worst excesses. The Manics' critique of Western capitalism and its turbocharged adoption by the East, allied to their lack of faith in the practical application of communist ideology — though not the ideology itself — makes "Revol" an extension of the axiom of post-communist cynicism which states that Soviet leaders "were lying when they told us about communism, but were telling us the truth about capitalism."

The Manics' use of Soviet imagery in a post-Soviet world was not new, but The Holy Bible, with its lyrical preoccupations the band's adoption of military uniforms and the semi-logo of a Soviet war medal, saw it become something more definitive. How much of this was aesthetic opportunism, and how much politically earnest? Like the Manics, I grew up in impeccably Old Labour territory and, way before discussions on how to be a fan of problematic things, remember being starry-eyed about the Soviet Union. Any yearning for the USSR, though, had less to do with the reality of its final days and more to do with its symbolic opposition to a Conservative regime which was then laying siege to the industry, economy and community of my part of the country. I looked East in the way one might look to the stars in the hope of arbitrary rescue by occupants of interplanetary craft, with expectations about as realistic.

What had been a source of fear and fascination in the 1980s was, in the postmodern vacuum of the 90s, safely powerless and therefore kitsch. Fascination with the communist past — dubbed Ostalgie — tended to be denied any political dimension, allowed to manifest only in ironic or mocking forms, and very rarely linked with contemporary anti-capitalist critique (Pyzik, Poor). The Holy Bible's suffusion in Soviet chic, though, had more to it than ironic recuperation. Nicky Wire, when asked, "What do you think makes sense?", responded: "Certain kinds of socialism, where everyone is given a chance. A true egalitarian society where everyone is offered an education." As basic and uncontroversial as this is — and note the cautious "certain kinds" of socialism, pre-empting the conflation of socialism with Stalinism — it highlights the band's commitment to keeping the idea alive in politics and culture. The later Manics' Labourism appears almost uninterestingly mellow in comparison to The Holy Bible's morbid fascination with the extremes of Soviet communism, but neither approach denies the contemporary relevance of political history, or presents it merely as kitsch.” - Rhian E. Jones, ‘Unwritten Diaries: History, Politics and Experience through The Holy Bible’ [p. 76 - 78]

“Ballard, Saville, The Holy Bible all use shock tactics, aesthetics of gorgeous abjection to assault the viewer. Ballard does it with crashed bodies and psychologies smashed to shards; Saville with bloated bodies out of control, tragic flesh of saints, sanctified for their suffering with no meaning, of no purpose beyond the physical carrying-through of their existence. The Holy Bible does it with its ruptured squabbles, soul sores leaking pus of humanity's capitulation to the dark side, rotten missives, accusations, breakdowns and weaknesses, as if it can't stop shaking anymore.

All three want to make their mark on you, perceive their own mission as one of violence upon the spectator: a moral mission because amidst all the white noise and static of the information-entertainment world, the jeering is too loud, and the crying is all but drowned out. In the service of truth, the artist must lacerate, and the profound abjection of the body, the scarification of the self, the breaking of the taboo of the illusion of sanctity of the body as self-contained whole, is a perfectly acceptable way for encroaching on the complacency that allows us to live complicit lives. Aesthetic butchery is thus a moral enterprise. Obscenity, critically modulated, pulls you out of your comfort zone and makes you confront yourself, or at least the parts you hide daily in order to live in polite society and in good conscience with yourself.” - Daniel Lukes, ‘Fragments Against Ruin: The Books of Manic Street Preachers' The Holy Bible’ [p. 226, 227]

“The present absence of Richey endured even through the years immediately following his disappearance, when the band was most vociferously separating from their past. Speaking in 1996, Nicky stated, "We'll never fill that gap. We'll never get anoth er guitarist. James will never go over to that side of the stage" (qtd in Maconie, "We Shall Overcome" 88); the space of stage right became a sacred site of remembrance for the band, but also a heightened, present absence for fans. In the documentary for the tenth anniversary edition of The Holy Bible, James describes his discomfort whilst playing Reading Festival in 1994 as a three-piece (at this time, Richey was hospitalized), which included the fact that some of the fans "were staring at the space of the stage where Richey should be, refusing to look at me." This desire to look at the empty space usually occupied by an object perceived as valuable is arguably an expression of the connection between emptiness as an index of a sign that holds symbolic meaning; the absence ironically brings more meaning to the surface than was originally recognized in the object itself. In his discussion of the spectators who flocked to see the empty space in the Louvre from which the Mona Lisa had been stolen in 1911, Darian Leader posits that this incident makes manifest the split between art and the space it usually occupies, thereby prompting an interrogation of the usually unseen or hidden meaning in the artwork that typically isn't in question. In becoming a signifier of totemic mythologies of tortured genius and martyred rock stars, Richey's absence became an index for that signifier, whereby spectators intuit meaning even by staring into the void of the lost signifier. These mythologies then perpetuate a kind of lovely knowledge because they fit into an already established perspective and narrative of popular culture. Within the last twenty years, the proliferation of music magazine covers featuring Richey have played into this lovely knowledge, rather than confront the difficult knowledge his disappearance evokes.” - Larissa Wodtke, ‘Architecture of Memory: The Holy Bible and the Archive’ [p. 302, 303]

All passages from Triptych: An Examination of the Manic Street Preachers’ Holy Bible (2017)

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canmom · 4 months

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animes 2023

i didn't watch a ton of seasonals but i watched more than usual so... looking back? very somewhat brief comments! obviously inspired by @kbnet doing the same.

Tengoku Daimakyou

fave anime this year was probably Tengoku Daimakyou. easily the one that stood out the most from an animation perspective, the wonky brain transplant gender thing was a lot of fun, and for better or worse i seem to have now trained a pretty high tolerance for an impactful but questionably necessary sexual assault subplot in the finale.

I kinda get it, it'd been telegraphing a fascination with what makes gender, with power and exploitation, and in general the difficult experience of sexuality from pretty early on. there's a lot of ways that Robin could turn out to have clay feet when we meet him. they went for about the nastiest possible; that episode becomes a bit of a rape-revenge plot. the real question will be how they handle the aftermath.

and honestly? I am really looking forward to where it goes. I'm intrigued by what will happen to the psychic kids, I'm enjoying the main pair's meandering journey. it can deliver an impactful episode plot that hits hard, but it also definitely feels like it has narrative momentum towards something.

technically it stayed insanely strong throughout: the characters are distinctive and expressive, the animation is super lively, the backgrounds gorgeous. love to see Production I.G. firing on all cylinders like this.

Oshi no Ko

Oshi no Ko from the same season was also very solid, like it definitely dangles a pretty wacky premise, but it turns into this very earnest thing about acting and the many tensions and violences of the entertainment industry. Since watching that I've read all the manga that's available in scanlation, and it's a pretty direct beat for beat adaptation, but it's interesting how pacing that felt kinda laboured in the anime felt a lot snappier in the manga.

Probably the most interesting challenge for the animators was how to take a story that really hinges on the question of what makes for good and bad acting and make it convincing in animation. In the end, they still rely a lot on framing and symbolic elements like the star eyes to get it across, but there's still some really key moments where the animated acting shines.

I was curious enough to start reading Kaguya-sama: Love Is War by the same author and it didn't do a lot. I wanna check out the anime though bc it seems to be really highly respected.

16-Bit Sensation: Another Layer

16Bit Sensation has a lot of endearing aspects. The mc is endearing for her big himejoshi energy even if they're blatantly angling to push her together with the guy. The wilder turns taken at the end are fun (a lot to be dug into with the 'what if moe evolved in the states' thing) although it kind of quickly falls into a pretty conventional hero-villain save the day thing. I liked the yuri-lite subplot with the girl who the protag helps to buy some eroge who then becomes a gamedev herself. The concept can be read as a fascinating kind of CCRU thing with the concept of moe reaching back in time to create itself. That could be fun if you delved into it more.

If there's one thing it's kind of lacking it's like... any actual details on PC98 game dev, which mostly happens in offscreen montages. I was watching it with a friend who's a real big nerd for old computers so it was fun to share that with her, but ultimately the most it has to say about the actual games is that the girls are cute (one of them says uguu) and also dithering is a thing. The finale involves this escalating gag about strapping PC98s together in parallel to make increasingly unlikely compute stacks, which is fun but also it's kind of just using the PC98 as a symbol at that point as you get further and further from the actual capabilities of the machine.

What is that symbol? There's an odd kind of quiet nationalism in it. The significance of the PC98 is that it was the last successful home computer to be made domestically in Japan; likewise the stakes of the finale are the culture of Akihabara as an otaku space, with the alternative being gentrified blocks of flats and American cultural domination. I haven't had a chance to see the finale yet so I'm wondering how they're gonna resolve it. I feel you could do a lot more with the ideas they raise in this alternate timeline, but it's playing pretty loose at this point with a very protagonist centric story, so it can't really get into them.

Trigun Stampede

Can't say too much about this one because I only saw half and I was watching it unsubbed for immersion practice, and it was a bit beyond my level. It's interesting from a character design trends perspective. Orange are undoubtedly the kings of 3DCG anime, but I didn't like the lighting style here as much as I did Houseki. Need to watch this again at some point subbed.

NieR Automata ver 1.1a

Hard to know what to say here. This was one of several big production collapses of 2023 - a two cour anime that went on a long hiatus before finishing even one. I kind of fell off at that point, so I still need to finish it.

I went in with a sense of trepidation. I didn't like what I'd seen of the designs and photography, and the first episode seemed to confirm my worst fears, with some incredibly shoddy CGI and weak action. Thankfully, the later episodes all improve on matters a great deal.

This would be a terrible substitute for the game, but as a companion piece, it's pretty cool - it jumps between the main beats and fleshes out some of the side characters, or focuses on some odd poignant little stories. I was honestly surprised how many notes it could hit. Of course, Keiichi Okabe's music does a lot of heavy lifting - the animation is sometimes strong (if a bit melty) but I don't love the designs and photography style in general. Still this anime grew on me a lot and I do mean to finish it - it's NieR after all, practically a religious obligation at this point.

Attack on Titan: The Final Season: The Final Chapters: Part 1: Dream Drop Distance

lol

So like a year ago I watched through Attack on Titan with mogs, came to a somewhat questionable redemptive reading of it as not being the fashiest anime ever but charting a rather muddled break from a nationalist worldview into more of a Gundam type story of enemies putting aside their differences, the futility of military sacrifice, etc etc. (we later watched Tanya the Evil, continually waiting for the other shoe to drop with it being straight up a nazi propaganda power fantasy - it never did, that anime is straight up irredeemable lmao). anyway I said at the time that the finale would confirm or deny my interpretation of what it's about, determined by the question of how it addresses Eren's ideological turn. I think I was maybe out waaaaay on a limb with all this shit lmao. ngl mostly I watched this cartoon because the story is so deranged and I want to see for myself what insane turns the guy will pull next.

Anyway MAPPA spent a lot of animators on this, bc they're MAPPA, so it naturally had some very impressive scenes. Any sort of thematic resolution was still deferred and I'm 99% sure it's gonna be some sort of pathetic copout... oh apparently they released the finale like two months ago lmao, guess I'll finally get to find out. What a weird franchise to have driven the 2010s anime boom honestly.

Magical Destroyers

I really wanted to like this one more than I did. A lot of anime these days feels very sanded down and predictable, and whatever it is, Magical Destroyers definitely isn't that. It has a great OP that writes a lot of cheques that the show itself sadly isn't really up to paying...

youtube

...and there's a lot that's interestingly odd about it; it's got this cheerfully enthusiastic attitude towards explicit sexuality, it's got a very online weeb sense of humour, it honestly kind of feels like of if the people who do 'Otaku Vs.' on youtube got to make a series.

Anyway at some point I saw a 20 minute summary of the rest:

youtube

The explanation behind all this turns out to be: the creator is a 24 year old Japanese-American guy who's spent half his life in California, skating and drawing for clothing brands and DJing and stuff like that after he didn't make it as a mangaka at first, and somehow his connections turned into an anime deal. Ostensibly Undertale was an inspiration although it's not entirely clear how. The result is something incredibly disjointed that doesn't go anywhere, with incomprehensible meta turns and barely existent characterisation, but it certainly stands as something different.

Zom100

I watched this because Sakugablog covered it. It's very nicely animated for sure, with great use of saturated colour, but I dropped it after three or four episodes because I couldn't connect to the power fantasy, the only girl was way too overdetermined by being the obvious love interest, and it really didn't seem to be going anywhere. Also the flight attendant episode just felt mean-spirited, especially how little impact it seems to leave on our protagonists. I get that the whole point is the MC's sunny attitude being completely at odds with the apocalyptic setting, but I ended up finding him grating.

There's also some unfortunate irony in the fact that after the pointed jabs at the animators' former studio OLM in the first ep, they apparently ended up crunching pretty hard by the end.

and...

Damn is that really all I watched this year? Still haven't seen a few much-hyped ones like the Scott Pilgrim anime or Frieren. I guess mostly I watch stuff through Animation Night still...

As far as movies: Boy and the Heron/How Do You Live only just came out in the UK, gonna see it in a week. Haven't seen Suzume yet, or the whiskey one, or The Concierge. I wrote my comments on Kaina of the Great Snow Sea (disappointing), Tunnel to Summer: The Exit of Goodbyes (decent summer movie), Lonely Castle in the Mirror (solid and affecting) and The First Slam Dunk (actually incredible, made me understand sports) during Annecy - technically most of those came out last year anyway lol. Apparently there's a new Psycho-Pass movie too! When Psycho-Pass is good it's great, so I'll give that a shot.

Outside of anime - been meaning to check out some TV donghua like Link Click; also very excited to dig into Scavenger's Reign. I'll certainly report back when I do.

Animation Night's kinda fallen apart in the last few months - it would happen sooner or later, the project has kinda run its course and achieved "social connection" and "speedrunning an education in animation history" lol. but I'm glad I've kept it going as long as I have. I'm gonna try and bring it back in the new year, it would be nice to reach that big 200 before I wrap it up for good.

Thanks for reading my blog, nerds!! Let's see if I can make 2024 the year I go from just talking about animation to making my own short films.

#anime #seasonal anime #Youtube

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workingclasshistory · 2 years

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On this day, 16 October 1854, Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde was born in Dublin, Ireland. After graduating from Trinity College, Wilde left for Oxford and then London, where he became an advocate of libertarian socialism and an early inspiration for what would, many years later, become a movement for LGBT+ rights. Wilde’s most overt political statements are to be found in his essay, “The Soul of Man under Socialism,” in which he observed that “Disobedience, in the eyes of anyone who has read history, is man's original virtue. It is through disobedience that progress has been made, through disobedience and through rebellion.” He was a leading proponent of aestheticism and became famous as the author of The Importance of Being Earnest and The Picture of Dorian Gray. At the height of his fame he was convicted of gross indecency after unsuccessfully prosecuting his male lover’s father for libel. He was sentenced to two years hard labour and his experiences in prison inspired his final work, The Ballad of Reading Gaol. He lived his final years in exile and poverty and died of meningitis at the age of 46. If you enjoy our posts here, we think you would like our podcast! You can listen wherever you listen to podcasts, like Apple Podcasts, Spotify, or any other podcast app. You can also go to our website, workingclasshistory.com. So please check it out and subscribe today: https://open.spotify.com/show/3dqQUrBAmXgoU1Q6hcUnBX https://www.facebook.com/workingclasshistory/photos/a.296224173896073/2110672025784603/?type=3

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maironsbigboobs · 5 months

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54 + silvergifting…..

54. --out of envy or jealousy.

Annatar was settling in well with the Gwaith-i-Mírdain. Too well, in Celebrimbor's opinion.

It is not Celebrimbor’s right to be jealous.

Annatar was not his. There was nothing between them, though Celebrimbor had long wished there was. But Annatar had never shown him anything but earnest friendship, and their work was so entwined, they spent so many working hours in each other’s company: he was loath to spoil the fruits of their labours with an ill-fated dalliance.

But when he watched Annatar now, he could not deny the burning jealousy in his heart. It was wrong. These elves and dwarves were his friends, his fellow smiths and scientists, and it should bring him nothing but joy to see Annatar settle in with them. Settle in - oh, he certainly settled now, draped like a shawl over a dwarven jewelsmith, lips pink with wine, and laughing as he has never laughed with Celebrimbor. His hand tightened on his glass.

His mind wandered, as it so often did. Only he did not dream of great works and wondrous cities tonight. Instead, he imagined Annatar. Annatar, with his deep, sparkling eyes set on their dwarven friend’s face, shining with the adoration that Celebrimbor never saw. Annatar, with his feline grace, taking the dwarf by hand and leading him away to some private corner. Annatar’s long, clever fingers wound in the curls of the dwarf’s beard. Annatar, shrugging off his silvery robe and -

The glass in his hand shattered. The room fell silent, a dozen faces turned to him, startled and curious. Celebrimbor coughed.

“A moment.” Annatar pressed his finger to the dwarf’s lips for a second, then picked himself off the dwarf’s lap, coming to help gather up the glass. The dwarf reached out and patted his backside as he stood, making Annatar laugh again. Celebrimbor could bear it no longer.

He dropped the gathered pieces of glass in his hand, and pulled Annatar into a sharp and sudden kiss, causing the room to erupt into a rowdy cheer.

Annatar pulled away, and his perfect face was flushed. He smiled - a secret, knowing smile that was only Celebrimbor.

“I think you’ve had quite enough to drink, Lord Celebrimbor. Let me help you to bed.”

#answered #rhogeminid #silvergifting #sauron #celebrimbor #my fic

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tigirl-and-co · 2 months

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Space Monkeys

Hey everybody, here's a rough draft of the first chapter of Space Monkeys, what will (hopefully!) be a sci-fi novel featuring Saiyans, from Dragon Ball!

Even if you aren't familiar with Dragon Ball, I urge you to check it out, especially if you have an interest in sci-fi! I've put more effort into this bit of writing than I have anything in years, so while it's still a bit rough I am very proud of it! Please give it a chance, it's a labour of love.

Those of you familiar with the sci-fi novels of yesteryear should feel right at home, and I'm hoping those that aren't may find themselves interested!

~~~

Space Monkeys, Ch. 1

"You humans are up to something."

Witloof pushed his own head into the collection of human ones, and it wasn't hard for him either with his comparative strength. The small gaggle who were gathered around a computer screen hushed into a nervous silence- not the fear of being hurt, as they all knew what repercussions the Empire Regulatory Committee would enact under such a circumstance- but rather the schoolchild silence of an unwelcomed outsider sticking his nose where it didn't belong and not heeding the rebuffment.

The Saiyan made eye contact with the human he assumed was the leader of this troupe. "You humans are up to something," Witloof reiterated, "And I want in."

After many fewer moments of pondering than should typically be utilized when determining trustworthiness, the human Derebak grinned conspiratorially. "Good. We can use a strongman."

It is well-known throughout the universe that if you want to come home with an interesting story, you find a group of humans. Well known only to spacefaring humans, however, is that if you want to get up to any real sort of trouble, you'd best find a Saiyan and earn his respect. Dependable as anything once they like you, but therein lies the issue.

When the two empires met on the edge of space, there was a near-immediate understanding that they were like each other. This was unfortunate, considering just how much humans like to squabble amongst themselves. The superior Saiyan strength very nearly had to test itself against humanity's advanced tactics and brains, but eventually the issues were sorted out and the two fell into an uneasy peace, as far as the heads of each civilization was concerned.

For anybody who spent any time at all on a station where the two species collided, they understood the peace wasn't uneasy in the slightest.

Sure, for Saiyan tastes humans were a bit yappy, and they were all soft in the face and in the heart. And humans thought the Saiyan appearance and temperament a bit beastly, sticking closer to the apes from which he had sprung up than man did. But really, it usually took very little time for them to look past this and start swapping stories of home over drinks paid for by whoever lost that day's bet.

And so while Derebak didn't know Witloof from Adam, it knew he was sincere. Saiyans made for awful liars and for great troublemakers. Both species hated being yanked around by the chain, and Derebak was confident that if it could rope Witloof in on smaller stuff, he'd follow this thing all the way to the top.

And taking care of an earnest idiot is merely human nature, not that a human would ever let a Saiyan cotton on to that fact.

Derebak 'Rabies' Johnson, not-quite-rogue astrogator of the tourist jump-ship Tyger, Tyger, stuck out a hand. "Call me Rabies, all the people I like do."

It looked the musclehead up and down, but there's not much to be gleaned from a Saiyan at first glance. They're a longer-lived race, averaging about 150 earth-years and don't age like humans besides. And as for uniform, there's certain standards, but each piece of armor seemed unique. You couldn't even tell the tourists apart from the warriors by anything except their stance and their tails, as finding a Saiyan in anything but armor was about as likely as finding a shaved grizzly out in the woods and made them about as uncomfortable.

A fanged mouth and solid grip returned the gestures. "Good to know you, Rabies." He snorted, hoping the name was indicative of things to come. He could tell by the human's uniform he was outranked, but he had heard human society was a bit less stringent with formalities than home was, so he made the conscious choice not to bow or salute. Witloof was hoping to enter this troupe as a member, not a tagalong. "I'm Witloof, stationed here 'just in case.' Exactly what threats to the Vegetan Autocracy are expected from a tourist station on the human side of the boundary, I don't know."

One of the other humans spoke up, a blonde man who could easily have been the face of a boyband if his voice didn't bring to mind rusty nails in a blender. "Maybe you're here to save us against some awful threat like a meteor or invading monster, earning our government's trust and establishing yourselves as a race of altruists!" He guffawed, "A real protection racket!"

Witloof wasn't sure he understood the joke, but all the humans burst out laughing at that, and he decided not to take offense.

"Cuss," Rabies managed to squawk out between breaths, "you gotta warn a freak before you go and say something like that! You're gonna kill us!" It managed to hold its breath long enough to calm down before turning back to Witloof with tears still in its eyes. "That's Jack, although he's got a few less pleasant nicknames too. Don't pay him any mind, that's just how he is. He's an engineer here on the E.S.S. Poetry, and you know how engineers are."

It wiped its face a bit. "Right now we're just looking at the supply chain for this place, but come meet me in my quarters at, say, nine o'clock station time. I eat a late dinner but I aughtta be finished by then. I'll tell you a bit about what, as you put it, we're up to."

Derebak reached into a pocket and pulled out a small pad of paper and pen, writing down its bunk's location. Crew area, of course. Hopefully it wouldn't be too hard to find, Witloof still had a bit of trouble with the way humans organized big spaces and the crew area was doubtless less well-marked than the area meant for the easily-lost masses.

Witloof took the paper and tucked it into the breast of his armor. "You can count on me," he acknowledged. He tried to study the computer screen, but this sort of stuff was never his expertise and it was in a language he barely knew, to boot. He was mid-class, sure, but his parents were low-class so the traditional Saiyan warrior was really all that was open to him.

As the humans yammered on quietly about resources, Witloof took the time to observe them. Saiyans usually came with one hair colour, one eye colour, and a very small range of skin tones. Halfbreeds weren't all that rare in the lower classes, so it wasn't like he'd never seen a blonde or a redhead before, but moving through groups of humans he was always astonished by their differences.

And their physiques! He had heard that back in ancient history, humans had been a hunter race. But he doubted it. How could any species so soft in the body bring down prey? Humans didn't eat nearly as much as Saiyans did, but surely they had to eat something, and, in his opinion, there was no way they could kill enough to fill their bellies with such meagre strength.

Although, as the small group disbanded to go about their tasks for the day, Witloof had to wonder if it had something to do with their reputation for trouble and penchant for surviving it. Was it possible to turn that into a hunting strategy? Did ancient humans cause so much chaos that the beasts around them simply died of it, leaving the humans unharmed?

He was a bit torn- on one hand he wasn't paid to ask big questions. On the other hand, he had already decided to join them- he'd even given his word and partaken of the human hand shake gesture. To his understanding from the cultural training, such an act was not only a statement of friendliness and companionship, it was also how they sealed unbreakable deals.

Maybe they already considered him part of their troupe? Humans formed close bonds incredibly easily, that much he was certain of. He had heard stories of them bonding to things that weren't even alive, but he wasn't sure how that would even work.

As Witloof wandered off to Poetry's dining strip, he started thinking about just who or what he was entrusting his strength to. He hoped Rabies was a good leader.

Well, at least humans knew how to make good food. That counted for something in his books.

#dbz #dragon ball #my writing #saiyan #writing #sci-fi #science fiction #PLEASE GIVE ME FEEDBACK LIKE. I NORMALLY DON'T ASK BUT #this has been crawling in my gut for three days it's making me crazy i'm unwell about this #chapter 1 #witloof #derebak johnson #dbz oc #...technically.#listen im trying to get the most engagement i can without outright lying #writers of tumblr #dragon babble

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