#squiring under the cut

[rohanneofcoldmoat]

Devan Seaworth:

Salladhor Saan put a hand on Davos's forearm and gave a squeeze. "No. Of them, no. I am sorry, my friend. They were good men, your Dale and Allard. But this comfort I can give you—your young Devan was among those we took off at the end. The brave boy never once left the king's side, or so they say."

Podrick Payne:

And suddenly he lurched to the left, staggering into the rail. Wood split, and Ser Mandon Moore vanished with a shout and a splash. An instant later, the hulls came slamming together again, so hard the deck seemed to jump. Then someone was kneeling over him. "Jaime?" he croaked, almost choking on the blood that filled his mouth. Who else would save him, if not his brother? "Be still, my lord, you're hurt bad." A boy's voice, that makes no sense, thought Tyrion. It sounded almost like Pod.

Egg:

He got his shield up, but this time Ser Lucas struck so hard he split the thick oak right down the middle, and drove the remnants back into Dunk's face. His ears were ringing and his mouth was full of blood, but somewhere far away he heard Egg screaming. "Get him, ser, get him, get him, he's right there! "

Josmyn Peckledon:

The trumpets made a brazen blare, and cut the still blue air of dusk. Josmyn Peckledon was on his feet at once, scrambling for his master's swordbelt. The boy has good instincts. "Outlaws don't blow trumpets to herald their arrival," Jaime told him. "I shan't need my sword. That will be my cousin, the Warden of the West."

Satin:

"Whatever Satin may have done in Oldtown, he is our brother now, and he will be my squire."

Olyvar Frey:

"You have done House Frey a grievous insult, Robb." "I never meant to. Ser Stevron died for me, and Olyvar was as loyal a squire as any king could want. He asked to stay with me, but Ser Ryman took him with the rest. All their strength. The Greatjon urged me to attack them . . ."

Dolorous Edd:

Jon was paired with dour Eddison Tollett, a squire grey of hair and thin as a pike, whom the other brothers called Dolorous Edd. "Bad enough when the dead come walking," he said to Jon as they crossed the village, "now the Old Bear wants them talking as well? No good will come of that, I'll warrant. And who's to say the bones wouldn't lie? Why should death make a man truthful, or even clever? The dead are likely dull fellows, full of tedious complaints—the ground's too cold, my gravestone should be larger, why does he get more worms than I do . . ."

Rollam Westerling:

"Must I go too?" asked the boy, Rollam. "I'm your squire." Robb laughed. "But I'm not in need of squiring just now." "Oh."

Wex Pyke:

Theon felt as though he were drowning. Why am I surprised? he thought bleakly. His father had forsaken him, his uncles, his sister, even that wretched creature Reek. Why should his men prove any more loyal? There was nothing to say, nothing to do. He could only stand there beneath the great grey walls and the hard white sky, sword in hand, waiting, waiting . . . Wex was the first to cross the line. Three quick steps and he stood at Theon's side, slouching. Shamed by the boy, Black Lorren followed, all scowls."Who else?" he demanded. Red Rolfe came forward. Kromm. Werlag. Tymor and his brothers. Ulf the Ill. Harrag Sheepstealer. Four Harlaws and two Botleys. Kenned the Whale was the last. Seventeen in all.

Edric Dayne:

The Hound ripped the sword free and threw away the scabbard. The Mad Huntsman gave him his oaken shield, all studded with iron and painted yellow, the three black dogs of Clegane emblazoned upon it. The boy Ned helped Lord Beric with his own shield, so hacked and battered that the purple lightning and the scatter of stars upon it had almost been obliterated.

[androgynealienfemme]

"We go from store to store, trying to things on and inspecting them. I give my opinions on dresses and shoes, blouses and lipstick colors. Sometimes I say things that make the other women look at me, agape, as though my mouth has been possessed by that flighty queen from Queer Eye even while the rest of my body still looks like any other big dumb boy's. I say that I like a skirt but I wish it were bias-cut instead of A-line, or that I am not fond of the fashion for surplice tops, or that the post-WWII idiom in shoes this season is amusing but rarely looks good on actual feet, or that I like the look of a bolero jacket. I know the names of colors, heliotrope and coral and Nile blue, and I can say without hesitation whether a lipstick might look better matte with a bit of powder.

These other women look at me with wonder, their boyfriends and husbands having made a fetish out of refusing to learn such words under any circumstances, as though merely pronouncing the word "periwinkle" or "princess seam" could easily turn a strong man gay as a box of birds. They say to her, "That's your husband?" in voices that loiter between admiring and disgusted, as though they know that there's no force on earth that could make their men or boys take such interest in their clothing and they think they might really prefer that to the spectacle of me, filling an armchair, legs crossed ankle over knee, looking just right until I say "tea length."

The point is that she wants other girls to see what it looks like to have a boy so cracy in love with you, as I am, that he will spend an afternoon talking about capri pants to have a boy so delighted by you that he never calls you by your name, but addresses you always as "beautiful girl," or "my love" or occasionally and with great fondness, "boss." To have a boy who will happily fetch your next-size-down and carry your bags and charm the salesclerks at the register without flirting overmuch and just generally try to make himself as useful as possible, all for the dizzy and undying pleasure of making you happy. And even though I am not a boy, I look like one, and so I can be complicit with her in this kind of wonderful afternoon, part indulgence of her great beauty and style, part guerilla feminist activism.

Later, when we walk through the mall or down the sidewalk, me laden with packages that are clearly hers, I watch the eyes of the people we pass: the women who look at me with a certain longing, wishing they had their own boys to carry the bags. The men who look at her with an unmistakable hunger, wishing that they had the honor of schlepping for a girl like her, and then look at me with a certain edge of disbelief, not quite clear about why I get to squire this marvelous example of femininity around when they are clearly wealthier, more handsome, better hung. I have learned to meet all of these gazes with a calm kind of sweetness. There's no point in defensiveness or sheepishness or challenge. I'm the one holding her bags."

"Being a Shopping Switch” Butch is a Noun essays by S. Bear Bergman (2006)

[seravphs]

ੈ♡˳·˖✶ — KNIGHT! GOJO x PRINCESS! FEM READER

Gojo has devoted his entire life to protecting you as your dedicated guard. A greater force is conspiring to keep you apart. 

wc — 3.7k

tags — royal au, childhood friends, forbidden love, protective Gojo, sneaking around/flouting social etiquette, period drama-esque tension between repressed princess and rakish knight, mutually possessive, title from Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen

part 1 of the hand which holds the knife

Everyone knew Satoru Gojo was supposed to be yours. 

You claimed him the day you knighted him. He wore your colors and answered to your demands. The physical evidence of your ownership was all over him, the way someone would mark a well loved pet. Even the neck of his jacket carried your embroidery like a collar. To anyone with eyes, he was your adored guard dog. 

When all of your memories blur into one stream of consciousness, the day you knighted him remains clear. You remember everything, including your father stealing him out from under you. 

You were the only one who truly thought he was ever going to be yours. It was part of the promise you had sworn to each other as children, playing princess and the guard with wooden swords and flower crowns. 

Looking back, you can see the gears of court machinations turning. It was no simple coincidence that the only heir to House Gojo ended up in close proximity to you, any more than any other of your introductions to sons of highborn houses. 

Gojo has no interest in pretending to be a prince. It was boring for him to be trapped in restricting uniforms complete with epaulets. He found more pleasure in protecting you from danger while you preened in your gilded cage, none the wiser through his efforts. Safe and unaware, the way he liked it. You would never have to know how dangerous the world was if he simply destroyed everything in your path before it got to you. 

You didn’t understand the way the adults looked at the two of you. All you knew was that you couldn’t bear to be apart from him. You rose each morning looking for him, and went to bed waiting for the minute you’d be reunited again. He was your whole world, your one and only friend. It was his hand that guided you through childhood adventures. He was the sword and shield that had cut down kidnappers and serpents for you. 

The first wedge in your relationship comes with his twelfth birthday. 

You chase his back through the years, watching it broaden in front of your eyes. His body changes. His voice drops. The first time you hear it after the pitchy squeaks of puberty clear from his throat, you feel the sickening wrench of something in your stomach. It had never mattered before that Gojo was a man, potentially your betrothed. 

Now it burns you to look at him. He became gorgeous while you weren’t looking, all long willowy limbs and snow white hair. The women of the court have started looking at him now. They call him the beautiful dragon, after his house crest. 

Even though you know reasonably that you can do nothing about this, really, you have no right to, that galls you. You’re a princess. You’re used to being able to deal with things that upset you with little more than a nod to Gojo. But he can’t solve issues that he’s the root of. 

The only way to show everyone that Gojo’s devotion belongs to you is to tie him to your side. At twelve, he’s already the strongest squire in the entire kingdom. Better than most knights, even. It’s a clear path to being the greatest knight of his time, throughout all of history, even. He already promised to be your sword when you were children. All you have to do is wait. 

Gojo trains and you begin to learn the extent of your royal responsibilities. Study etiquette. Marry well. Become a dutiful wife. Give the king heirs. 

Gojo becomes Lord Gojo. He calls you princess now. Although part of you rebels at the idea that he would ever call you anything other than your name, another part of you can’t help the queasy feeling you get when he says your title, low and soft. Like he means it for your ears only. Like princess is just another way of showing how much of him is yours. 

Gojo is not usually a proud man because he doesn’t have to be. His abilities speak for himself. But he’s cocky to a fault. He knows the extent of his capabilities, which means he won’t capitulate to anyone. Why would he? 

When it comes to you, however, he bends his neck and accepts the collar willingly. The strongest can only be tamed by what he allows to tame him and it’s you, it’s always been you. 

Perhaps that’s why things turn out the way they do on the day you knight him. 

Or, as you find out later, your father knights him. 

It was the day after your sixteenth birthday. Gojo himself had turned seventeen three months and six days before. It was strangely old for a boy of his caliber. He was so talented he could’ve been the youngest knight in the realm, but no one could make Gojo do something he didn’t want to do. 

There was no shame in it, either. Everyone knew Gojo was too talented and well-connected for it to be anything other than his own choice. The only heir of House Gojo, he was destined to become a knight even if he did nothing to earn it. And he had done much to earn it. 

Winning wars single handedly tended to do that. There were already legends blooming from the battlefield by the time he came home and tossed the unlucky enemy commander’s head at the king’s feat. His bow wasn’t nearly low or respectful enough to be addressed to the king, but he had been lighter-hearted back then, more willing to forgive. 

Especially for Gojo, who had cut a killing swathe through the ranks of the opposing army so ruthlessly they began to call him a god of death.

Gojo kneels at your feet, his white head still high. He’s a little too tall for you, even at this angle. Lord Commander Yaga clears his throat. Gojo looks up through the wisps of hair that have escaped to obscure his eyes. They’re piercing, an attractively violent blue. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, so low no one else could’ve heard the two of you even if you hadn’t been standing alone on the podium in front of the king’s throne. “Am I too tall for you now, princess?” 

“Don’t tease,” you whisper back, flustered despite yourself. The pommel of the sword is clammy in your grip. You’re scared to drop it and accidentally take a finger off with it. 

You’re taking too long. It’s making you anxious. You’re distinctly aware of your father’s stare boring into your back. You’ve been sheltered since you were young by your father’s paranoia, but he’s recently begun letting you apply yourself more to your royal duties. You can’t give him any reason to doubt you. 

Gojo dips a little lower. 

With this change in angle, you can place the flat of the blade on each of his shoulders. It’s your father’s sword, too large and unwieldy in your hands. Standing over Gojo is a strange experience. It’s uncomfortable looking down on someone who’s been taller than you for all your life. 

You wish he would stop looking at you like that. His gaze is searching. You feel naked underneath it, even with layers of dresses on. When he says his vows, it feels intimate, like he’s speaking them to you. For you. 

Gojo rises, shaking his hair out of his eyes like a shaggy dog. Like this, you’re reminded suddenly of how strong he is. His shoulders are broad underneath his silver armor. Lean muscle cords his legs. There’s an easy, effortless grace to the way he moves - the confidence of a man who has never been bested in his entire life. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs. He’s still standing too close. If it were any other man, your father would have demanded he be whipped by now, but Gojo has always gotten away with things no one could. He ducks his head so he can speak directly into your ear - dangerous, even for him. He says his piece fast. “I’ll see you in your rooms, my lady.” 

Then he pulls back. 

There are thunderclouds gathering across the king’s face, but when you shake your head, your father relents. He smiles and kisses your temple as you climb up the steps of the platform of his throne to return the sword to him. 

Years later, you learn that the moment you leave the throne room, your shoulders sure with the knowledge that Gojo is finally secure in your grasp, your father takes up the sword you had held and knights him. Princesses have no authority to confer knighthood. Only kings. 

You know your father means well. He loves you. You’re all he has left. If Gojo pushed for your hand to be one that he swears loyalty to first, then your father would have been happy to comply either way. You just wish you would’ve known that it meant nothing. 

There’s a sharp rap on your door, followed by two short, one long. A code you had devised a long time ago. You pull open the door and Gojo all but falls into your room. He’s pressed up against you, front to front as he closes the door behind him, tumbling you into your bed. 

“Hi, princess,” he says, his breath warm against your neck. You squirm in his hold, feeling heat rush through your veins. It’s getting harder and harder to hide the way he affects you, but you don’t want anything to change between the two of you. Though sometimes, you swear Gojo likes using your title so much precisely because he knows how you react to it. 

“We have to stop doing this,” you tell him, like you tell him every time. “It’s inappropriate.” 

He groans and pushes away from you. You mourn the loss of contact. “Come on, don’t make me do this again. Who cares if it’s inappropriate? Who says?” 

“Dame Zenin thinks we’re too close.” 

“Dame Zenin is an idiot,” Gojo says. “You know she only says that because she wants to get rid of me so you’ll look at Naoya. As if you would ever, even if I was gone.” 

“Still.” 

Gojo grabs your chin in his hand. “You are a princess and I am the only heir to House Gojo. We bow to no one, understand? What right do mice have to judge dragons?”

He’s the dragon, you think. Your crest is the rose. You exist to be judged. That’s the role of a princess. 

Gojo sprawls out on your bed. He’s so tall he takes up more than half of it, even though your bed was built to be more than twice your size. His eyes are shut, his long white lashes soft. He looks gentle in repose, almost like a lamb with his coloring. 

He’s beautiful. He always is. You want to touch, to hold, to claim. You want to press your ear against his chest and steal the thunderous beat of his heart for your own. You want to press your rouged lips to his neck and collarbones, to mark his body with a muted rose. 

Instead, you sit stiff, prim and proper. 

He opens his eyes. “Come here,” he says, his arm reaching for you. You let him pull you closer. 

As always, he has to reach out first. You can’t allow yourself to take what you want. It’s not in your nature, the way you were raised. 

You bury your face into the space between his neck and his shoulder. 

“There we go,” he coos. Your face burns with the condescension of it, the way he treats you like an animal that has to be carefully coaxed closer. But he’s not wrong, and that’s why you let him pet you into submission, gently stroking your sides as he tangles his legs with yours. 

You were never so affected by him as children. Somewhere along the way, Gojo had become unmanageable to you, and you don’t know what to do about it. 

“Stay with me,” he murmurs against your hair. “Where are you going off to in that pretty head of yours?” 

“I’m with you,” you whisper against his neck. “I’m always here.” 

You’ve spoiled him, you think. When you were a child, you didn’t know any better. Gojo was just Gojo. Letting him stay by your side even as you got older was an indulgence that he now pushes the limits of. He’s never cared about propriety. 

“You have to go back to your room now,” you whisper reluctantly. You’re always the more cautious one of your duo. It’s been too long. Someone will become suspicious. For once, you wish you could just let go of your worries, but someone has to check Gojo. If both of you just did whatever you wanted, it’d be the ruin of your houses. This is how it has to be: Gojo pushes and you pull back. 

The dim light of the dying candles make his blue eyes appear black. “Give me something of yours first,” he says. 

You know what he’s asking for. You climb up from the bed and go into your dresser to search, turning up one of your handkerchiefs. It bears the colors of your house and your careful embroidery.

He kneels at your feet. 

“Stop,” you say, trying to pull away. 

Gojo presses a kiss to your hand. His lips are soft against the skin of your hand, temptation incarnate. Your fingers tremble lightly in his grasp, torn between wanting to seize him and wanting to run away. The enormity of your desire for him terrifies you. If you ever let him in for one second, you can see how easy your descent would be. 

“I’m yours, princess. Don’t forget it.” 

With that, he ties your favor around his wrist and finally leaves you to your room, panting like you’d run through the halls. No matter how old you get, Gojo always leads in your interactions. He plays with you, enjoying the way he can make you react to him. 

It’s normal for a princess to visit the training yard, you try to convince yourself the next day. There’s nothing strange about stopping by while you’re on your afternoon walk. After all, you should keep abreast of everything within your castle. 

Gojo stands in the center of the yard. He’s demonstrating one of his self created drills, a complicated set of maneuvers only he can pull off. In short, he’s showing off while pretending like he’s doing the class a favor by trying to teach them something. 

Lord Commander Yaga notices you the moment you set foot in the yard. You should expect it. After all, it’s his territory. 

“Attention,” he bellows. “The princess is here.” 

Gojo perks up and finishes his final set of movements even faster. He throws his sword carelessly to the side, leaving a young squire scrambling to catch the priceless weapon as he strides towards you. 

He’s a little sweaty. You want to wrap your arms around him anyways, but you restrain yourself. 

“I’m sorry for interrupting,” you say. 

Gojo grins at you. It’s a sharp thing, his smile, hungry and wolfish. “Not at all. I was just thinking of you, my lady.” 

You tilt your head at him curiously. 

Around you, the men are scrambling to line up into neat little rows. 

“I’m picking a squire,” Gojo says. “Would you like to make the decision for me?” 

It’s a question that shocks you. You whirl to look at him again, see if he’s joking like usual, but he seems perfectly serious. “I don’t know anything about knighthood,” you tell him the truth. 

He moves closer. You’re tempted to step back immediately, but you don’t. You don’t want a sign of discomfort to be misinterpreted and used against him. Besides, you relish the proximity. Seeing Gojo in public feels like dancing on blades. The adrenaline terrifies you, but you can’t stop wanting more of it. 

“You may not, but you know people. I trust your judgement.” 

A cursory scan of the boys in front of you reveals little. They’re all stiff and proper, their backs as straight as they can make them. Some stand with their arms glued to their sides, others fidget with their swords. Every single one of them is eager for the chance to be acknowledged by the princess. They’re equally hopeful for the chance to squire for the greatest knight in the kingdom.

None of them catch your eye on the first or second passes. 

Only on the third, a boy with pink hair smiles at you. It’s such a small gesture. But for a boy who had looked just like everyone else at first, the toothy smile splits his features. It opens him up. He looks kind. 

You gesture him forward. 

Lord Commander Yaga nods approvingly. “Itadori is a good one, Your Royal Highness. He’s one of the best in this batch. Naturally strong, but just as hardworking.” 

“See,” Gojo says. “I knew you would choose well.” 

He touches your hand briefly, slipping a white scrap of paper inside your closed fist before he grabs Itadori by the shoulder and hauls him off for further training. Although disappointed, the other squires still look starstruck to be in his presence, though Yaga disperses them all to train themselves soon enough. 

In elegant cursive, Gojo has written a time and place. 

You shouldn’t go. 

You can’t risk it. 

All eyes are on you and Gojo as it is. People already suspect the two of you of something unsavory. Courtly love is one thing, but you and Gojo are too close for an unmarried man and a woman. As a princess, your sole purpose is to marry well and bring alliances to your house. You can’t risk damaging your reputation. 

But every stolen encounter with Gojo steals your breath away. You sneak through the halls, quiet and empty. 

A hand slaps over your mouth before you can scream as someone tugs you into a dark corridor. 

You kick and lash out, forgetting everything Gojo has taught you in favor of blind violence. 

“Shh,” comes a voice in your ear. “It’s just me.” 

You bite him. 

He hisses and pulls back, shaking out his hand. “What’s wrong with you?” 

“Why would you do that? You scared me!” 

“You’re not careful enough, princess. There was a maid coming up on your left that you hadn’t even noticed.” 

You sigh and lean into him. You can’t help it. 

He laughs. “Are you that happy to see me?” 

“If you don’t shut up, I’ll show you exactly how happy I am.” 

“Come on,” he tugs you out towards the gardens. It’s dangerous, but you follow him anyway. Being with Gojo is so threatening not despite his strength, but because of it. You rely on him too easily, trusting him to see you safely through any peril. It’s easy to relax when he’s with you, his presence the promise of security. 

You expect him to tell you why he called you here, but he’s silent when he tugs you down on the bench next to him. 

“Gojo?” 

“Here,” he says, opening his hands. A single crushed violet sits on his palm. You laugh, picking it up and raising to your eye. It’s all the more fragrant because it has been mangled, the delicate petals bruised. 

Gojo’s mouth lifts in a smile, too. “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t realize.” 

“You really know how to win a girl’s heart,” you tease. 

“Hopefully I know how to win over her father’s, too.”

You freeze. 

“I’m sorry. I can’t wait any longer. I’m going to ask your father to be your dedicated knight tomorrow. Do I have your permission?” 

You hesitate, worrying your lip with your teeth, but Gojo understands. Years of watching after you, bandaging your scrapes that you refuse to cry over or avenging your honor after you pretend your pride hasn’t been hurt has taught him a lot. He can see right through you. You never need to hide when you’re with him. 

“It’s alright,” he says. “We can wait.” 

“It’s not that I don’t want you to be my guard,” you say in a small voice. “I just-” 

“I know,” he says. “But I’m the strongest. Who else would your father ask to protect you but me?” 

“Do you think he’ll say yes?” 

Gojo looks at you seriously. “I’ll get down on both knees and beg him if I have to.” 

“Don’t do that,” you gasp. 

“I don’t care,” he says. “You’re what’s most important to me. More than pride, more than honor. Can I ask your father for you?” 

You look at the crushed violet in your hand. 

Who else but Gojo? 

You press the flower back into his palm. “I trust you to do what’s right.” 

His eyes soften. He leans closer. 

“Gojo,” comes a voice. “What are you doing in the gardens this late at night?” 

You stiffen. The owner of the voice is drawing closer.

“Do you trust me?” Gojo asks, as cool and collected as ever. 

You nod, not trusting your voice not to give you away. He cups your face in his hands and ever so delicately presses a light kiss to your cheek, tilting his head towards you. 

“Stop,” he tells the man behind you. “Don’t come any closer. You’ll scare her.” 

“A new plaything?” Asks the Lord Commander. “I’m not so scary, am I?” 

Gojo notices you tremble harder. He lifts a hand to the back of your head and presses it gently towards his shoulder, obscuring your face even further. “Come here, darling,” he murmurs. “That’s right, what a good little thing,” he says as you press yourself into him. He pulls you over his lap, your legs straddling his waist as he runs his hand up and down your back. “Keep your head down,” he whispers to you. You tuck your face farther into the crook of his neck. 

Louder, he responds to Yaga. “The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard is a terrifying man, or so I’ve heard.” 

“Just escort her to her room when you’re done,” Yaga says gruffly. “I don’t need to tell you to be a gentleman, do I?” 

“No, sir,” Gojo says cheerfully. 

In hindsight, you’re still not sure if Yaga recognized you or not. On one hand, he’s known you since you were a child. He watched, a silent guard, as your father raised you. On the other hand, he’s never brought it up to you. 

The only other reason you suspect he realized who you really were was Gojo’s induction into the kingsguard the very next day. 

[sbeep]

can you tell us more about your good durge? Also does he have like hidden scars? he looks like a guy who got his heart littterely ripped out once.. idk hes got those vibes about him

Yeah!! Oh boy, Sam has plenty of scars. He needs to be run under a cold tap, he'd been through it.

Cut for Dark Urge details/spoilers and plenty of headcanon. Canon-typical violence and mind-fuckery ahoy.

Sammeth was raised and trained as a paladin of Helm, a steadfast and doggedly lawful deity, and from his youth the paladin elders knew something was Wrong with this squire. Instead of doing anything about it, they stoked his religious zeal and rigid beliefs until his Bhaalspawn nature was forced to surface as a distinct personality, a separate part of him. So those blackouts Durge experiences in the course of the game- Sam experienced those through his adult life.

The authority and literal armour of a paladin of Helm was a very convenient and rotten place for Bhaal's chosen to abide. Through Sam's rough and violent life as a paladin it seemed only natural he'd gain scars he didn't remember, or find specks of blood that weren't his. These separate parts of himself only began to merge and conflict after Orin's attack and the tadpole wormed its way into his head.

The big scar on his face is from being smashed with a mace- he doesn't remember the incident, only waking up in an infirmary under the care of some very skilled Ilmater healers.

The tattoos he got in service to helm, a sword on his throat for his vengeance and oath of watchfulness, and a gauntlet over his own hand and forearm so he can never shed Helm's armour or hide from his gaze.

He resists Bhaal's influence as strongly as he can through the timeline of BG3, as his memories of his nights as Bhaal's chosen and days as a dutiful paladin collide and fight it out for his moral core.

As a little PS, Sam doesn't seek out any new tattoos or marks after his ressurection and re-dedication to Jergal- the only god who's ever really rewarded him for his trials or shown him faith in return. His new life is enough, he's a walking, talking oath to the proper order of life and death.

[beenbaanbuun]

brothers best friend pt 2 w/ jeong yunho

part 1

so i forgot to pause my queue and you’re getting this a day early… whoops

yunho looks so massive towering above you like that

there’s an unfamiliar look on his face, cheeks flushed, lips parted, nostrils flared, and you can’t help but feel a little nervous under his watchful gaze

maybe he’s angry, but you can’t think of anything you’d done to upset him

hell, you’d fallen asleep pretty much as soon as he told you to! its like you could’ve—

oh fuck… the dream

you sit up as quick as humanly possible, any semblance of sleepiness slipping away as you realise exactly why he’s looking at you like that

like you’ve just committed the greatest crime known to man

you can’t look at him, embarrassment and guilt flowing through you like blood

“yun, i—” he cuts you off with a shush

it confuses you for just a second or two; surely he’d give you the chance to explain your self right?

it’s hardly like you deserve to have that chance, perverted little slut

but still, yunho is a nice enough guy; he’ll let you try and wriggle your way out of it… won’t he?

“yunho, i can ex—” again, you’re cut off with a sharp shush

you whimper in response as the tears that begin to gather along your lash line turn his silhouette blurry

“i don’t need an explanation from you,” he speaks softly, “i don’t want one, either. i don’t think it would change anything, do you?”

his face is still set in stone, eyes steely as they stare you down

it only makes you feel even more pathetic, like a child being scolded for making a mess

you wouldn’t be surprised if that’s how he saw you; nothing more than his friends kid sister making a mess of things again

you’re always making a mess of things…

your eyes begin to burn with tears

“why are you getting upset, sweetheart?” yunho asks from above you, voice stern and commanding and nothing like the teasing tone he usually uses with you

“it’s embarrassing,” you sniffle, trying your hardest to stop your voice from wavering under the influence of your tears, “i’m sorry.”

he hums, nodding slightly as though he’s seriously mulling over your apology

as if he’s actually considering accepting it…

its cruel, making you wait for your judgement as if he’s not going to end up kicking you out at the end of it all

maybe you were wrong about him being a kind man…

“why is it embarrassing?” he hums, and your heart sinks just a little further

great; he’s going to humiliate you before kicking you out

your eyes meet his, begging for just a little mercy

he doesn’t seem to waver, eyes still icy and face still wearing that unreadable expression

“yunho,” you whisper, mentally preparing yourself to beg for forgiveness

he shakes his head, a hum of disapproval leaving his lips, “tell me, honey; why are you embarrassed?”

and just like that the dam breaks, your chin wobbling as a long keen leaves the back of your throat

the first tear rolls down your cheek, swiftly followed by a second

yunho catches them with his thumbs

“tell me…”

you suck in a shaky breath, forcing it out through your pursed lips

it doesn’t really help to soothe you like you thought it would…

“i had a wet dream about you,” your voice is so timid and small… you’re pathetic

“yes, you did,” yunho agrees, “but i hardly think that’s a good reason for all this fuss, hm?”

you can’t quite make out the tone of his voice

it almost sounds affectionate under that thick layer of condescension that only ever comes out when he’s talking to you

“after all, you didn’t see me crying when i was thinking all those dirty thoughts about you crawling into my bed…”

what?

your jaw hangs slack as you let his words soak in

he has to be teasing you, right?

“your pretty pussy was showing through your shorts, baby, but you didn’t even realise, hm?”

he takes your chin in his hand, forcefully snapping your mouth shut

“you were clenching around nothing,” his pink tongue swipes over his bottom lip, “practically begging for me to fill you up and you didn’t even realise.”

you squirm, everything he does working against you and your barely intact sanity

his words that he says so nonchalantly as if you’re not utterly filthy

his hand that remains firmly on your chin, his thumb dancing back and forth along your jawline

that damned tongue that he can’t seem to keep inside of his mouth for more than a second

you can’t help it when you whimper; after all, he’s the only one to blame

“yuyu,” you sound as pathetic as you feel, but you don’t have the brain power to feel humiliated, “please do something…”

he smiles down at you

“do something?” he asks, “like what, honey? you’re going to have to be more specific if you want yuyu to do what you want.”

the sound of him teasing you so effortlessly goes straight to your cunt, and you clench your thighs around nothing

it doesn’t help ease the ache between them at all

in fact all it does is smear your wetness over your thighs, leaving you with a sticky, uncomfortable mess

you desperately need something more; some friction to ease that ache in your clit and something inside of you to fill up your empty hole

and there’s yunho, your brothers best friend, standing above you looking like a fucking god

that’s all you need to push you over the edge

“yunho, please fuck me,” you whine, bringing a hand up to rest upon his wrist

your fingers wrap around it, tugging softly until his grip slips from your jaw

you drag it down, heading lower and lower until his hand catches on the duvet that still rests over your lower half

and then you stop, passing the proverbial ball to him; it’s in his court now and whatever happens next is up to him

whether he fucks you or not… it’s his choice

but you have no time to worry about what might not come to pass when he grabs the covers and tosses them to the side

his eyes hone in on those fucking shorts, and he swears he can feel his cock jump in his shorts

fucking hell, they’re practically see through with just how wet you are

he can see everything and what a delight that is

your pretty little pussy, wet and waiting for him to ruin it with his fingers, his cock, him cum

he needs so badly to see the real thing

“these damn shorts, baby,” he groans as he hooks his fingers over the waist band and tugs, “i might just have to keep them, if that’s okay with you?”

his words make your pussy clench, a sight that has him humming in appreciation

“i take that as a yes?” he tugs them down over your thighs, wasting no time in stripping your bottom half bare and tucking your shorts in the pocket of his pants.

with your glistening hole now exposed to him, he wastes no time in getting on his knees at the bottom of the bed

at first he just watches it, studying it as intensely as a college student studies their textbook the night before a final

you’re about to say something, to beg some more, when he reaches out a hand and slides a finger through your sopping folds

you gasp as he brushes it gently against you clit before pulling it away entirely, slipping it between his lips without so much as a second of hesitation

his eyes flutter closed and his cheeks hollow

the moan he lets out is nothing short of pornographic; you find yourself in awe of the show he’s putting on for you

“taste so good, honey,” he purrs as he tugs his finger free, “i’d eat you up forever, if you let me…”

he pauses, letting his eyes flicker up to meet yours

“will you let me?”

you nod, too dazed to say anything

“good girl…”

he wastes no time in laying down and throwing your legs over his shoulders

his giant hands find your thighs, gently caressing your smooth skin under the calloused tips of his fingers

they squeeze, kneading your flesh as he lowers his face to your aching core

“ready?” he hums, the word propelling a cool blast of air against your clit

you squirm and nod, but he shakes his head

“i really need your words this time, baby,” he says, “i’ve been lenient so far but i won’t do anything without your explicit permission; are you ready?”

“y-yes, yun…”

and just like that, he presses a soft kiss to your clit, the tip of his tongue just barely grazing it before he pulls away

it draws a whine through your gritted teeth

yunho chuckles before going back in to lick a stripe over your dripping hole

an obscene slurping sound echoing around the room as his tongue collects as much of your juices as he can before going back for more

he licks and prods are your hole, seeming to tease it until it leaks some more, all which his nose bumps gorgeously up against your clit

you hands fly to his hair, holding him against you in fear of him leaving you high and dry

he’s making you feel so good, the last thing you want is for this to stop

he just smiles against you as he feels the tug of your fingers in his locks, scraping his teeth against you in a way that has your body going limp

it’s even worse when he brushes them against your sensitive bud

you don’t quite register the sound your own mouth makes, too lost in the throws of pleasure to fully comprehend anything other than yunho

“so sweet, honey,” he grunts before he takes you clit between his lips

he suckles on it, hollowing his cheeks out as he pulses the pressure

he alternates between hard and soft sucks

it’s enough to make that knot in your stomach tighten

you’re getting close

“yuyu,” you cry as you let your hips buck into his mouth

it doesn’t phase him at all, so you carry on seeking your high

and when yunho sharpens his tongue to a point, letting you grind against the very top of it, that’s when you come undone

that’s when the knot snaps and your world turns white for just a second

fucking hell, yunho knows how to eat pussy…

he continues his ministrations for just a moment or two, letting you get it all out of your system before he pulls away and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand

“how was that, pretty girl?” he hums, “think you can take my cock next?”

[k-atsukibakugou]

BACK 🤺 BACK I SAY

oh.... oh so u don't wanna hear ab how suguru looks at you when you say it? the sparkle when he imagines how you wriggle and writhe when you touch yourself? how you jump away when you're under someone else? oh my lord referencing this post <3 w/c: 1.1k tw: f!reader not proofread, alcohol consumption, masturbation, fantasising, edging/ruining orgasms, i think that's all lmao

“oh, god! oh! t-there, right there!” you cringe behind your glass of wine, sucking down the liquid quickly before you choke on it, the typical over the top performance out of the actress in the romance; her back arching into a perfect semi circle, the montage of angles of skin against skin, of lips locked together, of lovesick smiles, of parted lips, heaving chests. the scene was cinematic, there was really no other way to describe it, framed in a way entirely opposite to real life, at least in your experience.

then, the crescendo of her performance; the curled toes, smudged red lips in a perfect ‘o’, the hand reaching between her thighs, the mantra of her lovers name, her hands pushing low on his abdomen, just out of frame, and of course, a long drawn out, high moan.

you’re too many glasses in to try and hide your expression, your eyebrows and lips contorting into a displeased face, drawing down as you turned away from the screen, reaching toward the table between you all to pour another glass.

“what’s that face for?” satoru snorts, tipping his glass towards you while you still have a hold on the bottle, the last of the liquid topping him off.

“what face?” you attempt to keep your tone even, your expression as blank as you can, your friends blue eyes twinkling as he sipped on the glass again, his vision a little blurred staring at you from across the room, as was yours.

maybe that was why you quirked an eyebrow at him, why your lips felt a little looser than they normally do with him and suguru.

“i’m not making any face.” it’s suguru’s turn to snort, raising his glass to his lips when you direct your gaze towards him, a small scowl on your lips.

“it’s just all so… over the top.” there’s more confidence behind your voice than you anticipate, “surely no one’s ever cum like that.”

you glance back and forth between the men, searching for some kind of answer that you weren’t the only one thinking that the acting was cinematic, but unrealistic, no one grips the sheets until they tear in real life… do they?

“are you asking?” suguru speaks up, his gaze trained steadily on you, a lot steadier than satoru’s blurred vision. you think he’s grinning at you behind his glass, or maybe his face is just warping against it.

“or just admitting no one’s made you squirt.” satoru gestures towards the ever changing screen with his glass, the wine nearly spilling from the rim as he does so; the lovers now in a new position, the frame cutting off just above the love interests cock, still showing how he thrusts in and out of the woman beneath him, one hand on her hip, the other between her thighs as his hips rhythmically slam into hers, her face scrunching up once more, with more dramatics of god, you’re so big, i’m gonna cum, i think i’m gonna–i’m gonna squir–fuck! it’s your turn to snort, more impressed with the actress than satoru’s statement.

“i’ve never cum, let alone squirt.” you laugh at the statement, thinking nothing of it when the sentence leaves your lips, taking another sip of the sweet wine as the pair stared with wide eyes.

“you’ve never cum?!” satoru is the first one to break the silence, well, as silent as it could get with the borderline softcore porn playing on the screen. your gaze flitters back over sluggishly to the white-haired man, your eyebrows drawn down in a confused expression at him.

“huh?”

“you just said you’ve never cum.” your eyes then shift to suguru, his sharp eyes boring into your own fuzzy ones. had you really just said that? in front of them? were you this tipsy already?

“i mean, i don’t think so.” why were you still talking. stop talking.

“you’d know.” satoru interrupts, like he and suguru were interrogators, both of them inching closer to uncovering the final clue to break open the case with how they stared so curiously at you.

“you’ve seriously never cum?” you shake your head once more, your cheeks warming doubly from the alcohol and the embarrassment when you stand up, walking on shaky legs back into the kitchen. you’re still avoiding both their curious gazes when you pop a second bottle, pouring another glass of the new one (about twice as much as you poured in the earlier glasses).

“i think i’ve gotten close?” you don’t know why you’re still talking, but it’s as if your tongue moves of its own accord, “i mean, i’ve felt good, i just don’t get like that.”

you gesture again to the scene, the sex winding down, both actors covered in a slight sheen of sweat after the twenty minute ordeal, hair plastering down on their skin.

“you know, it starts, it’s good,” you stare down into the glass, faking hypnosis by the swirl of the wine in the centre, “and it’ll like, build, and then i stop.”

you shrug again, as if unsure about what you’re describing to your friends, the feeling when you’re touching yourself; the sensation of ghosting over your tits, sliding over your skin, your abdomen into your panties. when you finally sink into yourself, how your cunt twitches around your fingers, how it aches when you fuck yourself, the dull ache growing and growing and growing until you pull away, letting the feeling shatter and ebb away, always leaving you tingling, fuzzy but never entirely fulfilled.

“you stop yourself?” you think it’s suguru questioning you, a light, teasing lilt in his voice like he’s almost happy you’ve never orgasmed, even more so you did it yourself, “you ruin your orgasms?”

now you’re looking at him, you know he’s smiling at the thought, the fantasy flashing in front of his eyes of furrowed eyebrows, frustrated tears welling in your eyes when you ruin it again, when you pull your fingers from yourself too early, or your vibrator slips from your fingers leaving your cunt numb and your clit aching painfully. but god, the vision of your nails wrapping around your partners wrist, tugging their hand from your pussy, or your hands pressing low into their abdomen, mumbling about it being too much, fuck, it feels too good.he thanks every god above you and satoru are lightweights, even as you sit back down in front of the screen, oblivious to the tent growing in his pants and a determination boiling in his blood to be the one to get you squirting on his cock the very first time he makes you cum, the first time anyone makes you cum.

© all works belong to @k-atsukibakugou, @gwen0m, and dlirious on archive of our own, do not plagiarise, translate, repost, feed my works into ai or recommend my work on other platforms, or bind my fanworks for sale.

[fanaticsnail]

The Apprentice - Part 1

Hello everyone! I would like to dedicate this one-shot to the TikTok account of Steven John Ward, the bottle of Tempranillo I consumed with my husband, brother and sister in law - and my love for wine 😁

(EDIT: this is no longer a one-shot, it's a series! Thank you Mihawk brain rot!)

Word Count: 3,957

Warnings: aggression, male aggressor (it's Mihawk), enemies (if you squint) to lovers.

Masterlist here!

Displeased was the expression worn upon the meticulously maintained facial hair belonging to the great-sword wielding the warlord of the sea. A half-drunk wine glass hang limply laced between his index and middle finger as he watched you heave in gulps of air as sweat glistened your brow. Lips hanging agape as you continued to focus your breathing, Dracule Mihawk began to tap his index finger against the crystal goblet, swishing the crimson liquid within the vessel.

His brows creased in the middle of his face as his lips began to curl in a snarl at the righthand corner of his mouth. Yellow eyes continuing to focus on your form as you panted; releasing a growl of utter discomfort as you caught your breath.

“Stop playing and finish already,” Mihawk barked at you, prompting you to snap your gaze to his immediately. He sat back in the chair, bringing the glass chalice to his lips and down the remainder of the bitter liquid.

“You sound like a bitch in heat,” he uttered, loud enough for you to hear and snarl at his comment, “so unladylike.”

“What would you have me do, my lord?” you spat breathily at him, halting your aggravated motions, “Would you care to take over? This is not as easy as you seem to make it look.”

Choosing to ignore your taunt, he growled; “just kill the stupid oaf already.”

This is how it was with you both. You doing all of the work to dispatch the easy contracts while Mihawk critiqued your every movement. At the bequest of your uncle, a prominent member within the World Government; you were thrust into the care and guidance of Dracule Mihawk to train as his apprentice. You originally began your training as his squire before advancing quickly to the title of ‘Apprentice’ as you demonstrated a vast improvement under the disciplinary practice thrust upon you.

“You no longer want him alive and unharmed?” you asked, narrowing your eyes and focussing on your opponent. He was of a larger build, towering over your smaller form.

After managing to cut through his underlings with ease, dispatching them with no more than a shriek being uttered between them; Mihawk relayed to you that they were under direct orders to take this particular Captain alive to the meeting of the World Government: for what reason, you were unsure of.

“Not if he’s giving you this much trouble, no,” Mihawk confirmed in a completely disinterested tone as he reached his arm forward to collect another wine bottle from beneath the chair he was resting upon.

You rolled your eyes at his comment before hardening your stance, your opponent baring his teeth at you in an upturned snarl. You halted your movements as Mihawk relayed another command.

“Watch your noises this time,” he glowered in warning, moving his eyes back to watch your body as it engaged in battle, “no apprentice of mine will mewl like a whore while engaging in swordplay.”

Halting a growl from erupting within your mouth, you chose to clench your teeth and gulp-back the sound in response as you sprang into action. You brandished your well-balanced sword to meet the blade of the Captain in front of you.

You ducked and wove your way around him, dancing while flurrying your blows against the calves of his tree-trunk legs, turning to slash his thighs as you circled him. Your opponent dropped to his knees with a groan. You sliced a gash atop the hand clasping his sword between his fist, prompting him to drop the blade to his side with a loud clang.

He looked down in shame, defeat brought to him at the hands of a woman; and only an apprentice at that.

“Now wasn’t that so much better than groaning like a cat presenting its rear to-,” Mihawk began, only halting as your sword slashed the throat of the fallen captain in front of you, toppling his head clean from his shoulders in one swell swoop.

“I care not for your lewd taunts, my lord,” you spat, using the shirt that clung to the headless torso of your former opponent to clean your blade before sheathing it within its scabbard. You turned to face him, your expression of one trying to conceal exhaustion to the best of your abilities.

“You may not care for them,” he said while wabbling the corked bottle of wine towards you, “but they be the comparison drawn by your unrestrained vocalisations.”

This prompted you to scowl as you made your way over to him. You retrieved your corkscrew from your hilt and brandished it in your hand to open it to reveal the toggles and screw. Snatching the bottle from his outstretched hand, you growled under your breath while twisting the screw against the wooden cork to pop it from the neck of the wine bottle.

He clicked his tongue in discipline; “what did I say about the noise?”

You drew in a deep breath through your nose and held it, your body quivering in rage slightly at the shoulders.

“I am no longer engaging in swordplay, my lord,” you offered in explanation through your clenched teeth.

You anchored the leaver of the corkscrew against the neck of the bottle and fisted the hilt, pulling the cork from the bottle in a well-practiced movement. Without a word spoken, you gracefully poured a large glass of wine into his awaiting chalice that he continued to balance between his index and middle fingers.

He hummed in response, bringing the rouge liquid in his crystal glass up and inhaled it to take in the robust bouquet. He scrunched his nose in partial disgust, staring at the liquid and swirling it to oxidise the liquid slightly.

“Pinot Noir,” he growled in dislike. You had a smirk pull at the corner of your mouth as you quirked your left eyebrow up at him.

“You drink it, apprentice,” he ordered you, all but thrusting the goblet into your hands in disgust.

You rolled your eyes and collected the glass from his hands, accidentally grazing your hand against his as you did. You brought the liquid to your nose and inhaled slightly.

“Red clay soil, by the smell of it,” you quirked your head to the side while swirling the liquid in the glass and again raising the liquid to your nose, “and a malolactic ferment too.”

You took a sip from the liquid and chirped a whistling trill through your lips as you rolled it over your tongue. You swallowed the red liquid, tasting the subtle umami earthiness and the dark cherry notes on the pallet. You shook your head and offered the glass back to him, to which he slightly pouted like a child.

The only time you had ever seen any other emotion besides a resting taunt, sinister smirk or a frown in displeasure was at the notion of a good or, in this case bad, wine experience.

He would often have the two of you make detours from port to port, engaging in wine tastings throughout the many vineyards the corners of the world had to offer while completing contracts. He taught you many things about wine, and some things you learnt on your own while accompanying him in draining bottle after bottle, rare vintage after rare vintage.

You learnt his taste, and he learnt yours; the only affection ever shared between you was when you both engaged in educating your pallet through taking a journey exploring different sparkling’s, whites, rose, reds and fortified’s. You again prompted for him to wordlessly take the glass from you, which he crossed his arms and turned to face away from you.

“Oh, come now,” you shook your head and wiggled the glass again in front of him, “you’ll actually like this one.”

“I don’t do Pinot Noir,” he spat to you briefly before turning away more.

“I know you don’t really care for it,” you crouched down to bring yourself at his eye level, him again turning his body to face yours with a scowl resting on it while eyeing the glass in your hand, “but this one is actually quite nice. Fuller body, a little earthy. Tastes like they left it to mature on the vine a little longer than usual.”

He reluctantly snatched back the glass from your hand and grimaced again before bringing it to his lips and swirling the liquid around his mouth. At this, a slight quirk of his brows upwards indicated he was genuinely surprised at the flavour within the glass.

“I suppose this Pinot Noir is not as bad as most,” he uttered through a narrow and arrogant gaze. You rolled your eyes at his comment before retrieving a hessian bag from beneath his chair and making to collect the decapitated head from your fallen opponent.

“What is the World Government going to say when we tell them we failed to bring him back alive?” you asked him, stuffing the head of the captain within the bag and tying a tight knot with the drawstring fully strung back into the hemline of the opening.

“When you failed, you mean,” Mihawk corrected you, bringing his lips again to the crystal glass with a smirk.

“Under your command, my lord,” you narrowed your eyes at him as you flung the bag over your shoulder.

“That is not how it will look to the higher ups,” he again smirked with a wide, taunting smile.

At that final comment, you lost it. Every built up bit of tension between you as he corrected you with his horrible, condescending tone that you loathed hearing. Every comparison he made as lewd evaluation to animals or intimate inuendo finally swelled and burst within you. His stupid smirk, his ever-watching yellow eyes that seemed to relish in your discomfort, his masculine features beneath his tailored facial hair; you hated him. Fully and unrestrainedly hated him.

Reactionary, your eyes darkened and hardened in your resolve. After this job was completed: you were going to resign from your apprenticeship under Dracule Mihawk.

You made your way to the small, coffin-shaped vessel he utilised in his shorter journeys as you continued in your completion of the final job you told yourself you would complete for the warlord you served. You offered one-worded responses to his questions, made no effort to engage in conversations with him, nor sent a single gaze his way that was unwarranted.

“If you think your surliness will bring any favours your way with the World Government,” Mihawk drawled out with a smirk, “you would be surely mistaken, apprentice.”

“Soon to be ex-apprentice,” you added within your own mind with a sharp nod.

“Your silence is almost refreshing,” he continued to taunt you.

“And you will have more silence to enjoy once I leave you,” you replayed within your mind, but offered no verbal reaction to his jab.

The sea bore no resistance as you docked the small vessel at the World Government Headquarters, slinging the hessian bag over your left shoulder and walked ahead of your soon to be former trainer. You held a heavy stride and squared your shoulders back; keeping your eyes forward to not make any kind of contact with the yellow eyes you had come to loathe.

Mihawk offered no conversation to you as you entered the large building and ascended to the appropriate office to present your latest contract in less than desirable condition.

You turned to look out the bay windows, noting the sun was beginning to set on the horizon. You took in the last time you assured yourself you would witness the departure of the rays under the command of one of the warlords of the sea.

The interaction went exactly as expected: you presented the decapitated head of the Captain you were ordered to bring in unscathed, were formally reprimanded by the member of staff who commissioned the contract of you, Mihawk offered no disclosure of his direct orders to assassinate the Captain, and you were left feeling like a child chastised for accidentally spilling a cup of water over a fine rug.

You hung your head still as you exited the World Government office, not in shame but rather to focus the words you were drafting to notate your acquiescence under the traineeship Mihawk.

“Shall we make to the vineyard?” the man currently occupying your thoughts spoke up, “I hear they have a Carmenere that’s of particularly fine make.”

You made no movement to confirm your desires to join him for a beverage, instead turning to an empty external table adjacent to a bakery and pulled some parchment from your satchel and began your draft your words upon the page.

“What are you doing?” Mihawk quirked his head, his expression maintaining annoyance at the halt of your journey.

Again, you offered no verbal response. You etched your intentions into the page with a steady hand and slightly more excessive force than absolutely necessary and signed your full formal title at the lower righthand corner of the page; also capitalising your name as to offer no misrepresentation of your intentions.

You turned to face him and thrust the parchment into his bare chest, his hands coming to catch the paper as you brought your hands back to rest at your sides.

“What is this, apprentice?” he shook his head, waving the paper with his right hand; only slight annoyance placed within his yellow eyes.

“This,” you inhaled and exhaled slowly to steady yourself, “is a written notice of my intentions to break myself from your apprenticeship.”

You stepped backwards and narrowed your eyes at him, adding: “consider this my formal resignation, effective immediately.”

Shock appeared on the warlord’s face, his eyes widening being the only indication as such. He stepped forward, the paper still within the grasp of his right hand.

He looked down at the page, turning it to look at the words you eloquently wrote; including a written description of the many reasons you chose to leave his apprenticeship. He shook his head as he read the words before thrusting the paper back into your arms.

“Resignation request denied,” he offered with a small smirk before turning away from you, “now come. I’m sure they have a dark Syrah-Rose they left on leas-.”

“You cannot deny my resignation,” you growled, hastening your step to bring yourself to walk in toe with him, “it is not a request.”

“As it turns out, I can,” Mihawk smirked, “and I will continue to do so anytime you attempt to break from your training. Your apprenticeship with me is not something you can simply just walk away from.”

At that comment, you halted your pace and simply turned around.

You scoffed a small laugh at the thought that apparently you can do so: simply just walk away.

And you made it all the way back into town until your movements were halted at an alleyway entrance behind the service quarters of a tavern by a firm grip upon your upper right arm. You turned your head and immediately made eye contact with the bright yellow eyes of the man you absolutely detested being in the presence of.

You attempted to shrug off his grasp, only for him to hold you in place. His expression was something you had not seen grace his face in a long time. Anger. Pure, unadulterated and unrestrained anger.

Tugging roughly at your arm, you felt him grasp you firmer and pull him into you. Your left hand reacted by raising it in an attempt to slap the expression right off of his face; your lips tugging in a snarl-expression: baring your teeth at him. He effortlessly caught your wrist and restrained it before twirling you to press your body, face first, into the polished cobblestone of the tavern wall. He used a single hand to restrain your wrists as the other hand wove its way within your hair and pulled your head to slack back into him.

You cried out your protestation at being rendered immobile by the swordsman.

“You cannot simply walk away,” he pressed his lips into your jaw as he spoke, pulling your hair and dragging his lips upwards towards your ear, “not from me.”

You struggled against his grip, kicking your right leg back to make contact with his shin; only to find it met with air and nothing else, as he dodged.

“Accept my resignation,” you growled at him.

“Never,” Mihawk snarled into your ear before pressing his lips roughly against the bone of your jaw; an action you did not foresee him committing with you.

Mihawk did have flings from port to port, often leaving you in a tavern or with training exercises for you to complete in his absence, to occupy your attention as he sheathed his sword with many a person of colour and creed.

He trailed his rough assault down your neck, lips connecting a line to the back of your neck of where he held his firm grip on your hair.

“Then I will run,” you gasped, prompting him to firmly turn your head with the grip on your hair to gaze into your face.

“And I will pursue you,” he narrowed his eyes, “and you will be punished for your insubordination.”

Your brows creased in rage as your gaze flittered between the two of his yellow irises. He released you from his hold on you with a rough shove, anger upon his own face; not quite comprehending himself the prior intimate connection he brought to your neck and jaw. You shoved him in return, pressing the palms of your hands against his exposed pectorals below his small hanging blade around his neck.

“I loathe you,” you snarled at him. He caught your wrists and held your hands against his chest, leaning into your touch.

Both pairs of your eyes narrowed, baring your unbridled hatred for one another within your expression.

“I couldn’t care less,” he said, leaning in his face towards your own and continuing to tower his body over yours in an attempt of intimidation.

Instinctively, you brought your lips upon his in a fit of passion in the hopes he could feel tangibly how much hatred you had for him. He returned your ministrations with fervour, opening his jaw and rotating his head to intertwine his tongue against your own expertly. You wove your hands around his neck, enjoying the feeling of the silken and well-tended moustache against your lips as he continued to press fierce kiss after kiss against your lips.

He wove his arms around your back and you felt a complete shift in his prior expression. He held you softly within his hands and ghosted his fingertips above your soft skin. His prior almost violent kisses morphed into a deep passionate embrace; him retracting his tongue from behind your lips and slowly and intimately pressed drawn out kisses against your lips.

Shock overcame your face as your brain finally caught up with what your body was doing: your hatred for your boss morphed into pure adoration and affection as you held him against you. You rose your right hand to rest against his left jaw as you felt his manicured facial hair beneath your fingertips. You whimpered lightly into his lips as he held you more firmly against himself, soothing circles; moulding your body beneath his fingers.

You pulled your face away from his own with a snapping motion, as you leant away from his face remaining held within his arms. His deep frown still adorning his face but this time expressing a whisper of sorrow behind his yellow eyes.

“I hate you,” you whispered, caressing his cheek underneath your right hand. He unwrapped his own right hand and softly raked his fingertips within your hair apologetically.

“And I detest you,” he whispered in response, training his right hand down between your shoulder blades and interlocking his fingertips at the small of your back.

Moving your lips upward, you placed a small kiss at the corner of his mouth; feeling the tickle of his facial hair against your chin and upper lip.

“Let me resign,” you uttered lovingly against his skin before pulling your face away from his.

For the first time in the years you had been travelling beside the great Dracule Mihawk, his gaze softened and a small smile was brought over his lips. A smile, not a smirk, it being the first time you had ever seen the beauty before you.

“No,” he chuckled, pressing his forehead against your own and closing his eyes, prompting you to do the same. He inhaled deeply as you remained held within his arms.

You trailed your arms down to the bare flesh of his torso and gently caressed his skin beneath your hands and kept your gaze watching the ministrations you were committing.

“Then beg for me to remain at your side,” you smirked with a quirk of your brow, looking back into his eyes and noticing his prior warm smile was replaced with a taunting smirk of his own.

“I don’t beg, darling,” he narrowed his eyes, glaring at you.

You sighed and trailed your hands down his red shirt sleeves and caught his wrists at their place laced behind you, and gently broke them from their spot embracing you. His brows knit together in curiosity at your actions, but relented his grasp on you. You began to turn from him and make your way into town once again.

“I will, however,” he uttered, reaching his hand to gently catch your upper arm and soothe over it with his thumb, “negotiate.”

You smiled and allowed yourself to be brought back to be in front of him. You nodded for him to relay his terms to you.

“I will continue to master you in your craft as a sword-wielder, and expert your skills as sommelier,” he smirked, “and I will relent my lewd taunts, slightly.”

You allowed a chuckle to make its way into your throat as his smirk continued to grow.

“I will accept your turns,” you paused, witnessing an ever so slight sigh of relief to leave his lips, “under the condition you try at least one Pinot Noir at the next vineyard.”

“I accept,” he answered almost immediately, prompting you to wince at the speed of his acceptance.

You laughed a little and broke from his grip, extending your right hand in a gesture to meet his to solidify your words. In response, he took yours within his and brought it up to his face.

“Do you withdraw your resignation?” he asked you, breathing his warm breath into your knuckles.

“I do, my lord,” you gasped. His smirk drew upwards as he pressed his lips against your knuckles and closed his eyes. You felt this action be more intimate than the flurry of kisses and grasps he threw at you earlier, feeling for the first time a blush rise to your cheeks.

“Then we have an accord,” he whispered against your knuckle before pulling your right hand to rest within the crook of his left elbow.

“Now,” he said, leading you back into the direction of the village rather than the town centre you were headed towards, “onto the Carmenere.”

“Pinot first,” you scolded him, prompting him to hiss a light growl through his teeth.

“Fine,” he spat, “Pinot first.”

You brought your head to rest comfortably against his left shoulder blade as he escorted you down the main road toward the village, basking in the fine scenery that fell before you. You almost was sure you felt him press a chaste kiss atop the crown of your head, prompting another blush to rise from your cheeks in reaction.

Part 2

[a-small-writer-in-a-big-world]

Tavern: knight!price x princess!reader

this part is a little longer but it had to be. it's under 3k!

You and your ladies in waiting sat in the solar after lunch. You had spent the better part of the day speaking with your mother about suitors and delegating other potential kingdoms for trade, effectively draining you of most of the energy you had.

A new suitor was to show in a week or so. You tried your hardest to not let it ruin your mood so instead of thinking about it at all, you decided to preoccupy yourself with your embroidery with your ladies in waiting.

"Did you see Sir John training the squires the other day?" Lady Katherine said which piqued your interest. "Normally he lets the other knights do it."

"Maybe he did it to impress you." Another lady teased and you watched Katherine's face turn pink.

"Don't be ridiculous!"

Despite her chiding she smiled bashfully at the thought. You could only imagine what was going through her mind about her and Sir John if he ever decided to court her.

How his touch would be gentle and leading with the same softness he had shown on the day he had tended to your wound. How effortlessly he would protect you with a practiced hand that wouldn't make any mistakes. The way his gruff voice would sound as he spoke with you about anything and the way his blue eyes stared with perfect attention. 

You could only imagine how his beard would feel against your fingertips or how it would feel against your face-

"Your highness," Lady Katherine's voice brought you out of your thoughts and you quickly had to hide the way they had made you feel breathless. ''Did you ever find out who your secret admirer was?"

"O-Oh, no." You composed yourself. "But I haven't received another gift, so I assume they've given up."

"It's for the best."

You nodded, not at all bothered by it. In fact, while you hadn't forgotten the gesture your mind had moved on from an unknown admirer to someone much more tangible, though no less unattainable.

"If only Sir John would send you flowers." One Lady teased Katherine.

"Oh hush!"

There was a knock at the door and Sir John stepped into the room after you called out to let him in.

He froze when he realized that all of the ladies were there. He shuffled uncomfortably in his spot when he realized that everyone was staring at him, especially Lady Katherine who could hardly hide the love look in her eyes.

His eyes snapped to yours and he sucked in his lips before he bowed.

"Your highness, I was under the impression I'd be accompanying you today." He said and your eyes widened.

You had planned to go to the fields today for another chance at distracting yourself yet you had completely forgotten about it because of the circumstances but also because of him.

"Oh yes, now would be a good time for that."

The ladies in waiting all took their leave, bowing to you and then saying goodbye to Sir John as they left the room, hiding their coy smiles the best they could. Even Lady Katherine found it  difficult to hide her bashfulness while he only stood there awkwardly, sucking his lips in as he gave them all a stiff nod.

He shut the door when they left and you raised an amused eyebrow at his expression.

"I'm sorry if I interrupted something." He cleared his throat but you shook your head with a smile.

"No, I'm glad you came when you did." You're not sure if the relief came from the conversation being cut off or because you were going to your favorite place. "I've looked at this enough, I'm quite sick of it."

"Why's that?"

You gave him the piece that you were working on as you tidied up the solar. You suddenly felt shy, so you kept your back to him while you tried to find the necessary items you wanted to take with you to the fields.

"It's better than anything I could do." Price said and you chewed on your inner lip. "The colors look nice."

"The others are better." You shrugged but he scoffed.

"I like yours."

You caught yourself before you could smile and scolded yourself for feeling so foolish over something so small. What were you, a child? You had never known a man, no matter the status, to care about something like embroidery so you were sure he was just saying it to flatter you...even if he sounded genuine.

"It's a good way to pass the time when you have it." You picked up a book before a thought crossed your mind and you looked back at him. "What do you do for fun, Sir John?"

"Follow you around." He said immediately without looking up from your embroidery piece.

You laughed, thinking he was joking until he looked up at you, his eyes full of sincerity. Your smile fell and you tapped your fingers against the book.

You hadn't thought about how you took up most of his time. You assumed that he had time to himself when you were busy but the more you thought about it them more you realized that he was most likely busy even when he wasn't by your side.

"You're serious?"

"On the rare occasion I'll play cards or have a pint at the tavern on the days you decide to stay put and I have nothing else to do." He explained and you frowned slightly.

"Do I really keep you that often?" You couldn't help the slight guilt you felt.

"I'm not complaining, your highness."

You hummed, not convinced but you honestly didn't blame him if he actually was. You forced him to go everywhere you wanted to go, though only because your mother wanted it, and considering he was busy often it was no wonder you two bumped heads as often as you used to. 

You wanted to change it up this time, to give him a chance to enjoy something he liked doing and the perfect idea came up in mind. Not only would he get his chance but you would also get the chance to have some real fun and a better opportunity to ignore the looming responsibilities.

Price was about to say something when you grinned.

"I've thought of something even better than the fields." You said and he almost looked concerned. "We'll go to the tavern tonight for drinks."

"Pardon?" His eyes widened and he stared at you as if you had grown three heads. When you repeated what you said he shook his head. "No, you're not going to the tavern."

"Why not?"

Price's face scrunched up slightly and he sucked in his lips as he shook his head with disbelief. He couldn't believe you would want to go to the village tavern, a place that was the complete opposite of what you called fun.

"It's not a place for a princess," he began and you gave him a look. 

"That's never stopped me before." You pointed out and he looked almost in pain. 

"It could be dangerous-"

"Then bring the other knights. I'm sure they'll enjoy a couple drinks as well."

Price sighed heavily, knowing that you weren't going to back down from this idea even if he tried his hardest to make you see that it most likely wouldn't end well. However, when he saw the twinkle in your eyes and the way that you seemed more excited about it than just going to the fields, he relented.

"An hour." He bargained and you placed your hands on your hips. "It's for your safety, your highness."

"Fine." You sighed. "We'll leave tonight, when everyone's gone to bed."

"As you wish."

~

Price helped you down from the horse before he glanced at the bustling tavern. Of course you had to choose a night when it was busy and of course he couldn't give you a firm no.

It wasn't that the villagers were bad people but alcohol did things to folk's minds and the last time he was here a fight had broken out over a game of cards.

Simon, Kyle, and John all walked in first with varying degrees of excitement. They were happy to get a couple drinks especially after having worked hard for the entire week.

"You're still on duty," Price had told them with a firm look. "Her safety is the top priority."

"Aye, but I doubt you'll be far from her." John had winked despite the glare he received. 

He left it at that and hoped that despite everything, they would at least try to stay vigilant for any potential assailants. 

Price had to stop himself from keeping some sort of hold on you. He barely touched you as it was but as he walked protectively behind you towards the tavern he couldn't help the growing urge to grab your hand, to hold you close to him so he could make sure you wouldn't get hurt.

When the two of you stepped into the tavern, all eyes went on you and it grew deathly silent. All of the villagers were wide eyed, a sort of uncertainty falling across them as they stared at you.

He clenched his jaw and his hand rested on the dagger he brought with him.

However, you were undeterred as you gave them a polite smile.

"No need to stop because of me." You told them before you walked towards the bar.

Price followed close behind you, his eyes on the patrons who slowly went back to what they were doing despite their confusion. Soon the noise began again and the familiar lively atmosphere returned.

He stood close to you as you gave the bartender a smile, who bowed to you in return.

"Unfortunately, I don't carry any wine for you, your highness." He said but you shook your head.

"That's fine, just give me what everyone else is having." You said and Price raised an eyebrow.

"Are you sure your highness?" He wondered and you tilted your head. "It might be a more bitter than what you're used to."

The bartender put two pints on the bar and you carefully grabbed one before you nodded for Price to take the other. You stared at the liquid inside it before you looked up at him with a twinkle in your eyes.

"I think I'm quite used to bitter, I'm around you often." You teased and he rolled his eyes.

"Cheeky." He clicked his tankard against yours and waited for you to take the first sip.

When you did he had to hide his smile behind his tankard as you struggled to stop your nose from scrunching up. He puffed out a few laughs when you frowned and failed miserably to hide the disgust on your face. 

You sighed heavily and gave him a weak smile when you swallowed.

"We can leave." He offered genuinely but you shook your head.

"I'm trying new things." You took another drink and forced it back. "I wouldn't dare back down now."

And you didn't. Before Price could stop you, you had drunk two pints and were already working on your third. He tried to stay close to you as you drunkenly visited with the villagers, speaking to them as if you were old friends, but you were too fast for him, even drunk.

He sat himself down at a table in the corner where he could watch everyone and you at the same time. He kept his eyes on you and watched your every move. He was on edge even when Simon gave him another drink.

The tavern got more lively and eventually someone asked you to dance with them.

And when you began to dance, it seemed like nothing mattered anymore.

Price watched you dance with warm cheeks and a warm chest. There was something in the way that you were smiling, the absolute joy on your face that made his shoulders loosen and made a smile of his own spread across his face. The life in your movements and the lack of the usual poise was enough to have him imagining things he probably shouldn’t.

Things like how it would feel to be the one dancing with you, to be the one who held you close and felt your fingers caress his skin. The one who knew what your lips felt like against his own, to know that he was yours and you were his.

They were dangerous thoughts, ones that gave him a feeling he knew but didn’t dare name. Not when the law forbade it, not when he couldn’t have it.

“Play a round, old man.” Simon sat across from him and slid over a deck of cards. 

A soft sigh escaped his chest and he grabbed the deck. He relaxed more, knowing that the other patrons in the tavern weren’t dumb enough to cause trouble, though he kept his eye on you, and began to shuffle the cards.

After a few rounds and a couple more drinks, you finally made your way over to him out of breath but a dazed look in your eyes. Simon gave you his seat, which you thanked him for before your eyes lit up at the cards.

“Oh! How many have you won?” You looked at Simon who grunted with a frown, which made you laugh. “I should expect nothing less, Sir John.”

“It’s nothing but luck.” He told you and you smiled.

“Teach me.”

“It’s a lot different than chess.”

“I know, so teach me.”

Even if you were safe within the tavern, Price liked that you finally sat across from him. He tried his hardest to explain the rules to you, though the two of you were a little too drunk and the tavern was too loud to properly play, you both still had fun. Well, Price had more fun since after the first round, he couldn’t stop winning.

“You’re cheating!”

“I’d never cheat you, your highness. You’re just awful at the game.”

As the night went on you slowly found yourself unable to ignore the problem at hand. Even if you weren't sober and even if this had been one of the more enjoyable nights you've had, you couldn't escape your fate. 

The tavern was a lovely distraction and you were happy that Price had enjoyed himself too, but now as things slowed down your mind wandered.

"Another suitor is coming." You told him softly and his face hardened. "A prince. He sounds nice, better than the king."

"Yet you sound upset." He watched you.

You weren't as upset as when you were going to be married to the king but he could still see the hidden overwhelmed feeling in your eyes. He knew that your mind was racing, that no matter how much you tried to distract yourself it was there.

"Suppose I'm just nervous. I know how it's going to go."

Price remembered what you had told him and couldn't the slight anger in his stomach. Again the queen had failed to tell him, especially after the last time, but it was more than that. He hated how upset it made you, he wished he could take it away or at the very least make it easier for you.

His loose tongue spoke before he could control it, the ale making it easier for him to say his thoughts even when he normally wouldn't say it.

"Then I'll get more violets."

Your eyes widened and you stared at him with an unreadable look. You were drunk, so maybe you had misheard him but the more you thought about it the more you realized that it made perfect sense and you couldn't believe you hadn't thought about it before.

Sir John was the only one who knew the fields and the violets made  you happy before you were given the bouquet. He was the only one who went to the fields with you, the only one who actually listened to you.

He gave you the flowers the first time.

Your chest warmed and you blinked away any tears before he could see. An overwhelming feeling washed over you, one that you weren't sure you had a name to as you watched him shuffle the cards. It was soft, warm but also so violent as you realized it would spell death for him if you were ever to indulge in it.

"Are you tired, your highness?" He asked softly, noticing the way you got quiet.

"Yes." You sighed because truthfully the alcohol was making you sleepy but selfishly you didn't want to part from him even when you'd see him tomorrow. "But let's play one more round. Then we can leave."

Price nodded a small smile stretching across his face.

"Maybe you'll win this time."

"Play me in chess and you won't gloat anymore."

a/n: to be seen is to be loved and knight!price is the only one who sees you

Tags: @deadbranch @makayla-666 @glitterypirateduck @dumbbitchgalore @m0chac0ffee @dragonbe-writing @sleepyoriana @twismare @blush-haze @waiting-so-long @sofasoap

[dreamauri]

♪ — 𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗥 𝗚𝗜𝗥𝗟 max verstappen x fem! reader x charles leclerc (pure smut) “. . . its a good night to have a good night.”

( main master list ) ( tag list | requests )

⚠️ warning ⚠️ NSFW under the cut!!

"Charles." Your voice was low and begging as you held onto the collar of his dress shirt, your lips messy and hot with his as Max pulled you from your bicep, leading you through the apartment.

your hands were soon pinned above your head as the two men tackled you on the bed, removing all the clothes and replacing the fabric covering your skin with kisses. Your fingers found the hair of max, gently tugging as you felt him nip and suck on a nipple.

You were already moaning, holding onto Max's shoulder. His fingers did not hold back, the way they circled your clit and teased you, you've grown too impatient.

They've been teasing you all night; leaving kisses or touches that slowly built up your frustration that finally led you to this moment. Your arms wrapped around Charles' neck as Max's fingers roughly loosened you up. Your toes were curled and your body slightly rocking from the force.

The feeling of Charles' soft lips on your neck and his hands roaming your skin made it even more sweet. Before you even knew it you were sandwiched between both boys, Charles under you and Max behind, same as always. Charles would have a round from the front then Max after from the back.

With a deep breath and support from Max you were able to sink smoothly only Charles. Your moans and cuss words sounded through the room as the thrusts began. With your head laid back on Max's shoulder and your hands gripping on the arms that held your hips, he found you irresistible. The way you bounced on his childhood rival's dick, the way it disappeared deep inside you with each thrust, the noises coming from your throat and sounding in his ears. No way he could sit there and watch, not like every time.

"Max?" Charles didn't pause to see why you were now laying on his body instead, he gladly wrapped his hands around your back and peaked over your shoulder to see what the blond was doing. Lube? He watched at the dutch squeezed a good amount into his hand before spreading it on his length and-

"Oh shit." "FUCK!" was the synchronized noises coming from Charles and you. The way you squeezed on the Monegasque made him even more curious. The way you squired every few seconds in patters, what was Max doing? The brunette sat up gently with you whining in his arms.

Apparently, you had a dick with one hole and a dick preparing to go up the other. "Wait, Max—" "Shh." You could feel both boys comfort you, their whispers and kisses made it more bearable. You were laying back into Max's chest, chest heaving drastically as the boy made home in your body.

He could feel you squirm and heave even though both males were as still as a rock. "Fuck-" you felt so full it was overwhelming. You leaned your head on Max's shoulder, your cheek resting on his. Charles took this as an opportunity, his lips slowly starting to leave love bites and hickey over your chest and shoulders while Max slowly started rocking back and forth.

"You're going to kill me— I'm gonna die— I'm gonna—" the boys hushed you quickly, whispering reassuring words as Charles laid back and pulled you lay on top him. Max leaned on both his arms onto of you, his lips quickly finding the crook of your neck. It was a sandwich practically. Something about having both partners filling you up at the same time felt exhilarating.

The pain was quick to subside and you were left with heaven and gold in your nerves. "Tres bien, Amour." [very good, love] "Goed meisje, schat." [good girl, darling]

[women-in-writing]

Women in Whump: Fantasy Edition 1

- Maid who's disguising herself as a squire is discovered and put in a pillory as punishment.

- Elfish woman who's captured by a corrupt ruler and forced to act as her Royal Advisor.

- Poor village woman betrothed to a wealthy merchant runs away and stows away on a ship that she has no idea where it's going.

- Farm girl collapses from exhaustion after working the field all day for her sick parents.

- Noblewoman escaping a controlling/ abusive spouse who hides on a farm, having to learn how to keep to with all the chores.

- Orc woman who's captured and forced to act as a "sparring partner" for a contingent of knights.

- Halfling rogue gets caught robbing a wealthy landowners estate.

- Cursed woman who's driven from her village by an angry mob.

- Woman cursed to turn into an animal during the day being tracked by hunters, arrows whizzing past her as she begs the sun to set faster.

Non-con under the cut!

- Newly wedded queen trying not to break down as her and the king 'comsumate' their relationship, all of his advisors and nobles watching.

- Woman posing as a knight is discovered by her fellow soldiers and is gang raped.

- Dwarven woman forced to shave all her body and facial hair for a human who 'owns' her.

- Barmaid at a tavern who's sold by her boss to a group of travelling adventurers as a 'reward' for slaying a monster that was attacking the town.

- A brothel run by a sorceress who curses women to be completely obedient.

[styllwaters]

351 / GAZI-MIAH

At last this monster of a ref is finished. Introducing the first canon Knight character for Vivere 44!

351 is a mountain Knight from Ferhaht, though their host is part Fejga; hence the brown fur and stocky build. They act as the secondary antagonist in parts 1 and 2 of the story. In part 3, the final 'season', they feature as a protagonist. 351 starts out as a ruthless, aggressive soldier working for Genizix, intent on completing the mission assigned to them. Under the direction of their officer, 909, 351 has been dispatched to quickly and efficiently eliminate targets who threaten to expose the company's activities in the Zhagaviit galaxy.

Eventually they come to realise that they are being manipulated by both the weapons company and their abusive superior, and in part 2 351 challenges 909. Their fight results in 351 gaining an array of scars and a terrifying near-death experience, and though they survive, they are permanently mentally separated. Unable to go into the Trance which binds the consciousnesses of the Helmet and the Host, they must learn how to work together as two people again. 351 escapes to their homeplanet of Ettera, surviving in the wild as they race against time to deliver an important message and rediscover who they are. During part 3, they discard their identification number and take on a new name, Gazi-miah.

More in-depth lore, facts, and extra art below the cut!

BACKSTORY

[cw: abuse, drug use, general dark themes]

351 was always told that they were born in Genizix like 909, though this is not the case at all. 351 had a life before they were turned into a killing machine, living on the Ihmna Stretch with their Ferhahti order. Their life was upturned on the day of their scouting Expedition, a journey that all Knight squires must take on before they can become full soldiers (More on Knight social structure here). They were tasked to deliver a message to an allied order along with two other temporary scouts. Upon arrival, however, instead of friendly greetings they were met with a chilling scene - the order was being attacked by another, the two groups set against each other in a fearsome battle. The fight was secretly orchestrated by Genizix in a plot to evaluate the strongest soldiers to recruit to their cause, unbeknownst to anyone but them. Feeling that it was necessary to aid their allies, 351 and their peers rushed into battle. They fought fiercely, but the young Knights were up against fully-fledged soldiers and 351's companions perished. 351 themselves was severely injured, and in the aftermath, blacked out - but not before catching a glimpse of strange figures.

When they awoke, they were not on Ettera any more; rather an unfamiliar place with black walls and machines. They could barely remember anything from the night before; and slowly the rest of their memories on their homeplanet receded as Genizix toxins that they were injected with took effect. Later, 351 would be introduced to 909, an experienced Knight officer with an extensive history of working for Genizix, and placed in their unit. They were assigned a number for a name and moulded into the perfect killing machine. 909 fed 351 a constant stream of lies about where they came from, and like all soldiers recruited into the system, promised that in fighting for the company they had a chance to participate in something greater than themselves; to see the real universe outside of Zhagaviit. But 351 was driven more by fear than the potential for glory. They had seen what happened to those who disobeyed the higher-ups, and what could happen to them if they did not complete the missions.

909 stripped 351 of their individuality and left nothing but brute force and a desire to please. What the agent feared more even than Genizix was invoking 909's anger, so they pushed themselves to do any dirty work asked of them. The organisation became their whole world, their 'family', and 909 made sure they could never leave their clutches - manipulating them, threatening them and twisting their worldview. The process was sped up by specialised toxins designed by Genizix intended to distort perception and slow brain activity, inducing a dreamlike state. On Knights, this had the effect of triggering and enhancing the Trance, making it incredibly difficult for one to mentally separate the helmet from the host. With time 351 came to believe that they were one person, and they had no reason to think otherwise as their exposure to information was carefully controlled. 351 was conditioned to see their targets as non-sophont and they were rewarded for using cruel tactics. The more time they spent with 909, the more they began to lose their sense of self entirely until they were nothing but a weapon. Such is the fate of most soldiers who have wound up working for Genizix.

Despite the deep emotional (and physical) scarring and conditioning, during the events of Vivere 44 seeds of doubt are planted in 351's minds. These would only germinate further as they gain more clarity of their situation. Standing up to 909 was the first step they took towards breaking free of their chains, although it came with a cost. 351's host was physically Separated from their helmet in the fight, an injury which in most cases is lethal. They were repaired by a scientist who stitched them back together and managed to salvage a sliver of the bond which connected their minds. 351 could never enter the Trance again, though the helmet and host could still exchange thoughts between each other. As they were two separate entities now, the helmet guides the blind host with directions.

Instructed by the scientist (an Arrow named Nimbus, who will be introduced later) 351 left the facility on a new mission - to deliver an urgent message to Jes-ren, a Kaata Plains Knight living on a Ranch on Ettera. They traversed the land they once called home, now unfamiliar to them, relearning how to work together as a pair that might as well be complete strangers to each other. They recover their memories; or at the very least parts of it, as they cannot remember their original name. However, they gain a new one; Gazitkaar-Miahlad [meaning: lost messenger / returned to us].

The road is long and tremendously difficult; Gazi-miah struggles to unlearn years of aggression, addiction and lies, all the while carrying immense trauma. They eventually find peace, and settle down with Jes-ren in Kaat following the climax.

PERSONALITY

During their time at Genizix, agent 351 picked up on a lot of nasty habits and traits from 909 who brought out their worst attributes. They became merciless, taught to discard feelings and remorse. 351 was not afraid to make a show of their strength, and at times was needlessly cruel and taunting. The toxins affecting their nervous system tended to spur on their host's prey drive to a concerning degree, and a part of them enjoyed the power trip they got from hunting down targets. Though everything they did, they did for 909's approval - and to avoid getting disposed of by Genizix.

When their host and helmet were Separated, and the effects of the toxins wore off, gradually their aggressive attributes took a backseat as they grappled with their new situation. With great effort they gain an understanding of both the horrors they went through and the atrocities they committed for the sake of a corrupted system.

Once they escape Genizix's hold, it becomes clear that 351 is incredibly socially inept and any interaction that isn't violence or taking orders is new territory for them. Freedom and agency are difficult concepts for them to grasp, but with the aid of others around them they begin to adjust to their new life.

The helmet, Miahlad (my-a-lad) is the more practical of the two. He has one goal in mind; keeping the both of them safe. Miah is resourceful and smart, though when it comes to social interaction he's just as clueless as his host. This doesn't stop him from offering advice via their mind-link. He is firm, distrustful, and judgemental, but cares deeply for Gazitkaar even if he won't say it. At first he is reluctant to uncover the truth in fear that it will harm them both, preferring to stick to familiar ground. Despite his realistic worldview, more than once he considers going back to Genizix due to the simple fact that it's all they've ever known - even if it hurt them. As a helmet he cannot speak out loud but relearns sign language to communicate with other knights.

The host, Gazitkaar (gaz-it-car) is constantly questioning everything. She is less focused on the personal safety and wellbeing of the Knight body and more concerned with the wider truth, always seeking to know more. Gazi is not one to back down from a challenge, whether it be traversing dangerous territory or mastering a new skill. But like Miah, she is averse to touch, and will bite if boundaries are pushed far enough. She is more open to listening than her helmet, and is a fast learner. Though she is more adaptable than Miah, her curiosity can sometimes go unchecked and lead them into trouble.

EXTRAS

They are 37 years old and tower over everyone, including other Knights. Their prescence could fill a whole room.

The engraved bone necklace was given to them by a Polar Knight commander from Ehtte Thannoeh where they first landed on Ettera. The carving depicts an Aikka deity whose horn always points northwards, and is said to watch over lost travelers from the northern lights.

Gazi-miah's piercings were put in by the scientist Nimbus, intended to firmly fix the helmet to the host.

As a Genizix agent their build is very toned and muscular due to their intense training and strength-enhancing substances which also speed up wound recovery. Such a lifestyle was placing immense stress on their body, and as they spent more time on Ettera they gained more weight and adopted a healthier diet.

Their build and design is inspired by bulls and rottweilers.

Their fur is spiky due to chemicals and unnatural cleaning products resulting in an unpleasant, rough texture. In the future it becomes softer thanks to proper grooming.

Here's some of the first concept art I have of them (and also showcases their pelt colours better)

Aaand a simplified version of the ref without all the notes for your viewing pleasure.

I'll stop here before this post gets insanely long but if you have any questions I shall be delighted to answer!! ;] Thanks for listening to my tedtalk

[julienbakerstreet]

ACD Holmes Ephemera Flatlay Full list of canon references under the cut:

From left to right, top to bottom:

Simpson's restaurant matchbook (The Illustrious Client, The Dying Detective) [Simpson's is still in operation and this is actually one of their logos]

Newspaper clipping from the text entitled "Singular Occurrence at Fashionable Wedding" (The Noble Bachelor)

Ticket for The Gloria Scott (The Gloria Scott)

Visit Reichenbach brochure (The Final Problem)

Il Trovatore Opera advert (A Scandal in Bohemia) [Consulted Klinger's Annotated Holmes for a list of contralto roles Irene could have played]

Shag tobacco (Holmes's favorite, referenced throughout) [Hugh Campbell's is a real brand of shag from the period!]

Sarasate ticket at St. James's Hall (The Redheaded League)

Lysander Starr for Topeka button (The Three Garridebs) [This is a deep cut but if there's two things I love it's vintage political buttons and the name Lysander Starr]

The Diogenes Club matchbook (The Greek Interpreter, The Bruce-Partington Plans)

Arthur Pinner's Franco-Midland Hardware Co business card (The Stockbroker's Clerk)

Bradley Cigarettes (Holmes notes them as Watson's favorite in The Hound of the Baskervilles)

Sussex honey label (The Second Stain)

Come at once telegram (The Creeping Man)

Hotel Dulong label (The Reigate Squires)

Dancing men cipher (The Dancing Men)

Keep away from the moor note (The Hound of the Baskervilles)

Red-Headed League membership card (The Red-Headed League)

Wessex cup ticket (The Silver Blaze)

Underground ticket (The Red-Headed League)

Everything is based on real vintage ephemera, albeit not quite period-accurate because Victorian design gets boring quick <3

Might post individual designs later, but if anyone wants a specific design let me know!

[tinytalkingtina]

The True Face of Bravery

Written for the @steddiemicrofic June challenge prompt, using the word "stuff" and max 483 words.

483 words | Rating: T (for a single swear word)

Tags: Fantasy DnD AU, Tiefling Steve Harrington, Anti-Tiefling racism, Steve Harrington has bad parents, implied child abuse, first kiss

Ao3 link

"'Mi'lord', your squire is whining he can't find your club, the one with the spikes and-um." Eddie froze with his hands still on the tent flap, staring at Steve. And surely this was Steve, he had the same facial features and clothes as Stephen Harrington, heir to the Barony of Loch Nora and paladin extraordinaire. Except Stephen Harrington didn't have luminous red skin, or a pair of horns that spiraled up out of his hair and curved back over themselves just above his ears. And he certainly didn't normally have a pointed tail poking out from his trousers. Before Eddie could even begin to think of retreating, he found himself roughly yanked inside the tent. “Wait!” Eddie flailed, wrenching himself out of Steve's grasp. “Please don't kill me! As fitting as it would be for Eddie the Banished to die at the hand of a noble I really would rather it not happen today, I promise I can keep my mouth shut and—“ Eddie stopped babbling as he took in how badly Steve was trembling. Weaponless, he had only moved to block the tent flap. Steve lifted a shaking hand to his nose. "Father was right, it was always going to come down to an act of stupidity on my part. Just, let me finish this mission, please." Eddie blinked, still wrapping his head around his companion’s true appearance. "What?" "Vecna is a blight on these lands. Even if the Order is going to expel me once they know, I swore an oath to slay him. I'm asking that you wait to turn me in until we're done. I promise, I'll go quietly." "Why would I turn you in?" Steve's tail twitched when he was anxious. "Have you somehow missed that I'm the shameful reminder of my ancestor's wrongdoings?” he said, clearly mimicking something he had been told many times over. Eddie took a tentative step forward. "And what makes you think I give a flying fuck what stuff society or your Order believes? Sweetheart, I'm just impressed you've managed to hide yourself for this long." "As a child my parents wouldn't let me leave my chambers until I could cast illusion magic." Steve whispered. "But why—” "You're kind of the ideal paladin, you know?" Eddie barreled on. "Always throwing yourself headlong into danger to protect others. You're kind and funny and," he blushed, "absolutely breathtaking. If those abyssal chickens hadn't broken my lute, I would immediately start composing something about the swirl of your horns." "You would...oh." Red hands with black-tipped claws reached out to gently encircle his waist. Eddie shyly reached up to tuck a loose lock of Steve's hair behind one of his horns. "Come on, let's get some rest. You have an undead lich to slay tomorrow, Sir Stephen the Brave,” he said softly. The equally soft kiss he received in response spoke of something much longer than tomorrow.

Some tidbits of trivia/more babbling about this AU under the cut!

I've had an idea for a DnD AU for a long time, featuring members of the nobility Harringtons who made a deal with a devil in exchange for power and wealth. When their first-born son was a born a tiefling, to hide their shame, they at first kept him hidden from view, then, once he learned magic, forced him to constantly cast disguise self to appear human.

As a paladin, he is driven to helping those in need, but doesn't like anyone touching his hair (they'll feel his horns under the illusion magic) hence his nickname "the Hair". Dustin is an artificer gnome, his loyal if mouthy squire, while Eddie is a half elf bard who doesn't initially like "Mr goody two shoes shining knight".

Vecna is a literal undead evil lich causing trouble from his own pocket dimension, dubbed "The Upside Down".

Also Abyssal chickens are in fact a real DnD monster and they are adorably terrifying.

[formosusiniquis]

I'm in chainmail, baby I'm impressed

Squeaking in under the wire for @stevieweek day 4: Special Outfit with bonus prompts: lingerie and DnD/Fantasy. Plus I'm counting this as my @steddie-week Day Seven Free Space

Stevie Harrington/Eddie Munson WC: 3217 | M | No Archive Warnings Apply | Tags/Themes: Transfem!Steve Harrington; Transmasc!Eddie Munson; Fade to Black

AO3

It starts with a blouse.

No, that’s not right. It actually started when Stevie asked how earring a suit of armor didn’t chafe, and if a pair of keys could stab through a beer can how were arrows not sending stabby metal pieces into people.

Which actually probably means it really started with layers. Like the extra layer of leather, done up to Eddie’s chin when he called her back. “Make ‘em pay” wasn’t the send off she’d expected after the big boy and other flirting. Flirting that had made her stomach twist and her heart flutter and her brain flinch with the close but not quite of it. But maybe that’s why she’d sent her own return volley. Why she’d grabbed hold of that half done zipper and left Eddie with a pat to the chest and a promise to do just that.

She totally saved his life with that move. Her, the leather jacket, and some extra breast tissue Eddie wasn’t really using, all working together to keep razor sharp fangs from tearing flesh and puncturing any important organs.

That breast tissue maybe saved her too, when she learned just what having it made Eddie and what it meant about options she hadn’t known were there. They had a lot of time to talk in their shared bat bite isolation chamber.

Talk about layers that go under chain and metal to protect knights of the realm and their devoted squires that help them.

That started in the Upside Down, finished in the hospital. And this started in the thrift store.

The blouse was white. Pure white, basically neon, white as the virgin snow. Totally not Stevie’s color, the fresh wedding white brings out the undertones in her skin in a way that leaves her looking sallow and liver failure-y. But something about the sleeve catches her eye. The way  it balloons before gathering at the wrist. 

It’s a 70’s throwback for sure. Reminds her of the cover from the album Eddie brought over a few weeks ago, Little Queen. Robin has her face screwed up before Stevie even has it all the way off the rack. Hating it but trying to be supportive the way she has been throughout all of Stevie’s transition from Steve to who she is now.

“That is… wow!”

“It’s super ugly, and not even in a cool way.”

Robin slumps against the rack, sending a hanger cascading to the floor. She scrambles down to pick it up but Stevie doesn't miss her, “Oh thank god.”

“The best thing to happen to you was my sense of style not changing.”

“I know. You’d look good in anything, but my wardrobe offerings would have shrunk.” Seeming to remember the source of the freak out. She snaggs the shirt. “So what’s with this thing? I think even you’d struggle to make this look good.”

She takes it back from Robin’s disapproving grip. Holds it up to herself just to see the way Robin’s face contorts. The neckline is going to do nothing for her, not low cut enough to show off the way her boobs are coming in. The poof in the arms will accent her shoulders . And it’s so, so white.

“It made me think of Eddie,” she says, fingering the loose tie that’s hanging down the front of the blouse.

“It is very vampire lord,” Robin admits. “Might even make him look tan.”

Layers, knights would wear padded shirts under their armor and under those drapey shirts in cotton and linen. He’d been excited when he’d talked about it. Passionate. The way he got when he talked about Lord of the Rings or DnD. She holds the shirt even tighter against her, turns this way and that even though she can only kind of make out her reflection in the mirror at the end of the row. It’s an ugly shirt. But it makes her think of knights and Éowyn and paladins and Eddie.

Eddie flushed pink and beautiful, squirming in his seat in a different way than he usually does, talking about devotion and pledges. Duty and honor.

“I’m gonna buy it.”

“For Eddie?” Robin asks on a sigh. She already knows the answer.

“He’ll certainly get to enjoy it.”

The problem with being the one to come up with a plan is she has to be the one to follow through with it. 

Part of her knows the blouse would be enough. She could dress it up just right, flirt a little, and have Eddie eating out of the palm of her hand.

But the part of her that had a flair for the dramatic that rivaled her boyfriend’s wasn’t going to let her skimp unless she took every possible step to fully achieve her vision.

So she goes to the only person she knows who might be able to put the final and most crucial piece of the scene together.

Flopped across the Henderson couch, she’s making herself comfortable for her and Caludia’s date with Dallas. She’s too cozy to get up, decides it's easier to flop her head over the arm of the sofa to shout at Dustin while he rummages through the kitchen.

“So if I was trying to get my hands on some of that chain link armor stuff, would you know a drama club nerd who might have some?”

“Yeah, I have some.”

“You have some?” she can feel her eyebrows raised up into the middle of her forehead. She went to him for a reason, but surely she would have known if he was capable of affording something like that. Was that why she was footing the bill at the arcade every week, so he could have suit of armor money?

“Well it's not like it grew in the backyard, I made some.”

“Made some?” she flips around on the couch, this has become the kind of conversation she has to look at her brother and have him be rightside up.

He’s got his hand on his hip which isn't as commanding when he’s also holding a glass of milk in the other. It’s cute though, like he’s trying to channel her.

“What are you an echo? It's not like it was hard. You need some wire and pliers and patience.”

“And you?”

“Har har. Yes. Do you want to borrow it or not.” The threat is there even if she doesn’t think it’s that sincere. It’s fucking armor she doubts he could hide it that well if she wanted to just come in and take it.

But she makes nice anyway cause she’s a good sister. “Yes! Sorry.”

“Ma's got all that jewelry making stuff and you know I like to work with my hands when I'm talking with Suzie.”

“Disgusting.”

It was a joke. But it’s a joke that sends his drink sloshing over the sides of his glass as he startles. A good friend, even if she doubts he’ll ever acknowledge it, she stifles her laugh in the palm of her hand as he turns a shade of red that is medically concerning. 

“Ew, don't be crass, Stevie,” he stutters out.

“Is this even going to fit me,” she takes pity on him, dragging the topic back to her, “you made it for yourself half-pint.” The insult barely works, a summer growth spurt has left sophomore Dustin towering over her shoulder. Well, not towering, but he can see over her shoulder now.

“I made it for Mike, actually, so he could be his paladin at that convention in September. But he wouldn't let me measure him cause I ‘know what he looks like’ and it came out too big.”

“Oh so it'll be perfect for me.” She tries to make it a joke, but hearing that it was made for human stringbean Michael Wheeler has her nervous in the place where all of her ugliest body issues live. At least if Dustin had made it for himself it would have just looked like a crop top.

“Well, it still might not fit because of your,” he gestures vaguely at her front.

“Boobs, Henderson, they're boobs. You can call them-”

“Alright!” He shrieks, “I was trying to be respectful.”

“When have you ever been respectful? And don't say it's because I'm a girl, I'll push you into Lover’s Lake.”

“I wouldn't talk about El’s or Max’s is all I'm saying.” He says into the glass in his hand.

“But I can borrow it?”

“If it fits over your boobs,” he says the word like it's in a foreign language he's neither spoken nor heard, “you can keep it. I know it's for some weird sex thing with Eddie and I don't want it in my closet knowing what it's seen.”

Honestly it's for the best, because if this goes the way she thinks it's going to she really doesn't want to have to figure out how to get stains out of aluminum. But it's hard to resist the siren song of torturing Dustin. “I can't believe you're calling my sex life weird, are you saying there's something wrong with us? That we aren't a normal couple like everyone else? I thought you were a friend.”

“Nothing about Eddie is normal and he'd be offended you tried to suggest he was so I'd feel bad.”

“Yeah, good point loser.” She snuggles back down into the couch, she never really gives the episodes of Beauty and the Beast that much attention but this one should be wrapping up soon. “If it doesn't fit over my tits and it sees zero action do you want it back then?”

“After this conversation, I'm not sure I ever want to see you again. So just keep it. I'm sure Eddie will find some kind of use for it.”

There’s another quip at the tip of her tongue that she knows will send Dustin into fits, whether they would have been of rage or denial she’ll never know. The front door is slamming open bringing with it Claudia at the end of her swing shift.

“Stevie, dear,” she always bustles into the house like she’s carrying an armload of groceries even when it’s just her coming home in her uniform, “never go into nursing. Doctors are some of the dumbest fuckers on the face of the planet.”

It occurs to her, the attitude might be a family trait. Maybe that’s why they adopted her so easily. If only she could pull off the tiny hat the way Claudia can.

All of the pieces of her plan stay hidden for weeks. Folded up carefully in an oversized hatbox in the back of her Mom’s extended closet. The hat, a monstrosity purchased for a Derby she doesn’t think they’d even gone to left to gather dust or whatever it is hatboxes are meant to prevent.

The chainmail had fit. The weight of it as surprising as the cool feeling of it against her fingers.

She has the clothes, the accessories, even bought something silky and golden yellow to go underneath. Like the armor wasn’t going to be sexy enough for Eddie. Lingerie under lingerie like a hat on a hat, but she has to feel sexy or else she’s going to feel like a complete idiot.

She kind of already feels like an idiot. Something in the knowing that the top and the chain and the yellow bra with the flowers embroidered on it are all upstairs makes her anxious in a way she hasn’t ever been with Eddie before.

Hands haven’t been wandering during their movie nights. She keeps her feet kicked back behind her, crossed at the ankle, when they’re sharing a booth at dinner. There’s always a fifteen-going-on-sixteen year old chaperone in the car with them, sometimes even in the front seat as she pretends she’s just making sure they’re getting pre-prepared for their upcoming drivers tests.

And sitting next to him on the sofa, a whole cushion between them for the first time since ever, she watches the careful way he makes each line as he sketches and cross hatches what she can just make out to be a flowing haired knight. Her resolve breaks.

Stevie craves him the way she used to want ice cream on a hot day. The taste and feel of it an almost physical feeling, she would want it so bad. That’s what horny feels like now, she’s slowly realizing.

Before she can overthink it too much more, “I wanna try something.”

Normally she thinks of Eddie as having a kind of feline grace, he slinks and when he does fall off of something he isn’t supposed to be on he grins like it was always the plan to reacquaint himself violently with the floor. But the hint of suggestion in her voice has him perked up on the couch like a dog that just heard his leash come off the hook.

It's embarrassing how badly she wants him.

“What were you thinking, baby?”

He’s better at this than she is, at the lead up. The introduction. It’s a different skill to slowly introduce the concept of the strange, a change. Different than foreplay. She feels like she’s propositioning her proposition. The thing about slow, missionary in a room with the lights dimmed, no bandaids need to be ripped off before.

“You’ve roleplayed.”

“Not the kind I think you’re suggesting.” He’s impossibly more perked. Notebook and pencil still and poised like he’s about to start taking notes. “But I’ll try anything you want to do, however you want to do it.”

Maybe it isn't healthy, but she likes that about Eddie. That he’s all in on her, obsessed maybe. Willing to push himself out of his comfort zone for the sake of letting her have what she wants or try what she thinks she wants.

She likes how a few right words will turn him into putty she can squish and meld between her fingers.

“I’m gonna go get changed.”

Now that Eddie is waiting downstairs for something spectacular, it isn't so hard to pull that box down from its hideaway and slide each layer on. She already knew it wasn’t that hard to get the chain on and off by herself, she had tried it on. Maybe squires were for the heavy metal suits like on Scooby-doo. Or maybe it was about the intimacy and the ritual even back then, sliding on pieces and parts meant to keep the other person safe from harm knowing later if there was a chance to undress again you could see just how you helped save them.

Next time, she thinks, they should do this the other way around. She can get Eddie off a couple times, clean him up, and slowly dress him in each new layer. Until he’s lying in her bed armored in metal and cocooned by her cotton sheets. Safe from anything the world might want to do to him. Under her panties, and the sports leggings she’d decided where the sexier choice of pants, she can start to see the evidence of her arousal in the full length mirror.

It’s a good thing Dustin doesn’t want his stuff back.

Her finishing touches go on next. The gold ring with the small green stone that Robin had given her slides on to her index finger. Then around her neck her holy symbol, the guitar pick from Eddie’s first post-almost dying show. Tossed at her from the stage in an act of Bon Jovi badassery. She had gently poked a hole through it and now she slides it on its dainty, gold chain around her neck.

She tugs at her hair in the mirror, the one part that isn’t quite right. In her vision it’s finally grown out, beautiful waves that would fall out of the ugly helmet she doesn’t have when she pulled it off. Waves like Brooke Shields or the girl from One Day at a Time who married the guy from the band Eddie liked have instead of the bob she’s growing out now.

But it would grow and in the meantime she looked hot.

Stevie looked really hot. Swallowing around the saliva pooling in her mouth, she remembers she has a boyfriend to show that to.

Her first reward is the sight of Eddie's jaw dropped against the floor.

“You remember the other day, you were talking about how paladins could get leveled up so high they basically became gods too?”

Stevie knew that wasn't right, but she liked watching the nerd part of him war with the boyfriend part of him. One itching to correct the mistake and the other looking for a way for her to be correct in a roundabout way. Usually, it leaves him flushed and wide eyed, like his brain is overtaxed and with just a little more stress steam will start to burst from his ears to keep his brain from melting. Last week she had him arguing with the Party that humanoid didn't mean hobbits couldn't also be little rabbits.

She decides to take pity on him now, his wheels skidding blankly on wet road.

“I want you to worship me.”

He's agreeing, she thinks, before he's even sure what he's agreeing to. Dropping to his knees in front of her just like the worshiper she imagined: awe struck and devoted. Her divine intervention on his unfinished prayer kept him alive. Eddie Munson would let her kill him if she wanted to, if it suited her whims.

Good thing she wants to keep him for forever.

His hands slide up the back of her legs. She can feel the hot trail of them from the calf up to the thigh.

“Beautiful,” he breathes. Presses a kiss to her knee, her thigh, the chain that covers her hip. “My hero, my knight.”

In the end, she didn’t need the blouse or the bra and panty set. She still has her chainmail on when she eases them both down onto the couch. Running her fingers through Eddie’s hair from his sweat damp temples to the tangling ends she’s careful to keep it from getting wrapped in the links while he rests on top of her.

“I don’t know where you came up with that, my lady, but I think that was the hottest thing to ever happen to me.”

She tugs at the end of his hair just to watch the way the lingering arousal dances across his face. “I got that from the way you creamed your jeans while you were playing with my clit.”

“I am but a man, my golden sun. When a paladin of Apollo is before me what can I do but show my utter devotion.”

“You liked it? It was good for you?”

Maybe it’s a testament to how good it was that Eddie isn’t immediately off the couch. He only shifts enough to rest his chin on her stomach. Looking her in the eyes or maybe at the bottom swell of her breasts.

“Steph, that was the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me. You’re a vision in everything you put on,” he assures, “but where did you even get this?”

“That’s the bad news, if you’re hoping for a better fitting part two I think I’m gonna have to give Dustin my measurements.”

[phantobats]

I NEED to see your version of a reverse robin au!!!!

To be honest, I have been thinking of starting my own Reverse Robins AU, so here are my ideas for that under the cut !

In this universe, as Dick Grayson is not the first Robin, all of the Robins are instead called Squires, to fit with the Dark Knight theme Bruce has going on.

Bruce Wayne's Journey to Becoming the Dark Knight

At the age of 19, Bruce Wayne, driven by a thirst for justice and a desire to master the skills needed to combat crime, joins the League of Assassins. His exceptional talents quickly propel him through the ranks, catching the attention of Ra's al Ghul, the enigmatic leader of the League. Impressed by Bruce’s prowess and potential, Ra’s offers him a place at his side as his heir, along with the hand of his daughter, Talia al Ghul.

Clouded by ambition and the promise of power, Bruce accepts, and by the time he is 20, he becomes a father to Damian. Bruce and Talia, though deeply involved in the League, raise Damian together. However, unbeknownst to Bruce, Damian is secretly subjected to the League’s brutal training methods.

Years pass, and it is only when Bruce accidentally witnesses a young Damian brutally decapitating an enemy that the full horror of what his son has become strikes him. Horrified, Bruce realizes that the League is no place for his son or himself. In a desperate bid to save Damian from a life of violence and darkness, Bruce fights his way out of the League, taking Damian with him back to Gotham.

Returning to Gotham, Bruce reflects on his actions and the person he has become under the League's influence. Burdened with guilt and a desire for redemption, he decides to channel his skills into becoming the Dark Knight, the Batman, a symbol of justice and atonement for the city that has always been his true home.

Damian Wayne: The First Squire

Damian, torn from the only life he has ever known, is furious at being taken away from the League. He demands to become his father’s squire, determined to prove himself worthy and regain the sense of purpose he once had. Bruce, though wary of Damian's brutal tendencies, sees this as an opportunity to guide his son onto a brighter path, away from the shadow of the League’s influence.

As Damian grows, Bruce tirelessly works to temper his son’s lethal instincts, teaching him the value of mercy and justice over vengeance. However, as Damian approaches adulthood, he begins to struggle with the immense pressure of being the heir to the Batman mantle. Despite his father’s teachings, the weight of expectation becomes overwhelming, and Damian starts to revert to his old, violent ways, hoping that by doing so, he can distance himself from a destiny he feels ill-suited for.

Bruce, recognizing the signs of Damian’s internal conflict, decides to send him to join the Young Justice team, hoping that interacting with peers and learning from others like Black Canary will help Damian find balance. With Black Canary’s guidance, Damian finally opens up to Bruce, revealing his fears and his desire to forge his path. Understanding his son’s plight, Bruce supports him in seeking a new identity, one that reflects who Damian truly is rather than what others expect him to be.

Damian takes on the identity of "Onyx", a precious stone, often associated with protection and absorbing negative energy

By adopting the name Onyx, Damian symbolizes his role as a protector who absorbs and neutralizes the darkness around him, taking something once associated with darkness and turning it into a symbol of strength and defense.

Tim Drake’s Journey: From Obsession to Tragedy

Tim Drake's story begins with an obsession. Fascinated by the mysterious figure of Batman and his squire, Damian Wayne, Tim starts following them around Gotham, trying to learn everything he can about the legendary duo. Damian quickly notices the young boy's persistence but says nothing to Bruce, curious to see how far Tim will go. Damian secretly admires Tim's courage and tenacity, even if he considers it somewhat reckless.

Tim’s persistence eventually pays off when, while attending a high-society gala, he observes Bruce Wayne and Damian closely enough to piece together their secret identities. Empowered by his discovery, Tim becomes even more determined, shadowing them more frequently. One night, during a solo patrol, Damian finds Tim in a dangerous situation. Realizing the gravity of what he has uncovered, Tim blurts out his knowledge of their identities, prompting Damian to drag him back to the Batcave to tend to his injuries.

Bruce, impressed by Tim's intelligence and resourcefulness, reluctantly allows him to assist with investigations. Tim eagerly takes on this role, preferring the intellectual challenge over direct combat. His analytical mind and sharp instincts prove invaluable to Batman and Damian, who continue their nightly crusade against Gotham’s criminal underworld.

However, when Damian decides to strike out on his own as an independent hero in Blüdhaven, Tim's life takes a dark turn. The Joker targets Tim’s parents, brutally murdering them. Devastated and fueled by a desire for vengeance, Tim becomes the second Squire, determined to use his skills to bring his parents' killer to justice.

Despite his best efforts, every investigation into the Joker’s whereabouts turns up empty. Frustration and anger begin to consume Tim, leading him to act more impulsively. When he stumbles upon what seems to be a solid lead on the Joker’s location, he recklessly pursues it on his own, determined to end the clown’s reign of terror. The lead, however, is a trap, and Tim is captured.

Over the following months, the Joker tortures Tim, breaking him both physically and mentally, and eventually warping him into Joker Jr., a twisted reflection of the hero he once aspired to be. When Batman finally confronts the Joker again, he is horrified to discover what has become of Tim. In the ensuing battle, the Joker kills Tim, leaving Batman to mourn another lost Squire. However, Tim's body is never recovered by Bruce.

Unbeknownst to Batman, the League of Assassins finds Tim's broken body and resurrects him using the Lazarus Pit. Ra’s al Ghul, seeing the potential for another brilliant detective in his ranks, manipulates Tim, warping his memories and convincing him that his quest for vengeance is far from over.

Enraged and manipulated into believing that he must destroy the man who failed him, Tim flees the League and returns to Gotham, swearing a bloody vendetta against all criminals, but most of all against Bruce Wayne, whom he blames for his suffering. He takes on the name of the "Wraith", reflecting Tim’s transformation into a shadow of his former self, driven by a need to haunt those he holds responsible for his pain.

Jason Todd’s Journey: From Desperation to Redemption

Jason Todd grew up on the harsh streets of Crime Alley, a place where hope is scarce and survival is a daily struggle. With his father having mysteriously disappeared and his mother dying of an overdose, Jason was left to fend for himself in one of Gotham's most dangerous neighborhoods. The recent rise of crime gangs, fueled by the chaos wrought by Wraith's birth, has turned Park Row into a literal warzone, with violence and despair at every corner.

Desperate for a way out and hoping to make some quick money, Jason decides to steal the tires off the Batmobile when he finds it unattended. However, Batman catches him in the act. In a moment of sheer desperation, Jason pleads with Batman to take him in. He explains his dire situation—his father’s absence, his mother’s death, and the unrelenting violence that has consumed his home. Jason argues that with his deep knowledge of the streets and the gangs that rule them, he could be of real help to the Dark Knight.

Batman, who has been struggling with his own demons since losing his previous squire, sees something in Jason that he can't ignore. Despite his hesitation about involving Jason in his dangerous crusade, Batman reluctantly agrees, allowing Jason to become the new Squire. However, Batman remains cautious, initially keeping Jason away from the frontline battles, focusing instead on training him and using his knowledge of Crime Alley to gather intelligence.

As time goes on, Jason proves to be an invaluable asset. His familiarity with the criminal underworld of Park Row gives Batman a strategic advantage, allowing them to dismantle several gangs and push back against the crime wave that has overtaken the area. Jason's raw talent, combined with Batman's training, quickly turns him into a formidable squire.

No longer the desperate kid from Crime Alley, Jason finds a new sense of purpose and belonging. Jason proves to be a valuable asset not just in the field but also in the world of high society.

He, though initially struggling with the elite environment of Wayne Enterprises, gradually earns respect through his hard work and ingenuity. His background as a former street kid gives him a unique perspective, allowing him to connect with people on a different level. Over time, he makes a name for himself in the business world, becoming a key figure in Bruce Wayne’s efforts to bolster the public image of Wayne Enterprises. Bruce is immensely proud of Jason’s progress, seeing him as a symbol of redemption and success.

Despite this, Bruce’s attention is increasingly divided due to the resurgence and unmasking of Tim Drake. This leaves Bruce more focused on the complexities surrounding Tim, limiting his ability to be a father figure to Jason. While Bruce continues to mentor Jason in his role as a squire, Jason yearns for a more personal connection and sees Bruce as more of a mentor than a father figure.

When Bruce adopts Dick Grayson, Jason steps into the role of an older brother, providing support and guidance. His bond with Dick helps solidify his place in the Wayne family and allows him to channel his own experiences into nurturing the younger boy.

Tragedy strikes when Bruce seemingly dies, disappearing into the time stream. The loss of Batman leaves a void in Gotham and creates uncertainty about who will take up the mantle. Damian and Jason, both deeply affected by Bruce’s disappearance, struggle with their own visions of the future. Jason, who believes that Bruce might still be alive, decides to embark on his own investigation, driven by hope and determination.

As he steps away from the role of the squire to forge his own path, Jason emerges with the identity of Phoenix that reflects his growth and evolution from a troubled past to a dynamic, independent hero.

Dick Grayson’s Journey: From Orphan to Squire

After witnessing the tragic deaths of his parents, young Dick Grayson is taken in by Bruce Wayne, who, along with Damian Wayne and Jason Todd, initially tries to shield him from the truth of their secret identities. Despite their efforts to conceal their true selves, Dick’s perceptiveness reveals their identities, as the injuries and circumstances are too evident to ignore.

Instead of immediately taking Dick on as a squire, Bruce and his team focus on helping him cope with his grief and trauma. They engage Dick in sparring matches and other activities to channel his emotions and provide a sense of normalcy and belonging. Dick, with his resilient spirit and natural charisma, becomes a bright presence in the manor, helping to lift the spirits of everyone around him during a dark period.

When Bruce mysteriously disappears, leaving Gotham in uncertainty, Jason, driven by a belief that Bruce might still be alive, sets out to investigate. Feeling the weight of responsibility on Damian’s shoulders, Dick cannot stand by and watch him bear the burden alone. Determined to help, Dick steps up and becomes the fourth squire, fighting alongside Damian and making the experience more bearable for both of them.

With Bruce’s return, the dynamic within the team shifts. Damian resumes his role as Onyx, and Dick has to adjust to the new arrangements. Although he misses Damian as a mentor, Dick adapts quickly to working with Bruce, continuing to prove himself as a valuable member of the team. His journey from a grieving orphan to a dedicated squire highlights his resilience and ability to thrive amidst change.

[potato-frenzy]

Wow, seeing all the traction on those two posts about my 'Rhaenyra adopts her siblings' AU in the last 24 hours is insane. I think I need to write this fic now. Life is fucking hectic right now but you best bet that once the holidays are over I'll be plugging away at this

In the meantime, have some more headcanons

- Aemond loses his eye in an accident and it's all Ser Criston's fault. The bitch was trying to bully the younger kids in the training yard and like in canon, Harwin was goaded into attacking him. Aemond and Aegon tried to break it up but Aemond was thrown into one of the weapons racks. The scar is much worse because of this. Criston, being the one to have thrown the eight year old prince, is cut down with Blackfyre. By the queen's own hands.

- Aemond asks to be squire to Harwin as recompense for his part in the loss of the prince's eye. It goes over extremely well, Harwin becoming even more entrenched in the family. No Harwin doesn't die.

- Lyonel does still step down as Hand, Daemon is named Hand in his place and he gets to support Rhaenyra in ways he never got to support Viserys. Laena survives the birth of their son, little Viserys.

- Laenor does actually die when he leaves to fight the Triarchy with his father again. Rhaenyra doesn't feel the need to give him the out she does in the show and he doesn't abandon them.

- it still devastates their family but Harwin, Daemon, and Laena are there to help

- Lucerys is in fact Laenor's son, he just looks exactly like Jocelyn Baratheon

- Jace is less concerned with proving himself a proper Targaryen, he's more concerned with making sure his brother's are on his council. He's the most vocal supporter of Aegon's training to become Hand, the oldest boy having a difficult apprenticeship under Daemon. He keeps insisting that Aemond should be Lord Commander of the City Watch someday but Aemond is very vocal that he goes where Lucerys goes. Jace says he'll be Master of Ships so it's not like it matters. Jace suggests Daeron become a maester so he can be Grand Maester someday and the boy just softly goes 'please no'.

- Also Daeron and Jacaerys have often been referred to as 'the twins' given that they are so close in age, are milk brothers, and Rhaenyra often had them sharing a cradle. Ironically, they're not very close.

- Despite how attached Aemond and Lucerys have always been, everyone was shocked when they found out they were in love. Daemon almost died laughing.