I just said this in a reply, but more concise genre thought: This is the only medieval fantasy novel I've ever read where it's an EARLY -- as in Dark Ages, 600-1100 AD -- medieval fantasy (hilarious genre implications) and it's an incredible ride. I keep telling friends it's like reading Pratchett and catching the puns and references and entire retellings and knowing you've missed stuff that's going to suddenly become clear 10 years from now while you yell.

The heart grows ever fonder ♥ (Patreon)

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Sweet Like Grenadine

Daniel Ricciardo x Reader

Masterlist

Summary: You love weddings. However, you don’t love being stuck by yourself at a wedding, a plus one to a boyfriend who’s too busy for you. Enter Daniel Ricciardo, your knight in shining armor.

Word Count: 5.6k

a/n: thought of this concept and couldn’t get Danny out of my head. He’s soooo guy you flirt with at a wedding and will probably never see again coded

Warnings: alcohol/intoxication, mild sexual content (heavy makeout? idrk how to tag this stuff), one (1) shitty boyfriend

The table in front of you is draped with a heavy white tablecloth. At the center is a large bouquet of flowers, the number 19 stuck haphazardly in the middle of it. Not last, but certainly low on the list. You can’t blame them- you barely know the bride and groom.

You’re only here because your boyfriend is a groomsman. A plus one. You love weddings, so of course you’d agreed, but you hadn’t really considered how lonely an event like this could be. The only person you really know has been busy all day. You can’t complain, won’t complain, you know that’s why he’s here, but…

You’re sitting at a table full of strangers. It’s not exactly fun. There’s still hours left of this. Dinner hasn’t even been served, there’s still speeches and cake and dancing and honestly, you’re already exhausted. You need a drink, but the bar isn’t open yet. You need to take off your heels, but you’re pretty sure that would be frowned upon. You need to talk to your boyfriend.

He’s busy, though. He told you as much when you found him between the ceremony and the reception. There’s a pang in your chest still at the way he brushed you off, the way he told you he didn’t have time to chat. You get it, you really do. You’re not going to get upset about it.

The seat to your left has been empty since you sat down, but someone collapses into it, letting out a heavy sigh. You turn to look, hoping for some sort of familiar face or at least a friendly one, and you’re met with-

“Hi. ‘M Daniel,” he says, sticking his hand out to shake yours.

The thing is, Daniel is a familiar face, but not for any of the reasons you’d hoped for. You know Daniel because your boyfriend is obsessed with Formula 1. You try to keep up so you can take part in his conversations, but it’s never really been your thing. But you know enough to know Daniel Ricciardo.

“Yeah, I… I know,” you say, before you slap your hand over your mouth. “Shit! I’m sorry. That’s weird. S’just- my boyfriend’s a huge fan-“

You swear his face drops slightly, but he plasters that grin right back on before he says, “and you’re not a fan?”

“I’m not not a fan,” you say. “He’s just the bigger fan. Of the two of us.”

Daniel nods. You finally shake his hand. He never stops looking at you, never stops smiling. You tell him your name, and he repeats it back to you, his accented version making you smile.

“Well, is he here? I’d love to meet the bigger of the two fans,” he says. “We talking, like, box fan, industrial blower, air boat fan? How big?”

You laugh, his hand squeezing yours as you lean over the table. He’s laughing, too, then, before he lets go of your hand. You want to crawl out of your skin, want to run and hide in the bathroom, because you’re definitely making a fool of yourself, but-

“Oh, he’s busy,” you say, waving your hand in the air dismissively. “He’s one of the groomsmen, got a lot on his plate. I don’t wanna bug him. He’s the one with the sunglasses on,” you say, pointing at him at the head table.

Daniel looks where you point and quirks his brow. “Guy like that has a girl like you and you’re the one worried about bugging him?”

You stare at him with wide eyes. He collapses into a fit of laughter again, and you follow suit. You don’t know what else to do. Then he nudges your knee with his, under the table, and juts his chin towards the bar.

“D’you want a drink?” He asks.

“The bar isn’t open yet,” you say.

“So?”

“So, how are you going to get a drink?”

He shakes his head and purses his lips. “Oh, sweetheart, you just watch and learn. What’re you having?”

You shrug. “A soda, I guess. I’m the designated driver for at least three of the groomsmen.”

Daniel sighs heavily. “You poor thing. You keep making me feel worse and worse for you. Alright, I’ll get you something.”

He strides his way up to the bar, which has a very obvious “Closed” sign on the countertop. There’s a single bartender behind it, and he’s cleaning glasses. You watch with entertainment as Daniel leans on the counter, exuding confidence and charm. The bartender shakes his head. Daniel counters. The man behind the bar shrugs and nods. Then he steps through a door for just a moment. When he returns, he has two drinks in his hands- one that’s obviously a beer, and one that’s bright pink. Daniel smiles, thanks the man, and walks the cups back to you.

He sets it down in front of you with a flourish before he takes a seat.

“I told you, I’m DD,” you remind him.

He nods, taking a sip of his beer before he says, “Shirley Temple.”

“Oh my god,” you say, a grin washing over your face. You pick up the cup and take a sip, sighing at the sweet taste of ginger ale and grenadine. “How did you know?”

“Everyone loves a good Shirley,” he says, elbowing you lightly. “And you can’t drink just plain soda at a wedding.”

They announce dinner shortly after that, and the waiters start bringing plates out. You’re starving, having been up early to help with last minute wedding things at your boyfriend’s request. You hadn’t had time to eat lunch. You chat with Daniel through the meal. The two of you talk about the food, about the wedding, about the decor. There are other people at the table, but they’re all incredibly boring in comparison. Daniel, on the other hand, could hold your attention forever, probably.

You sneak glances at your boyfriend, surrounded by his friends at the head table. He’d promised to sneak away as soon as he got a chance. He hasn’t even looked your way. You're trying to ignore the hurt deep in your chest. Daniel is sneaking glances at you sneaking glances at the bridal party. You’re trying to ignore that, too.

“How long have you two been dating?” Daniel asks.

“About 6 months,” you say with a smile.

It feels forced. Frankly, the last thing you want to talk about right now is your boyfriend. They’re clearing the last plates. He’s at his table, three beers in by your count, not a care in the world. He promised. Daniel opens his mouth, likely to ask another question about your boyfriend, but you speak first.

“So wait, are you here for the bride or the groom?” You ask.

“The bride,” Daniel says , a soft smile on his face. “An old family friend. I’m representing the Ricciardos.”

You smile. “That’s sweet.”

Before he can say anything in response, someone is tapping on a microphone. It’s time for the speeches. You know your boyfriend isn’t making one, which is good. He’s not exactly the best public speaker, especially when he’s been drinking. You and Daniel settle in to listen.

He sneaks away between the maid of honor and the best man, patting the back of your hand and whispering about being right back. He returns a few moments later, another beer and a Shirley Temple in his hands. You smile gratefully at him, and he waves you off. Then the next speech is starting, and you’re rolling your eyes at the way the best man talks about marriage like it’s some awful idea.

“He knows this is a wedding, yeah?” Daniel asks out of the side of his mouth, leaning towards you.

You shrug. “That one started drinking at 9am. I’m not sure he even knows what year it is right now.”

Daniel starts laughing, then. Luckily, the rest of the crowd does too- apparently, the best man has just made an extremely funny joke. Daniel is only looking at you, though, and you can’t help but laugh just because of the look on his face.

When the first dances are over and the music starts, you sink low into your seat. Your boyfriend has still not made an appearance. He definitely knows where you’re sitting, he had told you so earlier. You’re sure he’s busy, but you’d looked away for too long, talking to Daniel, and now he’s disappeared from the head table. You scan the crowd, hoping to see his face. All the while, you can feel Daniel watching you.

“We could go dance,” he suggests.

You sink lower in your seat. “I don’t really like dancing.”

That’s a lie. You love dancing, especially at weddings. You love the cheesy songs they always play, you love the atmosphere, you love watching the bride and groom have fun and getting to be a part of it. But you know how it would look if you went out on the dance floor with Daniel, and your boyfriend definitely won’t be joining you. As frustrated as you may be with your him, you don’t want to cause drama at someone else’s best day of their lives.

“I think I might try and find him,” you say, picking up your drink.

Daniel nods. “Want me to come with you?”

You look around at the rest of the table and find it empty. You shake your head and lean towards him, close enough that you almost knock your foreheads. Nobody’s watching the two of you or trying to listen anyways, but it’s more fun this way.

“He promised he’d find me before dinner,” you whisper conspiratorially. “That obviously didn’t happen. So I’m not bringing you to him as a reward for bad behavior.”

Daniel sits back in his chair and smiles at you, one brow raised. “Atta girl!”

You stand up from your chair and hope he can’t tell that your face has grown hot from that comment alone.

Even if you can’t find your boyfriend, it’s probably best that you get some space from Daniel. Through the last hour or so of your conversation, you’ve been catching yourself leaning towards him and then reminding yourself that you have a boyfriend. It’s just that he’s being so nice, and that you’re feeling so down about the whole thing. He’s comforting, which is fine. But it can’t be more than that.

You find your boyfriend at one of the bars, leaning on the counter and talking loudly with one of the other groomsmen. He’s drunk already- he should really slow down if he wants to last the night. You walk over to him, forcing a soft smile onto your face. You can’t confront him now, not in front of his friend and all the people waiting for drinks.

“Hey, babe,” you say, tapping his shoulder lightly as you walk up.

He turns. You wait for him to smile at you, but it never comes. Your stomach sinks.

“Hey,” he says, nonchalantly. “D’you need something?”

Your palms feel clammy. “Oh, no, I’m good! Just… wanted to say hi. S’been a bit.”

He nods. “Yeah. I told you I’d be busy tonight.”

His friend just stands there and listens. Your skin feels hot, and your eyes begin to sting.

“I know,” you say. “I’m not trying to bug you, I just- I was just walking by. Just. Yeah. That’s all. I’ll leave you to it.”

“I’ll come find you in a bit, baby,” he promises.

You don’t bother believing him this time.

Daniel doesn’t comment on your red eyes or the tear tracks on your cheeks when you return to the table. He just squeezes your arm and disappears for a moment, then comes back with yet another Shirley Temple. You don’t know whether to laugh or to cry, so you just take a sip of the drink instead.

“You don’t have to sit here with me,” you say to Daniel. “I’m definitely pulling down the mood.”

“Are you joking?” He says. “You’re the best thing at this party.”

You laugh, then, because the statement is so ridiculous that you can’t help it. He sounds so serious, and when you turn to look at him there’s no hint of teasing on his face. He just elbows your arm lightly again.

“Come on, we don’t have to dance but we’re not sitting here all night,” he says. “Let’s go wander.”

He stands from the table and tugs at your chair. You give in and stand up too, taking your drink from the table. You follow him as he weaves through the throngs of people. You like wandering. Wandering is a perfectly sensible thing to do with the guy you just met. At the wedding your boyfriend is a groomsman at. What else are you supposed to do, anyways?

He leads you past the dance floor, which you try not to look at forlornly. There are large glass doors at the back of the hall. He swings one open, holding it for you, waving you through with a flourish of his hand. Outside, it’s lit up with string lights. There’s a wide rolling lawn of grass, with fire pits and chairs spread out everywhere. There are lawn games, too- beanbags and horseshoes and a giant version of Jenga.

You can burn a lot of time out here. You barely even notice when Daniel slips his hand around your wrist to gently pull you with him. You should feel guilty about it. Your boyfriend is somewhere inside. But that same boyfriend has also been ignoring you all night. Daniel is just being friendly. You follow him to one of the fire pits with a smile on your face.

You and Daniel are nearly two hours into wandering when someone calls your name. You look up from where you’ve been staring at the beanbag board, trying to line up your throw just right. You’d been on the verge of winning for the first time. For an Australian, Daniel is surprisingly good at American lawn games. Frustratingly good, even.

It’s your boyfriend, calling you from the doorway of the reception hall. You sigh and drop the beanbag onto the ground near your feet. Two of the other groomsmen are hanging off of him, looking worse for the wear. One of them has something down the front of his shirt- you pray it’s not vomit.

“I think that’s my cue,” you say, nodding towards the building.

“You could always put them in a cab and hope they figure it out on their own.” Daniel says. You give him a skeptical look. “Kidding, kidding.”

“It’s tempting,” you admit.

Daniel bends over and picks up your heels from where they lay in the grass. You’d kicked them off as soon as you stepped into the soft grass outside. You slip the shoes back on and wince. Then you stick your hand out to him, palm open.

“Well, it was lovely to meet you,” you say, as he shakes your hand once more. “Thanks for not leaving me all alone.”

Daniel laughs. “I will be your ‘I-know-nobody-at-this-event-‘ partner anytime you want, sweetheart. Just give me a call. I’ll be there.”

You know what he’s trying to do. The opportunity is right there in front of you. He’s telling you to give him a call- this is where you ask for his number. But you have a boyfriend. You can justify hanging out with him, especially considering you had nothing else to do, but asking for his number feels a step too far.

You smile softly and drop his hand. “Goodnight, Daniel.”

You turn and make your way towards your boyfriend. He’s already complaining before you’re even within ten feet of him, about how he’s tired and he looked everywhere for you and how could you disappear like that? You apologize, just to quiet him down. You usher the three men inside before you turn to look at Daniel one more time.

He’s standing there, watching you, a sad smile on his face.

“Who was that guy?” Your boyfriend asks later, from the passenger seat of the car.

You look at him, at his eyes. The light is gone- he’s blacked out, there’s no way he’ll remember this tomorrow.

“Daniel Ricciardo,” you say.

It’s a testament to how drunk he is that he doesn’t even react.

You get all three guys into bed, including your boyfriend. You lay down next to him, as much as you don’t want to. There’s not really anywhere else to sleep in the little hotel room, and you’re not sleeping on the floor. When you close your eyes, you can’t fall asleep, plagued by thoughts of if you’d made the right choice, unable to erase Daniel’s sad smile from your memory.

…..

You love weddings. You remind yourself of that over and over again as you pin a dress in place for the hundredth time that day. Your best friend Natalie is a bridesmaid, it’s her sister who’s getting married, and you’re here to help in any way you can. So far, that’s included safety pinning, making a run for alcohol, checking on the floral delivery, checking to make sure the groomsmen are where they’re supposed to be, and comforting a bridesmaid who was crying in the bathroom. Her boyfriend had broken up with her the night before.

“Men are shit,” you’d told her in commiseration.

By the time the ceremony rolls around, you’re relieved to have a chance to sit down. You check on the bridesmaids one last time and head into the church. The pews are packed with people, so you find a spot near the back and sit down. You sigh in relief.

The music starts playing, and you finally take a chance to look around. The pews are decorated with flowers, there’s bright light streaming through the large windows. The groom waits up front, eyes already watering. You love weddings. You say it like a mantra in your head.

As the procession starts, you scan the crowd. You know more people at this wedding, having been friends with the family for a while. You’ll at least have some company at your table. You spot a couple friends from high school, a cousin you’ve met a few times, some mutual friends who you’ll definitely have to catch up with later. And then, in the third row on the groom’s side, you see dark curly hair that looks terrifyingly familiar.

It can’t be him. That would be absolutely insane. There’s absolutely no way Daniel Ricciardo is attending a second wedding in the US, for a couple who are no more famous than the previous wedding you’d seen him at. It would make absolutely no sense. And yet, you can’t stop staring at the back of this man’s head, the slope of his shoulders beneath his dark suit. You remember that wedding, months ago, resting your hand on his shoulder for balance as you took off your heels. He’d joked about having to cut you off, holding your Shirley Temple in his hand.

When the bridal procession begins playing, everyone stands. You keep your eyes on him. He turns, and your heart skips a beat in your chest. It’s Daniel. It’s impossible, it’s irrational, but it is him. You’d recognize him anywhere.

You force yourself to look away, to turn towards the bride. She looks beautiful, perfect, the picture of elegance. The flowers in her hands, the ones you’d checked on that morning, are perfect too. You breathe a sigh of relief. She really should’ve hired a wedding coordinator. Maybe you should be a wedding coordinator.

When you go to sit back down, you sneak a glance at Daniel. He’s looking over his shoulder at you, eyes wide. You meet his gaze and your cheeks feel hot. That wide, bright grin breaks out across his face. You grin right back.

When the ceremony is over, and they’re officially Mr and Mrs, the whole wedding disperses out onto the lawn of the church. There are shuttles to take you to the reception, but everyone seems content to mingle outside in the fresh air. You’re one of the first ones out, but you’re quickly swept up in the crowd. You search for Daniel in every face that passes. You find Natalie first, though.

“Nat,” you say frantically. “Does your sister know Daniel Ricciardo?”

Her brow furrowed for a second. “What?”

“Danny Ricciardo,” you repeat, keeping your voice low. “The F1 driver. He’s here.”

“Oh,” Natalie says, brows raising. “Yeah, he’s like, friends with her fiancé- oh, her husband! Shit, I forgot that you watch that stuff- or, you… did? I can probably try and introduce you-“

“No, we- we’ve met.” You admit. She’s the first person you’re telling about this. “At that wedding like 6 months ago.”

She tilts her head at you. Her eyes go wide. She says your name in a bewildered tone.

“Are you telling me that the mystery wedding man, who you definitely should’ve dumped your boyfriend for, was fucking Danny Ricciardo?”

“Keep it down!” You shush her.

“Oh my god,” she says, a conspiratorial smirk crossing over her face. “And he’s here.”

Someone calls your name. You know that voice- it’s haunted you since you left that wedding. You turn over your shoulder as Natalie grabs your wrist and lets out a squeak.

“Danny,” you breathe, like a sigh of relief. “Hi.”

He strides up to you, handsome as ever, grinning so widely it looks like it hurts. “This is fucking insane.”

An elderly aunt glares at him. He makes an apologetic face before turning back to you and shrugging. He steps into your space, so close you can smell his cologne. He’s staring down at you through his lashes. The look in his eyes is so soft and warm that you think you’re melting.

“The bride is my best friend’s sister,” you explain, gesturing at Natalie. “This is Natalie.”

“I’m friends with the groom,” he says, reaches his hand out and shakes Natalie’s hand. “I’m Danny, nice to meet you.”

She nods, and suddenly you’re very afraid. Natalie doesn’t have much of a filter, especially in high pressure situations. Especially when she’s been forced to be prim and proper all morning.

“You must really like American weddings,” she says, and you wince. “I hear this is your second one in 6 months.”

Daniel smirks, raises his eyebrows at you. “Huh. Wonder what else you’ve heard about me.”

She opens her mouth to say something, but you shove her shoulder. “Nat, aren’t you supposed to be taking family pictures?”

She’s so busy staring at Daniel she almost doesn’t hear you. Then her eyes go wide. She swears loudly, earning a glare from the same aunt. Then she drops your wrist and takes off through the crowd.

You turn towards Daniel. “Sorry about her.”

He shakes his head. “No need. She seems sweet.”

You smile. “She is.”

“Makes sense, since she’s friends with you,” he says. “The sweetest of them all.”

You laugh, shove at his shoulder lightly. “Shut up.”

Behind him, people are starting to get on the shuttles. He’s leaning towards you, eyes still lit up.

“I honestly can’t believe this,” he says.

“Neither can I,” you admit. “It’s.. it’s really good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you,” he echoes. “Feels like a sign, doesn’t it?”

You open your mouth to agree, to tell him what you’ve been thinking the past 6 months, but Natalie is calling your name. You and Daniel both turn to look at her, and the look on her face tells you she’s so sorry. You sigh and shrug.

“I have to go,” you tell him. “That bridal party is a mess.”

“Worse than the last one?” He asks.

“No,” you say. “And I don’t have to drive any of them home, so that’s a bonus. But I think I’ll be billing them for wedding coordinator expenses after this. Or at the very least, drinking enough at the open bar to make up for it.”

Daniel laughs. “Atta girl. Should I save you a seat on the shuttle?”

You let out a puff of air. “I’m riding over with the bridal party.”

His face falls in disappointment. “Okay. Find me when you get there, yeah? I’ll have a Shirley Temple waiting for you.”

You nod. “Make it a Dirty Shirley, would you?”

He nods eagerly and squeezes your arm.

You don’t actually make it into the reception until nearly an hour later. There’s an emergency with a groomsman’s tux, and the girl who was broken up with the night before is crying again. Nothing that can’t be fixed with safety pins and tequila, but it still takes time. You check your name on the seating chart, sigh at the sight of the name next to yours, the seat that will stay empty. You find Daniel’s seat, too, a few tables over from yours. You head there first.

Daniel is sitting, a beer in hand and a very watery Shirley Temple on the table in front of him. He’s chatting with the man sitting next to him, who looks a bit starstruck. He perks up when he sees you, reaching for your drink. You take it happily and have a sip, tasting ginger ale, grenadine, and vodka, too.

“The ice is a bit melted,” he says with a sigh. “But good news! Ian here has offered to switch seats with you.”

Ian is looking between you and Daniel, eyes wide. You’re sure he did offer, likely after Daniel had told him the whole crazy story, or at least enough to convince him. You watched him charm bartenders at the last wedding- he has a way with words. Ian starts to stand up.

“That’s really not necessary.” You say, and Daniel’s face falls. “There’s an empty seat at my table.”

He lifts his brows, grinning again. His brown eyes stare deep into your own. He stands up without waiting another moment, handing you your drink and holding his own.

“Ian, nice meeting you,” he says. “I’ll still get you those paddock passes,” he promises, and you bite back a laugh. “See ya ‘round, mate.”

He follows you to your table. There’s a setting with your name on a little card, and the empty setting next to it with another name on it. You grab that card and crumple it in your hand, shoving it into your purse. He quirks a brow but sits down anyways as you greet the others at your table- cousins of the bride and friends who you’ve met a few times.

“So. How’ve things been?” You ask, and he launches into a story that has you listening with every bone in your body.

Somehow, the two of you make it all the way through dinner and speeches and the first dance before the subject of your boyfriend even comes up. You wonder if he’s been waiting to broach it. You’ve been waiting for the right moment.

He nods towards the dance floor. “You have to promise me you’ll dance to at least one song tonight.”

You blink and shrug. “Easy. I love dancing.”

He stares at you. There’s the beginnings of another wide grin on his face.

“That is not what you said last time.”

“I lied,” you admit. “Because my boyfriend hated dancing.”

Daniel nods. “Hated. Past tense?”

“He’s not dead,” you deadpan, making him laugh. “But he’s also not my boyfriend anymore.”

Daniel’s foot nudges against yours under the table. “No?”

“No,” you say with a shrug.

Daniel nods. “Pretty girl like you, you must’ve moved on pretty quick,” he says.

His tone is light, teasing. He’s testing the waters. You shake your head and pretend you don’t see the way his shoulders sag in relief.

“I’ve sworn off dating,” you tell him. Your tone is teasing, too. “After he left me on my own at a wedding, I decided men are shit.”

You’re taunting him now. The conversation has gone from feeling each other out, from digging for information, to circling each other like sharks in the water. Your heart is beating steady in your chest. His eyes are locked on yours.

“You poor thing,” he says, eyes sparkling. “Let me prove you wrong?”

The tension crackles in the air. His knee nudges against yours and you swear you’re going to combust. You down the rest of your drink in one gulp, set the glass down, and reach for his suit jacket. You run your finger down the lapel, then back up, adjusting his collar.

“I swore off men,” you repeat, leaning forwards, keeping your voice low. “But this feels like a sign, doesn’t it? Like the universe sent me back to you.”

He nods. He reaches up, captures your wrist in his hand and holds it against his chest.

“So maybe you should go get me another drink,” you suggest. “And I’ll meet you on the dance floor.”

You lean even closer, then, close enough to press your lips to his cheek. Then you stand up and walk away towards where people are beginning to gather, to where the music is loudest. You don’t turn back to see if he’s watching. You already know he is.

…..

You have a fleeting thought, later, that maybe you should’ve switched to a drink with less sugar in it at some point in the night. The grenadine feels like it’s stuck to your tongue. Danny doesn’t seem to mind the taste, though.

He’s got you up against the wall in a back hallway of the reception venue. You back is pressed to the cool surface, your arms around his neck, his hands on your hips. His lips are on yours, and he’s kissing you deeply, like he’ll never get enough. You’re feeling the same.

His knee slots between your legs, and you’re a goner. His hand slips from your hip and cups your ass, hauling you closer with ease, tilting your hips away from the wall and into his. You break away for air, gasping for it, and he moves his lips to your neck. It feels heavenly, trapped between him and the wall, his hands all over you, his lips trailing lower and lower. He reaches up and brushes the thin strap of your dress off one of your shoulders. You shove your hands under his suit jacket and press them against his toned abdomen through his shirt. He lets out a groan, the noise vibrating against your neck. You throw your head back and laugh between gasps.

You wonder if he’d have his way with you right there. You wonder if you’d let him.

There are footsteps, then, clicking their way down the hall. You scramble to push him away as someone rounds the corner, but you know it’s painfully obvious. You turn your head, already feeling mortified, and come face to face with Natalie.

“Oh, thank god,” both you and your best friend say at the same time.

Daniel pulls away and looks between the two of you. You can’t look at him for more than a few seconds. His lips are red and puffy, his eyes half lidded. You distantly wonder if there’s beard burn on your face, if your lips are just as red. Then you start to wonder how his scruff might feel on other parts of you.

“I didn’t know where you’d gone,” Natalie says, laughing. “I heard noises, I thought…”

“I’m fine,” you tell her, and she nods in agreement.

“I’ll say,” she teases.

“Nat!” You hiss.

“You’d better take good care of her, Ricciardo,” he says, and your face grows hot all over again. “I don’t care how famous you are, I’ll fuck you up anyways.”

“Nat!” You hiss again.

“I will,” Danny promises, squeezing your hip and nodding. “I’m on a mission. Trying to prove not all men are shit.”

“Good luck,” Natalie says drily. But when she walks away, she’s smiling.

He turns back to you, and this time he places both his hands on the wall on either side of your head. You look up at him, licking your lips. You still taste the Shirley Temple, and you can taste him, too, now. He groans softly and closes his eyes. It’s nice to know you’re having an effect on him, too, nice to know you’re not the only one feeling worked up. You reach up and tug on the lapels of his jacket. You brush your lips against his jaw.

“We should have one more drink,” you tell him, humming happily. “And then you should take me to your hotel.”

He swallows. You press a kiss to the center of his throat.

“I’ve never heard a better plan in my whole life.” He says.

…..

At every wedding you go to afterwards, you order the same drink. Well, really, Danny orders them for you. You’ve thought a couple times about asking for wine or seltzer or even beer. You think it might break his heart, though. It’s a tradition now, and the pink sugary concoction will always taste like that very first night. Like bare feet in the grass, the thud of beanbags against wooden boards. Like Daniel’s laugh in the middle of the best man’s speech. Like you, alone at a table, and Daniel collapsing into the seat next to you, his hand extended to shake yours.

The same hand that’s wrapped up with yours now, resting on his knee. You never want to let go. You’re pretty sure he’d be okay with that.

Taglist: @4-mula1 @celestialams

Candlelight and Calluses - Knight!Leon Kennedy/Reader

A particularly unruly thunderstorm begs you to ask your knight to stay by your bedside, just for a little bit.

i see quite a bit of bodyguard leon fics so i always thought he'd fit into a knight au rather well. art by me!!

Historical inaccuracies, I'm terrible at old-timey speak LOL, reader referred to as "my lady" but no other gendered terms or descriptors besides that, no use of Y/N, relationship is dubious so this could be seen as platonic, romantic, or however you'd like.

1, 2

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

It seemed like life would continue like normal after your former knight was discharged for stealing from your mother, and Leon came to replace him. He definitely feels more trained, more skilled, more refined, someone very reliable, so you can see how he was hired so quickly.

Somehow, you just can't get used to his presence, though.

You see him at very scheduled times of day. He sleeps in a room close to yours, mother said its safer to have him closer at night in case someone breaks in. If you're awake early enough, you can catch him leaving his room. You see him training in the courtyard through the window you pass by when you head to the kitchen. He always escorts you to your bedroom and says goodnight when you decide to call it a day, and stays posted near your door for a few minutes, before retreating to his own for the night.

Tonight, you ask him to stay just a little longer. Rainy days never really bothered you, but the thunder today was particularly bad. It was painfully loud and booming, each strike and roar making you flinch in the anticipation that the ceiling might cave in on you any moment and swallow you whole. You knew he was there to protect you, that's the main reason he was here, but your cheeks burned at the loss of your pride when you give him your request.

His expression, illuminated by the lantern in his hand and highlighting the sharp planes of his visage, is slightly different than usual at your query. His dark eyebrows are slightly raised, the frown on his lips not as deep as it usually is. His eyes are softer.

"Of course, my lady."

You head inside your bedroom, your sight settling on your nightwear set on your bed by one of your maids. You turn to Leon, asking that he leave while you change, but his back is already turned to you. You figure he got the hint, and you undress.

He's listening intently to the sounds of cloth shuffling, till he hears your weight dip your mattress, "Have you finished dressing, my lady?"

"Yes, I'm all done." You reply. Your voice is weaker than usual, perhaps scared that the thunderstorm will hear, and a crackling boom will respond, instead of Leon.

He turns back to you, seeming to pause for a moment, thinking of what to do. You've never seen him do that, perhaps this situation is new to him. That thought makes your face warm in shame.

"I... Shall I stay in the room, or shall I stay at my post, milady?" His voice is quieter than it usually is, too. Admittedly, it's a little hard to hear each other with how loud the rain is.

"If... If it would be alright, Sir Leon, could you stay by the side of my bed? Just until the storm subsides. I'd hate to keep you here for too long."

"It is no trouble to me, my lady, I promise."

He makes his way over to you, confidence in each step despite being so unfamiliar with such a strange, intimate request.

"...You can grab that chair by my vanity, Sir Leon, you don't have to stand."

He obliges, grabbing said chair and setting it by your bed.

He's dressed in a simple cream-colored linen blouse and trousers. You can see his neck. You breathe out a laugh realizing that this is probably the first time you've ever seen it. He wonders what you find amusing. You rarely ever see him without any armor on, maybe just a glimpse when he leaves his room in the morning, and even when he's not in full steel plating, he's usually donning chainmail.

"...Is it heavy?" You mumble, drowsily.

"What is, my lady?"

"The armor you wear. Is it heavy, Sir Leon?"

"Well... Not particularly, milady, but perhaps I've just gotten used to it. It does get hot, though."

"Mm..." You hum, "Always wanted to try it on, always wondered what it was like... I know mother and father won't let me, though." You chuckle.

Leon smiles a little, maybe the first time you've seen him do so. "Maybe I'll let you try on my helmet someday, milady."

"Really?" The drowsy smile you send him makes him feel warmer, "That'd be nice... I always thought the armor you knights wore looked so fashionable." Your eyes close.

He laughs slightly, and the sound is clearer now. Without realizing, the storm had passed, and you feel at ease. Leon waits a little longer, counting your breaths and seeing if your eyes will open again. He thinks the way your eyelashes rest against your cheeks look beautiful.

"Sir Leon?" You mumble, barely legible.

"Yes, milady?"

"Have a good night..." You add, before dozing off.

"You as well, my lady. Good night."

He waits a few minutes more, like he usually does when he escorts you to your door. He's never watched you sleep before, despite this being part of his nightly routine. He wishes a little more that thunderstorms would happen more habitually so he could do this more often.

Leon gets up, and quietly places your chair back to your vanity. He returns to take his lantern from your bedside table, and he pauses, watching you for a few beats more, before retreating to his bedroom for the night.

"...Calling me just Leon would be fine." He ends, with a whisper of your name.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

Gold Rush (Daemon Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: Your whole life you have been Daemon’s voice of reason. Tonight, you choose to be the impulsive one. 

Warnings: Velaryon! Reader (And POC!) Friends to lovers. Fluff. Eloping. Tender, loving smut.

Requested: Uh, I don’t know for markers of arousal, but they are a mess. Sub Daemon and POC reader, as requested. I finished the bingo! Yay! 

You clutch the letter in your hand, a joyous smile slowly starting to spread on your face. Uncaring of the guards, or the people around you, you hike up your skirt and race to the courtyard, screaming with all your might. 

“Daemon!” You say, laughing. “Daemon, Daemon, come quickly.” The letter is still clutched in your hand. Your light blue slippers, matching your dress, are starting to get mud soaked; you have avoided the paths to get there faster. 

Your childhood friend is in the training yard, his armor glinting under the sunlight. For once, he is not wearing the full Targaryen regalia, but rather a simple chest plate. You find yourself a bit taken aback by how handsome he looks with the sun hitting him from behind, hair shining like polished silver. He reminds you of the statues of the Seven you have seen in the royal Sept, a halo around his head. 

Daemon sets Dark Sister down when noticing your arrival. He steps aside from his sparring partner, a knight from House Lannister, as if he were meaningless. The man shouts something, probably in indignation from the abandoned match, but Daemon only has eyes for you.

Standing on the steps near the courtyard, his full attention is a heady feeling. It nearly makes you sway. He manages to look even more handsome when a bit roughed up. 

“Is that…?” He asks, pointing at the parchment in your hand. You nod. 

“He said yes! My brother said yes!” You shout, laughing. Daemon runs towards you, even more mud soaked and sweaty than you are and hugs you to him, spinning you around. It only prompts you to laugh louder. 

“You wonderful, wonderful woman.” He says, peppering your face with kisses, uncaring of the stares from the rest of the knights scattered around. You squeal when he squeezes you to him a little too hard, only to laugh right after at his eagerness. 

At the noise, Ser Harold lifts his head, but when he realizes that it is Daemon and you once more, he only shakes his head in exasperation before returning to his guard duties. 

“And has the Queen..?” You ask Daemon, in a low voice. Sudden doubts make your heart clench. Convincing her of allowing Daemon to marry you had been hard, especially considering she had a match in the Vale already lined up for him. It had taken the two of you nearly a year, and you had only managed to soften her heart by reminding her and her brother husband were once a love match too. She had agreed only if your brother agreed to it too. 

And that had been another can of worms. You knew Corlys was ambitious and wanted to see his wife, Rhaenys, on the throne. Marrying Daemon was the utmost betrayal in his eyes, for it was clear your friend would side with his own brother if there was a succession issue. Thankfully, he had given you permission, swayed by the promise that you would keep Daemon and Caraxes out of it if the worst came to pass. 

Finally, Daemon and you could marry. You were holding the very proof of it in your hands. 

“She has. But still…” Daemon gently grasped your face, tilting your head up so he could look into your dark eyes. “We must not allow them to change their minds.” 

You looked up at him, chewing your lower lip. It was not the first time Daemon suggested eloping. Running away to Dragonstone to be wed in the traditions of your shared ancestors and damn to your families. You had never dared. Despite being oddly similar to the romance tale of the Queen and King, you doubted they would take kindly to it. 

“Corlys said…” You start, softly. You do not mind being the voice of reason. It is how it has always been. Ever since you were the little girl sent to foster under Queen Alysanne’s watchful eye. Your father had thought, back then, if you could claim the Cannibal, you surely needed a strong woman to teach you to be one. 

His plan had worked. Perhaps you had not learned much about being a proper Lady, that didn’t track mud into the halls or stab others with practice swords, but by the Gods you had learned strength.  Both of you had, under her. The thing was, Daemon always thought that strength meant charging right at problems while you thought it was better to watch and think first. 

“Give me that.” Daemon complains, taking the parchment from your hand. You yelp and try to take it back, but he raises it high over his head, where you cannot reach. You try regardless, holding his shoulders and jumping up and down in a quite undignified manner. 

Daemon watches you with a smirk, eyes lingering on the bodice of your dress. It is once you exhaust yourself that you notice he is leering at your breasts, and you give him a good shove for it. 

He laughs. He pulls you by the waist and places a kiss on your forehead. 

“You are a pig.” You complain, crossing your arms over your chest. It is not the first time you have caught him looking at you, but it is the first time it feels so intentional. Daemon and you have never crossed that line before. Sure, he has looked, and you have too, but it is only natural. You are the only girl he has been around in a consistent manner. The two of you have been partners in crime since you were children. 

Daemon has had his dalliances outside of you, of course. You know he is fond of brothels and Gods know what else. You do not mind it. This wish for a match between the two of you is not about physical attraction, but rather that if you had to pick one man to be bound with and him only one woman to belong to, both of you choose each other. It’s simple. 

You love him, of course you do. But then, how could you not? Everyone loves Daemon. He is just that charming. Maidens want to be with him, knights want to be him. He is a true dragon, the finest his House has to offer. 

And you are… You. A daughter of House Velaryon, a bit too wild, a bit too unladylike. Nothing to your name but your dragon. At least in that you take pride in. What a foe, your child was. 

“Only for you.” Daemon says, brushing a stray curl away from your face. He twists his finger in it, making it coil tighter before springing back up. 

“Sure.” You laugh, and Daemon gives your hair a harsh little tug, making you yelp.

“I am serious.” He warns, a bit threateningly. His grip on your hair is firm enough to force you to keep your attention on him.  His eyes are locked with yours. “From today on, you are mine. And I am yours. I won’t… I don’t want anyone in my bed that is not you.” 

Your breath catches in your throat. It might as well be a declaration of undying love, coming from Daemon. He is not one for monogamy, your friend. That he is now saying he wants you and only you means… It means everything. 

“But you have never touched me.” You say to him, confused. 

“Of course not, you silly thing.” Daemon shakes his head. “My father would have strangled me.” 

You fight the urge to laugh. Baelon Targaryen had never been too fond of Daemon not being a proper Prince. Unfortunately, he was often so busy with his duties he had little chance of teaching either of you manners. 

No, instead, the older Prince was much more decisive. Every time he caught Daemon with one of the maids, he got rid of them and paid them a pretty sum to forget the incidents ever happened.

“They would have sent me back.” You realize, voice barely above a whisper. If he had ever caught a whiff of impropriety between the two of you, Prince Baelon would have sent you back to Driftmark so fast you would have gotten whiplash. 

“Yes. They would.” Daemon agrees, softly. His grip on your curls soften. Instead, he starts scratching at your scalp, as if to soothe the hurt. “And I didn’t… You are good. I wouldn’t have brought you dishonor.” 

The admission embarrasses him. Daemon wants everyone to think he isn't concerned with that sort of thing. It is his armor. Being the Rogue Prince, the one who makes the unexpected move, the one who doesn’t care about consequences. But he does. When it is someone he loves on the line, Daemon does. 

He loves you. You love him. Why do you have to wait a full moon for Corlys to get here? He is not the one getting married. You don’t need a fancy gown, nor do you need to be wed in a Sept, under a religion that is not yours. 

You look up at Daemon, a mischievous smile starting to form on your face. He looks at you. Not a word is needed. Daemon knows what you are thinking right away. 

His brows pinch together.

“Are you sure?” 

“Daemon.” You say, exasperated. Who does he think he is speaking to? You had not claimed the most dangerous dragon in Westeros because you lacked boldness. 

“Tonight?” Daemon searches your eyes. He finds no hesitation.  

“In the traditions of our houses.” You agree. 

“You understand that if we…” Of course you know. The bedding. Being married usually implies that. The thought fills you with dread and excitement in equal parts. You have been trying very hard not to think of Daemon in this way since the two of you were teenagers. But now, it is not only expected, but encouraged. 

“I know.” 

His hand on your waist tenses. You can feel his grip tighten, greedily. There is so much want in his eyes that it warms your blood. 

“Alright, Lady Confident.” Daemon teases, pressing another kiss to your forehead before letting you go. 

“The dragonpit, tonight. Get us the robes and Viserys.” You point at him, sternly. 

“And what will you get?” He pulls you in again, pressing your bodies flush against each other. You tremble against him, unable to help it. Daemon has such a magnetic pull on you, sometimes you feel like the two of you are never truly apart. He is constantly pulling you to him, into him, even when not in the room. He owns your thoughts, your feelings, your desires. 

But you are not about to tell him that. You like running too much, and by the Seven he likes to chase. 

“Is my presence not enough?” You tease, deftly slipping out of his grip. You start to walk away, hips swaying. Before you are truly out of his reach, you casually speak, as if it were the most normal thing to say. “My riding gear. I intend to ride a dragon tonight.” 

Daemon grabs your wrist, pupils blown. He stops you from leaving. 

“A dragon?”

“My dragon.” You snicker. “I suppose, while we are busy with that, Caraxes and my Cannibal can get to know each other.” 

His joyous laughter chases you all the way to your chambers. You spend the afternoon getting yourself ready. You bathe, soaking in the hot tub until you feel dizzy from the heat. Choosing to elope has made you unable to seek any advice from the only female presence in your life. You doubt Queen Alyssane will take well to the news of what Daemon and you are planning to do. 

Nerves clench in your stomach at the thought of bedding him. It is needed, if you wish to really be wed in the manner of your ancestors, and it has to happen tonight. Otherwise, the tradition would not be complete. 

Having grown around Daemon, you are not fully innocent. Not only have you listened to his exploits, but you also know your body well. What worries you is the fact that he has a lot of experience on you. 

You scrub yourself clean and get up, taking out your secret stash. Pearls are one of Driftmark more prized exports, and you have quite a few. Some have been ground into a fine powder that you apply over your eyelids. You like how the shimmery white contrasts against your brown eyelids, drawing attention to your eyes. 

Some women, especially near Dorne, use black pigment to make their eyelashes look fuller. You have always enjoyed the contrasts more. Velaryons have striking coloring, or so most say. The shimmery silver hair all Valyrians share, with darker skin to offset it and make it pop even more. It’s the same logic you apply to your makeup. 

Once you have scrubbed yourself to your satisfaction, you fret over choosing a shift to wear under the robes. Daemon has sent them to your chambers already, wrapped in a cloth as to not let anyone see what they are. You note that he has selected ones with a red sash, and you frown. You will no longer be a Velaryon after tonight, but you intend to honor your House. 

Perhaps the followers of the Faith of the Seven have the right of it, with the exchange of cloaks. With no Corlys to attend your wedding, you feel oddly adrift. You exchange the red sash for a light blue one. 

Finally, with no other excuse to stall, you put on your black cloak and make your way to the dragon pit. The dragonkeepers barely spare you a glance, used as they are to your antics. 

Caraxes has been brought forth, as has Balerion. Their growls and cries greet you as you step into the lower part of the pit. Your own mount is near, but kept carefully separated. He has an unfortunate tendency of biting other dragons. 

“This is an awful idea.” It is the first thing Viserys says to you, once he sees you approach. “The two of you will kill our grandmother one of these days.” 

“Good evening, Viserys.” You say, taking off your cloak. “Why, thank you for congratulating us.” 

“Thank the gods.” You hear Daemon’s voice before you see him. You turn, finding him dressed in his own set of robes. You had not doubted him for a second. “I thought you were playing a cruel joke on me. That you were… Oh.” 

He finally sees you, dressed in your version of the ceremonial robes. He freezes. 

“You look beautiful.” Daemon says, still a bit stunned. The images of him superpose in your mind. The boy he had been, the man he is now, lips stretching into the most joyful smile you have ever seen. It makes something warm and syrupy sweet nestle inside your chest, covering you in a golden glow.  So of course, he has to be a bit crude. “And all of it mine by the end of the night.” 

Viserys sighs. He looks very put upon, your recently appointed officiant. You decide not to make him wait any longer. Daemon and you marry under the traditions of your Houses that night, with only Viserys and your dragons as your witnesses. 

After the deed is done, palms and lips bloody, you race each other to Daemon’s chambers. The few servants left behind turn to stare, and as you pass, chamber’s doors open. Everyone wants a look at the two troublemakers that are making a ruckus near midnight. Gasps and scandalized murmurs are heard as the onlookers take in your appearance. The runes are painted brightly on your foreheads for all to see if your attires were not damning enough. 

You are sure the news will reach the Queen before the night is over. But as you stop in front of Daemon’s door, you can’t bring yourself to care. He lifts you up into his arms and opens the door with a well-placed kick. 

“Finally.” He says, carefully placing you inside. You laugh. Daemon busies himself with closing the door after the two of you, and it is then that you realize. 

You are married. To Daemon. Your best friend. Your childhood companion. Daemon, rider of Caraxes, the Rogue Prince, Daemon. Fuck. 

Daemon seems to be going through a similar thought process because when he turns to face you, his face is frozen into stunned realization. Now what? His eyes seem to be saying to you. So you step closer. And closer. 

And then his hands are on your waist, and he is kissing you for the first time. 

It’s devastating. There is no other way to describe it. You have been looking at Daemon ever since the two of you met, unable to look away from him, and you finally have his full attention on you. It’s terrifying. His lips move with yours, soft and tender, as if you are something to be treasured. No one knows you as he does, no one could break you as easily as he could. 

You grasp at him like he is your lifeline, hands clinging to his shoulders. There is no finesse in the way you undress him, greedy hands grasping at his robes. Daemon allows you to do so, his hands on your hips steady and calm. It is not until the robes have fallen from his shoulders, exposing his bare skin, that the two of you separate. 

“What do you need?” Daemon asks you, voice low. You look up at him, hoping to see the same desperation you feel reflected in his eyes. What you see takes your breath away. Daemon’s eyes are almost all pupils, the black having swallowed the purple you so love. His lips are swollen from your kisses, mouth slightly agape. “I’m here.” He says, and it sounds wrecked. “I am here.” 

The softness makes you want to cry. You feel overwhelmed with how badly you would like to be close to him. 

“I want… I need…” You articulate, barely. You try to take off your robes, but your hands, so deft at removing his, are slow and stupid when it comes to removing the knots. 

“Let me.” Daemon unties the knots, taking your robes away. His hands wrap around your back, pulling you close. “You are gorgeous.” 

His hands are warm against your ribs, caressing softly. He traces the curves of your waist and hips as if committing them to memory. You do not feel exposed or embarrassed, with Daemon touching you like this. You have belonged to him, heart and soul, since before you knew what the word meant. It’s only right that it is him who you give yourself to. 

Daemon kisses you again, slow and soft. His lips trace your jaw, and then, the shell of your ear. It makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on edge. 

“I seem to remember you saying something about dragon riding.” He whispers, and you can hear the devious smile he must be sporting in his tone alone. 

Because you are mean, and so much like him, you bite at his naked shoulder. You expect him to yelp or curse, but are fully unprepared for hearing Daemon moan. 

The both of you look at each other, before a giant grin takes over your face. 

“You like that.” You smirk. Daemon’s brows raise.

“So what if I do?” He challenges, with a smirk of his own. You run your nails down his sides, almost experimentally. His eyes almost cross, expression morphing into half pain and half pleasure.  “Seven Hells, you are not allowed to do that!” He complains, and you laugh. 

“I do intend to ride, you know?” You whisper to him, not a hint of shame on your face. 

“Good.” Daemon goes sit on the bed and takes off his breeches. He parts his legs, letting you see his cock for the first time. “Princess, come sit on your throne.” 

You shiver slightly, feeling arousal quickly taking over your best senses. His cock is pink and almost angry looking, perfectly placed for you to sit on his lap and sink on it. You want nothing more than to have him inside you. 

“No.” You say, instead. “Get me ready first.” 

“Come here, then.” He orders, impatiently. “Let me touch you.” 

“You have no manners.” You complain, a bit irked. Daemon has the bad habit of issuing commands, instead of asking. Ever since he was a child, the people around him have yielded to his position or his charm, even to his good looks. Daemon always gets what he wants. 

And you don’t want him to think it includes you. Being taken down a few pegs is healthy, once in a while. So you remain rooted to your spot, naked and confident in your own skin. You start to run your hands along your neck and breasts, tantalizingly. You can feel yourself starting to get wet. 

His eyes track your movements in the same way a man dying of thirst might look at running water. Hungrily, greedily. 

“And you intend to be the one who teaches them to me?” Daemon’s voice comes out much breathier than he probably expects. 

“It is never late to start.” You agree, mischief making your eyes light up. One of your hands pinches your soft buds, getting them hard and alluring. Your breath is heavier, soft little sighs leaving your lips at the stimulation. 

“Fucking… Come here.” Daemon says. You ignore him, running your hands over your breasts. “Please.” He adds, a bit desperate.

You smirk. You take exactly one step towards him. The way he looks at you makes you feel bolder. Your stance widens, one hand dropping between your legs, teasing. 

“Please. Please, by the Gods let me touch you.” He interrupts, before you can do anything more. “Come here, just… I’ll behave.” 

You run your hands over your sides and wait a bit, as if pondering his question. 

“Please.” Daemon repeats. He looks wrecked and you haven’t even touched him. You wonder if this is what he likes about sex, how powerful and in control you can feel knowing that you have another person wrapped around your little finger. 

“I suppose I’ll allow you to get me ready.” You say, very graciously. You make your way to his lap and pull him in for another kiss. 

As soon as your hips are over his, Daemon tries to cheat. He lifts his own hips, trying to grind his erection against your core. You pull at his hair, in warning. He growls against your mouth, and insists on attempting to grind against you. 

You pull back from him, bracing your hands on his knees. Almost on instinct, one of his hands goes to your waist, to steady you. 

“Was that what I asked you to do?” You ask him, frowning. Daemon pouts. 

“I was getting you ready. You are so wet and warm, I bet I could just slide right in.” He complains, much like a scolded child. 

“Really? Then you must not know what getting a woman ready means.” You grin. “Allow me to teach you. Sit back and watch.” 

Daemon growls at you, face slowly starting to flush. You are not sure if he is more enraged or aroused by what he is seeing.  

“You can’t be serious. My balls are turning blue from…” 

“Not my problem.” You answer him, cheerfully. You remain sitting on his lap. The hand he keeps on your waist allows you to not need to support yourself so much. You free one of your hands and direct it to your pearl, where you rub slow, steady circles. 

Under the candlelight, your cunt glistens. You wonder what you must look like to Daemon, wantonly touching yourself on his lap. By the awed look on his face, it must be quite the sight. 

“Do you..?” He licks his lips, throat suddenly dry. “Do you need my help?” 

“Yes. Put a finger inside.” You spread your folds, feeling how slick you are. Daemon groans. 

“Fuck. That’s…” He presses his finger into your hole, slowly. It sinks right in. You sigh, please. Fascinated, Daemon pulls it back a bit, only to push it back inside and feel your walls swallow it. 

“Another. Open me up.” You say, voice a bit shaky. “Curl… Ah. Like that.” No other order is needed. Daemon adds another finger and curls it, a bit mean. It makes you sit up straighter, hands clutching at his shoulders. For a while, nothing exists, except his fingers moving inside you. Want is making you burn up, sweat collecting in the small of your back. You rock your hips against his hand, looking him right in the eyes. 

Daemon’s expression is open in a way you have never seen before. He looks entranced by you, as if he is in the middle of a religious experience. His eyes are fixed on your face, watching your mouth form soft little pants. His other hand is on your hips, aiding your movements. 

“I love you.” He says, sounding a bit broken, a bit in awe. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” You press a kiss to his temple. “Ready?” 

Daemon nods, hiding his face on your chest. You grab his erection and line it up with your hole. He hugs you, tighter still, and it’s then that you sink on him. 

You curse, eyes going wide. Daemon lets out a groan. 

“Daemon.” You say, urgently. You feel like he is carving out a space for himself inside of you, as if he had not owned it already. “Daemon.” 

“I know.” He whispers back, rubbing slow circles on your back. He lifts his head and cradles your face, as if you are made of the most fragile porcelain. “My lady wife.”

“My lord husband.” You answer, equally tender. And it is then that you lift your hips and bring them down again. Daemon gives a punched out moan, hands tightening on your hips. 

You push him down to lay flat on the bed, bracing your hands on his chest to get better leverage. You lift yourself, up and down, until you have worked yourself into a frenzy and cannot stop moaning. 

Under you, Daemon has his eyes closed. His mouth is parted open, and he gives soft moans every time you bring yourself down. His hands are curled around your wrists, gently holding you to him. 

It’s not enough. It’s not enough, it feels like you cannot breathe if you are not near him. You need to be as close as you possibly can, and you need it now. 

You lay yourself down on top of him, until your breasts are squished against his chest. Daemon’s eyes open. He hugs you to him, kissing the crown of your head. 

“Thrust your hips.” You say, starting to lavish his throat with kisses. “I need…” You grind your hips against him, his pubic hair rubbing against your pearl just right. With the way you are laying on top of him, Daemon can’t get enough leverage to do anything more than shallowly thrust. You nearly cry from frustration.

“Shh… Just…” He rolls the two of you over, ungracefully. He grinds his hips against yours, with little to no technique. His back is hunched, hair in complete disarray. The blood - drawn runes on his face have smeared, leaving only red lines in their wake. You wonder if you look as fucked out as Daemon does. The thought makes you clench around him, pleasure building up, and up, until one well aimed thrust makes you scream and reach your peak. 

Daemon collapses next to you, his release painting your thighs. There is silence, for a while. Both of you look at each other, sated and exhausted by the day you have had. And suddenly, there is a pounding on the door. 

“I swear to the Seven, Daemon Targaryen, when I get my hands on you…” The Queen screams, and you dissolve into a fit of giggles. 

Peace Offering

Yandere Male Orc x Gender Neutral Reader (CW: Dub-con/Non-con, smut, cock warming, orc, general yandere behavior, escape attempt, all a big misunderstanding) Word Count: 3.4k (I think I dropped the ball a bit on the smut scene, if it seems a bit disjointed that is because I wrote the last 1/3 of the fic over the course of 3-5 nights and I apologize, I still think it is good enough to post and the rest of the story makes up for it in my opinion, I hope you all enjoy.)  For as long as you could remember the people of your medium sized town had been caught in a fierce and bloody feud with the woodland orcs that had come from the mountains and settled the forest across the river from your home.  The bad blood between your peoples had gone on for so long that no one even remembered what had originally sparked the conflict.  Almost all of your fellow townsfolk were content with their bloodlust and thirst for revenge, but not you. You had always been interested in other cultures and the orcs were no exception, you knew if you could meet with their leader you could broker a truce!  Whenever you spoke out your wishes for peace and diplomacy most of your fellow townspeople just rolled their eyes at you, thinking you were hopeless. Orcs, to them, were ruthless barbarians that had to be put down.  But you were not to be deterred! You would do your best to put an end to the attacks on one another and you’d learn about their culture in the process!  You studied every piece of information available to you on orc customs and culture, it was mostly stuff you had already known, but it still gave you more confidence in your self appointed task.  You spent weeks making the preparations for your diplomatic trek into orc territory. Everything had to be absolutely perfect. You painstakingly made the proper robe. Not only did the style need to be specific but the color had to be lavender, which was the color for cooperation according to your research.  Finally the day came when you were ready, you set off in your attire, gaining many odd looks as you left the safety of your town.  You crossed the bridge that lead from one side of the river to the other. Soon you came to the edge of the sprawling forest that the orcs called home. Despite your resolve you were still extremely nervous. Not just about meeting the orcs, but also of wild animals, and you did not even have a weapon on you as if the orcs caught you with one they might assume that you had malicious intent.  With a deep breath to center yourself you entered the orc’s land. You called out loudly and clearly the orc term for peace, they spoke very little of your language and you had to make sure they knew your trespassing into their home was because you were on a mission of peace.  You held your hands up in the universal way to show that you had no weapons and were no threat to them. You traveled for several minutes, seeing no signs of any orcs, but they saw you almost immediately upon entering their land.  Nrybul, the orc leader, gasped when he saw you. A soft squishy little human walking right into his forest dawning the ceremonial courtship robes and calling out the orc term for “gift”. Your intent was abundantly clear to him. You were offering yourself, or being offered by your people, as a gift/mate to him for peace.  He was intrigued and decided to watch you warily for a few minutes to determine if this was a new human ploy.  When the orc man had decided that you were probably safe he and the guards he was on patrol with made themselves known to you. You almost fainted from fright as three large orcs, weapons in hand, slammed down from the trees and landed a mere few feet in front of you.  They each had to be 7 feet tall. At least.  One of the orcs approached you. He wore a full set of dark plate armor. Rough and rugged, it had clearly seen many battles. The visor of his helmet was up revealing his red eyes and two large, almost tusk like, bottom teeth. This could only be the infamous orc leader that instilled fear into humans on the battlefield.  You could see why, that armor made his already intimidating size that much scarier. You were shaking and sweating nervously.  The orc said something you could not understand, but it seemed neither angry nor hostile. He took you by the hand and gently pulled you close before picking you up bridal style. You yelped a bit in fear from so suddenly being literally swept off your feet.  Nrybul could see you shake and sweating. Poor thing, humans were softer than orcs, but you were clearly far more fragile than most humans. It must have tired you out so much to make the long track here.  It was no wonder to him that you were offering yourself or being offered as a peace tribute to a strong orc. You were so soft and delicate. Clearly no mere human could keep you safe. You were even shaky and exhausted from just a little walk. He was kind of angry that your fellow humans did not give you an escort, clearly you had a weak constitution. But no matter, you were with him now, and he would gladly take up the task of being your mate.  You had no idea why their leader had decided to pick you up, but he did it very gently. Orcs were known for many things, but their tenderness was notably absent from that list, so you took it as a good sign. If they had been taking you as a prisoner you would probably be marched to their town at sword point so you forced yourself to try and relax in his hold.  Though you were by no means able to speak fluent orc you managed to get across your name to Nrybul on the way to their home and you also managed to discern Nrybul’s name.  Nrybul quite liked your name, as even your very name sounded soft and delicate in comparison to orc names.  He said your name several times over the course of your journey, almost as if he was savoring it or trying to embed it in his brain. You of course took this as a positive sign you must have made a good impression!  At long last you came within view of their town, strong wooden walls were erected all around the perimeter with a small guard tower near the main gate. The other two orcs that had patrolled with their leader left and returned to patrol.  As Nrybul approached with you the guard on duty motioned for the gate to be opened and Nrybul entered. His choice to hold a human in this manner, and your attire, granted you two many quizzical looks, though no one said anything other than a curt nod or awkward greeting to their leader.  Your own personal orc escort noticed you were no longer shaking or sweating so he figured you might like to walk a bit and stretch your legs. Nrybul put you down gently and allowed you to walk beside him.  He took you with him into a well lit mine where a few human prisoners were supervised as they toiled for ore. You did not know their names but you recognized them as people from your town, they had been captured during a mission into orc territory and presumed dead.    While Nrybul had a discussion with the orc guarding the humans you told the prisoners that you were trying to establish peace. They ignored you and laughed, assuming you would soon add to their ranks. They were stunned in silence when they were lead out of the orc settlement and set free.  He released the prisoners! You had done it, this was a sure sign that your attempt at peace was solidified. You took a few steps intending to go with the released prisoners back home but Nrybul grabbed your wrist gently and pulled you back into town before the gate shut with a resounding thud.  Nrybul knew you just wanted to escort your friends back home, but he really could not go with you and he absolutely would not have you going without him. What if you became fatigued again? You should never be without him attending to you if you are going to be outside the walls. And, preferably, that would not be a thing that happened too often.    He really wanted you to get a meal and rest, as tomorrow you would need to officially consummate the union of yourselves and the peace between your people.  You were extremely confused as Nrybul guided you gently into a large building that you could tell by the amazing smell inside was clearly a dining hall of some type. Maybe he wanted to share a meal with you to commemorate an end to hostilities? Or maybe this was more a part of making peace than it was a celebration of it, like a tradition that must be respected to make it official.  Either way, you had no intention of offending him and ruining all of your hard work so you let him lead you into the building and sit you down at a table as he left for a few good minutes. When he returned he had removed his armor, his attire was sleaveless, showing off his large biceps. You could now see his long red hair. He was quite handsome and you blushed and looked down quickly, hoping he had not caught you staring at him.  He set down a plate of food for each of you and then sat himself down a bit uncomfortably close to you.  You did not notice because you were looking away in embarrassment, but Nrybul was smirking as he had certainly caught you checking out his muscles and looks in general. He was very pleased, he was glad his soon to be mate was so impressed with him.  You started eating when you felt his left arm wrap around your waist and pull you a bit closer. You were unsure what this gesture meant to their kind, but it made you a bit nervous. But of course you could not offend him for fear of the consequences so you allowed him to keep you close while you just looked down and focused on continuing your meal of roast boar and vegetables.  Nrybul thought you were just so cute, acting all shy as he pulled you close. It really endeared him to you how you had been so determined to offer yourself to him despite being as feeble as you were. And now you were all shy and blushing. You were such a perfect mate for him.    When you finished your food you had expected to be allowed to leave. There was still enough daylight to make it home in time before dark. But Nrybul had a different idea of where your home was.  Nrybul held your hand and guided you once more. He lead you towards what was clearly his personal house. This was where you thought something may be wrong, from all the reading you had done you knew orcs did not allow strangers into their homes.  Could it have been possible that all of your gestures and behaviors had been indicative of a desire for courtship? He did seem to hold your hand a lot… But orc sex was rough and you were rather small, Nrybul was handsome, but you did not really intend to leave your friends, family, and home.  You noticed that a hunting party was coming back into the town and the gates where wide open. Screw peace, you did not want to upheave your entire life for it!    You slipped out of his loose hold on your hand and bolted across the town and through the gates. You left the trail so you would not be spotted so easily and headed in the direction that would take you home.  You did not spare the second that it would take to look back, but you heard him call out your name in the distance. You ducked low and made your way slowly through the bushes and weeds and crept away, hoping that they would pass you by on the trail and not bother to search off of it. Or at least not until you were gone.  Your heart was pounding, your legs were shaky, and you were sweating profusely both from the effort of getting away and from the anxiety that flooded you. You had not heard anything in a while so you started running as fast as your burning legs could carry you.  It looked like you were actually going to escape, the bridge would be in view soon and from there it would not be a long way to your home.  Suddenly though you were yanked back from behind, you screamed and kicked but Nrybul hardly noticed as he carefully put you over his shoulder and began the walk back to his town. You continued struggling for a minute or two, but soon gave up due to sheer exhaustion and the fact that he was clearly much stronger than you could ever hope to be. He was not even panting from the chase or from holding you.  Nrybul had actually been thrilled you had ran, as it is an old orc tradition that one mate must chase the other and capture them before their union is consummated. Not many still practice it, but it made him more than happy that you were so invested in immersing yourself in his culture. In fact, because of your efforts he was now sure that he absolutely loved you.  In truth though he was worried, you had demonstrated such a frail constitution earlier and were just so small and weak compared to a big orc man such as himself. He had actually been close to you the entire time, but he did not want to catch you too soon and make you feel like you were weak or unworthy of a proper chase. You had put so much effort into respecting his traditions, he did not need to show off and catch you immediately.  Nrybul decided he would wait a bit and when you seemed too tired he would snatch you up and then once he had you he would take you back to his bed for a nice, deep, well deserved fucking.  Soon enough you were already being carried back through the gates and into his town and shortly after you were entering his home. He wasted no time in rushing you to his bedroom and laying you stomach side down on his bed.  You dreaded what would certainly be a very rough and traumatic sexual encounter with a large orc.  That isn’t exactly what happened though. Nrybul had taken note of the fact that you were so delicate and would never risk hurting you. You were his little human mate, it would be dishonorable and cruel to hurt you. He gingerly removed your garments and appreciated your naked form from behind.  He disrobed then traced his strong hands along your sides down to your ass which he then groped.  Nrybul began massaging your ass cheeks. He figured the day had been very eventful for you and he was sure that you were eager to mate with him and make everything official, but he could tell you were very tense.  The orc pulled some special oil, a secret orc recipe, from a drawer and coated his hands before applying some to your shoulders, back, ass, and legs. It smelled strongly of spice with a hint of citrus. He firmly massaged your shoulders and neck first. The massage was very relaxing, but you were still extremely nervous.  He proceeded to massage down your body thoroughly. Leaving no inch of your back, butt, legs, or feet untouched by his loving ministrations. You realized that there must have been something in that oil he used because now you were very relaxed. At least physically. Despite your anxiety and fear your body remained at ease.  Seeing that you were feeling better from the treatment he had provided Nrybul decided it was time to start readying your hole so he could mate with his beloved (Y/N). He applied more of the special oil to your entrance, liberally applying it until you were dripping. He took one of his large thumbs and kneaded it into your hole as carefully as he could until he could slide in a few fingers into you easily.  The oil must have also enhanced sexual sensations because even just his fingers felt amazing inside of you. Nrybul massaged your insides until you were almost ready to come from his fingers alone, but before he did he stopped and lubed his fully erect cock.  Earlier you had your head buried in a pillow but when he stopped using his fingers in you you looked over and saw his dick for the first time. It stood, almost proudly, at a bit over 10 inches. But you were so eager and stretched now from him fingering your hole that you were now a little less nervous and a little more eager to have it inside you.  You would not have to wait long at all. Nrybul climbed on the bed with you so small and vulnerable below him. He lined up his throbbing cock with your entrance and prodded you before exceedingly slowly sliding into you. Despite the prior loosening it taking him fully still hurt a bit. Mercifully he kept the pace slow as he thrust in and out of your depths.  Quickly the small twinge of pain was replaced by waves of pleasure.  You heard Nrybul whispering your name gruffly over and over as he pumped into you. The orc was still going at a snail’s pace, afraid to hurt his tiny human, but it was agonizingly slow for you at this point.  You moved yourself back against his thrusts until he got the message. Seeing how you were handling him so well and how eager you were for his dick he began plunging into you in earnest. He still was far gentler with you than he would be with an orc partner of course, just a bit harder and faster than he had been with you previously. You whined in an exhilarating mix of pain and pleasure as you felt your stomach bulge out a bit from his sheer size penetrating you fully.  Disappointingly he pulled out, but it was only to flip you over on your back so he could see your face as he mated with you. Nrybul drove his cock back fully into you easily and continued at a steady pace, his large nuts smacking you loudly as you were fucked.  He started speeding up a little more as he stroked a strand of your hair out of the way and pressed a surprisingly soft kiss to your forehead. Then, as he thrust deeply and filled you thoroughly with copious amounts of warm orc cum, he slammed his lips roughly into yours and kissing you in a manner more in line with how you think orcs typically kiss.  You came hard while he kissed you as his still throbbing cock continued pumping cum into you. Nrybul kept you on his cock as he laid down and repositioned the both of you to be laying down. He laid behind you, holding you closely.  As he started to fall asleep with his stiff cock still firmly inside of you Nrybul could not be more content with the peace offering he had been given. He would have settled the costly feud between your town for much less than what he had received, but he would gladly accept and keep this perfect mate that had been offered to him.  You tried to squirm free from his strong arms and cock, but he did not even notice your resistance, leaving you to pout and accept your place as his cock warmer as he began snoring peacefully behind you.  The former prisoners would tell everyone you had them released and lasting peace would be cemented between your people, and all it took was accidentally giving yourself to a large orc warrior who wanted nothing more than to own you, baby you, keep you safe, and fuck you constantly.     

Part 12 - it was just for fools

"We were searching for reasons to play by the rules, but we quickly found it was just for fools." -Mary On A Cross by Ghost

Masterlist Part 11

Wonder Woman, with her extensive diplomatic training, was the perfect speaker to bring before the United Nations council. 

There was something regal about Diana, something that demanded attention from all genders and ages, her accent smooth and light with eyes hardened with barely concealed anger at what brought her to their door. 

The Anti-Ecto Acts. 

Diana understood war. There was very little she hadn’t experienced where it concerned the subject, from betrayal to a very personal loss, but now she had another chance to draw from her past. 

Prevention of a war. 

Only fools would believe a war against the Infinite Realms, the land of the End and death incarnate, that which holds every afterlife for every belief, was winnable. 

Every death on humanity’s side, was another solider for the King of the End. 

That was yet another point. 

The Once and Future Star King, Vanquisher of the Dark, Protector of the Light, Great One…. Was a Protector spirit. The spirit of a child who died wanting to be saved. 

Diana sighed, awaiting her fellow heroes in the meeting hall, Black Canary, Superman and Batman (with his ever tiny Robin) were already present. Red Robin was sat with a tablet, reading through a collection of data instead of conversing. 

It was almost seven on the dot, the meeting filled with nearly all members of the League, when Constantine portals in with a flask in one hand and a book in the other. 

“Not a word.” He grumbles around an unlit cigarette held between his lips, unceremoniously dropping into an unoccupied seat. 

Despite the surprise of John Constantine being on time for something, much less a Justice League meeting, Diana had other concerns to deal with. 

Namely, the repeal of the Anti-Ecto Acts. 

An unexpected summoning was a shard of ice in her spine, twisting like a knife of betrayal in the nerves, utter agony. Jazz had little warning, little time to brace herself before she was hooked behind her navel and yanked. 

Thank the Ancients she wasn’t in the shower, because whoever had the audacity to summon the Ghost King was not going to receive an eyeful for their trouble. 

Jazz allowed her armor to materialize, a slick sensation of water down her back soothed the lingering pain of the brutal summons, but her back plate soon settled firmly in place and irritated the nerves more so. 

Just as her helmet locked into place, sealing her fully into her armor, green smoke announced her arrival with a dramatic flair she couldn’t find humor in. 

Rested on one knee, head bowed, the Regent was quite an intimidating sight for the uninitiated. 

Her helmet, full coverage with a crown of green shards embedded into its pulsing ebony metal, only allowed the green tint of her eyes to shine through. Once her head lifted, the several shivers her gaze got proved how effective it was at unnerving others. 

With a breath, the Regent stood. 

“You have tried to summon the King of the End, why?” 

John Constantine was many things- a liar, a cheater, a non-believer- but he was certainly not a fool. He’d been against summoning the Ghost King, knowing full well to whom they would be dragging unwilling instead. Somehow the title of Regent failed to comprehend to most present, which was not Constantine’s fault in the slightest. 

(Hey, at least he was mostly sober summoning, right?) 

(Had to give credit where it’s due.) 

Bats was unamused with Constantine’s first warning of ‘Do not fuck with’ when Phantom had first shown himself, but this was ridiculous really. A message was always better than trying to summon the King, who would want to be interrupted right? 

Yet again, the Magician was overruled. 

(At least he didn’t have to sell his soul this time.) 

(The Phantom already gifted the glued together remnants to his Regent.) 

(Morbid as it was, at least John knew it was in better hands than some half wit demon he’d scammed.) 

No one answered before the Regent spoke with some amusement lacing her words, “I should have known a summon from you, Constantine, would be painful.” 

(Was it a good or bad sign that the Regent didn’t immediately call him ‘Sad Trenchcoat man’?) 

Diana politely interjected, “Greetings, My Lady. We apologize for the unfortunate experience and will endeavor to do better in future meetings.” 

(Good old Diana.)

“Greetings.” The Regent replied, helmeted head slightly tilted as she studied the others present before her, having been ignored for the time being. 

Wonder Woman pressed a fist over her heart with a slight bow of her head as she spoke again, “May I introduce the Justice League and it’s founders; Batman, Superman, and myself, Wonder Woman. You are familiar with Constantine, who is a member of Justice Dark.” 

“I am the Regent of the Realms, Lady of the Acropolis, you may refer to me as either.” Jazz intoned, serious as was only right for her titles. “I’ll ask once more… Why.” 

Constantine, despite the familiarity he held with Phantom, shivered in the presence of the Regent. The owner of his soul could command he turn on his allies, zap away his free will with only a few words. Sure, he had some doubts that the Regent would, but that doesn’t mean she couldn’t. The AEA proved that the Infinite Realms had every right to declare war on the Living and its citizens would be drafted to fight in the Legion, regardless of mortality status. 

John was many things- a liar, a cheater, a non-believer- but he was not a soldier or a fool.

He would be called to arms, as a magic user and battle-blooded soldier. There would be no choice, no deal he could make that would see his fate change. 

It was fortunate that the Regent didn’t want a war, but there was only so much she could do to hold back the growing tide of angry entities that wanted vengeance on parents, siblings, and children taken from them. 

(Ancients above and below, he needed a drink.)

It was times like this that brought the Regent back to her long days of training in the Acropolis. The echo of steel against steel, dodging ecto-blasts, deflecting weapons with her bracelets, Pandora’s steady words…

Pandora was many things- Leader of the Acropolis, Guardian of Hope, teacher, advisor, so on and so forth.

Pandora might be a ghost, an Amazon tasked with guarding her box, a Warrior of the ages past, but she was ultimately the Ancient of Peace. 

The Peace she never knew in life, war-hardened as she was. Raised with one hand clutching a weapon and the other an open palm, Pandora was a diplomat at heart. War had not been kind to her, but still, she taught her pupil (the Regent) the importance of listening. 

Many issues could be solved when one took the time to shut their mouth. 

Draw weapon, draw blood.

Aim at nothing you’re not willing to destroy.

If your opponent believes they have the upper hand, break it.

(These are just a few rules of war.) 

(She knew them all by heart.)

(Each one ingrained on her body, scars a testament to a faith in her training and herself.) 

The only rule Pandora had given her where to concerned Peace was this: 

Reach for it, but know that hearts aren’t so easily swayed as minds. 

It was why Jasmine never bothered trying to negotiate with the GIW. Their hearts were black and there was no changing their minds. 

Here she was, summoned by the Justice League with their own diplomatic trained Amazon at the ready. Pandora would be proud of her sister-in-arms, because despite the Regent’s unknown threat potential Wonder Woman had not reached for the sword at her side. Instead, she’d done a traditional Amazon greeting, from one warrior to another, a sign of respect that Jasmine had not expected to ever receive outside the Acropolis. 

“We had expected to summon the King, but were unaware of a Regent, my lady.” Wonder Woman spoke, but Constantine interrupted whatever she would have said next. 

“We wanted to discuss the possibility of war against the living, Regent.” 

Jasmine snorted, the voice-modulating function of her helmet made it sound funny to her ears, “Blunt as always, Constantine. You’re worried I would order you against your allies?” 

The Sad Trenchcoat Man blinked once, twice, “Bloody Hell, you don’t waste time, do ya?” 

“You possess the power to command Constantine?” 

That question had come from Lady Gotham’s first Knight, steady with no discernible emotion in voice. His hands were resting on his utility belt, which was a bad sign of his current judgment of her character. 

“For the sake of honesty, yes, Dark Knight, as the keeper of his Soul Remnants, I could command the Magician to do my bidding.” The Regent continued, “However, it was a gift and Phantom is fond enough of the Sad one that I wouldn’t use it unless I had no other choice.” 

“What would constitute ‘no other choice’?” 

Huh, Jasmine was starting to understand why Phantom chose Batman to give the Ghost Files too. She could feel the determination and protectiveness radiating off his soul, a familiar (though less powerful) sensation she only got from her little brother. 

“War.” The Regent retorted, “I’m beginning to understand why Phantom would choose you, Knight.” 

Constantine perked up a bit, “Didn’t you avenge him?” 

“Yes.” 

Wonder Woman came forward again, “My Lady, we wish to discuss the conditions of Peace between the Living and the Infinite Realms.” 

Jasmine smiled a bit sadly, though no one could see it, “I would be honored to.” 

If anyone asked, Red Hood did not swoon when he witnessed his future wife girlfriend kick a man straight in the balls so hard he saw God. 

Jazz was a beacon during a Gotham night, beautiful red hair seeming to catch fire with every light that danced across it, shoulders back and head held high his girl resumed her steady pace towards her apartment. This was a typical night for them, minus the would-be mugger and Jazz being unaware of the Red Hood following from above to make sure she got home safely. 

(Jason hadn’t been able to convince her to carry a gun.)

(Nonetheless, he knew his girl could take care of herself, but that didn’t stop the worry.) 

Hood wasn’t convinced about the safety of the area bordering his Alley, The Ridge,  with two relatively unknown metas acting as it’s Vigilantes and seeming to drive down the crime rate in the neighborhood to near extinction faster than he’d seized control of his own territory. It was odd that the metas weren’t crossing into the Alley, seeming to go around it and more into Gotham proper when they decided to roam, as if they respected the Red Hood claim more than the other bats. 

(Wasn’t that just a hoot.) 

(Two non-bats had more respect for him than his own family.) 

The Ridge was the lesser known little brother to Crime Alley, with its residents being mostly three-jobs and a drug problem demographic, but with Phantom and Regent the area had begun to show a bit more life. Sure, most of the builds were on the wrong side of dilapidated, hanging on with duct tape and a wad of gum, but when it was just bright out enough- no matter the time of day- Phantom’s ice can be seen glinting from miles around as it curved itself around foundations and floors to stabilize the structures. It hadn’t melted in the slightest the two months since it’s been formed. Hood had even tried to get a sample for testing, but the ice would not budge. Hell, he’d even taken a cheap shot at it- nothing. Well, except for the fact that you could now see a bullet encased within the ice. 

Phantom was a chill guy, apparently. 

(Hood internally groaned at the unintentional pun.) 

(Quick mental note made to shoot Dick in… well, the dick.) 

Red Hood had been gritting his teeth against the warm sensations of protect-anxiety-nervous for days, sensing danger every time he closed his eyes. Something had invaded Gotham and was messing with the Pit. 

No, not the Pit. The Pit was gone, no longer bubbling in his gut or green edging his vision, it was gone and replaced with something else. 

Something that gave him trouble, but was definitely a step up from Pit Madness. 

(And what a time for it to vanish, with Jason dating Jazz no more bloody nightmares when she was in his arms.)

He’d followed that ball of anxiety in his chest across Gotham, unconsciously avoiding Bruce’s usual patrol route and he climbed up to one of the gargoyles that kept vigil over the clock tower. Barbie hadn’t opened the comms to ask him what the hell are you doing here, but he wasn’t going to waste what little time he had with Phantom before he had to return to the Alley. 

The kid wasn’t older than Tim, but was ethereal in his form that felt cold to Hood. There wasn’t any sign that Phantom had been hurt by the Drs. Fenton, but Hood was all too aware of how looks could be deceiving. 

(The fuckers had vivisected him.) 

With every word passed between them, had Hood confirming the Ghost Files information to be accurate as far as Phantom was concerned. He was a teenager, a ghost in Gotham who was under the protection of the Regent and Ghost King. 

(Though incredibly corrupted, Barbara had been able to find a few frames of clarity.) 

(Lo and behold, the death of those bastards.) 

(He knew he recognized the armored figure, but couldn’t figure it out.) 

(It was right there on the tip of his tongue.) 

That same ball of anxiety loosened its hold with Phantom, a sense of protect-worry overwhelmed whatever else was in his chest. 

Phantom was a kid, ghost or not, vigilante or not. 

(No more dead robins.) 

It took two days and twelve hours for Jason to finally connect the dots between Regent and why in Hell he felt he knew the armored knight. 

Jazz was in her kitchen, hair braided and swinging back and forth against her back as she hummed and swayed in time with the soft music playing. His girl looked good in his Gotham Knights t-shirt, shorts revealing her toned thighs and legs, neckline of her borrowed shirt riding low enough to reveal several hickies he’d left on her earlier on the couch. Pride warmed his chest as he watched his darling Jazz, love for her settled deep into his bones. He knew she was the one for him, no going back, even if she didn’t know everything about him-Red Hood, his death, etc.

Jazz was made of steel and iron, forged with love and cracked with betrayal. Who had betrayed her in the past was obvious, her parents, their death must’ve been a mixed bag. Not to mention making the decision to allow their souls to be claimed by the Regent of the Infinite Realms. 

He had no doubt she would be unafraid of his nighttime persona, but he didn’t think he could handle her judgment of his past sins. He loved her too much and wanted to be good. 

The music stopped, dragging Jason out of his thoughts to find Jazz watching him with concern plain on her face. 

“Jace?” She lightly called for him, helpless to her he rose and gently wrapped her in his arms, her head tucked comfortably under his chin. 

“I’m ok, Jazz, just have a lot on my mind.” 

His girl hummed lightly, the sound vibrating slightly through Jason’s chest where her head rested. 

“Penny for your thoughts?” 

“They’re not worth that much.” 

Jazz pinched his side in retaliation for his lightly self-demeaning comment, but ultimately let it go. Another reason he loved her, she didn’t tolerate his bullshit. She’d been horrified to hear his comments about his self-worth, as much as he was joking, and had firmly threatened to punt his ass into the sun if he didn’t start getting a better self-image. 

To his credit, he listened and began seeing Harley for counseling, which he knew he’d needed when he’d finally gotten a working braincell again after his dip in the line green Kool-aid. He’d put it off long enough, believing that the Pit wouldn’t let him remain calm enough to discuss his abandonment issues and mental health. 

The Pit wasn’t churning in his gut anymore so any anger he felt was all Jason’s, and Jason’s alone. It was oddly satisfying to know that he was once again responsible for how he handled his anger. 

Jazz never really demanded anything, only insisting on some boundaries at the start of their relationship when it was difficult to keep his hands to himself while she was in his sight. His darling was the same this why she set those boundaries so they could get to know each other without it just devolving into sex. 

Sure, they have done some heavy petting and Jason definitely liked leaving his mark on her, but they hadn’t felt compelled to go further. Now that they had been together a little over a month the heat between them settled into a slow summer in his blood, no more threat of them acting like a pair of degenerate dumbasses with lesser brain function. 

Not that Jason would ever be against having sex with Jazz, he loved her and wanted to know her in every sense, but he had to confess several things before he could allow himself to be put off guard with his pants down. The big Y-incision scar on his chest was horrific and Jason didn’t want to scare his girl away before he had a chance to come clean. He wanted, no, needed Jazz to accept every part of him- life, death, Jason and Red Hood. He was ready for her to know the truth. 

What he wasn’t ready for, like last time, was the bomb.

A/N: Yes, beta read by @meditating-cat! Great beta reader, really appreciate the quick response and notes. Thanks!

We're gonna have a bit of a time jump between the summoning and the cliffhanger, which means that Jazz being summoned happens after. I wrote it this way for a reason... I think. Don't quote me on that.

Anyways, special red tint this time, because I just watched Death in the Family for the first time before writing this part and...I didn't like it. No, I'm not sure why I don't either. Jason is my favorite character for a reason.

Now, if you'll excuse me I'm gonna go read Wayne family adventures to make myself feel better.

Thanks for reading!

PS: 3k words???

sharing a bed

He turns his head at your suggestion, clearly thinking of it.  “Or I could leave” you mumble, leaning on the side of the wall. He’s still on the ground next to his bag diverting his gaze from your form.  “Mando, I can just find a different place to stay–” “No.”

just wanted to ask you guys to please read this

(asks are open)

happy reading

warnings: none

“So…” you draw out, unsure of what to make of the situation.

Mando lets out an awkward cough, readjusting the heavy bag hanging over his shoulder. 

The single bed stands out in the room like a bantha on Hoth, imposing on the comfortable, distant relationship between you and him. 

He steps further into the room and drops the bag on the floor of the room. He looks back at you with his ever-stoic expression, unmoving. 

Suddenly, he bends down to the floor, fumbling with the zipper on the bag. You watch as he slides it open with ease, large hands digging through the bag, rummaging around for something. You’re sure that he was only going through his bag because of the awkwardness of the situation, to divert from the topic. 

“I’ll take the floor” he grunts out, voice strained. You gulp quietly, still standing at the threshold of the door. 

“Uh, no. Mando…I don’t think that's going to be comfortable at all” you watch as he turns his head to you, an unreadable expression dons his demeanor. He continues to stare at you, silence permeating the air. 

“Why don’t we share it, it's obviously big enough for the both of us” you suggest casually, not wanting to instigate tension in the already tense atmosphere. He stiffens at the thought, hands abruptly halting from their movement. 

Well this is just great! You’ve made him uncomfortable, way to go! you think to yourself, internally beating yourself up over your words. 

“Unless it's the helmet…” you stumble out, timidly stepping through the threshold and into the small bedroom. “I can cover my eyes somehow” you twist your hands together, unsure of what to say.

He turns his head at your suggestion, clearly thinking of it. 

“Or I could leave” you mumble, leaning on the side of the wall. He’s still on the ground next to his bag diverting his gaze from your form. 

“Mando, I can just find a different place to stay–”

“No.”

You stand there, gawking at him. His sudden, forceful tone shakes you to your core, his authoritative nature coming out in full force. Your face reddens a bit from this singular word, your brain racking through all of his meanings and insinuations. 

“No, I mean…” 

He clenches his hands together, his leather gloves creaking from his actions. He stands up abruptly, a small sigh crackling through the modulator of his helmet. You push the door behind you closed and lean on it gently, waiting for his response. He watches you carefully, studying your movement. He slowly walks up to you, bringing his hands up to his belt. The broadness of his shoulders eclipses your vision. You gulp nervously, awkwardly standing in front of him. 

“I- ‘m fine with it” he draws out, fidgeting with the belt loops around his fingers. 

“All right then” you say matter of factly, brushing past him quickly, averting your face from his view. 

You kick off your shoes and shed your jacket, tossing it carelessly on top of Mando’s bag. You pull back the covers of the bed and plop down onto the mattress with a sigh. Mando slowly moves his way towards the bed, shedding his own armor and boots, methodically and thoughtfully. He concentrates on the way he handles his chestplate, gently placing it down near his bag. He does the same for his shoulder plates and leg armor, again placing it quietly next to his chestplate. You lay back slightly, watching him as he strips down to only his underclothes, a soft black shirt and dark pants. 

“About the helmet…I have a cloth for your eyes–” he articulates, jumbled by the premise of the situation. 

“Oh, of course, I’m sorry–”

“No, it's not your fault–”

“Really, I could just, if you’re uncomfortable with removing the helmet I could–”

“No” he presses out once more, his voice assertive and strained. “Just, put this on. Please” he nearly begs, internally crumbling from the awkwardness of the situation. 

He holds out the dark cloth in his now bare hand. His hand is calloused, skin a tanned, golden honey. Your hand brushes his as you take it, skin brushing against skin. You meticulously tie the dark fabric around your eyes, blocking the world out from vision, plunging into darkness. You lean back fully in the bed, your legs straight as a pin under the covers. 

You hear the hiss of his helmet disengaging, a sound you’ve only heard once or twice before. Your breathing speeds up, afraid of breaching his trust by somehow messing up, even with the blindfold on. The helmet sounds heavy and hollow as he sets it down. The mattress dips underneath you as he climbs into the bed, his breathing shallow. You hear him gulp, his muscles tensing under the sheets. Keeping your eyes open becomes a battle of its own, and you succumb to slumber as you hear the steady breathing of Mando beside you.

When you open your eyes, you feel something heavy draped over your back. As you stumble into consciousness, you remember the night before, Mando reluctantly climbing into bed with you. Your breathing picks up, shaking any ounce of sleepiness from your mind. As you begin to sit up, his arm shifts around your torso, pulling you towards him and into his side. 

“Mando” you hiss out, face reddening at his unconscious actions. 

“Mando, wake up” you say louder this time, feeling extremely uncomfortable in this position. His grip on you tightens slightly, your face smushed into his side. 

You hear him groan out in acknowledgement, stuck between the state of dreamland and consciousness. His hands flex, a sharp inhale escapes his unmodulated lips. You begin to struggle under his arms, thinking of all the accusations he could make up, thinking of the awkwardness to follow from this night, thinking he might just leave you behind at some outpost after this whale incident. All of a sudden, he shoots straight up, shoving you away from him with a strong force. 

You’re nearly thrown off the side of the bed, a small shriek escaping your lips at the unanticipated action. You grip onto the sheets, holding yourself steady near what you presume is the edge of the bed. The blindfold only heightens your anxiety, the darkness providing no insight on what he was doing in the moment. You hear his breathing begin to even out, your own breath slowing down from the past few moments. 

“Are you okay?” he huffs out, his voice so very clearly unmodulated, and it sounds wonderful. 

You stutter out “Uh, yeah,” gulping at his words. 

You hear the sound of his helmet engaging, a hiss emitting from the machinery. Your heart sinks a little, yearning for the sound of his voice to grace your ears for just a little longer. 

“I’m sorry– You can take off the blindfold now” he stutters out, floundering around his words.

“Oh” you say stupidly, lifting your hands up to remove the cloth. Your eyes adjust to the bright light of the room, and you see Mando lifting himself out of the bed. You watch him as he hurriedly puts his armor on, rushing to fasten the clasps around his shoulders. He yanks his gloves on then picks up his bag, slinging it over his shoulder. You’re still sitting in the bed, a vacant expression hanging over your face as you watch him. 

He looks over his shoulder and mutters out a quick “I’ll be ready outside when you’re ready” before throwing open the door and walking straight out of the room. 

“...Okay then” you say, pushing yourself off the bed, a shade of red painting your face. 

- - - - - 

You lay in bed, eyes drooping, drowsy from sleepiness. You turn onto your back, stretching your legs and arms, a soft groan eliciting from your lips. Your eyes open a bit wider as a figure enters your vision. 

Din. 

A smile erupts from your face and you stretch your arms out towards him as he stalks over to the edge of the bed. You look up to him, your eyes raking over his form quickly. He’s wearing a soft black shirt with matching pants, and a small smile paints his face. The mattress dips under his weight as he gently climbs into the bed.. He crawls into your open arms, laying partially on top of you. You clasp your arms around his torso, drawing a contented sigh out from Din. 

You bring one hand up to his hair, raking your fingers through his dark, curly locks, slowly and methodically. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his hot breath spanning your skin. 

“You’re so soft” Din groans out from your neck, his hands tightening around your torso. 

A warm feeling washes over you, your cheeks slightly blushing from the low timbre of his voice. His stubble scratches the skin between your neck and shoulder, tickling your skin. You bring your hands down to his face and lift his head up gently, forcing him to stare straight at you. His eyes are lidded, chin now resting on the soft skin of your stomach. 

“Hi” you whisper.

“Hi” he whispers back, a lop-sided smile on his face. 

A soft look washes over his face, and he drags himself up to lean in closer to your face.

“Can I kiss you?” he mutters, eyes darting back and forth between your lips and your eyes. You blush, a smile creeping up on you. He’s only a few inches away from your face, you can see every lineament and wrinkle of his skin, the gruff stubble on his face, his wiry mustache, his deep, dark, beautiful, brown eyes. He smells like sandalwood and greenery, the scent peppery and strong. 

You lean in, closing the small gap between you two. You press your lips to his, inhaling at the contact. Your hands come up around his shoulders, tugging on him, trying to pull him up your body. His stubble scratches your chin in the finest way, his lips are so soft. Din draws his body farther up yours, pushing you deeper into the bed, the mattress pressing down on both sides of your form. He bites your lip, slowly pulling away as he breaks contact. 

It’s like he’s floating above you, the dim light haloing his hair. You’re both breathing hard, flustered from the intimacy of the kiss. Suddenly, he grabs onto you and flips you over, a small gasp erupting from your lips. You’re on top of him, well partly on top of him, and he’s looking at you like you’re everything to him. His eyes widen and your heart flutters, a full blown grin displayed on his face. You put your hands on his shoulders, steadying your position on top of him. You smile back at him, snuggling into his chest. A deep inhale slips away your lips, taking in his scent. 

“Hard to believe you’re a big, scary, bounty hunter when you’re so cuddly like this” you beam, staring at nothing in particular. 

He lets out a raspy chuckle, hands coming up to rest on your back. 

“Yeah, hard to believe” he huffs out, rubbing your back slowly. 

You sigh, content, allowing the atmosphere of peace and tranquility, softness and love, to consume you. 

Fashion in Fódlan: a very long, non-comprehensive, and entirely unsolicited analysis

The fe3h writers did a pretty solid job of creating three nations with clear social, economic, and political differences. The fashion stands out to me as doing exceptionally well at expressing those differences, and, just like in the real world, it works as a sort of socioeconomic barometer that helps tell Fódlan's story.

In this post, I'll break down the key clothing trends in the three regions and provide some light interpretations, largely related to $$

Please note that I'm NOT using this post to discuss historical inspirations. Also, not everyone from every region is included. In particular, anyone whose outfit is too much of just a riff on a class uniform (like the Ashen Wolves or the various minsters in the empire) is left out.

There's a part 2 now lol (church of seiros time); part 3 as well!

1. Holy Kingdom of Faerghus: function IS fashion, baby!!

Fearghus, beloved land of ice and snow and spooky folktales about watering your fields with blood and ghosts living under the ground - you did not come to fuck around. You're here to protect the commoners and go back home to a stew that may, if you're lucky, actually have some meat in it. In this kingdom, you're going to dress warm and you're going to like it. Oh, you have some extra money? Gonna spend it on something for yourself? Better be using it for something useful, like keeping your plate armor in good condition. (Please note: Catherine, though being Faeghan, is excluded because she wears the uniform of the Knights of Seiros, not her own clothes.)

Trends:

High collars, long skirts - generally as little exposed skin as possible. (There is exactly one pair of bare hands in the entire kingdom. Mercie is getting a little bold 👀)

Fur cloaks/capes/gloves, or just fur around the cuffs and collars if they don't have a full fur cloak.

Armor - every single man is dressed in armor, as is Ingrid. Most of the men have full suits of plate armor, but Felix, Rodrigue, and Ashe are wearing only gambesons (note the quilting in Felix's sleeve - that's what gives it away, imo). The folks in plate armor would have gambesons on as well (you can see Ingrid's underneath her breastplate), acting as padding for the plate armor. I think Gilbert is wearing plate armor with a tunic over it (a realistic historical practice).

Fastening is accomplished with clasps and lacing, and there are relatively few buttons or adornments to be seen on the main garments - Annette is an exception, which will be addressed later.

Brief analysis:

Notice the economical use of fabric - their clothing tends to lie flat, with fabric being layered for warmth rather than pleated, gathered, or puffed. The folks in plate armor may spice it up a little with a sash of some kind if they aren't already wearing a cloak or cape. I'm assuming Gilbert's ~stylish tunic~ is keeping him warm well enough to not need a cloak or larger scarf. (Mercedes has a ruffles and puffier sleeves, plus a fuller skirt, but it's worth noting that she is currently part of a merchant house, and merchants tend to be wealthier and actually occupy a unique social class between nobles and commoners.)

Note the colors, too. Greens, browns, and yellows are the cheapest and easiest dyes to make and use. That bright sort of tawny color that Gilbert, Annette, and Jeralt all have is easy and cheap. Gilbert's grey tunic could feasibly just be undyed wool. A true blue is difficult, but you'll note that the blue the people wear up here leans towards grey and green - could be that the dye is faded, or that it was never very blue to begin with. The only true blue is on Dimitri.

All of this reinforces the idea that Faerghus is not a rich nation, and the nobility don't live too far off from the common folk. The vast majority of the cost we see is actually their armor (worn by Dimitri, Dedue, Sylvain, Gilbert, Jeralt, Matthias, Ingrid, and also if we're getting all the way into it, Gwendal, Miklan, Lonato, and Baron Dominic as well), which is would have been pretty expensive. You'll notice they mostly wear grey armor with very little extra decoration, keeping the costs low. Ingrid, the poorest of the nobles in armor, also has the least actual plate. Felix and Rodrigue both have full cloaks, which most other people don't have (just Dimitri), but they also aren't wearing plate, so clearly that's a calculated choice.

That being said, even within these more economical fashions, we can still see clear differences between classes. Most noticeably, Felix (rich) and Ashe (not rich) have very similar outfits, but Felix's tunic/gambeson is lined with fur, while Ashe's is not.

BTW I'm of the opinion that the Fraldariuses are the richest people in the kingdom other than the royal family, and I believe that specifically of their fancy cloaks lol

so luxurious~

2. Adrestian Empire: look at my money bitch

Ah, the land of beauty and excess! I love to live in the capital and visit the cultural icon that is the opera and pretend that I'm not in Wealth Inequality Central. (Please note: Petra is not included, since she dresses according to Brigid's fashions. Also note: I fuck w these styles so hard, dude.)

Trends:

Short skirts (above the knee - Dorothea has a draped over-skirt thing, but her main skirt is shorter, and Manuela has leg slits instead of a short hem), low or square necklines, open backs. In general, we're looking at a lot of exposed skin. Forgot to include Cornelia in the pics, but she has this too.

Tailored jackets with just SO many buttons. Hanneman fits into the tailored jacket category, but isn't included in the highlights by virtue of Not Enough Buttons. (Some concept art is included here to drive the point home.)

Finally, there's this specific very specific double-breasted neckline thing (baby edelgard is separate bc i forgot to include her when i made the first image shhhh)

Brief analysis:

Adrestian fashion is all about displaying status and wealth, in this case through ornamentation, rich colors, uniforms denoting class/role, and also a fair amount of excess fabric.

Historically, fabric itself was one of the major indicators of wealth - in fact, certain historical styles very explicitly showed off just who was rich enough to afford, for example, a whole gown made from the same length of fabric, or even just an entire skirt panel with no piecing. In the Adrestian Empire, We've got excess fabric galore, tucked away into all those beautiful ruffles and bell sleeves, layered skirts, unnecessary capes, double collars, and puffy pants - and it's all in much more luxurious colors, too. In fact, I'm pretty sure the largest single piece of fabric on anyone in the game is Edelgard's cape, which is then also adorned with dozens of buttons and extra bits of fabric. It's almost definitely fully silk, both the outer layer and the lining. (And it's badass.)

Look at all that fluff! Dimitri's cloak probably rivals hers in the size of the actual fabric itself, but his is likely a heavy wool (unlined, maybe?), plus has a lot of fur.

"Oh, but pg, there are capes in Faerghus, too!" yes, but in Faerghus, they live in the arctic /hj. Note the vast expanses of exposed skin down here in the empire - clearly, cold is not an issue. You'll also note that the cloaks in Faerghus were heavy and lined with fur; that's not the case here. Given the prevalence of tailored jackets and the dual colors on Ferdinand's cape, I'm guessing they're either a comparatively lightweight wool with a silk lining (typical for tailored suit jackets, nothing particularly noteworthy about that), or just fully silk. (Bernie's shawl is just cotton though, prove me wrong...) Hanneman and Manuela are exceptions, since they both have fur, but they live at Garreg Mach, not in Enbarr.

The jackets themselves, by the way, could be silk OR wool. Ferdinand's in particular (especially thropes) reminds me of early 18th c. waistcoats, which would have been full silk.

We also have much richer colors down here in the land of art and song. Red, purple, and black were all very difficult colors to maintain, and very expensive. The most expensive colors, in fact. Not gonna lie, as far as price per yardage goes, I think Hubert's outfit might rival Edelgard’s in expense.

A notable exception to the excess fabric bit is Bernadetta. However, her dress is in what is arguably the most expensive color, and is heavily decorated, so that's a reasonable trade-off, and I don't blame her. I, too, would go for a smaller amount of pretty purple silk embroidered with bright, beautiful gold and yellow instead of a bigger, more impressive-looking option. It's about the little things.

I do want to take look at Caspar, in particular. He's unique in that he's dressed in a full suit of armor. But, given that he's the second son and not set to inherit anything, unlike all his waistcoat-wearing friends, he isn't being held to some particular uniform, and even if he were, it's the ministry of military affairs. Of course they wear real armor. What's interesting is that his armor is a sort of rosy grey/brass, rather than silver, and he has a lot more decoration and flair than the folks with full armor in Faerghus, in both his throuses and thropes outfits.

Worth noting, btw, that we have exactly zero examples of actual commoners in Adrestia, other than generic NPCs. Dorothea belongs to that peculiar niche that is opera and acting, so she is expected to dress and act like a noble, despite not having a title or property of any sort.

Adrestia - and Enbarr in particular - leads the slow march of fashion across Fódlan, given that it's a cultural hub and is so much wealthier, while Fearghus slowly picks things up over time. Thus, we have Annette, who lives closer to the empire and has disposable income, having some decorative buttons and tassels and a mock low neckline.

It's not nearly as much as the actual Adrestians, but she's picking it up!

3. Leicester Alliance: the beeeest of both worlds~

Oh, Alliance, you messy bitch. What we see here is a mix of everything, where some of them are influenced by Faerghus, and others by Adrestia (just like how some of them have kingdom-style names and some have empire-style names), and a few fit neither camp. There are clear reasons for similarities where they exist, though, so let's take a look! (Please note: Claude is not included, since his clothes are heavily influenced by Almyra.)

Hilda and Lysithea have the frills, puffy sleeves/skirt, short hems, low/square necklines, and expensive colors of the empire (plus, Lysithea gets a decorative veil in dark purple. How ~fancy~). This reinforces the idea that Adrestia sets the standards for fashion: Hilda cares about fashion and keeps up with the times. Lysithea lives on the border and was briefly under the control of the empire, and thus is influenced by it. Mostly, though, I think it's about how she tries to seem older and tends to see Hilda as a model of maturity (lol), so she's following that example.

Holst's armor is quite decorative, similar to Caspar's, but what stands out to me is the fringe in particular. We see the exact same fringe on Caspar, Hubert, and Edelgard, but not anywhere else.

Lorenz and Erwin are a bit of a border case, tbh! They both wear practical, full plate armor with little in the way of extra decor (other than Lorenz's rose and Erwin's little cape thing), but Jesus christ how much does it cost to keep it all so purple like that??? That's a blatant display of wealth that would impress any empire noble.

Marianne, on the other hand, would fit right in in Faerghus, with the old fashioned long skirt, high collar, capelet, and lack of extra decoration other than some pretty trim. Makes sense, since her territory is so close to the kingdom and she's clearly not interested in trying to stay fashionable.

Judith is dressed very practically, has some fun puffy sleeves and bright but inexpensive colors, has a short cape and gambeson (a short vest one, though). I want to say leans toward Faerghus, which makes sense since it's on the border and the house did at one point split off, with part going back to the kingdom.

Now we get to the only real, honest-to-god, never-owned-land-or-property, born-as-and-remain-now peasants/commoners: Leonie and Cyril. (Raphael was born into the merchant class and was able to support himself and Maya by selling his estate, so while we can consider him a real commoner at this point, it's not nearly to the same degree.)

Their economic status is obvious from their outfits: both have very practical clothes with no extra decoration, in cheap and easily accessible colors. Leonie's cloak wrapped around her waist is purely functional - she can use it when the weather calls for it, but it's out of the way of her arrows when she doesn't need it - and looks to be pretty soft, so likely is lightweight. She has a hint of some light protective wear (note the quilted sleeve) and the same front clasps as Felix and Ashe, so i think she's also meant to be wearing a gambeson, but it's shorter and less protective. Cyril doesn't seem to have any armor at all except for the shoulder protection - we can tell from the lack of center-front closures on his shirt and the shape of the cuffs of the sleeves that he's actually just wearing a tunic (or rather, two tunics on top of each other).

Raphael also has a very practical outfit, but notice that his is so much more protective, probably because he has a little more money than the other two. He has very limited, sparsely placed plate armor, but he is covered head-to-toe in quilted cloth armor. He's ready to get some punching done, baby!

Our real outlier, however, is Ignatz... But you bet your bottom dollar I've got an explanation for that one, too!!!!! Mans is an artist and he has rich(?) merchant parents, he can do whatever he wants.

Absurdly unnecessary lengths of (probably not very expensive) cloth? Sure. Fancy feathers that literally no one else gets? Why not! A billion buttons, half of which arent even keeping anything closed? Curly and intricate cloak fasteners probably made of some kind of cording? Sashes and tassels and a decorative sword??? Fuck it, we ball. I love this so much, it's easily my favorite outfit in the entire game and I would ABSOLUTELY wear it irl. I already have the right haircut and glasses and boots, I'm ready

4. In conclusion

These designs really are Fódlan in a nutshell. From the quiet wealth and functionality in Felix's fur-lined gambeson to the audacious luxury of Ferdinand's waistcoat to the unrepentant anarchism of Ignatz's entire vibe, we can see the history - and future - of the continent outlined right before our eyes:

Faerghus is cold, practical, focused on survival, and probably has the most even distribution of wealth. Leicester is a mix of remnants of the empire and kingdom, with clear wealth disparity but also a relatively high amount of social mobility and communal support systems. Adrestia has significantly wealth disparity, with nobles very disconnected from their people and instead busy politicking about.

Side note I know I said I wouldn't go into the historical inspirations, BUT I do think it's interesting that the men's clothing in Adrestia - particularly the tailoring - is similar to much later styles than the men's clothing in Faerghus, and the reverse is true of the women's sleeves and necklines.

Okay that's all, thanks for reading!

A Fresh Start [8]

Din Djarin x F!Reader

Warnings: pining, it’s mutual, they’re both just oblivious to the other, mention of fake name use, also I didn’t proofread this as much as I should’ve probs (that’s a warning right?)

Word Count: 3,494

Summary: When  you made plans for your future they never involved being hired by a   Mandalorian to baby-sit his adorable, green gremlin of a child.   However, after your life fell apart in the span of one disastrous night,  you found it to be the only feasible option you had left. Nevarro was a  far cry from Coruscant, but the thriving community turned  out to be  exactly what you needed. Every day you spend in Nevarro you  fall more  and more in love with your new life, but when your past rears  its ugly  head you find that perhaps peace wasn’t meant for everyone.

Ch. #08: YOU’RE HIS HOME

Chapter Summary: First day of school, first day of school!

"I feel this gravitational pull towards you. Like the universe & all the galaxies had a talk and said, 'yeah, it's time'." -Gawn Birdie (On How We Find The One)  

You had a weird mix of excitement, anxiety, and trepidation swirling in your gut. It was Grogu’s first day of school. You were excited at the prospect of him having fun, learning, and making new friends, but it didn’t dull the anxiety you felt. What if the other kids were mean to him? What if he hated it? You wondered if this was how your mother felt on your first day of school. Not that you were his mother, you reminded yourself. As you cooked breakfast, you scoffed and shook your head. You were the nanny. You couldn't let that line in the sand blur.

 “Nanny.” You mumbled to yourself plating Grogu’s favorites. An omelet and fruit. You called out for the kid. “Grogu! Breakfast!”

 You set his food onto his high chair’s tray and began to move around the kitchen packing his favorite snacks to take with him. Grogu’s happy babbling made you glance over your shoulder. He bounded into the room and you picked him up to place him in his seat.

 “Are you excited for school today, Grogu?” You asked while packing.

 “ ‘lek!” He replied, voice muffled from a mouthful of food.

 You paused in your work to reach out and rub his head. “Can you say that in Basic? Can you ‘yes’?” He repeated the word though it came out sounding more like ‘ye’ then ‘yes’. You understood him though which meant his teacher would too if it came up. You lightly bopped his nose with your finger. “Good job, baby. So smart.”

 Grogu preened at your praise. You wondered if he would speak up at school. Maybe not initially, but how long would it take for him to grow comfortable enough to do so? Even if he didn’t speak, he had never had a problem conveying to others what it was he wanted, but you wanted him to practice more.

 “Morning.” Mando greeted.

 He stepped out from the back hall into the kitchen wearing his full suit of armor. You returned his greeting with a smile. “Good morning.” Mando walked around the kitchen island to sit at the bar stool next to Grogu’s high chair. Your eyebrows raised in surprise. “Shouldn’t you be heading out?”

 “I’m going in late. Wanted to be there for his first day drop off.”

 A slow smile grew on your features. You already knew Mando was an above average father, but it was little moments like this that were a reminder. It was one of the many things you found you liked about the man. You motioned to the stove. “You want me to make you breakfast?”

 “No.” Mando raised a hand to shake it. “Don’t worry about me.”

 With a nod, you set the dishes you used to make breakfast into the sink and ran some water into each item briefly. “Hey,” You turned back to Mando as you dried your hands on a dish towel, “I’m gonna run and change then grab his book bag to pack up real quick. Is that alright?”

 Mando chuckled. “I think we can survive, but I’ll call out if breakfast takes a bad turn.”

 You rolled your eyes in amusement and left the kitchen. It wouldn’t take you long to change out of your pajamas into simple day clothes. Just something that would keep you from looking like a bag lady on the streets. Once ready, you swung by Mando’s room to snag the small book bag he had bought for Grogu over the weekend. While in the room you found Grogu’s drawer and packed an extra change of clothes for the boy just in case.

 “Grogu, you’re making a mess.” Mando’s voice drifted toward you as you walked down the hall back into the kitchen. You spotted him standing in front of the high chair trying to keep Grogu from trying to swallow half his omelet whole. The innards were beginning to fall out. “Ad’ika, nayc.”

 “Did breakfast take a bad turn?” You called out.

 Mando glanced over his shoulder with a sigh. “Apparently. I spoke too soon.”

 He wrestled the omelet out of Grogu’s hands and you didn’t step in to help. Instead, you packed the snacks you made into the bag alongside the extra set of clothes. Bag ready to go, you turned and leaned on the kitchen counter to just watch Mando try and clean Grogu while he continued to stuff more omelet into his mouth. These were the kind of mornings you could get used to way too easily.

 Grogu disappeared into the building with the other students, and though he could no longer be seen, you and Mando stood there staring for a second longer. The walk to school had been a cheerful event of letting Grogu walk on his own and following behind him. The morning was calm and anyone you passed greeted the three of you happily. As you had neared the city's center, you noted parents walking their own children to the school. When Mando shifted in place, you turned your attention to him.

 “Off to the station?”

 “Yeah.” Mando nodded. “I’m going to try and get off in time to be here with you for pick up.”

 “Alright.” You motioned down the street. “Can I, uh, walk you to work?”

 Mando stayed stock still. You had gotten good at reading his body language, understanding the tilts and nods of his head, catching onto the emotions that wafted off of him, but this still left you clueless. When he stood frozen it gave you nothing to work with. Finally, he cleared his throat. “Sure.”

 The two of you walked side by side in the direction of the station. You let Mando set the pace, and he chose a slow stroll. For the first minute or so, the two of you were in a comfortable silence. You were mentally trying to puzzle out a way to ask Mando the questions bouncing around in your head. You wanted to know more about Mandalorians, but you didn’t want to overstep.

 Mando spoke before you found your words. “How have you been sleeping?”

 “Oh.” You hadn’t expected him to ask about that. “Pretty good. Dreamless sleep. The best kind.”

 Apparently all it had taken to cure you from that repetitive memory was sleeping a few hours in Mando’s bed with Mando and his son. Not the solution you thought you’d find, but you were hardly complaining. In fact, all it took was one night of passing out with Mando and Grogu within reach to make sleeping in your own bed feel lonely. You were even tempted to ask to sleep in the bed again. Tempted, but not stupid enough to actually go through with it.

 “I wanted to, um, ask you about something, Mando.” You started and were caught off guard when he stopped walking to look at you. You offered him a nervous smile. “If that’s okay?”

 “I thought we were past you being timid.” He said. “I don’t want you to be scared to ask me anything, cyar’ika.”

 His words settled your nerves. You chuckled. “I know. I’m not scared, but this…” You shrugged. “I wanted to ask you about your culture and Mandalorians in general. I just didn’t want to blind side you with it.”

 Mando nodded. “I appreciate that.” He began to walk once more and you followed. “Ask.”

 Alright. Now you had to figure out what to ask and what order would be best. You paused to think it over and Mando gave you the time without pressing further. You twisted your lips before just picking one. “You can’t take your helmet off, right? Not in front of anyone but Grogu?” Mando nodded in confirmation. “Why? Is it because he’s your son? Can Mandalorians only show their face to their family?”

 “Yes. There was a period of time where… Grogu was separated from me.” Mando said. You frowned at this. “It wasn’t sudden. I knew it would come. My entire goal was to one day return him to his own kind, but…” He tilted his head. “It was still difficult. He came back though⏤ to stay. Once I knew I wouldn’t have to lose him, we went through gai bal manda.”

 “What’s that?”

 “An adoption ceremony. At that point, he officially became my foundling.” Mando finished. There was a beat before he added a clarification. “That’s why I can show him my face. If I married, I could show my riddur my face as well.”

 You connected the dots. “Riddur.” Whenever you spoke Mando’a it sounded so awkward, but you loved when Mando spoke it. The way the words rolled off his tongue in that hoarse voice. “Wife?”

 “Yes.”

 “Okay.” You hummed. “Is it safe to assume you don’t have a riddur?”

 Mando let out a breathy laugh. “It’s safe to assume that, yes.”

 “Does that mean only Grogu has ever seen your face?”

 This time Mando didn’t reply immediately. But, in the same way that he gave you the time to think through a question, you gave him time to think about his answer. After a minute passed, you were worried you had insulted him in some way. You didn’t think that question was so bad.

 “I was a foundling.” Mando said. “A Mandalorian saved me and took me in. As a child, I took the Creed. That’s when I was given my first helmet. No living creature saw my face until recently.” You listened intently as his spoke. His voice stayed firm and strong, but there was an underlying tone that conveyed his hesitance. “I showed my face to save Grogu then again to say good-bye. I never should’ve put the helmet on again.”

 Your eyes widened and you nearly tripped over your feet. “What do you mean?”

 “In showing my face, regardless of the reason, I broke my Creed.” Mando admitted. “I…” His feet slowed to a stop again and when you paused beside him he shifted to face you a bit. “I am not Mandalorian any longer. I am an Apostate.” You weren’t sure how to respond to that. It seemed silly to you that a man so dedicated to his creed and people could be exiled simply for showing his face⏤ especially since he did so to save Grogu. However, this was not your religion. It wasn’t your place to input your opinion into the conversation. The creed, no matter how ridiculous it seemed to you, was extremely important to him. You respected that. You respected him. Mando sighed, “I have to travel to Mandalore. Bathe in the Living Waters found there in order to redeem myself.”

 “I thought…” You narrowed your eyes, “Wasn’t Mandalore glassed? I heard stories that⏤ that the world was destroyed.”

 “It was.” Mando nodded. “There are rumors that the planet has recovered enough to be visited. It’s no longer poisoned.” There was so much hope in his voice that it brought a small smile to your face. “I planned to go, but Karga offered me the role of Marshal here. As much as I wanted to go…” Mando didn’t speak for a moment, his hands drifted to his hips as he shrugged. “Grogu deserves a home. A safe place to grow.”

 You tilted your head a bit, trying to gauge how to word this, “Right, and I think it was very… honorable of you to make that decision, but you should know, Mando.” You lifted a hand to set on his arm, the beskar cool to the touch. “You’re his home.” Mando stared down at you silently. It was scary how powerful Mando’s gaze could be considering his face was hidden. Maybe that was for the sake of the universe. You weren’t sure you could withstand looking directly into his eyes. “That kid adores you. Wherever you go in the universe, home is when he’s with you.”

 Mando gave you a slight nod, appreciative, and he cleared his throat. “Thank you. For saying that. You didn’t have to.”

 “I’m just stating the obvious, silly.” You laughed. The two of you began to walk again in peace. There was a small pit in your stomach as you realized you’d never see his face. You’d never know what Mando looked like. It didn’t matter, not really, but you were much too curious to not mourn that realization. He was still Mando. The man who hired you to care for his son, your friend the Marshal and Mandalorian. Regardless of the technical definition, he’d be Mandalorian in your eyes. You had never met a man as strong, admirable, loyal, or honorable as him. So, nothing would change, but you’d always wonder.

 ‘Brown’, you thought, ‘He has to have brown eyes’. Maybe a soft brown like sunlight passing through a glass of amber whiskey. It had to be warm though. That’s what being around him felt like, that’s what you imagined his gaze to radiate. Lying in the grass letting the sun pour over your skin. A thick blanket being wrapped around you on a cold, winter night. A mug of caf held between your hands. It didn't matter that he was covered head to toe in the silver, cool to touch beskar. Mando was just warm.

 “What are you thinking about?” Mando questioned.

 Your eyes widened at being caught. You couldn’t exactly tell him you were daydreaming about the color of his eyes. Instead, you held up two fingers. “Two more questions.” He nodded. “First, that thing you do with Grogu, where you set your forehead against his, is that a Mandalorian thing or just a you thing?”

 “Mandalorian.” He answered. “Kov’nyn.” You repeated the word and Mando chuckled at the sound. “It’s…technically it means head butt. It’s a way of showing affection.”

 “Mandalorians would use a type of attack to show love.” You snickered. Mando surprised you by stepping close enough to lightly bump his shoulder into yours as you walked. Up ahead, you could see the station coming into view. “Is it just a family thing?”

 “No. Any kind of affection. Friends, family, lovers. It just depends on the context of the action.”

  “Alright,” You nodded and came to a stop outside the station’s front doors. Mando stayed beside you giving no intention of running in. “Can I ask you my second or am I out of time?”

 “Ask, cyar’ika.” Mando chuckled.

 You pointed at him. “That. What does that word mean? You never told me.” You watched his shoulders stiffen. The movement so minute you nearly missed it. You crossed your arms with a playful smirk. “Come on. It can’t be that bad. You’re not walking around calling me an idiot or something are you?”

 Mando scoffed. “Never.” You raised an eyebrow at him and he sighed. “It just means… The best translation is…” He shrugged. “Sweetheart. I suppose.” The smirk fell off your face and a warm sensation ran through your veins. This entire time, he had been calling you sweetheart? You knew that technically didn’t mean anything romantic, but the term of endearment made you soft regardless. Mando held his hands out toward you as if you were a startled animal about to run. “I can stop. I didn’t mean⏤”

 “No.” You shook your head, pasting a smile on your face. “Don’t.” He tilted his head and you cleared your throat feeling embarrassed yourself at how that sounded. “I, um, it doesn’t bother me. I like it.” To be honest, coming from Mando, you would rather him call you that than the fake name you had given. It felt right. You reached out to lightly knock your knuckles against his chest. “I guess this just means I need to find a nickname for you, huh?”

 “I guess so.” Mando chuckled. “What’re you going to do today?”

 “Huh.” Your eyebrows raised at the question. You honestly hadn’t thought about what you were going to do with all the free time you had while Grogu was at school. “I don’t know. Maybe clean up the house some. Go shopping? We need groceries. Uh…”

 Mando set a hand on your shoulder. “Do something for yourself today. Relax.”

 “I don’t know if my boss would be happy with me lounging on the job.” You joked.

 He shook his head. “I wouldn’t lose any sleep worrying about that, cyar’ika.” You bit down on your lower lip hearing his term of endearment for you come from him. Mando’s hand trailed down your arm to lightly squeeze your hand. “There isn’t much your boss wouldn’t let you get away with.”

 Mando’s hand fell away from yours and you watched him trail into the station. As you stared at the door where he disappeared you repeated the mantra in your head repeatedly. He’s your boss. Mando was off limit. He was just your boss.

 The day was non-eventful and dragged on slowly. Din had a feeling it had something to do with Grogu’s first day of school. It felt odd to send him into the building without someone by his side⏤ someone he trusted explicitly. He knew how important it was though, and Din didn’t want Grogu to feel any of the hesitation he felt. Din didn’t want it to ruin Grogu’s day.

 Though he had been so worried to drop Grogu off, he was excited to see how his son’s first day in school went. His feet carried him down the path back towards the school. Walking down the street of Nevarro, the same one he did this morning, his thoughts drifted to you. Din didn’t think he was going to end up talking to you about his Creed or his postponed future plans to travel to Mandalore to redeem himself. He surprisingly felt good about the conversation though. He liked that you knew that about him⏤ he wanted you to know that about him. It was an important part of his life, and you were slowly becoming important to him as well.

 The smile you wore when he told you what ‘cyar’ika’ meant was going to haunt his every dream for the foreseeable future.

 In the distance, he saw a small crowd standing outside the school. Parents waiting for the class to end. Din scanned the mass of people quickly and found you standing off to the side waiting patiently as the others did. Maker, you were pretty. Every single day it seemed like he noticed something new to admire. You were a kriffing work of art. Din could bask in your glow all day and never tire. As if you could feel his gaze, you turned and noticed him. Your face brightened with a grin, your hand lifting to greet him, and Din swore he felt his heart stutter. Dank farrik, you had him feeling like a teen with his first crush.

 “Hey, Mando!” You said as he grew closer. “How was work?”

 “It was fine. Non eventful. Did you spend some time relaxing today?”

 You chuckled. “I did. Spent the afternoon reading, and I got lunch with Nima.” You elbowed him in the side, a little nudge. “Plus, I even had time leftover to buy groceries.”

 The sound of laughing children had you both turning to face the school’s doors. A teacher stepped out and said good-bye as a group of older children rushed out. When they had passed, a different teacher led a line of young children out the door and toward the crowd. The kids began to disperse, eager to see their parents, and the teacher confirmed the sighting of each parent before letting them run away. Din saw Grogu bouncing in place, tugging on the edge of the teacher’s skirt, and when she glanced down at him Grogu pointed across the crowd. She nodded happily and Grogu took off away from her.  Din laughed and opened his arms in time for Grogu to leap into his chest.

 “Did you have fun, ad’ika?” Din chuckled again. It was moments like this that reassured Din of the choices he made. Grogu was happy. That was all he could ever really ask for.

 “ ‘lek! Buir,” Grogu continued to ramble on. After a few more lines of nonsensical babbling, Grogu abruptly stopped and turned his head to look around. His eyes landed on you, just a few steps away with a warm look drawn on your features, then reached a hand out to call you closer. “K’olar! K’olar!”

 Grogu was begging for you to come near, and you didn’t need to know Mando’a to understand what his son wanted from you. Din took a step closer, to meet you halfway, and he tried to hand Grogu over to you. Rather than leaping into your arms, Grogu grasped onto one of your outreached hands and just held on while staying in Din’s arms. The action made it so Grogu was nestled between the both of you. You showed no sign of discomfort from being so close. Instead, you held Grogu’s hand, resting your wrist against his arm, and used your other hand to lovingly rub his head. Content with his position, Grogu went back to babbling about his day.

 You listened intently. Nodding along and interjecting with vague questions to encourage Grogu to continue. Meanwhile, Din could only revel in the bubble of bliss that surrounded all of you. Din wanted to wrap one of his arms around your shoulder, pulling you in even closer, and that thought was dangerously tempting. You were Grogu’s nanny. You were off limits.You were not his to hold.

mando’a translations

Ad’ika: son nayc: no Gai bal Manda: adoption ceremony Riddur: spouse Kov’nyn: Headbutt Cyar’ika: Darling, sweetheart Buir: Father Ko’lar: Come

Bravern episode 8 spoilers

EP 8 Analysis

This is going to be super incoherent and is mostly just going to be me rambling but idc, I need to post this somewhere so it’s not ruminating in my head until I assault some random human with word vomit

So this is mostly going to be focus on episode 8 but I will touch back on previous episodes for references.

Anyways Episode 8 basically just confirmed the “Bravern is Smith” theory and I am so hype

What is the “Bravern is Smith” theory?

So the Bravern is Smith theory is a theory that.. well.. Bravern and Lewis Smith are the same person.

I’m not sure who started it but (I think) it started when the opening showed for the first time and we got to the scene of Smith’s arm becoming Bravern’s. From there it spiraled, more and more evidence pointing towards it, such as: Bravern knowing A LOT about Smith, Bravern making a lot of human pop culture references and speaking English interchangeably with Japanese (Smith does this too), Bravern being a super robot (Smith is a massive Super robot nerd) and a ton of other things

Episode 8:

Now we get into why I’m finally making a post about this, I’ve been following along with this theory since episode 2 and have been taking my notes on it but I never bothered posting about it anywhere

Why now?

Because episode 8 might’ve just confirmed it.

Let’s start with the opening:

So this right here is the catalyst that started this all, Smith’s arm turning into Bravern’s. Now, we knew all that, but the one thing we never knew until now was “who tf is glowy bitch”

Well,

I think is Knuth

“But why her? She looks nothing like the silhouette”

Look here, she has plates of armor that highly resemble two pairs of wings. Who else has two pairs of wings? The silhouette. Same placement and everything. I think the silhouette is meant to be vague, as to not tip the viewer off right away that the silhouette is a deathdrive.

We’ll come back to this later, I need to talk about Bravern’s lines during this episode.

I’m not entirely sure how to explain it but this line will be important later, for now it’s just more Super Robot inspirational speech

Right here is the important line, the title of the episode (which is what tipped me and a lot of other people off to Smith dying) and the last thing Bravern says to him. Now normally when entering a battlefield, you’d tell your comrade “Good luck”, “Until we meet again” makes it seem like someone will die, this is a line usually used when you’re not sure when you’ll see someone again. Bravern used this because he knew what was going to happen to Smith, and either he can’t stop it, or he doesn’t want to.

Bravern knows because he has gone through this before, as Smith.

That is likely why he told Smith to “save as many people as he can”, likely because when he went through this, a lot of people died

(This ties into my own branch of the theory where Bravern has already gone through all of this before and went back in time to change the outcome)

Now during the fight, Bravern isn’t really focused, he’s taking hits he’d normally be able to dodge and isn’t really rushing like he usually does. I think it’s because he’s trying to stall, trying to keep Isami away from Knuth and Smith so their fight can happen, either that or he’s distracted due to knowing what’s happening not that far away (or it could be both)

Before we get to this next part I wanna point out a quote I noticed during the episode from Knuth. I can’t find it just by scrolling and I’d rewatch the full episode to find it but Tumblr is lagging like hell and burning through my battery so I can’t

At one point Knuth mentioned something about fusing with Smith, this might mean that Knuth’s body ends up being the base for Bravern, but im still not 100% sure about that, just thought I’d add that. If she is the base and Bravern did in fact go back in time, this would make sense as Knuth had mentioned that she had gone back in time a few times

Now we get to focus on the important part of the episode, Smith’s death. Let’s just start listing off things to pay attention to.

(I reached the photo limit oops)

- Smith is humming his own theme song as he charges Knuth, Bravern sings his own theme song and blasts it whenever he fights

- He straight up says “Brave Slash” as he strikes Knuth

-Smith talks DIRECTLY INTO ISAMI’S MIND and says the following quote: “Isami. Isami. Brave. Brave… Bang.” And we all know why that’s important, the title of the show is literally “Bang Brave Bang Bravern”

There are still some questions, like “how was Smith able to use telepathy?” “How exactly is Bravern created?” “Is Bravern truly a fusion between Smith and Knuth?”

I know this probably makes zero sense but I need to get this out somewhere

Thanks for coming to my TedTalk (holy shit it’s so laggy)

Edit: I forgot to mention it but the foreshadowing for Smith’s death was so obvious, legit in his introduction Isami legit goes “You’re dead, the dead don’t talk” so uhh called it lmao

Considering that some insects chirp too KnockOut probably at least once had to deal with a vehicon that thought was having a surprise sparkling but just had crickets or cicadas inside

This is a hilarious image. I can already imagine the poor Vehicon in question on the brink of tears as they hurry to Knockout in distress. Knockout in turn having to resettle his plating after a very ominous chirp echoes in his medical bay. Surprise sparklings aren't impossible. Budding is a rather rare phenomenon, but enough energon and an overproduction of protomatter and spark energy can facilitate what essentially amounts to cloning. Knockout would be well aware of this fact and sit the Vehicon down immediately.

Knockout would run scans, probably even have a few turn up positive for excess energy to only further support his theory that the Vehicon might have had an accidental kiddo. The poor Vehicon in question would have to very quickly come to terms with parenthood and probably begin feeling a tad excited as Knockout begins a full examination to try and find out if the sparkling is ready to be removed or just making noise.

I can already imagine several other Vehicons around the door watching to see what their newest family member will look like when Knockout suddenly stops, curses up a storm, and grabs tongs. Cue the sheer fragging horror as he removes a fragging cicada from the Vehicon's armor.

"That thing... makes sparkling noises?"

"It was IN me?!?!?"

No Vehicon will ever recharge in alt mode on the ground again.

Sweet Knowing

Summary: Cid becomes aware of the attention you seem to draw from a certain Rosfield, and uses it to his advantage.

Warnings: implied voyeurism, p in v actions, 18+ MDNI

This is the second part to this, but can be read on its own.

Cid can be called a slew of things; Lord Commander, Dominant of Ramuh, Outlaw—but one thing he cannot be called, is a fool.

When he found the young Rosfield in the wastelands he felt his heart tug at the display; of a man beaten and broken, only to find that his mission was to kill his childhood friend, one he thought dead long ago. He didn’t think twice about recruiting him to the cause, bringing him to The Hideaway and giving him a rundown of his plans to free bearers from their lot in life. He offered the boy a hot meal and a warm bath, or rather his beloved did.

When word got around that there was a newcomer she was ready to accommodate him. Bright-eyed and friendly, you had offered him whatever was needed to make him feel at home.

“Gods, your clothes are filthy!” You gasped, scanning Clive from head to toe, shaking your head at the muddied state of his armor. “I’ll run to the markets tomorrow and get you some more suitable attire, I can’t let you sleep in armor.”

“Thank you ma’am, but there’s no need—“ he began, only to be stopped by your stern gaze.

“Nonsense. You’re a part of our merry band and I won’t have you sleeping in iron and steel. Now, when’s the last time you had a hot meal?”

Despite his protests you wouldn’t take no for an answer, offering Clive a handkerchief to wipe his face as you ran towards the kitchens to make your own stew for the war-weary traveler.

Cid noticed it when you set the plate full of soup in front of him, how Clive had gotten just the slightest bit nervous around you. He was already the quiet type but this was a different kind of quiet, as if he was afraid of saying something he shouldn’t. Subtle to anyone else, but not to him.

Intrigued, Cid didn’t say a word, only watched in amusement as the former Lord ate by the spoonful, thanking you profusely.

That same night you offered to give him a tour of what would be his new home. Clive had initially declined, afraid of taking advantage of your generosity, and it was only with a firm hand on his shoulder and encouragement from Cid that he accepted.

“Come now, the nice lady’s offered, you wouldn’t want to disappoint her now, would you?” He grins, waving a hand at your expectant form. “Promise she won’t bite.”

He finishes with a wink before pushing Clive a step forward, watching as he follows behind her like a lost puppy.

Let’s see how far this schoolyard crush goes.

The answer, he’d find out, is very far. Weeks have gone by and Clive still looks at you entranced, practically jumping at the opportunity to spend time with you. Just a minute ago you had offered for him to accompany you to gather some flowers, Tarja needing them for one reason or another, and Cid had never seen the man so eager to leave.

He watches the interaction from a secluded corner, a cigar between his lips, relishing in the view. Your doe-like eyes fluttering, the young Rosarian struggling to keep eye contact—the boy was a fool for you. Not that he could blame him, just looking at you made Cid’s heart jump in his chest, fondly remembering how nervous he was when he asked you to be his.

You were far too pretty, too humble, practically a walking angel and he was…him. He had his faults, but you, you were faultless, despite how many times you tried to convince him you weren’t. You’d spend the rest of your life trying to convince him because as far as Cid was concerned you were perfection personified, and nothing you’d say would change his mind.

His thoughts are broken when you notice his secluded form, the smallest wink being sent his way before returning to your conversation with Clive.

Well, you did have one fault; You could be a bit of a tease.

He still remembers what you told him days ago before he had to leave for an excursion. You kissed him goodbye before his mission, words as sweet as honey, only to whisper pure filth in his ears when no one was watching.

“Come back safe and I might give you a reward.”

He did not miss how your fingers wandered down his shirt for the briefest of moments, before pulling away enticingly.

He doesn’t think he’s ever completed a mission that fast before, or so effectively. Tarja was stunned to find not so much as a hair out of place considering his reputation for getting hurt, but Cid was too busy thinking about just how you would reward him for his efforts. The thought of it made him impatient, made him want to drag you away and keep you all to himself, but he could wait a while longer. You’d be back by tonight, and then he’d have you all to himself.

“Always so eager…” He murmurs against your lips, keeping you pressed into the sheets. Slow, sensual, he holds you close as he fucks you, taking his time to watch your eyes roll back and your jaw go slack.

Your legs close around his waist, pulling him ever further into your wet heat—he could never get used to how good you feel, how quickly you surrender yourself to him. He grinds himself harder against you, listening with pride when you whine his name.

“I missed you so much,” he sighs. “Missed me too, didn’t you?”

You nod shakily, unable to speak. He breathes you in, his hands touching every expanse of your skin from your hips to your breasts, unable to stop himself. His fingers hold firm against your pliant body, the smallest tremble moving through you when he presses himself deeper into your heat.

You cast a spell on him, a lust that borders on insanity. You clench against him so tightly like you never want him to leave, nails leaving angry lines against his back that he’ll be sure to be proud of in the morning. The slight sting only motivates him further, teeth grazing against the sensitive skin of your neck.

“That’s it,” he groans into your ear. “Don’t think, just feel, feel what you do to me.”

It’s in that moment that he hears the soft tapping of someone outside his door. Footsteps? This late into the night?

Stopping doesn’t so much as cross his mind—whatever it is cannot be more important than you.

His assault against your senses continues, hitting that soft spot that has you arch your back and moan his name like a whore.

“Gods, Cid…”

He unravels you, he keeps you whole, he takes your sanity and brings you to new heights all at the same time. The whiplash is dizzying, not sure if you should cry or beg for more.

“Good fucking girl,” he rasps, pride in his voice. “Lay back and take it, just like that—“

His heart beats faster when you let out an even louder noise, squirming against his length. So good, so fucking perfect, you’re a dream, one he never wishes to wake from.

He moves with a practiced ease, focused on your pleasure, but also towards the door, distinctly aware of his midnight visitor. There were footsteps coming towards the door but none leaving it—whoever’s there is still listening.

An idea springs forth, feeling just the slightest bit mischievous.

Might as well give them a show.

His brings his thumb to your clit, circling it ever so slightly, teasing the hard nub and watching as you’re reduced to a mess before his very eyes. Mouth open and eyes lidded, you whimper under his commanding touch, begging for more.

“So good, so good, oh gods—please don’t stop—“ You cry, shaking against him. Your legs are barely able to hold onto him, a brutal pace being set and yet you beg him for more.

How could he resist when you ask him so nicely?

So he indulges you, and this time you really can’t keep up, trying and failing to match his rhythm but your poor abused body just can’t, no matter how badly you want to. Cid grabs you by the hips with both hands and presses you flush to him, practically breathing each other’s air. Between the scrape of the bed and the slap of skin against skin, Cid can faintly make out a muffled groan.

The tone is strikingly familiar.

He can’t help the wicked grin painted on his face.

He slows down, just enough to bring your attention back to him as he whispers against your neck.

“Do you hear that? We have an audience.”

Eyes glazed, you slowly gather your bearings before looking at him in confusion. “What are you—“

“Shhh,” he silences you, pressing a quick kiss to your lips. “It seems like a certain Rosarian has come to visit us.”

He grinds himself against you, your own sound of pleasure being followed by the softest grunt from outside the door. Your head turns, finally realizing with wide eyes.

“Is that—“

“It is,” he moves slowly against you, making sure to keep you pleasured but coherent. “I could tell him to leave, if that’s what you wish.”

He knows you better than you know yourself, so it’s no surprise to him when you shake your head.

“Keep going, please.”

The moment you give him permission he’s back to fucking you, thumb moving against your sensitive nub once more. You keen for him, louder and louder as he chases your lips impatiently, swallowing your moans with his tongue. When he pulls away he growls against your lips, eyes pinning you on the spot.

“Like being listened to? Like the idea of him knowing how desperate you are?”

You shake your head, but the way you tighten up tells another tale.

“Don’t lie to me, I know you do, it’s okay,” He coos, his own high slowly approaching. “You don’t think I see how he looks at you? How you’re so eager to let him follow you around?”

You shake your head ready to deny the accusation. The moment you do Cid’s movements slow to a crawl, holding you right on the edge, tantalizingly close to falling apart.

“Don’t, please move—“ He refuses when you beg, tears welling in your eyes as your pussy throbs for release, a release Cid holds you back from.

“What did I say my dear?” He breathes. “Don’t lie to me.”

You whimper, begging for mercy once again. “I promise, just, please don’t stop, need you to fuck me—”

Cid’s grin is nothing short of sinful. “Need me, or need us?”

The notion makes your heart stop, a shocked expression painting your face. And yet he can feel your velvety walls spasm around him, answer clear as day.

He laughs, breath heaving. “You do, don’t you? Want us to fuck you, treat you like the needy little whore you are—“

He’s moving again, even faster now. This time you can’t even bring yourself to lie, a broken mess below him. Half-uttered sentences and broken moans, too far gone to care about anything except how fucking good you feel.

You scream, and Cid hears a thump outside the door.

Hope he’s enjoying himself.

He wraps his arms around you, unwilling to let you go for even a second. “Fuck—say it, say you want us, fucking say it—“

“Yes—I want it, please—!”

Your cunt is so welcoming, he feels like he’s going to go mad. He gives his all and then some, relishes in how fucking tight you hold onto him, gushing around him.

“There’s my girl, come on, let go for me—“ He grunts into your skin, shuddering as his own release takes hold of him.

You look glorious, spread out before him. Even when you look fucked within an inch of your life he can’t help but admire what a fucking sight you are. He doesn’t stop, keeps going even though he’s so sensitive it’s downright painful, if only to squeeze out a few more seconds of your orgasm. Your sobs threaten to wake the entire Hideaway but he just can’t bring himself to stop.

“Yesyesyes, so good, I can’t—fuck—I can’t—“

“Yes you fucking can,” Cid interrupts in awe. “Be good and let me see you stain the sheets love.”

We'll meet again

Masterlist

"Rod"

"..."

"Please move, I'm getting worried"

"...hm"

"Roddy?"

"Yeah yeah" his ventilation system quicks in, his frame finally giving signals of life, you see at his sides, his pedes, it doesn't seem like he is going to move soon so you take your opportunity and come near him, "I'm online, don't- don't worry"

Most bots are way more delicate when getting near the humans in the ship, always looking where they are going or moving before they acclimate to the tiny lifeforms around, now, Rodimus, is an exception, you've seen him be like this more times than not, half of his body on the berth and the rest on the floor, you don't have to ask anymore, everyone has already told you: "Hot Rod has a problem with high grade" while experiencing it first hand.

Does that stop you from going to him and probably be squeezed under his foot? Not really, you like him, and you want to be with him, even when he keeps on brushing you away when he hits rock bottom again.

"Here", you are holding, dragging, a bag big enough to fit on his servo, full of energon in order to help him get rid of the headach you know is present without asking, this has happened more than once and now you're ready, even encouraging him when he refuses with a whiny sound that puts your nerves on edge, "if you want to feel better then purge that from your system by drinking this".

"You've way too much cruelty on such a tiny body" he finally pleasess you, downing the energon in one go, trying to throw away the bag on the nearest trash deposit in the room, failing by meters and making him groan, covering his face plate with his arms and finally moving along so his back strut could be on the berth properly, "what a pain in the-" ah, he fell to recharge again.

It was best than before, at least, you don't have the power to move him around, way too big for something so squishy as you, there is the option to call out for someone else, but that's out of the question, they would immediately call Thunderclash and while you like and respect your captain to pieces Rodimus has this strange disgust towards him, last thing he would want in the middle of his migraine is to hear or see the captain or, worst, have a reprimand from his part so early in the afternoon, you're sure your captain wouldn't exactly reprimand him but give an inspirational speech, one that Rodimus would still hate with all his soul.

Some people say that what Thunderclash did was the right thing to do, you are grateful, humanity is in verge of extinction, the war has nothing to do with it, no matter how many protestants say otherwise, earth is just changing, faster than before, at first you didn't have any idea of why, no one did, but your captain told you what was really happening and why every new human facilities were topnotch, he expected you all to live fully, happily and without lies on his starship.

Sometimes you wonder if, in these kind of cases, you should talk to him about this, you care for Thunderclash and every bot aboard after all, maybe it would be good to give a few comments here and there on how good it would be to have a grief councilor on the ship, since Rodimus has just got news of the deactivation of a close friend, the memorial ceremony didn't go all that great for what you could guess, he was there just a few minutes and still returned like this.

Still, no matter how good of a mech your captain is, you aren't sure or thrusting enough in how he or anyone could react if any got to ask why you cared for Rodimus so much, you aren't sure if they could really see you two in a good light.

"Roddy" you climb to his face plate, he is recharging so deep and the way cybertronians sleep still scares you because they look dead, only difference is that his derma and armor aren't gray and you feel the pulse of his spark after pressing yourself against his neck cables, it's slow but that is a result of his rest and the unholy amount of liquor on his system, "Rodimus", you climb up as you can, this time you give a little kiss on his intake, where his lips are, and you finally get an answer in the form of a groan and the sound of his ventilation system working properly, "wake up, sleeping beauty".

"What time...?", He raises his servo over his sensible optics, then places it just at your side to give you leverage and prevent any fall if he moves wrong.

"Almost noon" you give a stroke over his cheek, he moves along with it and feel your warm touch on him, it takes a moment to really let your information sink and when it does his ventilators short cut, sitting way too fast but stopping a second before throwing you with his actions and fall back on the berth, he is groaning again, letting you slide slowly when he gets up just to lay again with what you can only assume is pain on his brain processor.

"I'm so sorry", now both servos are over his entire face, you take seat on his neck guard, you know he is being honest, "we're supposed to be on duty now"

"It's fine", he knows it is a lie, you've been talking about sector 3408, the so rumoured floating mountains that can be found there and how incredible would be to take samples of the magnetic rocks that could create such natural phenomena, Rodimus was supposed to be your companion since no human could be let alone out of the ship in an strange planet.

But the pod already left in the morning, and you are still with him.

"It's not, not at all" his tone is getting meaner by the second, he looks mad, it's not at you, but himself, "you should have gone without me"

A movement of your head, a negative, "I don't want to go anywhere without you".

Is it really that strange to feel like this? Maybe, if your family knew, well, there's nothing they could do with you in space, no one can say much, maybe some of your human comrades have noticed something new with you, as for Rodimus, some were happy he was starting to take better care of his physical and inner health, it was showing on his now bright red paint job, rougheout dents fixed up, taking portions of his energon while you took your own rations, ingesting less high grade, until two days ago that's it.

"I'm sorry", maybe he referred to the fact he made you lost the pod, the fact that he is drunk again, that now you have to deal with him and all his problems, "it's my fault", you won't let him go down that spiral of self deprecation and abandon he has fallen into once again, you don't want to hear more of this.

He looks broken, as if all the progress both of you've done so far is now gone, you won't have any of that, "Hey", sometimes this isn't easy, hell, even moving him so you can tal eyes to optics is hard if he doesn't follow, being impossible to move a being so big as him, "there will be new and better things to do up here", he will say something again, something mean you bet, so you do the best that you can and move on your tiptoes to give him a kiss on his partially open intake.

Jokes on you, landing your lips on his front dentae and almost falling face first on his glossa when he goes back, still, it's worth it, to see his optics go all round in surprise before he starts to laugh sincerely at your occurrence and own expense, laughing like a chuckle at first and then go full on almost madness by the second that brings blood rushing to your cheeks by the embarrassment.

Still, you really prefer this, Rodimus laughing from the spark, it's worthy.

"What was that?!"

"My last attempt to be romantic for the day"

"Nooooo~ give me more", his servos raise you once again, just above the start of his helm, what you could call the forehead, "make the pain go away, babe"

"Quit it, you big baby"

Far from stopping his whining he now looks at you with his lips between his dentae, "I love it when you call me that".

Maybe it was fine, spend the rest of the shift here, others won't notice your absence (there isn't really anything else to do), and you can stay with him, protected by the four walls of his habsuit, you only need to get him more energon supplies and giving his tired stabilizers Rodimus still can't get up, "We should get a mattress", is what you say while landing on the hard surface of the berth.

"We can get one in the next stopping point", he doesn't let you go, no so easy, one of his digits is inside the neck of your work uniform and he is tugging at it, "don't leave me alone for too long", it could've been clingy in any other circumstances, but he really needs encouraging words now, his sad and almost offline optics tell you about his vulnerability, his fallen wings of tiredness and his digit clinging to you shout out of his necessity of having you near.

What has happened to such a great bot to be like this? It's not a good question, because he isn't perfect, you also aren't, everyone is broken to some degree, Rodimus has still so much to tell you about him and you have so much to tell about yourself.

"I'll not" you take his digit between your hands, giving it a kiss to give more power to your promise, "I'm not leaving you forever, so wait for the fifteen minutes I'm away".

"You promise?", Just how drunk is he?

"I swear, I'll come back to you"

It's cheesey, it's embarrassing, but those words do get out of your mouth and are apparently all it takes to make a big and childish smile appear on his handsome faceplate, but you mean it, you mean every word and can only wish he heard them right and gets to remember them because you'll need to be drunk to say those words again or accept the way he is looking at you now without feeling strange inside because being so wanted isn't something you are familiar with.

"Me too, I'll always find you"

.

This is a way of ending the story of Rodimus (of course I'll still post the extras), while it's sad how in the main timeline he gets hit hard by his own reality he gets to meet the very same human that in the other reality is his conjunx endurae (the terraformers reality), and maybe in this timeline they'll get to have their happy life for as long as it can last, maybe they could get to meet their own Sunset.

Thanks for this great year, expect for more little pieces while I'm still on my transformers strike, every comment and reblog is appreciated, have a great new year.

Don't come at me, but I am confused why whenever there is a plot about one of Astarion's siblings going full villain, this sibling is almost always Petras. I agree; he is a jerk and a bully. But he is also the guy who gobbles up Cazador's bullshit about getting freedom with ZERO suspicions. Aurelia and Leon are hopeful, but it doesn't take them long to realize it is yet another way for Cazador to break them, and of course, he never intended to let them go.

Petras is oblivious to the point he is already making plans for the future and composing his menu. He is also the guy who flirts (badly) with the first person who approaches him without even considering the risk of the said person being a vampire hunter. Like, Tav can be wearing full plate armor and have a hugeass war hammer slung over their shoulder, and Petras would still go "Yes, this is the perfect naive victim to seduce. They will totally fall for my charms" with Dalyria cringing and trying to do damage control at the back.

Petras makes Astarion look like a criminal mastermind.

And no, I'm not saying that he can't be an antagonist to Astarion at all.

He can be dangerous by deciding to go his own way, gathering the group of spawn who share his views, and making a part of the Sword Coast his hunting grounds. But don't I see him plotting complicated schemes or even trying to recreate Cazador's rituals. He may try, but in my opinion, he will fail hilariously. No intervention needed.

Now, speaking of a more dangerous and tragic potential adversary, Leon is right here. He is a sorcerer. Moreover, if the nature of the spell he used to protect Victoria is anything to go by, he is experienced with Necromancy (I may be wrong; the blood thing could have belonged to the Transmutation school, though).

He is the top performer. And, he is a desperate father who did it all to keep his daughter safe. Now, I still assume that he managed to smuggle Victoria out of the palace -- which would keep him his calm and reasonable self. But if Victoria is really dead?...It would mean that everything he did, all these victims, all that suffering, all the measures he took, all the hurt he inflicted on his siblings/inmates - it all was for nothing. He was ready to die for Victoria to live. He was willing to sacrifice an orphan to save his girl. And he failed.

He failed her.

Wouldn't that push him over the edge? The desperation, the devastation, the horror? Wouldn't that create a void in his undead heart and put him into denial and resentment for his fellow spawns (he didn't know HOW she died, but he had seen enough hungry looks from Dal and Violet)?

Wouldn't he become obsessed with "fixing" it somehow because he already went so far to protect his daughter...why not go even further to bring her back, let her live the life that was so unfairly taken from her? He doesn't care about power, about sunwalking, he doesn't give a shit about anything and anyone -- he wants his child back. And he will make it happen.

At any cost.