S! @desiretown - Tumblr Blog

Posts

welcome to desire town! make yourself at home.

town navigation

#mayor talks!

mydear-corinthian

phone call

synopsis - tommy receives a phone call in the middle of having sex with his wife.

pairing - tommy shelby x reader / thomas shelby x reader

warnings - SMUT +18, rough sex, use of foul language, breeding kink, praising kink, creampie, just full of porn, unprotected sex, p in v

notes - short (w.c <850), gif and picture isn't mine, divider is mine

main masterlist | peaky blinders masterlist | cillian murphy masterlist

#fic recs! (x reader)#tommy shelby x reader

cillslover

Wedding Night

Pairings: Thomas Shelby x Virgin Reader

Warnings: smut, 18+, virginity loss, detailed sexual content, unprotected sex, P in V, soft sex, aftercare, slow burn.

Summary: Y/N’s first time with Thomas on their wedding night. He’s gentle, reassuring, and completely focused on her.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・．.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊

The rain had held off just long enough for the ceremony.

Now the air outside was cool and damp, the scent of grass and earth drifting through the cracked windows of Arrow House. The house was quieter than it had been in hours, the distant hum of guests saying their goodbyes had faded, the champagne glasses had been cleared, and the music had long since gone still.

Thomas closed the bedroom door behind them with a quiet click.

Y/N stood near the center of the room, her fingers nervously fidgeting with the delicate lace of her gown. The dress still fit her perfectly, though the night had left it slightly creased at the waist and shoulders. Her cheeks were flushed, not from the wine, she hadn’t touched a drop, but from the way he’d been looking at her all evening.

He stepped forward, undoing the top buttons of his shirt as he walked, eyes never leaving hers.

“You tired?” he asked softly, voice low, almost like a murmur meant only for her.

She shook her head, barely audible. “No. Just… nervous.”

He stopped in front of her.

She didn’t pull away when his hands came to her waist, slow, steady, warm. His touch was careful, never rushing. He looked down at her face, searching.

“You don’t have to be,” he said gently. “Not with me.”

Y/N swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. “I know. It’s just-”

“I know.” He leaned in and kissed her temple, lingering there for a beat before moving to her cheek, then the corner of her mouth. “We’ll go slow.”

#fic recs! (x reader)#tommy shelby x reader

pixiieezstraw

the concept of girl-dad mo chara 🧘‍♀️

I'm going to be honest with you anon, I haven't given a lot of thought about Kneecap parental headcanons because I'm not the motherly-type, nor do I like kids all that much 😅

but I love Mo Chara being confident in his masculinity enough that he isn't afraid to get in touch with feminine things like trying on soft colors, watching the older Barbie and Bratz movies, letting you use his face as a canvas for that new eyeshadow palette you got, and much much more. I literally think about putting small bows and flowers in his hair or on the back of his cap all the time, or how fun it would be if he went through my wardrobe and put on a fashion show ✨✨

#lest we not forget he’s pregnant with móglaí’s child right now #fic recs! (x reader)#mo chara x reader #ig

pixiieezstraw

random Georgia headcanons I came up with because the movie failed to develop her so now a woman must step up and fix it. Contains slight nsfw.

thank you lovely @phantomofthehoepera for spending hours talking to me about this deeply unwell girlie 💖💖

#she’s everythingggg #fic recs! (misc)#georgia kneecap

bimbosicko

𝄞 ⸻ 𝙮ou make me wanna make you fall in love ! part ii. of texts w older!bf ryland grace

cw : older bf x younger fem!reader (reader is in her twenties & ryland in his thirties), nsfw!! ⋆˚࿔ smau | would you guys be interested into some headcanons of older!bf ryland grace x reader?? 🤔🤔 question ❓ part i.

#ryland grace x reader #fic recs! (x reader)

bibigo-lover

mayday.

summary: grace can't seem to get the hang of flying the hail mary—and you're definitely the problem (based on this textpost).

pairing: ryland grace x gn!reader

word count: 3.0k

tags: fluff and humor, lowkey workplace hazard (??), mutual attraction, pining, physical touch, awkward!grace, tired!grace, clueless!reader, idiots in love, confessions, making out, good luck quilt mentioned, rocky as wingman (also lowkey a bully lol), gn!reader

cross-posted to ao3

The Hail Mary endures a quick stop-and-go. Even in zero gravity, you can still feel the surge of movement. Your body jerks to the side and then floats still over the seat cushion. It takes just a second for Grace to correct course and stop the Hail Mary from doing a full couple miles in the wrong direction. From your position in the cockpit, seatbelt marking a large “X” over your chest, you can see Grace and Rocky’s immediate reactions. Grace has his eyes locked on the front-monitor in brooding silence; he clearly thinks that if he’s quiet enough, Rocky might cease to say anything at all. And, for a moment, Rocky is silent—letting himself drift mid-air, jagged appendages deathly still. Then, Rocky’s computerized voice rings out with a flat grimace. “Grace. Evasive maneuver unnecessary.”

So, Grace is having a hard time. Rocky isn’t making it any easier—but you’re starting to think that he isn’t really the problem. There must be some sort of reason to it. On the one hand, you know that he’s a scientist. Even if he can’t remember much about himself, there’s at least the fact that he’s never piloted an entire spaceship before. It isn’t like you’ve got much experience either, as far as you know—but you’ve clearly acclimated to the controls a bit easier than he has.

Grace hurries to defend himself. “That wasn’t an evasive maneuver. My hand slipped.” The rising intonation of his voice clearly flags his embarrassment. You’ve noticed now that he uses a different excuse every time this happens. Sometimes, there’s a smudge on the lens of his glasses. Other times, the controls are almost too sensitive… or too finicky, or not user-friendly, or impossible. More recently, Grace has cited Rocky’s coaching—backseat driving, he says—as the problem. Now, apparently, it’s butterfingers. Grace shrugs, “Need a glove or something. It’s like trying to grab a fish.”

Rocky taps three times in rapid succession on the glass of his casing—pointing to the control panel at Grace’s side. “No glove. Joystick shaped for human hand. Grace human. Grace bad,” he emphasizes with a waver. You’ve been thinking lately that Rocky secretly gets a kick out of it all, the coaching, the doling out directions, and the inevitable criticisms. It’s almost sadistic, the way that Rocky zaps Grace’s every mistake with some sort of obvious quip.

#everyone loves disheveled ryland grace this is a well known fact #grace don’t be nervous challenge (failed)#ryland grace x reader #fic recs! (x reader)

loveobx

Chosen Part VIII

dark!husband!aerion x wife!reader

tw: abusive marriage

wc: 6.7k

********************************************

You are a member of the royal family now.

You are married to a prince, and now hold one of the highest titles a woman in the realm can receive. You are important, high class, and you have no reason to be scared of talking to a guard.

Yet you are.

You stand in your tent, fingers fidgeting with the end of your braid as you mouth the words you will say. ‘I would like to watch the jousting. Please escort me to the tourney.’

The sentences keep repeating in your head as you focus on the tone and cadence you should use.

“Good morning,” you whisper to no one. “I would like to watch the jousting today. Will one of you please escort me to the tourney?” You practice it until the words are precise and memorized.

You straighten your shoulders, and clear your throat once more, before exiting the tent.

It is bright outside. You squint in the sun. There are four soldiers in front of your tent. The amount surprises you, but you try not to let it intimidate you.

All four pairs of eyes go directly to you.

“Good morning,” you begin. “I would like to joust today-I would like to watch the jousts today.” You curse yourself for your mistake. “Will one of you please escort me there?”

You are not used to asking guards for permission. Usually, you go about your day with them simply following behind you. Things have changed so much.

They are allowed to say ‘no’ to you now. You feel beneath them.

When they don’t respond, you quickly say, “I need only one of you, if that is all you can spare.”

Aerion always insisted on two, but you will ignore that if you need to.

However, the one nearest to the tent entrance answers, “We must all escort you today, my Lady.”

All? As in all four? It seems overwhelming to you, but you suppose it is better than no freedom at all.

You clear your throat, and give a polite nod. “Lead the way, please.”

He does so. One guard walks in front of you, two at your sides, one behind you.

You feel caged in.

The jousts are barely starting when you arrive. You hear from the crowd that someone is dueling. The onlookers are loud and lively. But your eyes do not go to the field.

No, you go straight to the lists again.

“Is this the only list posted for today?” you ask one of the men, hopeful that perhaps you have missed one.

“Yes, Lady (Y/N). That is all the riders for today.”

Disappointment falls on you again as you see that, once more, Ser Duncan’s name is not on the list of competitors today.

Ser Duncan the Tall. The name has hung on your mind so tightly, and you did not know why.

Perhaps it was boredom that brought him such an intrigue. Perhaps it was the fact there was absolutely nothing to look forward to besides possibly running into him again.

Actually-seeing him again, speaking to him again, was the only thing you had to look forward to in your life right now. So much so that the moment you were told by Prince Baelor that you had freedom today, you knew you wanted to use it to seek Ser Duncan out.

How pitiful a life you had that two conversations with a kind man made you this awestruck.

What if you already missed his match? What if he thought you skipped it, or that you did not want to go?

…What if he learned who you were? Or what you did last night?

The thought made you feel sick.

You knew once Ser Duncan learned who your husband was, there would be no more politeness. He would pretend you did not exist, for his own safety, just as all the young men at home did once your betrothal was announced.

You hated your husband. You hated every part of his being. You wished he was dead.

Staring at the lists, you mourn the absence of Ser Duncan’s name, and you despise the fact that your husband’s name is there.

Aerion Targaryen.

It sticks out to you like a plague. It is written larger, in bolder font, as if it’s a name of honor.

“I wish to go to the market instead,” you the guards. “I have no business here.”

“Yes, my Lady.”

The guards do not order you around. You are grateful for it.

You try to leave the area, but you do not get far. You are only three paces from the field when you hear a kind voice call, “Lady (Y/N), do you need any assistance?”

Your expression brightens. Ser Donnel of Duskendale approaches you with a smile.

He is a knight of the royal guard, and one of the only people you know from your homeland. He is the only person you know besides Prince Baelor and Prince Maekar that knew your father since they were young ages.

“Ser Donnel.” You are pleased to see him, and your voice makes that clear. “I have not seen you in days. I was not aware you journeyed with us to Ashford.”

You have always liked Ser Donnel. He is well acquainted with your father, and his presence gives you ease. He has a good relationship with Prince Maekar, and he does not fear Aerion in the way that others go.

Had you known he was in Ashford, you would have ran to him the moment Aerion slammed your face against a table, so that he could send word to your father that you needed help.

Ser Donnel gave a short nod. “Aye. I arrived a day after your party. I went searching for the lost princes.”

“I heard of their disappearance.” You know Aerion would not approve, but you risk asking, “Do you believe them to be harmed?”

A low sigh. He lowers his voice so the guards behind you do not hear. “In complete honesty, no. I told Prince Maekar myself that Prince Daeron most likely lost his nerve and took off on his own.”

“Lost his nerve?” You frown. “Could he have not simply declined entering the lists for the tourney?”

“It seems he was unwilling to face his father to do so.”

“So he decides to put his child brother’s life at risk because he is cowardly-?”

“(Y/N).” His voice is low, and it is a warning. “Careful with your words. Daeron is still a prince of the realm.”

Ser Donnel is always quick to correct you. He has done so since he was a guard at the Darklyn castle, before he was knighted for the royal guard.

He has known you for most of your life, and it made him the only knight in King’s Landing to try to persuade Prince Maekar against your marriage to his son.

You try to be obedient and polite as you say, “I apologize. I only worry for Prince Aegon’s safety. He is such a small boy.”

“Daeron can take care of his brother,” he assures you. Ser Donnel glances over you, eyes pausing around your nose. “How have you fared these last few days?”

You wonder if your makeup still covers your face, or if your bruise is visible. Even so, you wonder what kind of gossip has reached his ears.

Valarr openly criticized Aerion for his actions towards you. Who else had he told about it?

Trying to push your paranoia to the back of your mind, you reply to him with a simple, “I wish I could return home.”

“Your father still writes to me asking if you appear homesick,” he chuckles. “Each time I tell him yes.”

“It is a sickness that only deepens, I’m afraid.”

“It’s not supposed to be.”

“Are you able to write to my father for me?” you ask him. You begin to draft a letter in your head. ‘Father, I am in urgent need of your company. Please bring mother for a visit to King’s Landing as soon as you are able to.’

If Ser Donnel sent a letter today, it would reach your homeland while you are still in Ashford, and perhaps they would make it the castle by the time you returned.

“Of course,” he tells you. “Once we return to King’s Landing.”

That would be too late. You didn’t know if you could survive waiting until then. Aerion brought a new horror every single night. “Not any sooner?”

“I have more pressing matters to attend to while we are here,” he tells you. He nods towards the field. “Have you come this way to watch your husband’s match? He is next.”

Watching his match was the last thing you wanted to do. “No,” you say. “I was about to make my way to the market.”

“Why don’t you come with me instead? I will escort you to the bleachers. He will be pleased to see you.”

You try to decline again, “I was rather hungry. I think I will see to the food vendors-”

“The Prince will be angry if he learns you were here and did not stay to wish him luck,” Ser Donnel warns you. “And he will learn about it from the guards, I assure you.”

Your shoulders slouch. You glance at the men behind you, and register the fact that they answer to the Targaryens, not to you.

“...I will follow,” you softly agree.

Ser Donnel begins to hold out an arm, but changes his mind. He must have remembered who your husband is. He drops his hand back down to his sword hilt. “Right this way.”

The four guards follow behind you, though it seems they have found relief in Ser Donnel’s appearance. He was in the kingsguard, he was equipped for any situation.

You catch sight of your husband up ahead, training with another knight.

This is not fair, you tell yourself. You were supposed to be free of him for the day.

It was your own pitiful mistake coming here. You wonder how much of your freedom you will lose having to pretend you are interested in this activity.

“Prince Aerion!” Ser Donnel calls out. “Lady (Y/N) has arrived. She has come to watch your match.”

Your husband stops his sparing and looks over. His eyes narrow as he sets his sights on you.

Your body runs cold as you process the fact he is not happy to see you.

Why is he angry at you already?

What could he be angry about? He is the one who humiliated you last night. He is the one who degraded you last night, turned you into the worst version of yourself. What did he have to be angry at you for?

The sparring partner takes this as an opportunity to leave, bowing before he does so.

“Greet your husband,” Ser Donnel whispers beneath his breath, noting that you have gone completely still.

You straighten yourself, and force your feet forward. You stop at arms length, far enough away that he can not reach out and strike you if he intended.

“Good morning, Prince Aerion.”

“(Y/N),” he greets plainly. His eyes leave you as if you disinterest him. He sheaths his sword. “My uncle told me that I would not see you until evening meal.”

Yes, he is clearly angry at you. You shift back a step, wondering if he expected you to be hidden away all day. You try to explain, “Prince Baelor told me that I was free to leave the tent-”

“Yes, that is what he told me as well,” Aerion says to you. “That you have freedom today and that I am not to interrupt.”

You pick up on that tone of voice. You understand the anger now. He is pouting like a child being told to not play with their favorite toy.

He is angry because he was ordered to leave you alone. And he is extra angry at you, because it seems he blames you for allowing that order to be placed.

Desperate to stop his anger before it can fester all day, you quickly reply, “You are not interrupting. I wanted to come see you.”

He eyes you with suspicion. “Who ordered you here?”

“No one.” Ser Donnel did. “I…” You rack your mind for an excuse he will accept. “I recalled that you wanted me at your last match for good luck. I felt bad that I was not able to go. I wanted to make sure I made it to this one.”

His shoulders relax. Just a small amount, but you notice it. Like suspicion is slowly exiting his body.

“You have brought more chaperones,” he comments, as if that was proof you were a bad wife.

“Your uncle has ordered them to stay with me,” you tell him. You are then quick to add, “I told them I only needed one, but they said all four of them were required to follow me-”

“One?”

You quickly remind yourself of his rules. You correct, “One pair. I only needed one pair, but they insisted they all follow.”

He finally looks at you again, his eyes glancing over your clothing. “Why are you not wearing black or red?”

You hesitate, unsure what to say.

“Do you not want people to know which house you belong to?”

He is being possessive. So you say something you assume a possessive man would want to hear. “The people know I belong to you.” He relaxes again. You realize you have found a way out. “But I will return to our tent and change if it would please you-”

“No,” he interrupts. The squire returns and begins tying on his last pieces of armor. “You will stay right here. I am about to mount my horse.”

Ser Donnel begins, “Shall I escort her to Prince Baelor and Lord Ashford in the stands-”

“You will do no such thing,” Aerion commands. “She will stay right here, and you will make sure no one speaks to her while I am occupied.”

Ser Donnel smiles. You see how forced it is. “Yes, Prince Aerion.”

You find it justice that Ser Donnel forced you to watch this match, and now he will be forced to stay as well.

Your husband’s horse is brought to him, and he mounts it with ease. Only once he is on top of it is he handed his helmet.

His armor intimidates you, though you would never say it out loud.

It is welded to look like a dragon, but you think it just makes him look…violent.

You heard rumors about Aerion before you two were married, about how he thought he was a dragon in human form, and how he tried to act just as vicious as the ancient beasts.

You are glad dragons are dead.

Everytime you are near your husband, you thank the gods he will never control one of those fire breathing creatures.

Aerion pulls his helmet on, but he props up the face mask so that he can smile at you. An overconfident smile, of course. “Do not worry (Y/N). The gods are on my side, as they always are. And once I win this tourney, you will be crowned the Queen of Love and Beauty.”

The comment catches you off guard.

It is the first thing Aerion has ever said to you that sounded...husbandly. The kind of thing said by a man who loves his wife.

Aerion takes his horse to the arena. You hear his name announced, and you hear jeers from the crowd.

“How many days does a tourney last?” you ask Ser Donnel. Because you realize you do not know.

“It is rude to speak during a match.”

“I do not wish to pay attention,” you speak in a quiet voice. “I was told he killed a horse in his first match, I cannot bear to see it in person.”

You hear him sigh. A horn blows. You keep your eyes on the ground as horses gallop on the ground.

Metal hits metal. You wince, and keep your eyes away.

“Smile at your husband,” you are told.

You look up. Aerion’s horse returns to its starting post. Neither rider has been knocked off their horse, so they set up to start again. You see him turn to look at you. You feel his gaze through his helmet.

“Smile,” you are told again.

You smile at Aerion. It seems to spark his energy. When another horn blares, you stare down at the dirt once more.

You hear a horrific sound, and the audience reacts with gasps and cheers.

You look up. You see your husband cursing at his squire. “What happened?”

“Prince Aerion was nearly locked off.”

Your heart drops.

No. He cannot lose. If he loses, he will take it out on you.

You shut your eyes and pray to the gods that he wins this match, and that he does not torture you because of his failure.

Another horn blows. You turn your head, flinching as the riders meet in the middle, and screams of pain come from the arena.

The announcement comes quickly. “Prince Aerion is the victor!”

You are relieved, letting out a breath of air you had been holding. You risk looking towards the arena. A knight lays unconscious on the ground. It makes you sick.

Aerion makes his way back to where you stand, near his armor tent. There are ‘boo’s that come from the crowd. Ashford dislikes Aerion. Most places do.

“He will remember you were here to see him win,” Ser Donnel tells you. “And he will think of you fondly for it.”

“He does not care for me in the way you think he does,” you mumble to him. “I doubt he thinks of me at all when I am not around.”

“He speaks of you very often,” Ser Donnel informs you. “And very often does he complain of your…lack of enthusiasm for this marriage.”

Your head snaps in his direction. “What?”

Ser Donnel drops his voice down to whisper, “He wants a dutiful wife, Lady (Y/N). If you cannot be one, pretend to be one. Leave your stubbornness in your homeland. You will not survive with it here.”

Ahead of you, Aerion’s squire brings his horse to a stop.

Aerion dismounts, and rips his helmet off. “That heavy handed bastard.”

Your heart sinks.

He is angry. He has won, but he is angry.

He tosses the helmet to the ground, and begins marching towards the area you stand.

Anxiety pours over you.

He is angry, and he will take it out on you.

No one would be quick enough to stop Aerion from striking you. One, quick strike that leaves you dizzy. You suddenly fear one so bad that your hands start to tremble. He was able to hit you in front of Ser Thenty, who was tasked with keeping hands off of you, so surely he could get one past Ser Donnel.

As your husband nears you, your mind kicks into survival mode, and you try to quickly think of anything that might dampen his anger.

Your memories fly back to his drunken ramblings, his complaints that match up with Ser Donnel’s advice of pretending to be the ‘dutiful wife’.

Aerion’s footsteps are heavy as he reaches you, spitting, “That whore’s son nearly cracked my armor-”

You quickly force a smile as you say, “You’ve won.” You step forward, and place a kiss along his cheek. “Congratulations, husband.”

Aerion stops walking.

You try to keep the smile plastered to your face. “You will surely be the victor of the entire tourney.”

“I had no doubt I would be,” he says to you. He nods over a young boy. “Squire. Help me remove my armor. Now.”

“Yes, Prince Aerion.”

“I will leave you to rest,” you say to him, desperate to step away. “I will see you at evening meal-”

“I will be going to the armor tent. You will join me.”

You do your best to keep your true feelings of disappointment from showing on your face as he walks off. He disappears into the small armor tent.

Your mind screams at you to leave. You even risk taking a date away.

“It would be best not to leave him while he is expecting you,” Ser Donnel advises. “His mood has worsened from his injury.”

“...I know his mood has worsened,” you whisper. “That is why I do not want to follow.”

“The guards will take good care of you,” Ser Donnel promises.

Your head snaps to him. “You will not follow me inside?”

“I am needed elsewhere.”

You always find yourself in such hopeless situations.

“Please remember to hold your tongue with your husband today,” Ser Donnel reminds you.

Your shoulders slouch. You wonder if it is every person in this city who sees you as nothing more than an instigator.

When he leaves, you are slow to enter the armor tent. The four guards follow you.

Aerion is nearly done getting his armor taken off by the time you enter. The clothes he is wearing are pure black, red stitching of the Targaryen emblem on the back. His bright hair clashes against it.

“You took your time,” he comments.

“I apologize. I was bidding Ser Donnel farewell.”

This is the wrong thing to say, you can tell by the look in his eyes.

“Stop, boy,” he says to his squire, who is untying his arm plate. “My wife will do the rest.”

You will?

“Out,” he tells the boy. He then glances around the tent. “Everyone out except my wife and I.”

You are fast to say, “Prince Baelor ordered the guards to be by my side at all times-”

“They will stand outside the tent.”

You look back to say, “Wait-”

They do not even look at you as they exit.

The guards know the true authority of Aerion Targaryen. And it seems even they are not willing to test his anger.

“See to my armor,” Aerion tells you.

You wonder if he actually needs help, or if he is just trying to lure you closer so that he can grab you. You are slow and cautious as you step behind him and look at all the buckles. You do not know what you are doing. You begin to pull on a strap-

“Smaller straps first.”

You quickly pull your hand back. “I am sorry.” You try to grab the one you think he is speaking off.

You wonder if he can feel how jittery your hands are. You manage to remove the large shoulder plate. Then, you succeed in removing the waistband.

Once you have taken down everything on his upper body, he sits down.

At first, you think he will remove his leg armor himself. He does not. You lower yourself down onto your knees and begin unstrapping the metal on his legs.

Aerion watches you with a gaze that unsettles you.

When you are finished, you begin to stand. He places a hand on your shoulder.

He wants you to stay on your knees. It is a silent, but clear, command. You stay where you are, but you are too much of a coward to meet his gaze.

You worry he has something nefarious in mind. That he will force you to strip off your clothes and satisfy him with your mouth the same way the whore did the night before.

But you quickly realize lust is not on his mind. He has kept you on the ground to make you feel small as he asks, “Why did you come here today?”

You are careful with your words, “To watch your match.”

He does not believe you. You can tell without looking at him. “Do not act as if you did not bitterly refuse to watch my first match just two days ago.”

You are quick to defend, “I was injured.” You bite back the words, ‘You injured me.’ “I am still injured, but I came anyway because I wanted to. I did not know you would be so opposed to it.”

His frown deepens as he snaps, “I never voiced opposition to it. You will not twist my words.”

For a split second, you think he is going to kick you.

He does not. He merely slumps back into the chair.

“You will tell me the true reason for you coming here,” he commands. “Because I know it was not for leisure.”

Once again, you found yourself in an inescapable predicament.

If you told him the truth, that you were passing through and Ser Donnel insisted you stayed, he would become furious and harm you somehow.

If you lied, and told him you were interested in his match, he would know you were lying, and in turn would become furious and harm you somehow.

The fact of the matter was you had to lie. It was just coming up with a lie he would accept that made you panic with quick thinking.

You suddenly recall your conversation with Prince Baelor.

“…I came to thank you,” you say slowly. “For what you did for me.”

He narrows his eyes on you. You see another flicker of distrust. “And what did I do for you?”

“You…defended me. Against accusations that were made against me last night. From-” Your voice is so brittle. “From the actress.”

He is quiet for a moment. You are uneasy of it. Finally, he responds with the question, “Did you think I would not?”

You finally risk looking at him. You do not know how to reply.

He speaks before you are able to come up with an appropriate answer. “She miscalculated her worth. She is a whore, and she tried to accuse a royal woman of committing harm.” He shook his head. “She will not forget her place again, I have seen to that.”

He has seen to it? The comments fills you with dread. “What has been done to her-?”

“Wine,” he tells you, nodding to a pitcher set aside in the room.

You internally sigh. But he is not angry at you, so you tell yourself not to mess it up. You pour him a cup, and bring it to him.

“Back to where you were,” he says.

You flush with disgust as you kneel yourself back down in front of him.

You feel like a dog being told to sit at its master’s feet.

“My legs ache,” he says to you.

Now, you feel less than a dog. You take his words as a command. You begin massaging his calves.

He touches the cup to his lips. He watches you as he drinks it.

“What did my uncle tell you about that woman?”

You try to remember all that was said. “She had to...go to the maester for her wounds.” You try not to wince as you think about it. “It was there that she made the accusation against me. You denied it. You...told him it was you who whipped her. You said it was a punishment for her harming me at the theater.”

“And that is the story you will tell to anyone who asks. Understood?”

You are quick to nod.

“You are Targaryen now. A commoner’s word will never outweigh yours.”

And that is terrifying, you realize. Because it reiterates the fact that Aerion can do whatever he wants, to whoever he wants, and his word will always outweigh theirs.

He relaxes in the seat even more. You continue to massage his legs. A few minutes pass, and you wonder how long you will have to do this.

“How did you come to be in the company of Ser Donnel?” His words shatter the peacefulness of the room.

Your hands slow. “I only spotted him as I arrived.”

He takes a moment, like he is considering whether or not you are lying. “Do you know the punishment a royal’s wife receives if she is caught in adultery?”

Your throat tightens. “Ser Donnel is only a friend of my family-”

“Answer.”

You swallow. You know this answer well. When your betrothal to Aerion was announced, it was taught to you over and over. “…An adulterous wife is to be publicly struck with a rod six times. Once for every god, minus The Stranger.”

He leans forward. His fingers brush your braid back behind your shoulders, his eyes trailing down your entire being.

“Do you know the punishment my wife will receive if she is caught in adultery?”

You try to pull back. His hand tightens on your jaw, cementing you where you are.

Your mouth spews with defensiveness. “I have done nothing to betray you-”

“Humor me,” he says. “Do you know what will happen to you if you are caught in adultery?”

You want to close your eyes, but you don’t want to miss the chance to brace for impact if he raises his hand. “...You will kill me.”

His head tilts just the slightest amount. “No,” he drawls. His thumb brushes your lips as he takes in your features. “But you will wish I did.”

“Aerion-”

“Do you know what King Maegor did to his wife when he found out she had been unfaithful?”

Your body tenses even more at the name.

King Maegor the Cruel.

One of the worst Targaryens in history. Brutal, evil, psychotic.

Murderer of millions. A king who burned down entire cities and destroyed any good merit the Targaryen name ever held.

Maegor the Cruel was a curse to the world. But to Aerion-monstrous Aerion-he is a hero.

“He had her tortured to death,” Aerion tells you. “History books say her screams could be heard from every room in the castle.”

You stare at him, and you can visibly see as his eyes darken in thought of the old king.

He leans closer to you. “Your screams will be heard in every house in King’s Landing.”

This is its own kind of torture. Aerion accusing you, over and over. Terrifying you, over and over.

You have done nothing wrong, you keep telling yourself.

Even if he somehow knew you had a second conversation with Ser Duncan, it was nothing scandalous. Even if he had spies watching you, you had kept a distance from him, and he did not touch you.

The only sins you have committed were done in your own mind, and he could not possibly know of them.

And even if he did, all you imagined was holding Ser Duncan’s hand. Was that really deserving of these threats?

You quickly remind yourself he is not speaking of Ser Duncan in the first place. You force the tall man off your mind.

“Ser Donnel knows my father,” you remind him.

He mumbles, “So I’ve been told.”

“He offers familial conversation, that is all, I swear to you. Ask the guards if you must, he stayed at a respectable distance.”

“Today perhaps. What of yesterday?”

You are confused. “I did not see him yesterday, Prince Aerion.”

“You came here, to the arena. Your maid tells me you checked the lists. You were looking for him, weren’t you?”

“No-”

“No? She made it quite clear you were looking for someone.”

You wish Madam Pricher a long, slow death.

The old woman is spiteful, but it does not override your own survival instincts. You quickly lie, “I only wanted to see if there was anyone else from my homeland that was competing.”

“For what purpose?”

You know what you have to do. You have to lie. And you have to lie well.

It is sinful of you to do this, but you feel you have no other options. He is angry, and he seems to be getting angrier by the second, and you are scared.

So you lie to him with the one subject you know will soften him. The subject that has wounded his heart so horribly it has still not healed there yet.

An ill mother.

“I wanted to find someone from my homeland that I could ask about my mother’s health. She was unwell on our wedding day and I have not seen her since.”

His suspicion wavers. “You write to your family every week. Ask about her health in a letter, you have no need to approach anyone about the matter.”

Another quick lie, “I have tried to ask about it, but I am afraid they might not be truthful in letters. My mother would not admit to getting worse. She would not want me to worry.”

It works.

His eyes soften. It is a small amount, but you see it. You have hit his vulnerability.

So you continue to lie, with a voice just as soft, “I’m very scared that...she may pass within the year. I cannot bear the idea that the next time I see her may be when her body is prepared for her funeral.”

Your husband goes quiet for a few moments. He leans back in his chair, his gaze sympathetic instead of suffocating.

“…You have never spoken about your mother being sick,” he eventually says.

“I did not think you cared.”

“Why would I not?”

“You threatened me just days ago that you would send a knight to kill her.”

He seems offended by you repeating his own words back to him. “That would not have happened and you know it.”

“How am I to know it? You care so little for my own safety, why should I expect you to care for my mother’s health?”

You have stabbed him in his vulnerability, and now you are twisting the knife. You see it in his eyes that you are wounding him with his own cruelty.

Never in your life would you believe Aerion could feel guilt. But you see it in his expression now. It is brief, but it is there.

Your husband takes another long sip of wine, and when he brings the cup away from his face, you find that he has wiped his face clean of emotion, as if it was never even there.

“I will send a knight to your homeland tonight,” he informs you. “He will check on your mother’s health and report back to me. There will never be a reason for you to search out a knight on your own.”

You are caught off guard by the offer. So much so, you do not even process that he is standing up, not until he’s already on his feet and brushing past you. He pulls on his own boots.

“I have business with my father,” he tells you next. “Be in our tent dressed in red and black for evening meal.”

You rejoice in the fact his voice holds no more anger. You reply with an obedient, “Yes, Prince Aerion.”

“Come lace up my overcoat.”

You are quick to oblige, forcing your hands steady as you button his heavy jacket up to his neck.

“Your maid also told me that my cousin tried to speak with you yesterday,” he informs you. “When you came to check the names on the list.”

“…Yes.” You subconsciously brace yourself for a strike to the face.

“Madam Pricher says you dismissed him. She said you used the most disrespectful tone she has ever heard used towards a prince.”

Your heart drops, and you pour out a hurried apology. “I am sorry-”

“Do not be. You did well.” He smooths down his sleeves. “Valarr thinks he is powerful enough to convince my wife to defy the orders I give her. You did good to show him he is not.” He looks at you as he says, “Do not be fooled by his false kindness, (Y/N). My cousin is only out to gain your trust so that he can bed you.”

Aerion is a horrible man, but you believe him. You do not trust Valarr, or any Targaryen for that matter.

Aerion grabs his belt off the desktop.

You stare at it.

It is the same belt from last night.

As you look, oh so closely, you realize there is still blood on it. It sends a chill down your spine.

He notices your wandering eye. He slows what he is doing, as if relishing in your full attention.

“Did you enjoy it?” he ask you.

You know what he is speaking of, but you pretend not to. “Enjoy what?”

A smile etches upon his face. A sick smile. An Aerion smile. “Did you enjoy whipping that whore? Striking her until her back was bloody and bludgeoned?”

His blunt reminder of your shameful actions makes you squirm. “No.”

“No?”

“No,” you say again, attempting to speak with sternness

He steps closer.

Another shiver rolls down your back as his face leans nearer, and his voice drops down to a whisper. “But you were so good at it.”

Your heart picks up as he reaches out and touches you again. This time, it is different.

He does not touch your face as usual. Instead, his hand is gentle as it traces the curve of your hip.

“I caught a glimpse of you last night,” he mumbles. His eyes are focused on your chest as it rises and falls with your heavy breaths. “You have been hiding yourself from me. But I saw you.”

You do not understand him. You never do.

“And before you struck her,” he says, again in a whisper. His finger traces down to your lower stomach. “Did you like how she touched you?” He grazes your thigh. “How she kissed you?”

He is teasing you about one of the worst moments in your life. It riles up your anger. You spit, “I did not enjoy any of it and you know that.”

His head ducks down, and your husband speaks against your ear. “Yet you trembled in my arms.”

“I was scared-”

“You were envious.” There is a smile on his voice, clear as day.

You hate it.

You hate that he references what was done to you as if you asked for it, as if you wanted it. You did not. You never have, you never would.

“You heard her moaning, didn’t you?” he continues to tease. You hear his grin broaden. “Is that why you lost your mind? Because you were so jealous of the pleasure I brought her?”

Your stomach twits in knots.

“Do not be jealous, wife,” he says. You feel his head tilt down, and he places a kiss on your neck. “If you wish for that pleasure, all you must do is ask.”

You despise him for this. For suggesting part of you enjoyed what was done. For suggesting you wanted more of it.

Your anger pits deeper. “I want nothing from you.”

Aerion places another kiss along your neck. “No?” You hear his low chuckle. “And if I insist on doing it anyway? On laying you down and placing my mouth on what’s mine?”

Your face burns with the defamation of his words. You spit at him, “Then the whip will find you next.”

He laughs. You feel it against your neck.

He pulls away, and you think he will strike you. He does not. Instead, he pulls out his coin purse from his pocket, and hands it to you.

“Go to the market,” he says. “Buy new bathing oils. Something that smells sweet. I despise that floral scent they keep putting on you.”

The coin purse is heavy in your hand. You risk opening it. It is filled with more money than you have ever possessed at once in your entire life.

“Have yourself prepared for me by this evening. I have already told you I dislike braids in your hair. Fix it by the time I arrive.”

That is all he has to say. He leaves, and you are alone in the armor tent. Again, you glance down at the coin purse.

You are unharmed.

The realization washes over you with joy.

He threatened you, scared you, degraded you, gripped tight enough to cause the slightest bit of pain-but you were not harmed.

You feel as though you have succeeded in this game you had no choice in playing.

********************************************

TAG LIST

@optimisticbirdwitch @goldenrosequeen @marreader8 @loveyouok @saraalunaa @mommyoftwoo @briefwinnapersona @zalibali @nuh-uhs-stuff @annetheperfect @x-vadon@larax24x02 @faketears1 @barbara-228 @leeches122355 @blubellwoods @fanfictionsthatkeepmecompany @jemizua @dottoreos @mommyoftwoo @winxschester @lostinthestreamofconsciousness @xyahx @soyvanepino @disturbedturtle @ashamedtobeawhitemanswhore @snorklingfae @xxvelvetxxxx @umadirectioner @divxnee @luloser123 @ryonaheroine @searchhound @laeyliaa @pensm @briefwinnapersona

(PLEASE MESSAGE ME IN ASKS IF YOU WANT TO BE ON TAGLIST SO I CAN BE SURE I ADD YOU)

#keep rereading this peak…#my beloved loveobx… away at the war #when shall they return home to me #fic recs! (x reader)#aerion targaryen x reader

stolen-seconds

Rocky gets worried about you when he’s watching you sleep and gets Ryland ;)

(i've also written this as a possible continuation to this fic)

contents: FLUFF, a little hurt/comfort

warnings: maybe one curse word, vomit, discussions of the menstrual cycle

note: I know that the French memory wipe thing is only given to Ryland in the book and that’s why he can’t remember, but it’s more fun to write that they both can’t remember so that’s how it’s gonna be in here!

It was quiet on the ship - obviously, it was space - but quieter than usual. The banter of a long lab session or the teasing that came from you and Rocky anytime Ryland tried to pilot Mary was gone.

You were asleep, and of course Rocky had to watch you. It was a normal thing at this point. One person went to sleep, one person semi-watched and semi-worked (unless it was Rocky, he normally just watched), and one person did whatever they wanted in the rest of the ship. Sometimes the two of you slept together with Rocky watching you to save time, but the Taumoeba needed almost around the clock “care” at this point, so here you were.

The two of you were… something. Definitely emotionally entangled, but he wasn’t quite sure yet. The two of you woke up like that, knowing that you should be close, so he wasn’t going to question it. Maybe you would remember something at some point and know how to classify it.

He hoped so.

#ryland grace x reader #fic recs! (x reader)

softcillian

﹙Ꮺ࣭۪﹚ | FOOKIN' BABY — thomas shelby

you knew something was wrong when tommy shelby refused a cigarette.

he just sat there at the kitchen table, sleeves rolled up, forearms tense, jaw ticking like a bomb mid-countdown. sunlight slanted through the curtains all soft and gold and holy, but your husband looked like war. looked like 1914 come back to haunt the breakfast dishes. looked like he was seconds from setting something on fire just to feel warmth.

you set the kettle down. hard.

“what?” you say, sharp like the edge of his razors, voice still sticky with sleep. “what is it now, thomas?”

he doesn’t answer. just stares straight ahead at absolutely fucking nothing, like the ghost of a thought has him by the throat. which, fine. you’re married to a man whose favorite pastime is brooding, right next to murder and tax evasion.

but then he says it. and it’s so goddamn unexpected, you forget how to breathe for a second.

“i want a baby.”

you blink.

“you—what.”

his blue eyes meet yours. stormclouds. cigarette smoke. something ancient and aching. “a child. ours. i want one.”

you laugh. because it’s easier than screaming.

“jesus christ, tommy. is this another one of your near-death existential spirals? do we need to call polly again?”

he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t blink. just says, deadly serious, “you’d be a good mother.”

and it hits you in the chest like a fucking freight train.

because here’s the thing about tommy shelby: when he loves, it’s not flowers and poetry. it’s knives. it’s promises soaked in blood. it’s protection so feral you almost choke on it. and when he looks at you like that—like the world is a house on fire and you’re the only thing worth saving—you believe him. against your better judgment. against every ounce of self-preservation.

you sit down. slow. because your knees aren’t working properly anymore.

“you’ve got three siblings with kids. and a fucking horse. why do you need this?” you ask, weak.

“because none of those are you. and none of them are mine.”

and there it is. raw and selfish and soaked in possession. tommy shelby in one fucking sentence.

you run a hand through your hair. “this is so unhinged. you can’t just—just decide you want a kid out of nowhere.”

he arches an eyebrow, infuriatingly calm. “i’ve wanted one since the wedding.”

you gape. “then why didn’t you say anything?”

“because the war never ended, love. just changed shape.”

you’re gonna cry. and you hate crying. especially in front of him, because he gets all tender and tragic and you end up in bed for three days trying to fuck the pain out of each other like that ever works.

you reach across the table. lace your fingers through his. and he lets you. because when you touch him like this, it’s the only time he doesn’t flinch.

“it’s not that i don’t want one,” you whisper. “it’s just … what if you get killed, tommy? what if i’m left raising a baby on my own, telling stories about a ghost who smelled like gunpowder and good whiskey?”

he squeezes your hand.

“then name him after me.”

you laugh through a choked sob. “you arrogant bastard.”

“takes one to love one.”

and then he’s pulling you into his lap like he’s starved for you. like he needs to feel your heartbeat just to keep his own steady. he kisses you like it’s a vow, like he’s swearing something to your bones. and you kiss him back because of course you do. because you love him in spite of everything. because of everything.

his mouth trails down your neck. “let me show you,” he murmurs against your skin. “how much i want this. how much i want you.”

you bite your lip, trying to stay rational, but the way he touches you should be illegal in at least seventeen countries. and when he says, “wanna see you round, carrying my baby. mine. all mine.” you’re done. you’re just done.

somewhere between the second orgasm and the wreckage of your dignity, you realize he’s serious. he holds you like he’s memorizing the shape of your future. palms flat against your belly like he’s trying to will life into it. and for the first time, you’re not scared. not really.

because if there’s anyone who can stare down the apocalypse and still plan for tomorrow—it’s thomas shelby.

and maybe, just maybe … you’ll give him one.

but not before you punch him in the arm and mutter, “next time, lead with flowers. not fucking baby fever.”

he smirks. “thought you liked me feral.”

“unfortunately, i do.”

and he kisses you again, this time soft. like the war has ended, if only for now.

#fic recs! (x reader)#tommy shelby x reader

cosmicasteroid

"Did I do something to upset you?"

You look back at Leon, he's stood in the doorway of the kitchen, your wedding ring clutched in his hand, "What are you talking about?"

"You took your ring off." Leon frowns, looking like a kicked puppy.

"I took it off for the gym and forgot to put it back on. It's no big deal." You shrug, turning your attention back to the stove.

You hear Leon huff.

"To love and to cherish, that was the promise we made, and yet you cast my love aside by leaving proof of our marriage on your dresser." You feel Leon's arms wrap around your waist, his head resting on your shoulder.

"I didn't want to lose it at the gym! Quit being dramatic, " You laugh, smacking his arms away.

Leon grabs your hand, a smirk on his face as he slips your ring back on your finger, "Finally," Leon mumbles, his fingers interlocking with yours, wedding rings side by side.

Two posts in one night? It's more likely than you think

Leon Masterlist

#leon kennedy x reader #fic recs! (x reader)

suprsnupi

ಇ . . . superboy-prime yaps while fucking you silly !

"no, oh my god, babe," he chuckles, hot mouth kissing the column of your neck so sweetly, letting his mumbled info-dump seep into your skin. "see, togruta and twi'lek appendages have completely different functions—"

you moan, soft and unsteady and all too susceptible to the way his cock sits so snugly in you. he rocks into your heat, seemingly unaffected by the way you gasp and flutter when he brushes the spot that makes your head spin and your pussy squelch like one of the eldritch monsters he loves.

and he just keeps talking.

he presses his flushed cheek to yours. sinks the thick fingers of his left hand into the plush of your thigh, plays with your slick, throbbing clit with his right thumb. casually lets a smirk play on his stupid, cute mouth—you can feel the impression of his dimple—as his voice dips into gravel against the shell of your ear:

"twi'lek lekku are prehensile and have some limbic cortex function, so physiological expression of emotion and language—"

sharp need coils tighter in your belly, making you whimper into the warmth of his neck. "mm, c—"

"shh, i know, baby," clark rasps, letting the hand on your thigh travel up and press firmly below your navel. you feel all of him, every ridge and vein, slipping out a pitched sound caught between a choked groan and a squeal.

he continues, though this time thrusting a little more urgently, thank god. "and togruta lekku are connected to their montrals, which—fuck, you just got so tight—ah, are used for echo-locative purposes because their species is carnivorous..."

"'m gonna cum, clark," you pant, eyes squeezing shut as the pads of your fingers press against his scarred, sculpted chest desperately. he hums, nosing your cheek and flicking your swollen bundle of nerves like a joystick.

"okay, okay, 'm sorry," is the hushed, completely unapologetic reply. clark's cock lets the filthy, wet sound of him plunging in and out of your cunt speak for his mouth, which is sucking a new hickey into your shoulder.

still, you can tell that he wants to talk—the tense line in his broad, muscular shoulders says so.

"that's it, that's it, c'mon sweetheart, give it to me..."

you cum on his cock with a choked cry, senses dimming as your system sharpens on the overwhelming pleasure spilling from your core, the rhythmic clench of your walls around him.

"shit, shit," he whimpers, syllables spilling out of his mouth as he starts to rut into you with renewed vigor, chasing his own orgasm and pushing you deeper into his batman-patterned sheets. "okay, lemme explain reverse cursed technique before i bust."

#this is crazy !!!! kinda obsessed #its prime time!! he's so endearing....my actual nerdy bf #clark kent x reader #fic recs! (x reader)

catbayunthestoryteller

Wine and A Pretty Wench

Aerion Targaryen x wife!reader - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms

Summary: Dunk accidently mistakes Aerion's lady wife in his tent for a common whore because she did not arrive with the rest of the Targaryen party to the Ashford tourney. This is a oneshot, not related to any series.

Warnings: SMUT 18+ p in v, unprotected sex, possessiveness, power imbalance, dubiously consensual situations, Aerion wants to roleplay, pregnancy mention, talks about killing, Aerion has insane ideas, breeding.

The morning of the tourney had dawned bright over Ashford Meadow, the kind of morning that promised glory and broke that promise before the sun reached its zenith. You had watched the Targaryen party arrive from the shade of the pavilion, your hands folded, your spine a straight line of practiced composure. The three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, red on black, snapped in the wind, a sight that still made your stomach tighten.

Dunk, Ser Duncan, now, though it sat awkwardly on his broad shoulders, stood near the lists with his squire, a small, shaven-headed boy with sharp eyes. The hedge knight watched the procession with a wariness that bordered on rude, his great height making him impossible to miss among the crowd of lords and ladies and smallfolk alike. He had heard the whispers, same as everyone else. Prince Aerion Targaryen was coming to Ashford. Prince Aerion Brightflame, they called him. Some called him other things, though not to his face. This one, he had heard, was cut from different cloth entirely.

The prince was fair to look upon, all the Targaryens were, with hair like spun silver and eyes the color of violets, a sharp jaw and a mouth that seemed perpetually on the verge of a sneer or a smile, and it was difficult to tell which was which. He wore black riding leathers chased with silver thread, a cloak of deep crimson slung over one shoulder, and he did not look at the smallfolk who gathered to gawk. He looked through them, as if they were made of glass and of no consequence.

Duncan watched him dismount with an easy grace, handing his reins to a squire without a word of thanks. The prince stretched, rolled his shoulders, and cast a lazy glance across the meadow toward the rows of tents and pavilions that had sprouted like colorful mushrooms overnight.

“I am for my tent,” Aerion announced to no one in particular, though his voice carried well enough. It was a pleasant voice, cultured and smooth, with an undercurrent of something that made the hairs on Duncan’s arm prickle. “Tell them to bring wine. Something red, from the Arbor, if they have it. None of that Dornish swill.” He paused, and a slow, private smile curved his lips. “I, myself, shall be finding a pretty woman to share it with.”

Chuckles followed. A couple of Kingsguards shared a knowing look. Duncan frowned. He had heard, somewhere in the jumble of heraldry and gossip that accompanied any great tourney, that prince Aerion was married. To some lady of a lesser house, a match that had raised eyebrows among the high lords but had been pushed through by the prince’s father, Maekar, for reasons Duncan did not pretend to understand. A wife. And here the prince was, speaking of finding a pretty woman as if he were a knight with nothing but a horse and a sword to his name. Duncan’s sense of honour, simple and stubborn as an ox, bristled at the casual dismissal. A man wed was a man wed. He ought not speak so.

But Duncan was no fool, not entirely. He kept his frown to himself and watched the silver-haired prince stride off toward the largest of the black-and-crimson pavilions, his cloak billowing behind him, and he thought, not for the first time, that the blood of the dragon was a strange and unsettling thing.

#fic recs! (x reader)#aerion targaryen x reader

targlocket

MY SWEET WIFE

aerion targaryen x sensitive wife!reader

cw: hurt/comfort, possessive aerion, sprinkle of fluff, reader is a bit of a crybaby, emotional distress, slight dacryphilia, face licking!!, making out, obsessed aerion, codependent relationship, (2kw).

a/n: i have an inkling aerion would lose his mind if his wife would only find comfort in him and no one else so i scrambled to write before i lost my train of thought!!

someone had made you cry. big, glistening tears lining your lash line as you tried to hold back more of those soft, hiccuped sobs. that plush, lower lip wobbling pitifully, already wet and salty with moisture.

his sweet wife.

so vulnerable, so sensitive, so emotional. the softest creature he had ever laid eyes on.

#aerion targaryen x reader #fic recs! (x reader)

sunbleachedreams

⋆˚౨ৎ ⋆.˚ mcvadi mood board for guidance

#fic recs! (misc)#mcvadi

greenwitchfromthewoods

stay close, don't go alone. l Ryland Grace

Ryland Grace x Reader

warnings: lack of sleep is taking its toll on him; angry Rocky; cuddling, some flirting; Reader is in danger; Reader is hurt; Ryland is caring and sweet; Rocky is a menace

note : life on Hail Mary - lack of sleep, danger, but also the need for closeness.

A/N: Nothing special. I had one scene in mind, so I had to write everything around it. I wanted to thank you all because I see you're reading. It means a lot to me. It's hard to get back into writing after a break…

[Ryland Grace masterlist] [main masterlist]

"Grace stupid."

You looked up from your tablet at Rocky, who was shifting restlessly inside his xenonite enclosure. You couldn’t see a face—if he even had one—but his posture made it obvious: he was irritated. Ryland, meanwhile, dragged a hand through his hair, only making it worse. He was clearly sulking.

"Easy, buddy," he muttered, pointing at Rocky before turning to you. "Did you hear what he just called me?"

You pressed your lips together, setting your tablet aside with deliberate care. "Well… Grace, I don’t think he’s entirely wrong."

Ryland threw his hands up. "Wow. Okay. You’re taking his side!"

#ryland grace x reader #fic recs! (x reader)

moonlight-in-the-sea

puppet show — ryland grace x reader

summary: you and grace put on a puppet show for rocky at his request so he is able to understand human culture better. little do you know, the engineer is setting you both up.

tags: a lot, a lot of rocky. he thinks humans are gross and stupid and you and grace should mate already. statement ryland referred to as "grace".

Waking up to see a sentient alien creature waddling about in a glass looking ball in the Hail Mary is not something you could say you expected when taking on this mission.

Said creature being the most hilarious living organism you have ever encountered in your life was also not on your list of expectations.

Bracing a hand on the ball, you double over, wheezing at him just tearing Grace apart (likely without meaning to, though sometimes he's so intentional with it it cannot be a coincidence) with a clumsily translated string of words.

"Friend sick, question?" Rocky inquires, bracing a claw against where your hand is resting. Then, voice taking over a more urgent tone — how did Grace manage to convey that via code or translation system, you will never know —, another claw tapping to get Grace's attention; "Grace! Grace! Friend leaking! Emergency, statement!" Pressing his head to your side of the xenonite in a hasty attempt at comfort, "Grace! Intervention. Now!"

"They're good, Rock," Grace sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "They're laughing because they think you said something funny," Turning to you, he points an accusatory finger at you in such a way that an image of him scolding a rowdy student in a classroom flashes in your mind. "About my "inability" to pilot, by the way!" He even does air quotes to emphasize his point. Cute. "Ouch!" He presses a hand against his chest, then waving it off with a dismissive huff. "So pay no attention to the fact that they sound like they're dying."

#YAAAAAAAAAAAS #ryland grace x reader #fic recs! (x reader)

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

S!