The point of fiction is actually to put that guy in a situationâąïž, and he might try to tell you the point is to then get him out of the situation, WRONG, second situation
One of my writing teachers in community college told me that the first step of writing fiction was to run a character up a tree, and the second step was to throw rocks at him. Words to live by
set in this au by @peachblossom-odyssey; references replica by miracle of sound
v's changing johnny's lyrics. kerry doesn't know how, but they're doing it. they're guiding johnny's hand to more synth-heavy songs when kerry knows he prefers the firm twang of metal guitar strings; his vocals are softer and loftier compared to before he met v... before he started to change.
johnny's changing. kerry never knew he was capable of that. yeah, he changed from robert to johnny after he became disabled and had his revelations in the chihuahuan desert like moses in the desert of shur, but this is different. it's almost like... can kerry even bring himself to say it? can silverhand even... can he even fall in love?
'cause this new song has kerry weirded out. maybe it's the way johnny touches his chest during the bridge, like it makes him feel warm and proud to confess that "the more they give, the less i am." johnny's joked about v being a parasite-type groupie before, but the way his eyes screw shut and the way his smile grows wide when he follows -- "they keep on screamin' for release / yells with my voice, tears with my hands" -- makes kerry fear that they're much, much more.
hell, what kind of person is v that they can make johnny openly sing about his fears? johnny's been touting "corps can only shit on people for so long 'til they decide it's their turn to pull down their pants!" for nearly a decade now, but suddenly he's admitting that he knows his revolution could fail? he's singing "sometimes we drift too far / there is no way to slow down / so either steer or collide." maybe if kerry knew v, understood how they operate, how they're changing how johnny operates...
but no -- v's for johnny's eyes only, and it's got kerry reading his lyrics over and over. johnny even admits in the chorus that he's not himself, but he's not somebody else... what the hell does that mean? where's the in between? how is he changing into something he's not supposed to be? why does it sound like v's the one changing him? and why doesn't he sound scared of it?
Getting your mouth on your Pretty Birdâs cunt is a treat all in itself. Like water after days in the desert. Slipping your tongue through slick folds and delving into her heat is akin to a luxurious feast. Were this your last meal, you would die satisfied.
While her sweet noises and cries, seasoning to your meal, are muffled by her thighs clamped tight over your ears, your Big Manâs hand smooths over your shoulders. It eases something in you, to have the both of them in your bed.
Tucking two thick scarred fingers into her pretty hole, listening to her cry out as her cunt clenches viciously around thick callouses and roping scars. Your sweet bird sings so prettily for a slavering mutt like you. Itâs messy, drool soaking into the sheets as you greedily swallow all of her slick. All of it, just for you.
The familiar cool tendril of a shadow creeping up your leg has your body tensing, then relaxing again when your Big Manâs hand presses more firmly between your shoulder blades. Small hands wrap themselves around your scalp, holding tightly as your Pretty Birds thighs clamp even tighter. Her legs crawl onto your back and nudge against Xadenâs hand ungracefully as her back begins to arch.
Doubling your efforts with dedicated fervour lets you put the shadow creeping between your legs in the back of your mind. It strokes, icy cool, and you almost choke on slick as it presses into you. Itâs not entirely solid, thick air around the edges, pressing deeper and deeper in and curling against your sweet spot.
Itâs not big, no thicker than a finger or two, but itâs long and you groan wantonly against your Pretty Birdâs cunt.
âThatâs it.â Your Big Man murmurs, rubbing soothingly between your shoulders as your hips jerk hungrily. âYouâre being so good for us.â
A sharp keen, and the hound in you yearns for more. More of that sweet praise and verification that yes, you were good. A good dog, loyal, obedient, and subservient. As all good dogs ought to be.
Your Pretty Bird sings out your name, gasping and moaning, her cunt clenches viciously. It strangles your fingers, and then your tongue when you force it in to swallow her release. Tight, hot, wet, and so fucking perfect. You canât help but keep going, devouring her even as her song reaches a fever pitch, and her hands on your head go from clutching to pushing. You need more.
When you finally let up, after a second or third orgasm, gasping, face coated in her slick as you lick it from your chops, she looks thoroughly debauched. Itâs the hottest thing youâve ever seen, and it has you squeezing around the shadow- shadows inside you.
âLookit, whaâ a preây bird.â You groan, sucking her slick off your fingers before smoothing thick hands over her thighs. Admiring the way her hairs tangled around her head, her face flushed, her chest heaving as she struggles to catch her breath. Pretty tits swaying with every movement.
âSo fuckinâ good fer us.â You mumble, crawling up her body to latch your lips around her nipple. Suckling greedily with both arms wrapped around her waist. Your weight presses her into the mattress as your teeth scrape over her nipple. Her hands flutter onto your shoulders, indecisive if she should push you away or hold you close as you devour her once more. She tastes like the salty-sweetness of sweat, and absolutely perfect.
âFuck-â Xadenâs cock nudging at your hole takes you by surprise. And a momentary burst of shame at losing yourself, letting yourself get distracted by your Pretty Bird almost overwhelms you.
âEasy,â Your Big Man murmurs, kissing your spine. âI got you.â
Fuck, you feel so full, and your eyes roll into the back of your head, jaw hanging slack. He pushes in and it fills you so sweetly, so perfectly, pressing against every bit of you and filling them out until youâre stuffed. And even then he keeps going. More for his loyal hound, a treat for the loyal mutt.
Drool splatters onto your Pretty Birdâs tits, and soft hands wrap around your cheeks, encouraging you to open the eyes you didnât notice youâd shut. âYouâre beautiful.â
A soft keen crawls from your ragged throat. Beautiful. Beautiful. âViolet, Xaden-â
Your release almost takes you by surprise, tears swelling in your eyes at the utter adoration in your Pretty Birdâs eyes. Love. For you. Love for the bloodthirsty bastard that follows her night and day. Love for the poor mutt who stands howling outside her door. Love for you.
When your Big Man has filled you up with his own cum, pressing deep inside and filling every bit of you. You feel almost at peace. When he slides out, and his seed races to fill the places heâs excavated within you, it feels like a promise.
âSo fucking perfect.â He whispers, tangling the three of you into the sheets, and under it you can hear the promise. His. Mine. Ours. The three of you are for each other now, no other would be able to take your loyalty, just like no other would be able to take his.
This is me violently jamming my new hobby into everything I do. Puuuurely self indulgent.
Getting a loom into a war college was pretty much impossible. But fashioning one from the frame of the mirror in your new room and a handful of small nails swiped from the forges was relatively easy. Even getting a hold of butcherâs twine was easy enough with some half-baked excuse to the kitchen. The real trouble was getting yarn.
For days the loom sat across from your bed, perched next to the now-bare mirror, until a mild remark to Liam found you returning to your room, sweat slick and exhausted from a long day of flight maneuvers, staring at a basket on your desk.
It wasnât much, really. A handful of simple skeins of yarn, worsted weight, if you had to guess. A variety of colours that mustâve been exuberantly expensive to dye. Navy blue, soft gold, deep black. More simple reds, greens, and browns.
There was no note, but you didnât need one. Slumping into your desk chair, you tug the basket closer with an almost reverent hand. Enough yarn for multiple tapestries, and something in your wounded soul eases. The battered blood-slick beast in your gut abates, its snarling fangs hidden as its frothing mouth gentles.
Sitting before your loom, weaving yarn back and forth, you feel just that little bit more human. Just a little bit less slavering hound, and a little more peaceful. Weapons had no use for pretty yarn in a wicker basket, but then again, weapons didnât weave.
Over, under. Over, under. Over, under. A dulled training blade propped between the twine like a wedge. A second blade functioning as a base. Carefully blunted and dulled to keep it from slicing through the twine and yarn like all the rest of your weapons. A thin pen with your yarn wrapped over it as a bobbin. Over, under. Over, under. Over, under.
Left to right, you spend the night working. Exhaustion is long since abandoned as you work through the night, lost to the world even as your dragon rumbles in the back of your mind. Sleep? Now? When you, at last, have your hands on that which connected you to your ancestors? To your mothers and grandmothers, generations of weavers before you. A lineage of strong hands crafting works of art before you picked up a gun. Before a life of pain became your legacy.
Night after night, you settle yourself before your loom. Hours spent weaving until your eyes begged for sleep and your hands ached, over and under. Over and under. Over and under.
And slowly, ever so slowly, it takes shape. First the soft off-white you had the most of, then the golden yellow of Andarna, the navy blue of Sgaeyl curled with the devouring black of Tairn. Then your own dragon, broad wings stretched in flight. It takes weeks until youâre satisfied, and by the end itâs taller than you are. A decorative and indulgent fringe at the base, and a curtain rod along the top to hang it from.
Youâd kept it covered during the day. Whenever your Big Man and Pretty Bird came into your room you kept your loom hidden from view with a sheet that only just barely covered the bulk of it, leaving only the soft fringe and footing at the base in view.
Itâs only when you cut it down, dutifully cutting the twine, sewing over the header and tying the bottom into careful knots, that you let it be seen. Hanging it from a spare curtain rod youâd swindled Bodhi into getting a hold off for you, you hang it reverently against the stone over your desk. The sun through your window shined over it ever so warmly at dusk, and a surge of pride overwhelms you at the reverent gasp your Pretty Bird makes.
ââS not much.â You say, shrugging and rubbing the back of your neck as your Big Man steps forward to brush a hand ever so softly over the surface.
âThereâs Andarna, and Tairn, and Sgaeyl,â Violet says, pointing out all four of the dragons with such awe it risks dragging a blush to your cheeks that you fight down whole-heartedly. Your Pretty Bird canât even reach the top to touch your dragon, and you donât bother fighting the impulse to lift her up. Great big paws wrap around her waist and raise her up like a queen, granting her reach to all she wished for.
âThis is beautiful.â Xaden says, and he looks at you with such wonder, like suddenly the truth of you has come out.
âMy ma taught me.â You brush off, lowering your Pretty Bird back to the ground. âMy family, ah, well. They were weavers.â
Your Big Man levels you with an unreadable look, something akin to curiosity and wonder and heartache.
âIâll make you one.â You offer suddenly, surprising yourself as the words slide from your lips in their natural drawl. âMaybe smaller, though.â
Violet smiles at you, wide and awestruck and adoring all at once. âIâd like that.â
Xaden nods his agreement, and sweeps a hand over your arm, pulling you close to him with your back against his chest. âIâll get you more yarn.â He promises, and his voice is a low timber in your ear as he kisses gently against your jaw.
âAll the yarn you want.â He continues, leading you towards the bed, and you have the inane urge to cover the tapestry to spare it from the sight of its creator (and oh, what a wonder it is, go be creator once more) getting thoroughly taken apart and devoured.
Your Big Man smirks, and lays down on your narrow bed, pulling you atop him with your Pretty Bird following eagerly as she strips from her clothes. Her corset landing on the ground with a soft thump that drags your eyes over her tits as if your leash had suddenly been yanked. Perfect tits. Maybe that should be your next tapestry.
Mmm, more introspective, I think. The more I gradually flesh out this reader, the more Iâm tempted to make a proper oc fic lol
Enjoy. Iâve written this based on a half cobbled memory of how this scene actually went, lmao.
The Gauntlet. A daunting name for an impressively formidable climbing wall. The name brought memories back of childhood games on shiny-squeaky gymnasium floors.
This isnât like that. No, this isnât like that at all. No cones line a makeshift corridor, and no children are running gleefully back and forth in an attempt to score points for a game you canât quite remember anymore. Instead you stand alongside a squad of young adults, too young, who collectively shit themselves at the sight of their next trial.
You, in another life, mightâve been afraid too. But here? In this life? You are a mutt, and when a houndâs master says jump, your duty isnât to say âhow highâ, itâs to leap with unadulterated faith in the authority holding your leash.
You hold no affection for the Navarre government that sends children to its death, college kids, you think to yourself. In another life, these walking corpses would be studying and drinking. Maybe, in another life, you would be too.
As it stands, your Pretty Bird is determined to fly, and your duty as her mutt is to ensure she can stretch those pretty wings of hers and soar through the deceptively clear skies. Hic sunt dracones.
When your signalled to go, you leap like a dog. Hands thick with callouses that have migrated from the side of your trigger finger to fill out the palms of your hands latch onto rock and wood. You are no graceful dancer, or elegant acrobat. Every move is functional, particular, without energy wasted on petty frills and beauty. You clamber, efficient, clean, sophisticated.
Youâve almost reached the top when you hear it. The shrill cry of your Pretty Bird. Your head darts back, sparing half a moment to pinpoint her location before youâre on the move. Hands wrap around the emergency ropes, stabilizing yourself as you descend twice as quickly as you rose.
âEyes on me, Pretty Bird.â You grunt, landing with a thunk next to Violet, still reaching for the fallen body of a nameless girl. Thereâs devastation written on her face.
A shout of your name rises to you, but you spare no thought for the instructor who attempts to scold you from the ground. You may be a hound, but hounds are loyal to their masters and no one else.
âViolet.â You snap, harsh enough to drag wide pretty eyes towards your face. âKeep moving.â
The nameless girl, Audrie or Annie, or some other name you never cared to catch, is gone already. But Violet isnât. A thick hand, scarred and calloused, wraps around pale thin fingers. âKeep climbing.â
Your Pretty Bird nods, hesitantly, still rattled, but she moves.
Tw for insecurity & self hatred. Maybe body horror? I wouldnât really class it as that but just to cover my bases. Also, reader is a very unreliable narrator, yâall. Also sex. This is sex.
Also reader is afab but I tried to keep it relatively ambiguous
((Also, also, guess who got accepted to uni! Not for the degree I wanted, or at the school I wanted, but I got accepted nonetheless (:))
Scars lined most of your body. Face, hands, arms, legs, back, torso. Little flesh remained unmarked in some way for long stretches. The worst, you think privately, has to be the burn across your face. Stretching from your brow bone, over your nose, to the opposite jaw and curling down your neck.
Even the slice along your throat and the scars wrapping over your wrists from long days spent tugging on too-tight manacles didnât bother you as much as the burn.
You didnât tend to look in mirrorâs, and youâve long since covered the one in your room with a sheet, but that sheet has been haphazardly tugged off now as youâre seated before the mirror. Violet between your thighs, a rare turn of events, with two lithe fingers pressing into you. The stretch isnât too bad, and thereâs enough wet slick to make it clear that your physiology is enjoying the stimulation.
Xaden, stands behind you, one hand wrapped loosely over your neck, while the other explores the scarred canvas of your chest. For a moment, even between your Big Man and your Pretty Bird, you canât help but be caught by how ugly you are between them. It isnât something that usually bothers you, but in this moment? With your Pretty Bird resting her head against a scarred thigh, and your Big Man swiping a thumb over where your nipple used to be, it feels stark.
âYouâre thinking too much.â Xaden murmurs, low and husky in your ear as he makes eye contact with your reflection. âSo fucking perfect for us. Isnât that right, Violence?â
Violet smirks from where her head was rested against your thigh. She doesnât bring her mouth to you, not after the first time she tried and you had pushed her head away. âBeautiful.â
What a strange thing, you thought to yourself, groaning as a third finger presses inside and crooks just so. What an odd conviction, to think of a hulking beast, long since scarred and battle-torn, as beautiful.
âSo beautiful.â Xaden repeats, pressing a soft and tender kiss against the torn skin of your earlobe, where a piercing had been ripped out oh-so long ago. And the word is said with such certainty, such whole-hearted belief, that your eyes burn with the threat of tears. Didnât they know? You were a wretched thing.
âStop-â You rasp, voice ruined and desperate as your back begins to arch. âDonâ call me thaâ.â
Violet, who had hesitated for half a moment, returns with doubled fervour. Three fingers turn into four, and she presses each in down to the knuckle and presses them tight against that sweet spot that has you singing. She even dares to lean forward and press a soft, gentle, barely there flutter of a kiss against the top of your thigh. Against a scar that you earned more recently, on the challenge mats.
âWould you rather I call you gorgeous?â Xaden asks, pinching your one remaining nipple with one hand, while the other squeezes your neck ever so softly. âBreathtaking? Magnificent? Enchanting?â
A soft sob tears from your throat. You were none of these things, you were a large hulking beast of a person. Thick muscle, ropes of scar tissue, lacking various chunks of flesh, and yet. Somehow, someway. Your Big Man still called you beautiful. Still murmured reverent words into your torn ear, while your Pretty Bird licked over the scar in your thigh, fingers crammed in deep. She didnât have as much practice as you did in this, you rarely let them touch you like this, unravel you like this, but she clearly picked up more than a few tricks from you.
âIâm not,â You gasp, and the words, like every other word you speak, tears from your ragged throat, especially when Big Manâs hand tightens ever so subtly.
âIâm noâ.â You repeat, insistent, and then cry out when the blunt pressure of teeth digs in just above your pubic bone.
âFuck, canât you see how you ruin us?â Big Man asks, and thereâs something tragic in his eyes you refuse to acknowledge as your body is coaxed towards its peak. âHow can someone so perfect think so little of themself?â
Then your name slips from Pretty Birdâs lips, and thatâs enough to bring you right to the edge as she whispers sweet nothings between your thighs.
âDivine.â Big Man whispers, and thatâs enough to have you clenching down on Pretty Birdâs fingers, squeezing viciously with the kind of tightness that only comes from a lack of practice. Your cry rips through your vocal cords, carries over your tongue and past yellowed teeth into the room as you tip over your edge.
Violet and Xaden, your Pretty Bird and your Big Man, they were the first two youâve willingly let between your legs in a long time. And they most certainly did not disappoint, or overreach. They took every inch you gave them like a precious gift, careful and tender. They treated you like you were something fragile- no. Like you were something precious, worth careful handling to keep you intact.
You feel tender. Soft, like wet clay. Easily molded and maneuvered into the bed, even though Pretty Bird and Big Man havenât gotten off. Tears you hadnât noticed streaking down your cheeks as they curl up next you, and your attempts at encouraging them to take care of themselves are brushed off.
âWe love you,â Pretty Bird says, your name falling from her lips so sweetly. âWe want to take care of you.â
Big Man agrees, dark eyes soft and kind as he props you up in the middle of the small bed designed for one. It barely fit two, and struggled with three. It was unusual. Your spot was on the left side, half hanging off the edge and closest to the door. If anyone came in, theyâd get to you first. But now Xaden lies there, pressed against your side, and Violet is rested half across your chest, instead of in the middle like she prefers. You are a creature of habit, but, maybe, just for tonight, you donât mind being the center of your two precious loves.
Small tiny drabble while I have some free time. Enjoy.
There were days where touch burned your soul. The slightest graze crawled under your skin and set your nerves alight with energy and pain and heat. Days where no matter how much Violet may silently beg with those pretty eyes, youâd deny her. It wasnât her fault, per se. And it wasnât yours either. It was just something that happened, a fact of nature. The sun rose, Violet was a pretty bird, and some days touch was a revolting concept.
It was on a day like this that you sat cozy in Xadenâs room, lazily sprawled over an exorbitant green chaise that was absolutely not supposed to be here. It was soft, plush. A dark green with a tufted back. The perfect seat for a hulking creature such as yourself to stretch out over while Violet whimpered and moaned a few feet over on the bed.
You occupied yourself with simple crochet, tiny hook clutched within one massive scarred paw, while the other held the small dragon against your palm, thick black yarn hooked over your forefinger. There was something to be said for the symphony that your bird made, just for you, with Xaden bending her in half to get that sweet spot. The one that made her sing in just the right pitch that left your ears ringing and need rising in your core.
âXaden! Fuck-!â She cried out, and you watched from the corner of your eyes as her back arched violently, big man bullying her sweet little hole with his, frankly, ridiculous length. You didnât envy her, in this moment. Maybe tomorrow. Sometimes you enjoyed feeling him deep within you, combining your bodies and souls. Today, well. Today you relished in the music as you leveraged the hook into the next stitch.
Struggling a lot with writing, Iâve got four or so drafts in progress but I have been working on my intake exam for a somewhat prestigious academy & one of my dogs died recently so this month has been really stressful. Iâll try to get the drafts out soon. Thanks for the patience â€ïž
generally you shouldn't write run-on sentences because they get confusing and it doesn't give the reader a break. that doesn't apply to me though my run-on sentences are fun and understandable and they have a rhythm to it that makes you want to keep reading
A note more melancholy this time, with more dialogue. Definitely lost the plot of the accent somewhere, forgive me and enjoy đ
Thereâs a moment of peace. Between the blood of the Rider Quadrant. Between the fire, the dragons, the wind roaring in your ears as you watch your Pretty Bird fall again and again as she soars.
A moment where you tug Xaden and Violet into your quarters, arrange them on the bed that barely fits you alone, and tuck yourself into the desk chair to study while they take their peace in each other.
These past few months has been nothing but bloodshed and violence, the visceral human need for survival. Thrown into a world of magic and dragons, dangled from a thread of sanity. There has been no time to mourn, to grieve, only to adapt.
It surprises you when the Big Man rests a hand on your shoulder, and you realize you didnât even notice when your Pretty Bird had stopped moaning his name. The drip of your name trickles like honey off of his tongue.
âWhatâs wrong?â he asks. And you take your time to look at him. The dark curls, the tanned skin, his inky eyes that had golden flecks when you squinted. He was as tall as you, though only half as broad. A lean figure that dwarves your Pretty Bird, still draped across your sheets and watching quietly from your pillows.
âJusâ thinking.â Is the quiet response. Short. To the point. Succinct as you tend to be. And you paint on your toothy grin, pat his hand dismissively, and turn back to your notes.
Your Big Man was never good at staying out of your business though. âTalk to us, love.â
And gods above, did that not do something for you. A shudder down your spine as you roll your shoulders. âWhat about?â
He raises a brow, and the scar on his face ripples and stretches attractively as he levels you with a flat look. He wasnât taking no for an answer, not in this context.
âIâm thinking about home.â The words feel violently tender, fragile, like you had clawed into your own ribcage to offer them up to him. Some long dead part of you raises its head, stirring from where youâd tried to kill it.
âYou donât talk about it.â Violet says, rising from the bed. Her voice trills like a gentle melody, calling you to kneel for worship.
âNot much to say.â Evasive. Thinning out your accent takes concentration, which is why it slips so often when those pretty thighs are hooked next to your ears.
âYou donât have to pretend. Not with us.â She says, and the gods have cursed you as she hitches her bare ass on the wooden table before you.
Silence for a moment, and leaning back reveals that Xaden is still behind you. His toned belly a comfortable rest behind your skull. Not like your own form, where fat wraps around thick muscle. A brawlerâs build.
âIâll never see them again.â You say softly, and Violetâs breath hitches. Pretty Bird, didnât she know better than to mourn for you?
ââS alrighâ.â You shrug, clipping off the consonants. ââS not like theyâre dead.â
You wouldnât know, would you? Youâd never see them again. Never hear that stern voice, or little feet toddling after you. Youâd never see the eyes that once burned through your soul, or the hand that was raised to strike you more than once. Those memories of a life lived have been replaced with roaring dragons, a pretty birdâs melody, and a big manâs hand in your affairs.
âIâm sorry.â A cursory response, and she rests a hand against your cheek and swipes a small thumb beneath your eye to catch a tear.
You hadnât even noticed the first one fall.
How long has it been since youâve last cried? Weeks, certainly. Months, at least. Bascgiath offers no mercy for the weak, and no kindness for tears. Big, dumb, bastard that you are, there was no room for tenderness in your heart. Not when your Pretty Bird was on the line.
âMy ma,â you begin hesitantly, voice shaking a way it hasnât since you were very small. âShe used to, ah, well. It donât matter no more.â
Violet frowns, and Xadenâs arms wrap around your chest, pulling you back more firmly to rest against him behind you. You can practically see the denial rising in her pretty throat.
âShe was no sainâ, thaâs for sure.â You continue before youâre interrupted and lose your courage. How strange, to be afraid. âThaâ woman could screech like nobodies business. Had this talenâ for makinâ people feel small.â
You werenât painting her in the best light, you realize, so you try to course correct. âBut she was my ma. Screaminâ anâ throwinâ things anâ all.â
You lost more consonants and your accent thickened like a slurry in your throat as your vision blurred. There was a small imperfection in the wall, where the stone had cracked ever so slightly.
âShe neâer thoughâ Iâd be more than, well.â You tell the imperfection, gazing vaguely at yourself.
âMore than what?â Xaden asks, and thereâs something clipped about his voice, like your words had struck him in the throat, or clawed through his heart. You offer him a strange look. Wasnât it obvious?
âWell, more âan I am,â you say, confused by his meaning. âLook aâ me. Iâm a big bastard, buâ thaâs abouâ it.â
His hands tighten around your chest, and Violetâs eyes adopt a soft sort of heartbreak, like youâd said something truly tragic. Like sheâd heard something unbelievably awful.
âYouâre more than-â she starts, but the Big Man interrupts her.
âSheâs wrong.â He says, firm and final, and you can feel his forehead resting against the top of your head. âYour motherâs wrong.â
âWh- well, I wouldnâ be so sure abouâ âat, Big Man-â you try, he pulls away and grabs you by the shoulderâs, pulling the chair back so he had room to slip between you and the desk and look in your eyes.
âYou are a Rider. That takes more than brute strength,â your name never sounded as sweet as it does now falling from his lips, âThat takes courage. Intelligence. Bravery.â
You flounder for a moment, glancing between him and Violet. Youâre on the back foot now, and youâre not quite sure how you got here. âBig Man, I appreciaâe thaâ, bu-â
Your name, again, and if you werenât sitting you would have dropped to your knees. Xaden makes your name sound like sex and sin and prayer. âFuck your mother.â
âIâd rather you didnâ,â you canât help but joke, but he keeps talking over you.
âFuck what she thinks, or thought. You are a rider. You fly on the back of a dragon- you have two of the most powerful riders in this quadrant wrapped around your fucking finger-!â Itâs almost like your lapse in self worth had been a personal insult to him, with how fiercely he spoke.
âBig Man.â You try, but he blows past your interruption.
âAnd anyone who thinks otherwise is out of their mind, you are one of the most brilliant, intelligent, clever-â he wasnât listening to a word you said, and a glance at Violet shows her agreement with his every word.
âXaden.â You interrupt again, and itâs like you didnât speak at all.
âI have ever metââ You silence him by surging forward and pressing your lips to his, swiping your tongue behind his teeth fiercely.
âMind if I geâ a word in?â you ask, and he nods dumbly, like his brains been scrambled.
âMy ma is long gone, Xaden.â His name curls from your tongue like honeyed oats. âYou donâ need tâ fighâ her thoughâs.â
His narrowed eyes prove what he thinks about that decision, so you decide to shut him up the best way you know how.
By pressing a tender kiss to his lips and picking him up like he was as light as the Pretty Bird. Swinging him around and ignoring the startled noise against your lips as you toss the Big Man to the bed.
Stalking after him with Violet as your shadow, a dark glint in your eye as your voice takes a husky tone, âFirsâ, Iâm gonna fuck you senseless. Then, Iâmma set our pretty bird on you so you can puâ thaâ tongue tâ good work. Yeah?â
âYeah.â Is the last breatheless response you get before you descend on him.
This is pure smut, mostly Violet x reader but we got a Xaden cameo in there too.
Tomorrow was presentation day. And your pretty bird hadnât been able to get up the Gauntlet fully even once during training. It would bug you if you didnât know better, after all- what bird couldnât fly?
So no, you werenât worried about her. Violet would soar up the Gauntlet, through the chimney and over the ramp, and she would most certainly impress the dragons. After all, sheâd caught your eye hadnât she? And gods above, you couldnât wait to watch her fly.
But she was getting in her head, foolishly, so- loyal dog that you are- itâs your task to bring her back down to earth. To center and ground her, to make sure sheâs relaxed and ready for the challenge at hand.
Which is why you had stuffed her pretty mouth full of your thick fingers, to make sure she wouldnât catch unwanted attention with her wailing as you devoured her pretty cunt in the light of the moon.
âPl-plâs-â She can barely speak around your fingers, pressing down mercilessly on her tongue and forcing her saliva to spill out onto her chin. Naturally, this drives you to abandon her delicious cunt on the precipice of her orgasm so you can lave your tongue over her face, scooping up the drool she was wasting. Fuck, she tasted so good.
âNone of that, luv.â You croon, leaving her face wetter than it was before as she sobs and shudders at the tantalizing release you had left just out of reach. Fuck, she looked so pretty like this, needy and wanting, aching for you. For your mouth, your fingers, your everything.
Even now her hips were jerking desperately up against the space between your clothed abdomen and her slick cunt. âIf you want somethinâ you just got to ask for it.â
Your smirk is mean, and your accent slips for her as you grin like a wild beast, snarling and slobbering over your pretty bird like she was something delectable to devour. Which is true. And she glares up at you with tears clumping her eyelashes together, your saliva drying on her cheek, and her chest heaving with pure need.
âLeâ me câm.â She demands around your fingers, glowering up at you, and you smile widelyâ as though you hadnât just spent the last hour edging her over and over and over in the empty rotunda where the cadetâs had all gathered that first day. You canât help yourself when another frustrated tear slips out, swiping your tongue over her cheek to make sure that salty goodness didnât go to waste. It wouldnât do for her hound to be thirsty; now would it?
âWhatâs âat?â You ask innocently, tilting your head a bit in faux confusion. âCouldnâ quite hear you.â
A spark of pain goes through your hand, and you moan noisily, hips jerking towards her thighs in one rough thrust when she fucking bites your fingers. Hesitantly at first, then harder at your reaction, until you can see the blood peeking past her teeth.
âFuckinâ hell, such a perfect bird.â You moan, and the gods of this world must look upon you with favour to let you have this pretty bird yanking on your leash. You press your fingers a little deeper in her mouth, forcing them past her teeth, watching her gag around them as your other hand releases her thigh to push into her clenching cunt. âSo good, all for me. Beautiful, powerful, delicious.â
The words are almost slurred with deliberate desire and hunger, and you abandon the game youâd been playing in order to reward her ferociousness by pummelling her sweet spot with two crooked fingers. Your thumb presses down on her clit, and youâre panting above her, eyes bright as you admire her moaning and writhing, bucking to get even more of you inside her.
A third finger joins the party between her thighs, and your other hand pushes down on her tongue until her jaw is open enough for you to lean over, gathering saliva in your mouth. She jolts when you spit down her throat, and her eyes roll as her cunt clenched down around your fingers. Her thighs shake violently, and her back arches until her nipples brush against your shirt while she cumâs hard.
You can feel something cold trickling over your scalp, and you force your eyes away from your Pretty Bird to scan your surroundings. It was your responsibility to keep her safe, especially now when she was so deliciously vulnerable. For you. Because of you. You had done so well as her loyal hound, helping her cum nice and hard before her challenge.
Shaking the thought from your head, your gaze eventually lands on a particularly shadowed spot, on the far side of the courtyard. One-two-three shapes. Three. Three intruders who had witnessed your Pretty Bird falling to pieces under your hands. Sheâs still riding it out, so youâre diligent in keeping your fingers moving. You did this. You brought her to her first peak, and youâd give her a second, and maybe a third if she was good. Who were you kidding, she was perfect.
You were going to treat her right, give the watchers the blessing of laying sight on her before you tore those filthy eyes from their skulls. You would gouge them out and serve them on a platter for your pretty Violet, rip their tongues from their mouths so they could never dream of sharing this perfect moment with any other. Maybe youâd even let them live. Maybe.
One figure tilts its head, and the other two draw back, and you track their path scurrying across the courtyard, darting through thick shadows until they vanished inside. No matter. Youâd find them.
Your Pretty Bird catches your attention once more, whining and whimpering as you bring her overstimulated cunt to another peak.
âWhaâs at, luv?â You ask it like she could even answer, cooing down at her. âYouâve gotta speak up if yâ wanna be heard, Pretty Bird.â
Bending down to catch a nipple between your teeth rewards you with another shuddering moan, and you look up again to lock eyes with the figure. âYâve goâ an audience, luv.â
Your accent thickens, and Violetâs body tenses. You pull your fingers from her mouth as she tries to jerk up to see, putting them in your mouth to savour the taste of her spit. Your fingers grind against the sweet spot inside her, and her eyes roll as soon as she spots the shadow, cumming hard for the second time.
By the time sheâs done, the figure is gone. But youâve got an inkling feeling you know exactly who it was, after all. Xaden Riorson tended to have a problem with getting himself in other peopleâs business. Youâd fix it, right after you cleaned your Pretty Bird up with your tongue, after all- didnât you deserve another reward for your efforts?
Not quite sure how I feel abt this one ngl, but I just wanted to get it out so I could move onto another bit. Enjoy âșïž
Bloody violent screaming marked the last few minutes hours before you closed your eyes, shucking off the mortal coil and discarding your earthly form for the final time.
Wind, wet humid air, and pretty hazel eyes mark your return. A ragged inhale wrenches through your lungs, and a melodic voice asks, âAre you okay?â
An angel, sent from heaven, directed to guide you past the pearly gates. Didnât you know you were damned to hell? And it takes you a moment before you remember how to speak, stammering and stumbling through the words, a thick accent coiling over your tongue like black oil.
And you see it right away. Almost instantaneously, you spot the little head tilt, the imperceptible furrow of a brow as this tiny thing tries to place your accent.
âJusâ a bit winded, go on luv.â You excuse, straining a smile and nodding her on. Youâre in a line of people, all climbing up a massive set of stairs, and you fall into line easily.
Your first action after dying is falling into line behind her.
It must be fate, mustnât it? And itâs only solidified in the back of your head when this little creature swaps a boot with another, rattling off something about grip. Youâd like to grip her properly, round the hips and hunched over her back like the filthy dog you are. Really, who could blame you? Itâs been so long since youâve met anyone soft enough to help someone else survive.
You take to this lovely flower like a dog to water. She comes up to half your chest, and your twice as wide as she is, all thick bulk and muscle, a body honed into weapon over years of training. She has the body you used to dream of having, slight and thin, and your hands could fit nearly around her waist if sheâd let you. Especially over that leather corset that cinched her in just so.
Keeping an ear out for the voices around you, it doesnât take long to understand why sheâd tilted her head like a curious bird at your voice. All these people had the same accent, with only the slightest differences between them. If you were the chatty kind, youâd rattle off something cheesy, like âweâre not in Kansas anymoreâ.
Youâre not the chatty kind.
At the top of the stairs, you meet the man whoâd rock your world. Who youâd one day let in between your thighs, who youâd teach how to fuck you good and proper. Who youâd fuck, good and proper, and who youâd teach when to lie down and take it like a good boy. After all, who says dogs canât teach? Youâd spent so long learning how to obey, isnât it your turn to pass on a few lessons?
But for now, heâs just a man. One with a swirling tattoo creeping up his jaw and dark eyes and dark hair, who narrows his eyes at your little flower once the word âSorrengailâ sneaks out the lips of the woman in front of you.
It takes you a split second to decide youâll be the one to kill this man, this danger to the first creature whoâd treated a beast like you with kindness in decades a long time. Didnât he know not to threaten a rabid dogâs master?
Itâs when the person at a roll of paper asks your name that you flounder. Not visibly- gods no- but itâs enough to give you pause before you tentatively offer up a name on a platter. Later youâll realize how grave this decision was, how important, but for now you flicker between a few aliases before landing on your most recent.
It costs you another moment to mimic the accent of the people around you. To flatten out the consonants, to curl your râs and pronounce all your letterâs, instead of slinging half pronounced words that are good enough for you. Better to fit in until you can plot the lay of the land.
Hopping up onto the stone parapet pulls you away from your little flower too soon, but you canât risk catching attention so soon. Especially not from the narrowing inky eyes of the man who matched your height but not your broad bulk. Crossing is easy; even when the wind picks up and buffets your light pack when did you pick up a pack slung over your shoulders.
The woman in front of you starts to slip, and you donât even think before you grab her by the arm and stabilize her. It wouldnât do for your flower to lose a boot.
âWatch yourself.â You grunt, nodding her forward and following at an even distance. You can distantly hear the words spoken by the tattooed man behind you and it has you looking over your shoulder, narrowing your eyes at the edges of the vowels that scrape against your ears like rust before your flower hops up after you.
It isnât until you reach the other side, turning to watch her fluttering across the parapet that you realize this is no flower. No, this creature flying across the stone from a threat who came up to your chin, youâll find pleasure in ripping his spine through his back and twisting it into knots, and grabbing him by the balls is more than a flower. No, only birds could fly like that, and birds had such a merciless presence under their harmless appearance. Violet Sorrengail was no flower, she was a pitohui. Her wings may be clipped, pinned to her sides and trapped, but she was no less dangerous for it.
Your pretty bird.
She didnât know it yet, but she had caught the eye of a hound. She had offered a scrap of kindness, and gained the attentions of a slavering beast, one whoâd rip through tendon and sinew to serve her every whim. You were hers now.
Maybe this second life thing wasnât such a bad deal after all.
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