#(and so he's saying it not because he wants to but because he viscerally fear that he will be pushed into that direction)

[revelboo]

Which would be worse yandere sunder or yandere overlord?

- hypno anon

Ooof. Hard to say. As long as they find their human entertaining, they’d be relatively safe. Not necessarily okay by any means, though.

🔞 mass displaced mech 🌶️

Possession

Overlord

• “You’re not watching,” he purrs, servos catching your chin and tipping your face back toward the very one-sided match going on below. Mass displaced, he keeps you pinned naked in his lap as one of his soldiers circles another. One unarmed. Literally. Overlord had tore one of his arms off before throwing him into the pit and offering a promotion to whoever volunteered to offline him slowly. To make it last. “How are you going to learn if you don’t pay attention, pet?” He growls, lips brushing your ear. “You think I want to do this? He was still useful to me.” And his hands slide to your hips. Down over the tops of your thighs so a servo can lazily pet you.

• Smiling as his cheek brushes yours, he runs a servo over your bottom lip as he strokes you. Letting you see what happens when you try to talk to anyone but him. Trust anyone but him. A costly lesson, but one he’d needed to teach you. Because there’s no one you can trust but him. Watching the mech he’d ordered into pretending to befriend you scream as his opponent severs a leg off at the knee, Overlord feels you shudder and press your face into his neck. “End it,” you whisper, voice trembling. “This isn’t sporting.” No, it’s not. “I don’t want anyone but you. I just need you.”

• It’s become a self defense mechanism, telling him whatever he wants to hear. Whatever keeps him amused and you alive. And he lets you turn in his arms, those cruel lips quirking slightly as you shift against him. Trembling fingers sliding down to cup the plating hiding his spike as that poor mech screams again. If you’re looking at him, you don’t have to see what’s happening. Hearing it is bad enough. Hating the part of you that’s turned on despite the fear. That enjoys having power over him even as he frightens you. Because they’re all terrified of him and he’s yours, a psychotic puppy begging at your feet for every scrape of attention he can get.

• Freeing his spike, he vents as you run your palms over his length, rocking your slick heat against him as your breath catches. Apologizing to him with your body. “If he can last longer than you do, he can live,” he growls as you lift up and impale yourself on his spike. Hand cupping your cheek, he forces your head back, mouth crashing against yours. Imagining you naked as he traces designs on that soft skin in someone else’s energon. Hands sliding over you as you lazily ride his spike, he bites your lip until you gasp. Until he tastes the copper and salt of your blood. Do you have any idea how much he loves you? He’d kill them all for you.

Sunder

• Head turning, he’s aware of you staring at his slick servos and the way the other mech’s foot kicks, slides and stills before he lets the body fall. And you stumble back when he reaches for you. Thoughts so chaotic and afraid. So delicious his spike stirs. Aching to be inside you as he glories in the visceral pain of the mech at his ped’s death. “Come here, little love. All’s well,” he croons, knowing you want to. “I’ll make it better.” Because while he can’t destroy your mind, can’t devour your memories the way he can others, newer memories are delicate. Easily twisted. Replaced.

• Heart racing as he mass displaces and reaches for you, there’s no hesitation as you place your hand in his. And he spins you, bending you over a container as he leans over you, venting to stir your hair. Feel his mind slip into yours and you don’t fight as he pours pleasure into you. Aware of his hands stripping you as he shifts against you. The heat of his spike sliding against you. Everything twisting slightly as Sunder digs into your mind and you let him. You hadn’t spoken to that mech, befriended him. You don’t know him. He’s a stranger. He’d attacked you and Sunder had saved you, protected you, because you don’t need anyone but him. That’s what happened, right? And Sunder’s spike slowly stretches you as he moves against you.

• It’s getting easier and easier to edit your new memories. Hips pumping against you, his servos dig into your hips. Sometimes feeding you nightmares, memories of pain, of him devouring you just to taste your reaction, your fear before wiping them away. His sweet, trusting little love. Always so willing to find him new playthings to devour. “I have you,” he growls, beginning to rut against you. “And no one’s ever taking you away.”

• Lost in the pleasure, there’s a feeling of something being off. Something not quite right, like gaps in your memories. Things you remember that don’t feel quite right. Your heart’s racing, adrenaline almost choking you as Sunder’s spike drives deep. Pleasure and fear tangling together. Those memories like a misstep in your mind as he whispers inside you that this is right. That you’re home right where you belong with your protector. “Harder,” you whimper and he drapes himself against your back, hips pounding against you and those points on his chassis dig into you, little pricks of pain as he gets rougher with you. Whispering how much he loves you as his servos bruise your hips. Almost hurting.

[deathofacupid]

synopsis: heian!era sukuna x blind reader, where he is undoubtedly sure that you wouldn't love him if you could see him. a/n: @salsakiyoomi, thought of you while writing this! i know you love sukuna, here's a gift for you. hope you're having a better day! banner credits to @/dollywons.

the air in the ancient chamber hung thick with the scent of incense and the faintest trace of something wilder, something that clung to sukuna like a phantom limb.

he held you close, your small form nestled against his chest, your breathing soft and even. you were a delicate bloom in his brutal world, a splash of vibrant color against the monochrome backdrop of his existence. he was a creature of shadows, a being woven from malice and power, and you… you were a whisper of sunlight.

he watched you, his crimson eyes burning in the dim light, a stark contrast to the serenity etched on your face. he was a monster, a twisted reflection of humanity, a being whose very presence warped the air around him. and you, his sweet, unsuspecting petal, loved him. the thought was both intoxicating and agonizing.

"tch," he muttered, the sound rumbling in his chest. "if you saw what i looked like, you would not be lying beside me like this." he imagined your soft gasp, the way your eyes, currently closed in peaceful slumber, would widen with horror.

he pictured the revulsion that would twist your delicate features, the fear that would replace the gentle affection you so freely gave. the image was a knife twisting in his gut.

you hummed, a small, contented sound, and snuggled closer. "do not be silly," you murmured, your voice laced with sleepiness.

his brow furrowed. "excuse me?"

"yes," you repeated, your voice gaining a touch more clarity. "whether you would admit it or not, i love you for who you are, 'kuna. there is nothing else to it." you reached a hand up, your fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw, the faint scars that marred his cheek.

he flinched at the contact, a visceral reaction to the innocent touch that threatened to shatter the carefully constructed walls around his heart.

he scoffed, a harsh sound that echoed in the quiet chamber. "you say that because you are robbed of sight. you have not had the displeasure of seeing the world – seeing me." the words dripped with self-loathing. he imagined the revulsion that would fill your sightless eyes if they were suddenly granted the ability to perceive his true form, the grotesque markings that covered his body, the inhuman gleam in his eyes.

you loved him in the dark, in the comforting absence of his true appearance. it was a love built on a foundation of blissful ignorance.

you stilled, your hand pausing its gentle exploration of his face. "i do not need to see it," you said, your voice soft but firm, "to know it for what it is."

you shifted slightly, your face turning towards him, as if you could see him with your heart. "the world… it whispers to me, 'kuna. i feel its beauty, its pain, its joy, its sorrow. and i feel you. i feel the warmth of your heart, the strength of your spirit, even the darkness that you try so hard to hide. and i love all of it, 'kuna. all of it."

your words were a balm to his tormented soul, yet they also pierced him with the sharpest of pains. he didn't deserve this, this pure, unconditional love. he was a monster, and you were a gift he didn't deserve.

he remained silent, his hold on you tightening almost imperceptibly. he wanted to argue, to push you away, to protect you from the inevitable heartbreak that would come when you finally understood the true depth of his monstrous nature. but he couldn't. he was addicted to your love, to the warmth you brought to his cold, desolate existence.

he knew he was being selfish, clinging to you like a drowning man to a life raft, but he couldn't let you go. not yet. perhaps… perhaps he could keep you in the dark a little longer. perhaps he could bask in the light of your love just a little longer before the inevitable darkness consumed him, and you along with it.

[dumbbitchgalore]

Old Man!Price craves a pretty little housewife to waiting for him at home 🎀

As John gets older, he has this visceral urge to domesticate you that it also seems obsessive of him.

Hand in hand, John'll bring you back home to his cottage in the Cotswolds causing your eyes to widen at the home in front of you. As if your pinterest board has come to life, stained glass windows and a garden full of peonies. 

“God, this is exactly how I imagine my dream home to be like,” You say in awe before shrugging your shoulders, “Well that is if money wasn’t an issue.”

Your words earn a chuckle from John as he ushers you inside, giving you a tour of his home while you such over every little detail. 

‘Oh, that backsplash is literally my dream!’

‘Oh my god, a reading nook?!’

‘No way, you have a bloody walk in the pantry?!’

The smirk ever leaves John’s face as you continue to gush over his house well into dinner.

John is a very committed and detail-oriented man and that is why he needed to get everything perfect according to your Pinterest boards. He never leaves anything up to chance so all he did was look through your phone, browse your inspiration boards getting an idea of what you’d call home. 

His plan was coming into fruition. John had the house and now he had you inside of the house now all he has to do is to ‘accidentally’ get you pregnant. But there was a nagging fear at the back of his mind, a fear of potentially ruining an unborn child’s life with his obsession. As much as he wanted you to be at home taking care of his kids and tending to his house, John did not want to be a bad father. 

Every time he’d fuck you raw, John would try with all his might to cum deep inside of you over and over again until your pretty cunt could no longer hold his cum in anymore as it seeps out of you causing John to plug you up with his fingers. But every single time, John would back out at the last minute opting to cum on your back or something. 

He wanted to baby trap you but at the same time, he didn’t want you to blame him for everything that might go wrong in his life. The guilt will weigh too heavy for him to think that he ruined your chances of a better life without him. 

So when tonight you suggest for John to wear a condom because you forgot to pick up your birth control, John doesn’t hold back. He on longer has that stupid harpy of a voice in the back of his mind telling him not to ruin you and to ‘fucking not destory the one good thing in your bloody life, John!’

Rutting into you like a teenage boy who stuck his cock for the first time into an actual cunt, John thrusts were quick and deep bringing you to the brink of an orgasm over and over again only to stop his hips for a few seconds to once again pummeling into you, his cock bully your sweet, sweet insides. 

For once John is grateful for a condom, cumming inside you without a guilty conscience knowing that the condom didn’t let his cum paint your insides. He slumps against you, rolling onto his side as he holds your body flushed against his own, kissing your forehead and muttering words of thanks for ‘putting up with his old arse.’

It came to a shock when John sees the positive pregnancy test in your hands, the two blue lines mocking his efforts to not get you pregnant. A day later, he takes you ring shopping and proposes that same night. 

Now who’s gonna tell John that you were the one who poked holes in his condom?

[just-some-random-blogger]

Tormented Spirit | 16

Part 1 [...] 14 15 16 17

"Is it such a sin to stand up for yourself?" you mutter as tears blur your vision. The way he reacted was visceral, instinctive even. "You never have to stand up for yourself ever again," says Daemon, reaching a hand to you, "come."

Daemon Targaryen x Hightower!Reader | 5k+ | cw: fem!reader, reader has brown hair, wife!reader, twin!Gwayne, arranged/forced marriage, canon divergence, alternate universe, slow burn, DD:DNE, violence, pregnancy, miscarriage, panic/anxiety attacks, suicidal ideation, attempted suicide, daddy issues/child abuse/family problems, mentions/depictions of mental/physical/psychosomatic illness, ye old misogyny, angst, typos, etc.

A/N: guys we're just gonna roll with the fact daemon knows how to braid hair realllly well ok stfu. also ASHFOASF long time no see i hope you enjoyyy!!!!!! | cross posted on ao3

@arabellasleopardcoat @prettybiching @myllovellybones

You find it hard to dress yourself for your clothes were far too heavy for you. What's more, they looked like they were eating you alive with how much weight you've lost. Your sister offered to have new dresses commissioned for you, but the moment your father caught wind of it, he made sure to send away any tailor that would fit you, insisting that you would regain your weight. You only did after Aegon was born, but as it remains, you look odd in your ill-fitting garbs.

By the time you are finished dressing yourself, you stare at your reflection. Black suited you, you think... it made the little color that remained on your face pop up.

Daemon emerges from the bathroom as you were about to fix your hair. His tresses looked tangled in its dripping state. A towel covered his belly and thighs, skin still damp. And his skin, his skin was burned. Were once you remembered both faint and deep cuts rested, now rested there was thick and textured marks.

"Dae-" you start but immediately stop when he heads straight towards his closet, hastily moving to dress himself.

You fidget with your fingers, unsure if you ought to help, approach, or even speak. You stare at him, hoping he'd acknowledge you. He doesn't.

You sigh and slowly walk to your vanity, though your eyes remain on him. He spares you a look, immediately looking away when he catches you staring. He puts on his breeches and pulls his towel off. He ties its laces, as if it was the most interesting thing in the world. It wasn't. In fact, it was not even an easy feat, as his hands were trembling.

You don't notice that exactly, but you do notice his frantic movements which were so unlike him. You wonder if it was consequence war, and you find yourself pretending not to notice in case it was the case. The last thing you wanted was to trigger him today of all days. You wanted the day you send off your children to be peaceful for the both of you.

You walk sit before your mirror, eyes on your reflection as you comb your hair. Your gaze keeps flickering back to Daemon though.

He notices, and can hardly bare it. He haphazardly puts on his dress shirt then grabs his doublet, pacing across the room. He shudders as he chucks his towel on the bed. He huffs and leans on the table where an ewer of wine laid. He chucks his top on the surface beside it and pours himself a drink.

His aim is poor. Red sputters on the table due to his shaky grip. He nearly makes the cup overflow, but manages to control himself. Quickly, the prince downs the alcohol, but it seems to do nothing for his nerves, and absolutely nothing for the maddening nightmare that was torturing him so greatly.

In truth, he did not know if he quivered out of fear or anger because of it. He did not know which part haunted him more, the fact that his subconscious thought this up, or the fact that it might be true.

He gasps when he hears his name. He sets his cup down with a thud and turns over his shoulder. He scratches his eyes as he looks at you, face shining though your brows were furrowed.

"A-are... are you-"

"It's nothing," he quips, stuffing his dress shirt into his trousers.

You shift on your chair to face him and frown, "Daemon."

He freezes, jaw clenching with an unwillingness to confess what was torturing him.

You see his steely gaze and his tensed shoulders. You knew better than to pursue an uncomfortable conversation with him right now, so you lower your gaze and slowly shake your head, "I... I simply wanted to ask if you would help braid my hair."

He freezes, "what?"

"I thought it would be good to-"

Daemon grabs his doublet and hastily wears it, nearly sprinting towards you.

"- have you..." your breath hitches. You look at him through his reflection as he comes behind you, "... do it in the fashion of your house."

His hands tremble as he reaches for your hair.

"... if... it pleases you."

"It pleases me," he blurts, stroking your hair, "thank you."

You shake my head and sigh, "I-... thank you." You lower your gaze to your hands, "might I write while you do this?"

Daemon's brows furrow as you apprehensively turn to him. He shakes his head but then nods, "o... of course."

You watch him reach for the comb.

He feels its weight before shaking his head again, "wh... to whom?"

"My twin," you say simply, opening the drawer to pull out some parchment and ink. Your eyes slowly look at his reflection as you get your quill and shut the drawer.

Daemon nods. He grips the comb and shrugs. He shakes his head before gathering your locks and brushing through it. He clenches his teeth, trying not to sound so sour as he speaks. He fails, "you write to him oft?"

You nearly tell him everyday, but you change it to: "yes."

He notices that you had two pieces of parchment on your table. He cannot help the jealousy that blooms at the idea of you writing long letters for him. "Much to say, have you?"

Your eyes flicker up to him.

Daemon does not look at you as he parts your hair and begins braiding.

"What?"

"You have two pieces of parchment."

"Oh..." you look back to the table, not thinking he'd notice, "the other is for Laenor."

He freezes.

"I do not write to him as oft," you mutter.

Daemon cannot help the sound he makes. His breath hitches as he gathers your dark hair into his fingers. He chuckles rather manically, "of course."

You decide not to reply. You simply leave him to his work as you work on your letters.

You finish writing your letters before he finishes fixing your hair. Daemon watches you fold the notes neatly and prepare wax to seal them off. Part of him wishes to enquire what you have to say to those wretched men, but another part knows he might regret it. Surely, to your brother at least, you would air out your grievances. The prince does not know if he could stomach the knowledge you'd express your hatred for him with someone else.

You melt wax over a candle and seal the letter with your stamp. He watches you do this, and as he does, he imagines all the times you did the same for his letters. He wonders if you did so with the same ease. He wonders if you paid it littler or more attention than this. He wonders if he'd ever be at the receiving end of your affections ever again.

When he gets to the last part of the last braid, he finds himself unwilling to pin it in place with the rest for your hair. He stares at his work, at the interwoven plaits going down your shoulders. He tucks some stray hair behind your ear, so badly wishing he could kiss you.

Perhaps he could, but then you'd push him away. He would not survive.

Finally, he pins the last part of your hair and slowly withdraws his hands, "it is done."

You immediately come to stand and turn to him.

Daemon watches as you look at his unbuttoned doublet. His stomach drops when you begin to fasten them.

"Shall I braid your h-"

"No," he blurts, shaking his head, "I do not want you to touch me."

You freeze, unsure if you heard him correctly. You slowly pull away, "you... you don't want me to touch you?"

"No," he shakes his head.

You knit your brows and nods slowly, "I see... why?"

"Why?" he whispers, as if he was stabbed, "why does it matter? Do you want to touch me?"

"I... I want to be civil with you."

His nostrils flare as he chuckles dryly.

"I do not want to be at war with you."

"But we are!" Daemon blurts, "love is war."

"Says who?" you knit your brows.

"Says my bleeding heart," he mutters, as he fixes his doublet himself. His eyes begin to water, so he turns away.

You feel your throat tighten. You shrug, "is this your way of saying you love me?"

"I have always loved you," he turns back to you, tears staining his cheeks.

You laugh.

He rarely hears such a sound from your lips and seems to hate it. "Mazemā nyke syt iā pirtirys?" he mutters under his breath. You take me for a liar.

You chuckle again and shake your head. You shrug, "mazeman ao syt iā mittys." I take you for a fool.

Daemon lowers his head.

You nearly reach out for him, but then you remember he does not invite your touch. You turn to the door then back to him, "let us be civil today."

"No," he lifts his gaze, walking to the vanity. He grabs a hair tie and does his hair, "I want a peace treaty."

"What?"

"The Stranger has scratched my skin in the Stepstones. I know better than to believe civility can be achieved between your enemies."

You laugh again, but this time, it is far unbearable. It is loud and anxious and broken. You clutch your chest when you begin to feel it tighten, "and I am your enemy, Daemon?"

"Daor," he says desperately. He grabs your arms and rapidly shakes his head, "dōrī ao.... yn nyke." No. Never you... but I.

You stare at him as he slowly pulls away.

"I have become your enemy whether either of us care to admit it or not," he shakes his head as he turns to his feet, "I cannot reconcile my mistakes; I can ask only for a peace treaty."

You rub your forehead as you lean on your chair, "I do not understand."

"You-" he chokes. He clears his throat, "you say look at me and see only grief and loss." He wipes his face, "I do not want it to be so."

You huff and shake your head, "it is not something you can change."

"Not if you don't let me," Daemon mutters, "kostilus..." he shakes his head, "ivestragon nyke skorkydoso olvie yno kostā mōzugon gō ao pykagon nyke hen." He scratches his eyes before looking at you. Please... tell me how much of me you can drink before you spit me out.

"Daemon."

He looks at you, violet eyes shrouded by pink.

"I..." you shake your head, "don't know."

He sighs, "plea-"

"I'm telling you, I don't know."

He sighs again, shaking his head then nodding it, "sȳz." Fine.

You watch him step back and motion to the door.

"After you."

You stare at him for a moment and grip your skirts tightly in your hands. You draw a deep breath before walking off.

When you open the door, you hear the clanking of steel. You see Arryk and Erryk stationed outside your door.

"Princess," they greet in unison.

You frown at them, "Erryk... Arryk."

Arryk's eyes rather unwillingly catch sight of Daemon walking towards you. He clenches his jaw and steps aside, not wanting to see him. Erryk ignores him altogether as he reaches a hand for you, "will we be heading for the solar to break fast?"

You shake your head and push his hands down.

Erryk's jaw feathers as Daemon comes to your side.

Daemon's gaze remains lowered. He mutters softly, "kesan bartos naejot se ripo," before slipping past you and walking off.

Erryk eyes him hotly where Arryk turns to you, giving you a wary look, "what did he say?"

You shake your head and offer a smile, "he said he'll be going to the pit."

Arryk simultaneously thinks how fortunate and cowardly it was that Daemon will be flying off. Erryk says it out loud, "so, he's leaving on Caraxes?"

You rub your belly, "we will be sending our Alaeric and Alyrie off."

The twins freeze.

"I do not know if Daemon spoke to the maesters about it already," you mutter, "would one of you go and check. I... I do not want to see them... not like that."

"I can go," Arryk nods.

You nod rapidly and offer a smile, "thank you."

Just as his brother leaves, Erryk reaches a hand out to you again, "perhaps you ought to break fast."

You shake your head, finally taking his hand, "I... I will be sick."

His brows furrow, "you must promise me you will eat something after then."

"Erryk-"

The shake of his head cuts you off.

You take a deep breath, "you know it is hard."

"Then perhaps you can eat with the prince."

Your eyes widen at the idea.

It takes a moment for Erryk to realize why and he quickly dispels the thought, "Aegon. With your nephew, the prince."

You heave and shake your head.

His jaw tightens, "I would never im-"

"I know," you raise a hand, "I just... I misunderstood. Forgive me."

His nostrils flare, "there is no world in which you could ever do something that offends me."

You come to life when you reach Aegon's quarters. The boy immediately runs towards you. You smile and lean down. He jumps into your arms and you tenderly pick him up, sealing him into a hug

"Aunt!" he beams, clutching your cheeks.

"My boy," you coo, embracing him fondly.

Aegon giggles, his little arms wrapping around you. You remain like this for a moment before he pulls away and grins, clutching your cheeks again, "play!"

You kiss his forehead, "actually, we're going to go outside today."

Aegon blinks, his silver lashes fluttering, "play?"

You rock him in your arms, "zaldrīzes." Dragon.

He gasps.

"Gaomagon jaelā naejot ūndegon iā zaldrīzes?" Do you want to see a dragon?

"KESSA. KESSA!" Aegon cheers in agreement.

With this, you head to your sister's chambers and tell her of your plans for today. Alicent offers you a solemn expression before giving you a hug. She says she will change and inform the king. You then head off to the last person you wished to invite.

"Come in," his voice is deep.

Aegon leans into you as Erryk opens the door. You step into the Hand's office and nod at your father, "hello, my lord."

Otto lifts his gaze from his desk and furrows his brows, "what's happened?"

You shake your head as he slowly comes to a stand. You rub Aegon's back, "nothing... I... I've told Daemon about the twins."

He tenses at the thought, eyes turning to Erryk, who stood just by the door.

"We will be sending them off now."

Sending them off? Otto relaxes when he realizes who you actually meant. He nods and walks towards you. He places a hand on your shoulder, "I am glad."

You gulp as you look at him, unable to hold his gaze any longer.

The walk is long and quiet, save for the babbling of Aegon. He was rather fond of his grandfather's pin, and reached out to it every time Otto got close enough to.

"No," Otto would quip each time, raising a brow at the boy.

Aegon, none the wiser, would giggle, thinking it was a game.

At some point, the old man had to surrender his pin denoting his status to the boy when he managed to get pull on it. With a sigh, he hands it to his grandson.

You immediately pull it away from Aegon when he tries to eat it. You quip with a raised brow, "no."

The sight of your babies on a pyre sends a chill down your spine. The maesters and Arryk are already there, waiting for the rite to commence. The sight is too much, thus why you fix your eyes on Aegon.

Otto notices your discomfort and comes to your side, blocking your view of the pyre with his back. He turns to one of your wards, then the other. He motions with his head, wordlessly beckoning them over.

Erryk and Arryk oblige.

"It would be best if my daughter have this moment with her husband," Otto says, "stay back unless called upon."

Arryk clenches his jaw and Erryk purses his lips. Regardless, they nod and speak in unison, "my lord."

Soon, the king, the queen, and the crown princess arrive. It's rather fitting, for right after, there is a loud screech in the sky. Aegon immediately reacts, gasping as his hands fly up to cover his ears. A flash of red soars overhead.

The poor boy is overwhelmed by the sound of beating wings and begins to clamor and panic. You do your best to calm him and instinctively turn to your sister, finding her clutching her swollen belly in worry. You debate whether you should hand her Aegon, but you decide to try and calm the boy, not wanting to strain her by making her carry the boy.

You turn to my father, who wipes his grandson's cheeks and strokes his head.

You kiss Aegon's cheeks and rock him, beginning to sing, "the fishes swim in seas of blue, and dragons breath fire so red— shhh it's alright."

Caraxes soon lands before the pyre and screeches.

Aegon joins suit, screaming into you shoulder as he clings onto me for dear life.

Daemon sees this, jaw clenching at the sight. He watches Otto block Aegon's view of Caraxes, muttering something to the boy. He watches his sister come forward to calm the boy. He watches you rock him. The Hightowers are unified because of his brother's son. He unsaddles himself from Caraxes.

"DAOR!" Viserys screams, just as the blood wyrm cranes his head dangerously close to you. Rhaenyra gasps as he watches Caraxes seemingly try to attack. The king steps forward, repeating the command, making Caraxes pull his long neck back and screech back in offense.

Aegon shrieks in terror of the loud noise.

The king does not flinch, but he does turn to Daemon, "visagon aōha dyni, valonqar!" Control your beast, (younger) brother.

Daemon calls out to Caraxes, ordering him to calm and obey. He soon is on the ground, marching towards his dragon's head, "gīda ilagon!" He raises his hands, "gīda ilagon." Calm down.

Caraxes huffs through his nostrils.

Aegon wails into your shoulder.

The dragon screeches again.

Daemon grits his teeth, looking over his shoulder. He turns to you then his brother, "visagon aōha tresy." Control your son.

Upon hearing this, you glare at Daemon, "he's just a babe!"

Caraxes bleats at the sound of your voice.

"Do not be so defensive. A babe's wailing is meant to be annoying," Daemon rebuts.

"Here," Alicent mutters, taking Aegon from you.

"Ali-"

"It's alright, sister," she turns to you, kissing her boy, "I can manage." She turns to Otto, "might I have your arm, father?"

Otto obliges.

The two walk off, enough that Caraxes was not so close. You can't help but glare at the beast, though you knew any irritation you had towards him was irrational, as he was just a dragon and Aegon was just a boy.

Caraxes cranes over to you again, letting out another loud noise.

Both Daemon and Viserys call out to the beast, expecting the worst from him. Even Arryk and Erryk, who was watched from afar, grip their swords involuntarily and find themselves stepping closer as Caraxes pushes his snout into you.

Caraxes does nothing perilous but does huff. Still, it garners a corrective command from his rider, who comes in front of you

The beast makes a displeased sound, baring his teeth, frightening Aegon yet again. The sound of the boy's cries make you snap, "lyka, Caraxes," you call out, "skoros gaomā?" Quiet, Caraxes. What are you doing?

Daemon turns to you then Caraxes, calling him to obey.

Viserys watches his brother gaze upon you. He watches Daemon take your hand and reach it out towards his ride. His lips part as Caraxes leans into your joined hands. He turns back to his wife and frowns at the sight of his red faced boy. It was clear Aegon was frightened for you with how he was reached his hand in your direction.

The king sighs and comes to him, taking the boy into his arms. Rhaenyra watches his father rock his half-brother. He watches the boy sigh into his arms. She looks away, focus back to Caraxes.

Daemon leans against Caraxes. He mutters softly to him as he presses your hand into the dragon's snout. The beast is finally calm. You feel the warmth of his scales and you wonder if he'd eat you now that you were no longer carrying his rider's children.

Daemon topples back as Caraxes pushes into him, hard enough to brush against you. You gasp when he nudges your chest.

Your husband recognizes the affection and finds himself unable to bridle his own. He pulls you into his chest, pretending it was out of concern— to keep you upright. He presses his arm against yours, his palm resting on the back of your hand. He links his fingers into yours and rests your joined hands atop Caraxes, whispering, "he missed you."

You chuckle, looking over your shoulder to Daemon, "that's not possible."

Daemon leans his forehead against yours and you immediately look away. Though the sentiment hurt, he looks back at his mount and persists, "yet it's true."

Caraxes huffs and begins to curl before you. He then lies down, shaking his head as he did.

Daemon's eyes turn to the pyre, throat tightening at the sight of the two small bodies, wrapped up in cloth. It was no longer white, as time brought a brownish hue to it.

You look at him when he withdraws his hand. You watch his jaw clench as he looks to the distance. You pull away to place a hand on his rib, "do you want to go closer?"

His hand comes atop yours. For a moment, you remember how he said he didn't want your touch, but instead of pushing you away, he squeezes you. His lowers his head and licks his lips, "I am unworthy."

You face him fully. You shake your head and fix his collar, "you are their father."

You entire body seems to react when he speaks your name. Your shoulders tense. Your breath hitches. Your eyes water.

He watches you intently. He takes your hands and clutches by his chest. He frowns and leans closer, daring to press his forehead into you again.

You let him. You close your eyes and let him press against you. Tears rush down your cheeks.

"Would they have liked me?" Daemon whispers.

You chuckle bitterly, eyes opening. You see that his face is just as teary as yours. You sniffle and shake your head, "the gods only know."

Daemon wipes his nose on his sleeve.

You both walk towards the pyre. Caraxes lifts his head to look down upon you. Daemon frowns when he sees just how tiny the bodies are. He notices then they smell like the oil you put on yourself, albeit mustier. He cares little about the unpleasant undertone and presses a kiss on both their bodies.

When he pulls away, he takes deep breath and mutters, "kepa iksis kesīr, Alaeric se Alyrie... shijetra nyke... geros ilas." Father is here, Alaeric and Alyrie... forgive me... good bye.

Daemon turns to you, his hold on you tightening, "gaomagon emā mirros naejot ivestragon?" Do you have anything to say?

You step forward, biting your lips as gaze upon your babes. You release Daemon, immediately bursting into tears. You reach out to them one last time, lips trembling, "I wish you knew how much I love you."

You nearly topple back as you pull away.

Daemon reaches for you, one hand on your arm, the other on your back. He rests his head on yours, his voice is pained as he mutters, "they know," he shakes his head and presses a kiss on your ear. He whispers, "everyone knows."

You crumble. You turn to him and sob into his chest.

He wraps his arms around you, stroking your hair. He calls out your name, "I'm here now."

You whine.

"It would take sword and flame to sever me from you."

When you were calm enough, Daemon leads you off. He is vigilant of his surroundings but more importantly, you. By the time you and him stand far away enough, Caraxes inspects the pyre before him. He sniffs it and shakes his head. He cranes his neck back, looking at his master. They share a silent understanding.

Daemon has his arm around you as you continue to weep into his chest. He rubs your shoulder, looking down upon you, "would you like to give the command?"

You sniffle and look up to him, "what?"

He turns to Caraxes, who is already stood in attention rather knowingly, "I think he would obey if you commanded."

You shake your head, turning to Caraxes, "I do not want to." You face the pyre, wiping your face, "I've given them their sorrowful beginning. I do not wish to give them their sorrowful end."

Daemon clenches his jaw, "very well." He rubs your shoulders, "when you're ready."

You sigh, leaning into him, "I will never be."

He does not reply. He does, however, squeeze your shoulders.

You turn to him, a line between your brows, "when you're ready, Daemon."

He turns to you just as you look forward. He sniffles and turns to his mount, "Caraxes."

Caraxes rumbles.

The prince takes a deep breath, eyes fixed upon his children, "dracarys."

You gasp at the burn of the flames. The fire is so bright, it's like the sun stops shining for a moment. It's fitting, for that is what it felt to lose them. Warmth cascades across the ground. Caraxes screeches upon finishing his task. Aegon weeps again.

Daemon takes you back to the Keep on dragonback. He is grateful you agreed, though he knows it was more because you felt too weak to walk, rather than the fact you wanted to keep his company.

When he arrives at the pit, Caraxes squawks in recognition of the dragon that seemed to have just arrived, judging by the amount of servants and dragon keepers around.

When you land, hear a voice call for you and you look, not recognizing the voice. Daemon does, just as he recognizes the dragon.

Daemon dismounts and helps you down. You hear your name called out again, "who-"

"Princess!"

Your lips part as you turn to see the young man running towards you. You recognize him solely from his hair, "Laenor?"

Daemon eyes the boy as he bows. He eyes the flowers in his hand. Quickly, his eyes are averted back to you when you begin to weep.

Laenor is mortified. He nearly drops the bouquet as he calls out your name.

"Forgive me," you wipe your face and shake your head, "it is good to see you," you say, breaking into a soft chuckle, "to finally meet you."

Laenor gives a half-hearted smile as he nods, "it is good to meet you, though... I hear you have just come from the pyre."

You sniffle and nod, linking your hands together, "yes... I... we-" you turn to Daemon, "put our children to rest."

Laenor nods slowly, looking between the two of you, "my deepest condolences princess, prince."

You turn to him, finding he was offering you pink flowers.

"Bougainvillea," says the young lord, "I thought to bring you flowers since you wrote of picking them oft."

Your lips wobble and you sob even more.

Daemon clenches his jaw, reaching out to you.

He doesn't reach you though, as soon, you've thrown yourself into Laenor's arms.

The Velaryon yelps in surprise but naturally returns your affections.

"Thank you," you mutter, squeezing him tightly.

He chuckles, matching the intensity of your embrace, "it's nothing really, I saw some on my way. I'm glad you appreciate it."

When you pull away, Laenor catches the withering glare Daemon was shooting his way. He widens his eyes, only because he dares not to roll them, then hands you the flowers.

You gratefully take them, "thank you."

"You're welcome."

"I wrote to you just this morn."

"Did you?" his brow quirks, "you might be glad to know you needn't do anymore."

Your brows furrow.

"I..." he smiles softly, "... am promised to Princess Rhaenyra."

Daemon's brow quirks.

"Oh," you mutter, "oh..." your lips wobble, "d-does that mean you will be staying here?"

Laenor chuckles, "yes, I-"

He grunts when you embrace him again.

Daemon looks away and scoffs.

"That's wonderful!" you sob, "oh, my dear Laenor."

Laenor chuckles as he pulls away, "surely mine own company is not so much a relief from my uncle's."

"Careful, boy," Daemon snaps, eyes narrowing, "I respect you, but that doesn't mean I like you."

Laenor's eyes widen again, "of course, uncle."

"In any case," you wipe your philtrum, "I am glad to have a friend."

Friend... I could be your friend, thinks Daemon.

Laenor nods, "as am I."

With that, Laenor walks off and you turn to the Bougainvilleas in your hands.

"You write to Laenor about flowers?"

You turn to Daemon, seeing him grind his teeth. You nod simply, "upon his request."

He opens his mouth but then shuts it. Would you have obliged himhis request if he ever wrote back to you? He banishes the thought and turns to the ground, "you should plant them."

Your brows quirk at the thought.

"Grow them in your garden," he turns around, walking back to Caraxes.

You watch him caress his dragon. You mutter to yourself, "that's not how that works."

You wait for him to finish doting on his ride. You stare at your flowers as you do so.

When Daemon turns back, he sees you gently caressing the pink buds. He imagines you doing the same to his cheeks and lips; it makes him rapidly shake his head and call your name.

You look up at him.

Daemon's lips are curved into a frown, "I do not keep you prisoner."

Your brows furrow, "what?'

He motions with his head, "go."

You turn to where he motioned, eyes immediately falling on Laenor. You look back at him, "I-"

"He's surely famished from a long ride," he slowly turns back to Caraxes, stroking his scales. The dragon huffs, lying down. "I doubt you've eaten yourself."

You stare at him, brows knitting together.

He turns back to you, "go to him. Be with your friend."

You pull your head back, "I-"

"I wish to clear my head," he pats Caraxes, "I'll do it in the sky."

Of course, what he really wanted was to find solace in your arms, but he tries to convince himself flying will be just as good. After all, that was how he calmed himself before... before you.

"I'll be back before dark," he mutters, walking off to mount Caraxes.

You watch him climb on his dragon's back. You watch him as he commands Caraxes to stand.

You nearly ask him to stay, but your memories convince you to do otherwise.

You gasp softly when Caraxes takes off.

[wendichester]

𓂃 ⋆ᡣ𐭩 unseen,

summary. you find out sam has special abilities.

pairing. sam winchester x reader ; angsty

wordcount. 746

The first time you see Sam use his powers, you swear your heart stops.

One second, the demon is grinning, taunting him—taunting you—with black eyes glistening like an oil spill under the motel’s cheap fluorescents. You’re scrambling for the knife, the one you stupidly dropped in the struggle, fingers slipping against the blood on the floor. The next second, Sam lifts his hand, fingers flexing tight, and the demon chokes on nothing.

It’s violent.

The air warps, a crushing, invisible force pinning the demon in place. Its mouth gapes open in a twisted, soundless scream, body convulsing as if something inside it is being ripped out. The sulfurous stench thickens, and your breath catches, ribs locking up in terror.

“Sam—” The name comes out as a whisper, like if you say it too loud, it might break whatever unnatural hold he has on the thing.

Sam doesn’t even look at you.

His eyes are locked on the demon, jaw clenched so tight you’re afraid his teeth might crack. A shadow of something dark passes over his face—power, rage, something else entirely—and it makes your stomach lurch.

The demon is losing. It shouldn’t be losing.

It thrashes against the unseen force, clawing at its own throat, body shaking so hard the walls tremble with it. And then, with a sickening crunch, its host’s neck snaps, head twisting unnaturally to the side. The body drops like a stone.

The demon is gone.

But the fear doesn’t leave with it.

Your pulse is a deafening roar in your ears as you slowly push yourself up, breath shaky. Sam stands there, shoulders rising and falling with every heavy exhale. His hand is still raised, fingers curled slightly, like he can still feel it.

“Sam,” you try again, voice hoarse.

This time, he hears you. His head whips around, and the second his eyes meet yours, your stomach drops.

His pupils are blown wide, like he’s high on something electric, something not human. His breath is ragged, chest rising and falling like he’s just run miles. And for a second—just a second—there’s a flicker of something unreadable in his expression, something that makes you want to run.

Your legs refuse to move.

Sam blinks, and it’s like a spell breaks. His whole body sags, expression twisting into something closer to regret—closer to Sam.

“Are you okay?” His voice is rough, and when he steps toward you, instinct kicks in.

You flinch.

Sam freezes.

The silence between you is loud. Too loud. The flickering motel light hums above, casting harsh shadows over the body still sprawled across the floor. You know that should be the worst part of tonight. It should be. But it’s not.

Sam saw it. The way you flinched. And it cuts through him like a blade.

You swallow hard, trying to force your heartbeat to settle, but your body isn’t listening. “That was—” You stop yourself. Because you don’t know what that was.

He shakes his head quickly, like he already knows what you’re going to say. “It wasn’t—I just—” His voice cracks, and something desperate flashes across his face. “I had to do it. I had to stop it.”

You don’t know what to say to that. Because part of you understands. But another part of you—the part still buzzing with the raw, visceral fear of watching him do something impossible—isn’t sure it can look at him the same.

Sam must see it.

His throat bobs as he swallows, hands curling into fists like he’s holding himself back from reaching for you. And that’s the part that really gets you. Because you know he’s waiting. Waiting for you to say something. To tell him this is okay.

But you don’t know if it is.

Your voice comes out quiet, fragile. “How long?”

Sam exhales sharply, running a shaking hand through his hair. “A while.”

That one hurts.

You squeeze your eyes shut for a second, trying to steady yourself, but all you can see is the way the demon died. The way Sam made it die. And it’s not just the fact that he did it. It’s that he could.

He’s watching you, waiting for you to put him back together like you always do.

You aren’t sure how.

The silence stretches again, tight and suffocating. The weight of his power, of the unknown, lingers heavy between you.

Finally, he whispers, “Please say something.”

You want to. You really do. But you don’t know where to start.

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[pupsec]

𐔌 、sasuke　ﾉ　you find yourself paired with sasuke, whose sharingan flares uncontrollably around you 𓈒　◟

cw: sexual tension ノ mutual pining ノ Sasuke being emotionally repressed but physically reactive ノexplicit content ノdark themes ϑϱ

He noticed you before you noticed him.

The new girl—quiet, polite, always scribbling notes like the world would fall apart if you missed a single word. You sat near the back, tucked into a desk that creaked when you shifted, always careful not to take up space. You apologized when someone bumped into you. Bowed your head when spoken to.

But Sasuke had seen you.

Not just with his eyes. Not just as one more civilian girl stuck in a shinobi class. No—his body reacted first. Subtle. Wrong.

The first time you were paired together for a sparring demo, he didn’t think much of it. He rolled his shoulders, stretched his fingers, prepared to disarm and pin you like he would anyone else.

You, standing across the mat, looked like you didn’t belong. Your stance was careful but timid, knees bent, hands curled in soft fists like you weren’t sure if you should hit him even if ordered to.

And still—still—

The moment your eyes met his—

Click.

Sharingan.

He felt it burn behind his lashes. The heat curled up his spine, sharp and visceral, like his blood recognized you before his brain did. His muscles tensed, his breath hitched. He blinked once, hard, trying to suppress the activation, but the red glow remained. Spinning. Steady.

“Sasuke,” Kakashi said from the sidelines, arms crossed, voice firm. “Stand down. Eyes off.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” Sasuke muttered.

He hadn’t. That was the worst part.

You hadn’t even touched him yet.

And you—gods, your eyes were wide, full of worry, not fear. “Are you okay?” you whispered, stepping back instead of forward. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

He blinked.

You were worried about him?

The match was called off early.

He didn’t say a word as you bowed and shuffled back to your seat, clutching your sleeves. He didn’t even look up when Naruto made some dumb comment about ��getting turned on in a fight.” He just sat in stunned silence.

Because his Sharingan had never reacted like that before.

And the second time?

It was even worse.

You were assigned to sit next to him for a paired scroll analysis—nothing physical, nothing strenuous, just reading and translating seal logic from a captured scroll. You barely said a word. You just leaned in, close, your shoulder brushing his, your hair smelling faintly of chamomile.

And again—

Click.

That soft pulse of chakra behind his eyes. The pull of it.

He swore under his breath and pressed two fingers to his temple.

“You okay?” you asked again, voice smaller than last time. “You keep… looking at me like something’s wrong.”

He looked down at you—really looked—and his chest tightened.

Because no, nothing was wrong. Nothing had ever felt so vividly right.

Too right.

He was on edge the whole time, and you noticed. You chewed your lip as you worked. Tilted your head and asked if he needed a break. Every time you leaned in to whisper something, every time your hand brushed his arm, his Sharingan flared.

He lied and said it was fatigue.

But it wasn’t.

It was you.

Kakashi cornered him after class.

“Sasuke.”

“Hm.”

“You’re too reactive.”

“I know.”

“Your Sharingan’s not just reading danger. It’s reading something else.”

Sasuke said nothing.

Kakashi's gaze sharpened. “Be careful with her.”

Sasuke didn’t argue.

Because he had been. Every time. Every class, every spar, every moment he felt you getting closer. He kept his hands to himself. He didn't say the things he wanted to say—like how the way you curled your hands in your sleeves made him ache, or how he dreamed once of your voice in his ear and woke up panting, half-hard, eyes glowing red in the dark.

He didn’t understand it. Not fully.

But his body knew.

And when you looked up at him across the classroom the next morning, lip caught between your teeth, eyes hopeful and unsure, he had to look away before the glow gave him away again.

You started noticing things, too. How Sasuke always seemed too still around you. How his hands flexed when you got too close. How his eyes flashed that eerie, beautiful red even when there was no threat, no danger—just you handing him a brush, just you brushing his sleeve by accident in the hallway, just you whispering his name when you didn’t understand something.

It happened in the training field first. You’d been partnered for drills again. The kind where one person runs through a jutsu and the other disarms. Easy enough.

Except nothing was easy with him anymore.

Because the moment he caught your wrist—just your wrist—his eyes snapped red. And you felt it like a wave, like heat straight through your gut, like a pressure point between your legs that didn’t belong to any nerve textbook.

You gasped. His grip tightened. Then he let go like you’d burned him. He turned away, silent.

But you couldn’t stop looking.

“Why does it always happen around me?” you asked him, the words tumbling out, half breathless, half desperate. “Your Sharingan. It never turns off when we’re close.”

He looked at you then, like he’d been waiting for you to ask. Like he wanted to answer.

“You’re the first person who’s ever made me feel like this,” he said.

And that’s how you ended up here.

In his apartment. On his bed. Stripped to your thighs, your skirt pushed up, your breath stuttering against his mouth while he laid you out beneath him like a secret he’d been aching to touch.

His eyes glowed red above you.

Spinning. Ravenous.

You moaned just looking at them.

“Does it scare you?” he murmured, his voice low, brushing against your lips.

You shook your head. “No.”

“I see everything with these,” he whispered. “Every twitch. Every tremble. Every time your body begs.”

You whimpered.

He kissed you hard.

Then he dragged his hands down your sides—calloused, reverent—until they slid under your thighs and pushed them apart. You trembled beneath him, naked from the waist down now, your panties discarded somewhere on the floor, your cunt slick and throbbing in the open air.

Sasuke looked down at you like he was starving.

The Sharingan spun faster.

“You’re so wet.”

You squeezed your eyes shut.

“No,” he snapped. “Look at me.”

You obeyed. Eyes wide. Cheeks burning. You were already breathing too fast.

“I want to see you when you cum,” he said, voice like gravel and thunder. “I need to.”

And then he thrust inside you.

You screamed—a raw, broken sound, pleasure burning hot and deep, your walls stretching around him with sweet, aching pressure. He filled you completely, his cock thick, hot, veined, dragging against every tender place inside you that you didn’t know existed.

He growled against your neck. “So tight. So perfect.”

You clung to him, shaking. “Sasuke—fuck—it’s too much—”

“No,” he rasped, dragging his hips back and slamming in again. “It’s not enough. I’ve waited too long.”

He set a rhythm, brutal and precise—his hips snapping forward, again and again, driving into you while you sobbed his name against his jaw. His hands gripped your thighs, pinning you open. You felt exposed. Owned. The Sharingan flared brighter, and he groaned like it was feeding off you, off your pleasure, off the way your body clenched around him.

“I can see every fucking twitch,” he groaned, pounding harder. “Every time you get close. You want to cum already?”

You nodded, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“Then cum.”

You shattered.

Your body locked up, your cunt spasming around him so hard it knocked the breath from your lungs. You screamed his name again—“Sasuke!”—while your orgasm ripped through you, pulsing hot and endless.

But he didn’t stop.

He kept fucking you, harder now, chasing his own release.

“I’m gonna fill you up,” he snarled, voice raw. “Gonna cum so deep you feel it for days.”

“Do it,” you begged. “Please—please cum—”

His hips slammed forward one last time—and he groaned loud and low as he came, cock twitching deep in your soaked, spasming cunt, hot cum spilling inside you, leaking down your thighs. His Sharingan flickered, glowing blinding for a moment as he groaned your name like it was a prayer.

And then he collapsed over you, breathing ragged.

You were still shaking. Still full.

Still glowing from the inside out.

And when he finally lifted his head, his eyes were dark again.

But he was still watching you like he’d never seen anything more dangerous—or more precious—in his life.

[bullet-prooflove]

Boston: Jack Abbott x Reader

Tagged: @kmc1989 @dizzybee03 @noxytopy @flyinglama @yousigned-upforthis

Companion piece to:

The Asshole King - Jack discovers you have an unusual technique for dealing with patients.

Bob Dylan - You help Jack to relax after an incident at the hospital leaves him temporarily blind.

Because Of You - Jack realises he's starting to heal in more ways than one after you spend the day taking care of him.

Masochist - You and Jack have an indepth understanding of one another.

Seven Shades of Fucked Up (NSFW) - You know exactly how to get Jack off.

Part of the Job - Violence has always been part of the job, but this time it hits a little too close to home for Jack.

Love Language (NSFW) - Jack has his own unique love language.

Pittfest - Jack's day turns into a nightmare when he recieves a notification from the hospital regarding a mass casuality event.

Snapband - Jack's worst fear comes true during a mass casuality event.

Your mom hates Jack and that’s ok because Jack hates your mom, he’s just more polite about it out of respect for you. It’s why he bites his tongue when you go to lunch with her, why he’s even more attentive when you return because that woman she wears you down, erodes you and Jack he despises it.

It’s worse today because it’s the anniversary of your sister’s death. Your mom, she refuses to acknowledge it but you do, you put flowers on Abby’s grave for every one of the occasions she misses. Jack, he goes with you because he knows that pain can be just as visceral a decade later, that it can leave you feeling hollowed out, wrecked.

“You don’t have to go to lunch with her today.” He tells you as you sit in the car outside the restaurant. “We can take a drive down by the river instead, get out of the city for a while, give you a little breathing room.”

Today is a tough day for you, even without your mother’s looming presence and he doesn’t want it to get any harder.

“It’ll be fine.” You tell him as you get out of the car. “Maybe she finally wants to celebrate Abby’s life this time.”

She doesn’t. The reason she’s summoned you is because she wants to talk about your future, the one that doesn't include an underpaid, overworked emergency room physician. However it does include your ex-husband Richard, the man who used to be your psychiatrist and your sister's before her untimely death.

Jack finds this out six hours later when he has to track you down using the Find My Friend App because you haven't returned home from the restaurant. He locates you back at Abby’s grave site, sitting on the bench underneath the old oak tree watching the sunset in the distance.

“Mom didn’t come.” You say quietly, your hands tucked into your pockets as you stare at the scenery in front of you. “She sent Richard instead. Apparently they both agree it’s time for me to move on, to stop lingering in the past and return to Boston.”

“Boston, that’s where you were before…” Jack swallows hard against the ache in his chest, the one that’s been growing ever since he realised you hadn’t come home to him. “…where you were with him.”

Before your return to Pittsburgh you helped Richard to establish a rehab clinic, one that catered especially to the rich and famous. You used to spend your days negotiating treatment plans with publicists and managing people who had more money than god but no drive to heal. It was soul destroying, morally irrepresentable and it only added to the numbness you felt in the years after your sister’s death, which is why one night you found yourself taking off your clothes and walking into the ocean.

You’d just discovered Richard was fucking one of his celebrities and that last scrap of self-worth had evaporated. You weren’t anything to anyone, nobody would care if you just slipped out of existence. So that’s what you decided to do. Step into the water, leave it all behind. Just like Abby did.

It’s the initial burst  of cold that stops you, that bracing wave of freezing water immersing your body. Something inside of you breaks and all of those emotions you’ve shoved down into a box unleash themselves. Instead of nothing, you feel everything, the anguish, the grief, the devastation, it hits you all at once and that pain, it pours out of you into the water as you struggle to keep your head above it.

You almost drown that night, you almost let the current take you but you don’t because deep down in the core of your being you know it has to get better, because truthfully it can’t get much worse.

The only way is up, you remind yourself as you drag yourself back up onto the beach.

Three years later you meet the man that makes all of your dreams come true, who gives himself to you so unconditionally that sometimes even you can’t believe he’s real.

“If you want to go to Boston, I won’t stop you.” Jack says as he sits down beside you, you can feel the despondency in him as he runs his hands through burnished silver curls. “But I can’t go with you, the need here… it’s too great.”

You understand what he means. You, him, your colleagues, you’re the only thing standing between most people and a really bad fucking day. Jack can’t abandon the people who need him, and the thing is neither can you.

“Jack.” You say softly as you take his hand, your fingers lacing through his. “I’m not going to Boston, I’m staying right here with you.”

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[revelboo]

oh hey- that fic with tf1 megatron and that "pull" between him and reader, is that a spark/soulmates thing or more of an accidental conjunx adjacent kind of bond? cuz either sound really cool nd i know you'll handle whatever it is phenomenally, and thank you for the food

Wasn’t sure how well this sort of snippet would go over, but wanted to write one. It is a spark/soulmate thing based on an idea a friend of mine had about how interconnected a Cybertronian’s spark is to their world. That their spark might suffer and weaken without that connection to stabilize and feed off of. That a spark could bind to a soul to heal itself.

It Had to Be You Pt 6

TFO Megatron x Reader

• What does it say about him that you can work your way into his processor and he can’t get you, a weak, soft little thing, out. That when he enters his quarters, he knows exactly where you are. That your continued resistance bothers him. He’s supposed to be the strongest, the one who’ll tear all the corruption out. Fix Cybertron. What will his forces say when they discover he does have a weakness? That he’s so fascinated with a little human? That he needs you.

• Gritting his denta, he slams his fist into the wall hard enough to crumple the metal. That empty ache is back. It’d been better before he found you, when he’d just been used to that sense of missing something vital. It hadn’t bothered him so bad then. Touching you acts like a balm, making him whole. But only while in contact with you. Whenever he has to leave you, that jarring emptiness rushes back in worse than before. Wearing away at him day by day.

• You’re getting stronger, but you still can’t reach the top of the box he leaves you in like a little kitten. The walls aren’t smooth, but subtly grooved. Less of a handhold than the climbing walls you’d been terrible at as a kid, but with your bare feet and hands you can manage to get about halfway up. You’d dragged your pile of blankets over so that every time you do fall you’re not hurting yourself at least as your muscles strain, sweat slicking your skin. There’s not really a plan beyond escape the box, escape him. Because every day, the need to feel those warm servos on your skin becomes more visceral. You crave that contact and hate it at the same time. He’s done something to you, poisoned you somehow until you need him. Look forward to the next time you’ll see him.

• Door sliding silently open, he stalks over to your enclosure and freezes. Clinging to the side, reaching for a new handhold, you stop moving. Sensing him the same way he’s always aware of you and falling as soon as you meet his optics. The anger is immediate, forcing his servos under into shaking fists. He shouldn’t be surprised that you’re trying to run away. Always fighting him, always resisting. “Where is it you think you’re going to go?” He asks, speaking slowly and deliberately. Focusing on the words not the fury. “Do you really think I won’t just find you again?”

• You stay where you fell in the blankets, because you can’t breathe, can’t move under the weight of that cold, disappointed anger. Because those words tear at you and make you feel guilty for wanting freedom. Craving his touch and fearing it. You can hear his heavy steps as he approaches and you curl onto your side in a tight ball, feeling and hating that sense of belonging that makes you want, need, to reach out to him. Your body betraying you.

• “You still don’t understand,” he growls, reaching in to pick you up and feeling how tense you are, the way you tremble against his servos. Still fighting him even though he knows you can feel that same connection. You have to. He cradles you to his chassis directly over his spark, soaking in the feel of you. Uses a servo to pin your cheek against him even as he needs more. More contact to ground himself, to ease that ache. “You’re mine, little human.”

• The world drops sickeningly and you think he’s dropped you, but you never hit the ground. The world’s gone sideways somehow, your captor smaller but still so much bigger than you. One big hand cupping the back of your head to press your face against his chest. The other arm curled around you, servos tightening on your hip as you try to understand what just happened. Pushing against him to try and get some distance even as your struggling mind comprehends that he’s changed size somehow. That his hands are on you, his grip possessive and so much worse with him closer to your size, because there’s a new awareness of him that you don’t want. The hand at the back of your head shifts, servos tunneling in your hair as that other hand pins you along his frame. His heat soaking into you as you stop struggling, that rightness singing through you even as you want to fight it. Because he’s right, you are his. And you hate it.

Previous Next

[takethelongroadhome]

the thing that (imo) no one is acknowledging about astarion is that shame is a huge part of his psyche. just as much as (arguably more than) fear--an important aspect of his fear is that he fears becoming the person he was so ashamed of again.

most of the abuse he's implied to have experienced from cazador is so extremely degrading and humiliating that it's almost unimaginable. his siblings describe him as especially likely to fawn and submit for safety. leon goes out of his way to mock him for being cazador's "favorite," whatever the hell that means.

when he meets the 7,000 spawn for the first time, he's not just willing to sacrifice them for the ritual, he wants them to die--he hates them in a very visceral, personal way. the pity and guilt he feels for them is drowned out by his contempt-- they're "pathetic, horrible." if you call him out on the fact that they clearly remind him of himself, he absolutely flips out and says he killed that version of himself. he not only is willing to trick and kill his siblings, he not only thinks they deserve that, he is surprised that you feel differently. he was one of them barely a month ago! he knows that!

shame -> contempt sublimation is very real. when you hate yourself for what was done to you, it's barely a leap to begin hating others for what is done to them (I mean, he says outright that he doesn't want to help the gnome slaves in grymforge because they're depressing). he hates the person he was forced to become under cazador--the person who simpered and played along with the man systematically torturing him for his own gratification, who had to abandon all self-respect and dignity for survival, and so he draws a sharp distinction between past-astarion and free-astarion and is obsessed with separating himself from any trace of the former. anyone who's a victim like past-astarion gets hit with the full force of his contempt and disgust. free-astarion is good and worthy because he is no longer like those pathetic victims, and is free to look down on them all from his tadpole-enabled throne!

it's to the point where he actively gets joy out of seeing victims brutalized, because he's had to adopt cazador's worldview over the 200 years he spent trying to appease his every whim. (as much as he hates cazador, he also clearly "looks up" to him--he hypes him up as a threat like he's in a powerscaling argument with you. he has to! how else would he have survived?) you are either the powerful and dignified victimizer or the pathetic victim, and for once he gets to be in cazador's position, relishing the just punishment of the weak for being weak. he has no other model for what dignity can look like beyond this victimizer/victim dichotomy. if he wants basic self-respect, he thinks he has to be like this.

this isn't a good worldview, both in the moral sense and in the qualitative sense. it's miserable. astarion will never actually be able to achieve peace or happiness like this. no amount of power will satisfy his sense of shame--it certainly didn't for cazador! what he needs is to feel real compassion for other people and for his past self--not anger, not grievance, not bitterness, but actual compassion. that's part of why you get approval for talking him out of ascending--he may truly, desperately want to ascend, because everything he believes about the world is telling him that the 7,000 spawn deserve it and it's the only way for him to become worthy and whole and dignified, but even more than that, he wants someone to convince him that he's wrong.

obviously this isn't, like, the only factor at play in his head. he contains multitudes! but I do think it's an important one

[allfearstofallto]

Am soo happy to see your back even if it's just for a short while I hope your doing okey and that everything is good with life and work 😊 i wanted to ask if it was possible how do you think Yan Scara would react if reader got sick ? Would he be worried ? Would he try to tend to them or leave it to the doctors and servants ?

Again thank you so much for taking time for us 💕

My asks are FULL of this exact same question, I'm not joking 😭😭 so I just wrote all of them.

Sick Day

Yandere! x Fem! Reader

Featuring: Diluc, Childe, and Scaramouche

Diluc spent most of his life taking care of himself. Before and after the passing of his father, he was independent to a worrying degree for a young child. So when he got sick, he paid it little mind. He took the proper medicine and if the fever was mild enough, he'd still be sitting at his desk filing his mountains of paperwork. The only indication that he was unwell being the slight rasp of his voice and flush of his cheeks.

But that was because Diluc didn't care much for his own well-being. His body wasn't useful for much other than work, but only he believed that. The day you wake up with a cough and runny nose, mentioning to the head maid that you can't leave the bed because you're so lightheaded, Diluc is in shambles. The second the news makes it to his ears that you're under the weather, he's rushing to your bed chambers, at your side even when you don't want him.

Diluc can't stand the idea of losing you. You can hate him until Teyvat freezes over, it hurts, but at the very least he knows you're well. So the second you fall ill, a part of him feels shame for his inability to protect you, the other feels a visceral fear that you won't be around anymore.

For days you're catered to in bed. Not just by maids, but Diluc too. You're given soft, warm foods and plenty of water. Your temperature is taken three times a day by a doctor, who insists that if you're not awake to eat, you should sleep more to regain your strength. You wondered how much Diluc threatened him to get him to say the same thing over and over.

The day that you're deemed well and cleared to roam the manor freely again, is supposed to be a joyous one for you. As much as you love your room, you were growing sick of the wallpaper and you could only look at the same painting so many times before it frustrated you instead of entertaining. But overbearing Diluc is still around, watching you with worried eyes and begging you to take breaks to rest after every three steps you take.

Ajax is the epitome of an old wife when it comes to health remedies. With all of his siblings, some of which he ended up taking care of as he got older, he picked up a thing or two from the way his mother cared for him when he was sick. Her remedies, while strange to those from other countries, always had him in tiptop shape in a day or two.

It didn't help that you didn't hail from Snezhnaya. Liyue got cold, but even the hottest day in Snezhnaya was colder than the coldest in Liyue. Your body would have to acclimate to your new climate, meaning that even if he tried to keep you warm at night with the fireplace roaring and many blankets, all it would take was a little Snezhnayan air tickling your nostrils to make you wake up with a cold.

Using what his mother taught him and what her mother taught her before, he woke you up from your sleep when he noticed your runny nose and tears in your eyes. Pressing a hand against your forehead to check your temperature, all while your dreary eyes slowly blinked, wordlessly begging for more sleep.

“You'll rest soon, my angel, but I need you to drink this first,” Childe spoke in the softest voice he could muster, so as not to intensify your headache.

He knew something was wrong with you, the way you took the cup from his hands and downed without batting an eye. The little grimace your face made when the vodka hit your tongue was cute, but he tried not to get lost in your features while you were still sick and needy for assistance. His mother did a lot of things when he fell ill, but a shot of vodka was always the first. You were out cold after swallowing it down.

Despite his love for you, Ajax doesn't worry when you're sick. He believes that sickness is just one of the many battles of life and that there's no way you won't succeed in conquering it. Even after you're better, Childe insists that the two of you do some light exercises together. You can complain that it's your first day healthy, but he won't listen. Strengthening your body will keep you from getting sick again.

Even though he's lived for hundreds of years, Scaramouche doesn't quite understand the human body. Improper conditions for a prolonged time will just make you cease to work? And in the most inconvenient way possible as well? It's annoying and far too inconvenient.

Or, that's what he told himself. But when he looks over at you that first morning when you're sick, sweay pooling on your forehead and seemingly unable to breathe, something tugs at his heart. He feels something for you, watching as even in your dreams you're writhing in pain. Scaramouche feels pity. He assumes it's something he can only feel towards you because his heart sings for you.

“What are you doing?” Scaramouche questions a maid who he bumped into in the hallway.

Even though she carried a bowl of water in her hands, she still found a way to bow, “I received news that the Lady has a fever, my lord. A towel soaked in cold water on her forehead will help break it.”

He hummed. He'd heard of such things, but never thought that he himself would see them being used. A sense of urgency took over him when he realized that this would help you though, a need to be the one doing it for you.

“She'll be more comfortable with someone she's familiar with. Let me do it,” he ordered while snatching the bowl from her hands.

She opened her mouth to question him, but he shot her a glare before she could. He marched back to his room promptly, kneeling beside you as you slept. As the maid said, the cool towel did work. You seemed less pained when he placed it on your forehead.

After that moment, Scaramouche insisted he be the one doing everything for you while you were sick. Feeding you ginger soup, changing your blankets, nursing you back health without any assistance. All because he assured everyone that you'd be more comfortable with him doing it, although you rarely even opened your tired eyes the entire time you were getting better, so you had no idea who was cradling you in their arms and insisting you eat more.

When you're better, you're under the assumption that the maids are the ones who helped you, knowing that while you're sick you're practically comatose. But they insist that it wasn't them, saying that Lord Scaramouche himself cared for you and stayed by your side the entire time.

He'll never admit it though, brushing you off by saying something along the lines of, “Why are you saying such stupid things?”

[the-sparrows-providence]

I know it's not something that was particularly highlighted, but I've got big feelings about Jean's reaction to seeing Josiah during the Ravens v Foxes game.

Because Josiah isn't a coach or a Moriyama and from what we've seen, he doesn't seem like an "active" participant in the abuse that happened in the Nest. He 100% contributed to the abuse, and not only ignored it but actively enabled it, but he wasn't one of the people doling out punishments or physical abuse. Adding on to that, Jean assumed that not treating injuries properly and not receiving any medication stronger than ibuprofen was normal. So he had no reason to interpret any of Josiah's actions as malicious and in the beginning we never saw him react to Josiah the same way he reacts to Riko or Tetsuji.

But Jean's visceral reaction to seeing Josiah during the Foxes' game means that Jean now understands and sees him as an abuser. Not only that, but it was an angry reaction. Before the fight with Zane, we'd only ever seen Jean's reaction to his abusers be fear and submission. But Jean is angry in this scene; he wants to jump through that tv and physically haul Josiah off that court. He’s found Xavier’s “Where is your rage?” He’s finally accepting that what was done to him was cruel and heartless rather than inevitable and that he deserved better. And NOT ONLY THAT, but we've really only seen Jean fight or be conscientiously violent when it's in defense of the people he cares about (he even protects Lucas against Zane). And Jean seems willing to commit absolute felonies to keep Josiah--his abuser--from getting anywhere near Neil or any of the Foxes. We all already know "misplaced forever partners" despite anything Jean says, but it's just another example of how he cares about Neil

And I just...ugh, i just love seeing examples of Jean's progress and I have so many feelings about this scene

[bird-inacage]

The Heart Killers EP7: The Boat Scene 'Do you want to jump or do you want to fall?'

So yep, joke's on me. I was so wrong about how this scene may unfold and the episode in general. Credit to Jojo for keeping me on my toes. I wanted to dedicate a post to this, both for the fantastic performances but also the great character beats here.

BISON'S RESOLVE FOR REVENGE

I kept wondering just how resolute Bison would be. I thought that if he saw how upset Kant was about him getting hurt, he may waver. But it actually seemed to have the opposite effect.

Bison is understandably livid at Kant. I think a portion of that rage is intensified because it's with himself. The betrayal cuts deeper due to his own negligence. He should have known better, and Fadel warned him as such. As the confrontation unfolds, Bison's steely resolve veers towards agitation and restlessness. A twitch. An itch beneath the skin. An almost defiant urgency to squash any margin for hesitancy or doubt - that the sooner this is over with, the less risk there is for him to have second thoughts. Khao does a wonderful job of trickling out only the tiniest of hairline cracks in that resolve, to keep us guessing.

Forcing Kant to jump could also be a test for remorse. 'If I tell you to jump, will you do it or will you fight back or even beg for mercy?' If Bison wanted Kant dead, he could have done it already. We see him consider all the brutal ways he could do so. And yet the one he chooses is actually the least hands on. Watching Kant enact his own demise seems to be a testament to something Bison wants an answer to: a confession perhaps. 'Are you sorry for what you did? Do you regret it? Do you feel bad for me? Was it worth it?' and most importantly 'Do you love me? Did you ever love me?' When someone hurts us, we often want them to admit to their wrongdoing. To take responsibility for the damage they've caused as it gives validation to our pain.

Kant is debilitated by fear, but he's also resigned to his guilt. It's been chasing him this entire time. So he doesn't deny or rebuff what Bison's saying. Doesn't try to deflect or swerve like he's done before now. Neither does he put up a fight for his life. He displays a bedded in helplessness, an acceptance that something you saw coming has finally caught up to you.

When Kant does jump, it seems to take Bison a second to register what's happened. The fact that Kant doesn't come back up. The realisation that Kant may actually drown and die. And he panics.

KANT LAID BARE

(This is my cue to gush about First's acting). I loved his choice of line delivery in this scene. How quietly he speaks. How small, tired, broken and subdued this makes Kant appear. It's such an unexpected but phenomenal choice. It provides a complete 180 to Kant's usual brand of flirty showmanship. That's isn't to say that version of Kant is entirely false but he's definitely been playing up the 'perfect boyfriend' bit. To be as smooth and charming as possible, and to say all the right things to win Bison's heart. This is the first time Bison is seeing Kant stripped of all that bravado. And what's left underneath? Just a man whose desperately afraid.

The sheer terror that First portrays here is so layered and visceral. He doesn't just capture that primal fear of death, but there's so much more you can read into outside of the little he does say. Underlying all that physical and mental torment is trauma, a childlike desperation that renders him completely at a loss.

He didn't have a choice when Chris threatened him to become a pawn. He didn't have a choice when it came to choosing between his brother or Bison. He didn't have a choice to walk away. And now he doesn't have a choice in how Bison wants his revenge. I've talked about the loss of control and agency with these two characters quite a bit, but this is the epitome of having your autonomy entirely stripped from you. Kant is both paralysed by his fear of drowning, but also by his guilt and knowing that he brought this on himself - having sealed his fate when he agreed to the job in the first place.

"I promise when you wake up, the version of me you'll see is the real me." What happens when you strip a person of all their defences? You get down to their rawest form. And now we're seeing it.

Thank god the pair reconcile next week, because this was absolutely agonising to sit through. Firstkhao have done it again, but did we really expect any less?

You can keep tabs on bird-inacage’s BL meta directory for my other long-form posts around The Heart Killers, which I’ll be updating in real time as the show airs.

[just-some-random-blogger]

Tormented Spirit | 8

Part 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

"Is it such a sin to stand up for yourself?" you mutter as tears blur your vision. The way he reacted was visceral, instinctive even. "You never have to stand up for yourself ever again," says Daemon, reaching a hand to you, "come."

Daemon Targaryen x Hightower!Reader | 3k+ | cw: fem!reader, reader has brown hair, wife!reader, twin!Gwayne, arranged/forced marriage, canon divergence, alternate universe, slow burn, smut (piv, morning sex, come marking?, cock warming) DOWN BAD!DAEMON, DD:DNE, panic/anxiety attacks, daddy issues/child abuse/family problems, mentions/depictions of mental/physical/psychosomatic illness, ye old misogyny, angst, typos, etc.

A/N: this chapter became 6k+ words so i had to split it T_T. at least that means i'll be updating relatively faster lol. i hope you enjoy since all the fluff is here HAHAHAH and if you do, please leave a comment/reblog to let me know <3 <3 <3. once again, the high valyrian is internet translated, so it might be wrong. | cross posted on ao3

@arabellasleopardcoat @prettybiching

Otto nods as he passes a group of clergy members. He makes his way down the otherwise empty temple, eyes forward as he clutches a firm figurine in his hand. He grunts as he gets down on his knees in front of a fresco of the seven pointed star.

He lights three candles in front of him, saying three different names each time. He places the figurine he brought with him beside them. Of course, it wasn't a figurine but a woolen doll. He says another name, your name, then starts this prayers.

"Father, guard my family through this trying time, my son, my daughters... my daughter," he brushes the face of the doll then closes his eyes. "Stranger, put the souls of the departed Queen Aemma and Prince Baelon to rest.

"Warrior, strengthen my daughter and spare her and her unborn child from succumbing the same fate. Mother, grant her comfort and good health through her journey to motherhood. Crone, guide her and grant her good discernment, so that she may not fear the unknown. Maiden, preserve her beauty, her light."

He opens his eyes and stares at the point that represented the Smith. He grits his teeth before sighing in defeat, "Smith, fortifier... mender... I beg," he sighs, "mend her heart. Mend her body. I beseech you. Let not my prayer fall deaf on your ears any longer."

The candlelight before him glows as he waits another day for the answer to his decade old prayer.

Meanwhile, the candles in your room have long been put out, including the one you normally keep lit by your bed. You are first to rouse today, and yet you could not rise from bed, as you were pressed beneath the body of your husband. Daemon sighed contentedly on your chest, one arm and leg draped over you. You have never slept together (or so you think) so you figured that Daemon probably moved a lot in his sleep, which is how you both ended up in this position.

You stare at the top of his head, continuing to brush through his silver hair. In truth, you did not want to rise. You wanted to stay in this peace, in this stillness. It would not last long, you knew it— you dreaded it.

Goosebumps form on your skin when you feel your husband's hand brush over your belly before hooking on to your hip. You begin to feel your heart race as you remember what your father told you the night before.

How could you tell him? How could you possibly tell Daemon that you were with child, when you knew he was so diligent in assuring you would not be? Was it even possible to carry his seed when he never finished inside you?

Against yourself, you remember the day you caught Gwayne kissing a lady behind a curtain, and how you attacked him because you thought he had gotten her pregnant. The poor girl ran away as you beat your twin, and Gwyane defended himself, saying that's not how you do it. You did not know any better, so you told him you did not believe him and nearly forced him to go to your father to announce you would be marrying the lady. He, in turn had to explain what he knew, to both your horror.

You were no fool to simply believe the words of your stupid twin, so you made it your mission to find out the truth. After sneaking books from the Citadel itself, you read many a book only to find out your twin was telling you the truth.

That was why dread rippled across your skin, for could there ever be a world where Daemon purposefully pulled out and is not angered by this news, where he does not accuse you of infidelity?

You go between worry and peace as you brush your fingers across the prince's skin. You try to convince yourself that all will be well, but each time you do, another part of your mind raises that nothing's ever been well with you. You decide then, even if just for this moment, you will pretend the calmness of your husband will remain.

But the world is cruel, for at this same moment, Daemon awakens.

He stirs with a groan, face rubbing against your sternum. The robe you had on was no longer covering your chest. Your heart races as he looks up at you, his violet eyes still sleepy, "sȳz ñāqes."

You do not understand, but you assume it means good morning, and so you say, "good morning."

Daemon sighs as he pushes himself up, removing his pants. You tense as he comes atop you and kisses your neck. He nudges your head to the side with his own and soon, he pushes your legs apart with his knees.

Your hands come to his hip bones, where you then dig your nails in, making him groan. You whimper when you feel him grind his groin into yours. He is half-hard.

"Sesīr isse ñuha ēdrugon, jaelan ao." Even in my sleep, I want you.

You whimper yet again when he begins to rock against you, digging your nails deeper into him.

"Gīda ilagon," he mutters as he fully parts your robe, repeating in common tongue, "calm down."

You are taken aback by how he pecks your lips once before kissing your neck again.

"Dreamt about fucking your pretty cunny," he mutters lowly between kisses, "wanna make it real."

His words make you ache and throb. In a way, you were comforted by the thought Daemon wanted you, even if it was just your body. You close your eyes and let yourself relax. You sigh against his ear, nuzzling into his shoulder, and brush your hand up his back. As your hands trail to his biceps, his skin breaks out with gooseflesh and a high pitched whimper leaves his lips.

"Fuuuuuuck," he whines out rather pathetically.

There is a languidness to his movements unlike you've ever experienced. His normally brash and pointed demeanor is soft and gentle, his kisses even more so. There is no sense of urgency whatsoever as he rolls his hips against you. If you didn't know any better, you would have believed that he wanted to savor the moment.

He did. He wanted to savor your body, as dreaming of it had him feeling some indistinguishable way. You would never know this though, for he would never tell you.

By the time you've become shaky and your cunt was absolutely sopping wet because of Daemon's now fully hard cock rubbing up against it, he finally pushes into you, drawing out a deep groan from your throat. You tighten your legs and arms around him and your teeth sink into his shoulder.

Daemon grips your thighs as he thrusts into you. He barely pulls out, seemingly determined to go deeper and deeper each time, wanting— needing to be pressed flush into you. His hands sneak beneath you, fingers raking up your shoulder blades to your nape before tangling into your brown hair. He breathes heavily against your ear as your bodies grow hotter and hotter.

You both remain in this snug position, doing this constricted dance until your bellies begin to burn. He doesn't speed up at all or pull out any more than he already has. You feel your body begin to tense and your climax begin to build, and then, just then, a spirit overcomes Daemon.

The next moment, he has his hand on your jaw, forcing your head back. Just as you reach your peak, he pulls out and thrusts his wet cock on your slick folds, once, twice, until his hard member is soft and twitching. His load shoots out up to your chest and sputters down on your belly, garnering a surprised gasp from you. It's hot and viscous against your skin and you wonder what it would have felt like had he released in you. There's so much of it too.

"Fuck, fuck, fu-" Daemon repeats, thinking the exact same thing you were.

You expect him to roll over, because there is no way he wouldn't after soiling you, but you gasp yet again as he comes crashing down on you, skin sticking with a squelch.

He is arrested by your warmth and wants nothing but to plunge into you again. So, in his greed, he grabs his still twitching cock and pushes it into you, releasing a long and throaty groan as he does so. It makes you tremble and whimper his name. You were not expecting the intrusion, so you brush your cheek against his, hoping he understands to give you a moment of repose before going again.

After a while, though you still felt tender from your orgasm, you brush your cheek against him once more, signaling you were ready for him again.

He does the strangest thing however, and simply brushes his cheek back. He pulls his head back, looking down at you, "litse riña." Pretty girl.

You notice the softness of his violet eyes and knit your brows at it. He is so overwhelming you cannot help but kiss him. There was still remnants of morning breath in your mouths, but neither of you cared.

Daemon is loathe to have you pull away. He leans into your touch as you brush his unruly hair back. You slowly shake your head, "I do not understand, my prince."

"iksā sīr rāpa se bāne," you are so soft and warm. He brushes your noses together, "ñuha ābrazȳrys," my wife.

A line forms between your brows at the foreign tongue. You wait for him to translate as he brings his hand to your cheek. He stares at you for a long moment, thumb brushing your skin.

He makes no attempt to decode the High Valyrian for you, and soon, a knock comes upon your door.

Daemon is instantly irritated as he glares over his shoulder, muttering, "who the fuck is that?"

"My servants. I-"

Before you could even finish, your two servant girls are waking in, and Daemon watches them as they head for your bathroom, horribly and painfully unaware of him. He waits for them to reemerge, and the moment they do, he is instantly screaming, "FUCK OFF, CUNTS! THE DOOR'S CLOSED FOR A REASON."

You hear their gasps, squeals, and apologies before scurrying off, slamming the door behind them as they did.

Instantly, yet again, Daemon relaxes and nuzzles against your neck.

"D-Daemon," you whisper, sinking your fingers into his long hair, "they normally wake me up at-"

"I don't give a fuck," he quips, tightening his hold on you, "they'll know better now."

You clench your jaw and sigh, making mental note to apologize to your girls for the prince's actions.

You begin to doze off, as does Daemon in all his gluttonous glory. The two of you stay in bed until lunch time, which is far longer than you've ever personally stayed.

Arryk, who had been stationed outside your door for a while now, is concerned by this. He raps at the entrance to your room and calls your name. When he receives no response, he peaks inside and inspects the stillness of it all. Unnerved by the idea you were sleeping in, he thinks the worse and walks in, calling your name again. His breath is forced down his throat when he sees the flash of white hair on the bed. He sees a hand rub down a toned back and he immediately reels back, quiet and as quick as he possibly can.

You wake the second time because of the growling of your stomach. It is loud and painful, so much so, it wakes your husband.

He groans, brushing his nose against you, "hungry?"

You huff, craning your neck to look at him, finding his closed eyes, "clearly, I'm starving."

A rich chuckle rumbles from his chest. He opens his eyes and they twinkle with mischief, "I could feed you something meaty."

Your face contorts, "I do not think you'd want me to bite your cock, my prince."

Daemon laughs, hard enough to fully awaken him. He wheezes, and rolls of your chest, "I did-" sigh, "not say it was-" wheeze, "my cock."

You hum, "oh, of course not. Apologies."

Your sarcasm only maddens him further into amusement.

You take this as a chance to wriggle away from him, and so you do. The semen still on your skin is tepid and pasty as it smears against your chests. Your robe is completely lose as you come to a stand. You decide not to dirty your garment with Daemon's seed by covering yourself, so you head for the bathroom with your robe open.

You gasp at the swiftness of how your are grabbed and pulled back. Your body collides into Daemon's chest. Your care for your satin robe if for naught, because it sticks on his come anyway. Daemon's is hypnotized by your scent. He is quick to brush your hair over shoulder and mumble against your nape, "you wound me with your eagerness to flee me, wife."

His hands come to squeeze your breasts and you whimper as you turn to him. You knit your brows and pout, "that is not true."

"No?" he says a little louder than he ought as his emotions slightly get ahead of him, "are you not running from me this moment?"

You frown and fully face him, having to peel your robe off his chest as you do, "I'm simply going to bathe." You stare at his chest, "you've made a mess of me."

Daemon tilts his head, "not nearly enough, in my opinion."

You find the self-satisfied grin on his face, "you should too bathe with me."

"Mmm, well then," he takes your hand, "bathe we shall."

The water that your servants had brought was now cold, but you both made do with what you had. Daemon is simultaneously unsurprised and taken aback by how you tend to him first, he does not know why. You've bathed him once before, and yet it somehow feels different. You scrub his chest with cloth and inspire him to do the same for you. You lean into his touch as he washes you off, and it makes his stomach roll.

He takes a good look at you, your skin, the marks he left on it, your nose, your knees, your hair, everything, and he cannot believe something so... so immaculate, so resplendent could be borne from a man so detestable.

"You are not your father's daughter," he says so casually.

You look up at him, freezing because of his random sentiment.

"You are the gods promise to me. A woman made to sate my fire."

Your brows knit at his words. You tilt your head and it makes him nearly goes mad. How darling you ask, "I sate your fire?"

He hums and pulls you into him, kissing your arm as he did, "stoke, perhaps, is truer."

Your breath hitches when he brings you to his lap. He sighs as he feels your flesh against his, it wont be long until he's hard all over again. He licks a stripe up your left breast, "I am, in fact, insatiable."

Your heart races and he peppers kisses up your neck. You lean your forehead against his after kissing your lips. You whisper in earnest, "I will try."

Daemon pulls back, hands coming to your neck as he looks at you.

"I will try to sate you."

Fuck. The thought should have made him laugh, but it doesn't. It makes him burn. He cannot say anything, for his mouth seeks yours. He kisses your lips and you two sequentially spend another hour or so turning the water warm as it splashes all over the floor.

You're antsy and eager to feast by the end of it all.

You help each other get dressed, and Daemon finds the way you hastily button his doublet ever-so-endearing. When it's his turn to help, he shushes you and rubs your shoulders before securing your corset from behind, "your food will not fly off the window."

You rub your aching stomach, "I pray it flies into my mouth soon."

He snickers as he finishes tying your laces.

You quickly run towards the vanity and hastily begin to brush your still damp hair.

He watches you bounce your leg and the faintest of smiles graces his lips. He watches your chest begin to rise and fall rather quickly, and soon his brows furrow. He walks up behind you, "aeritta run." Restless thing.

He takes your hand and your jaw, but it is unlike most times he does so. His touch is gentle. He does not force you to hand your brush or look forward, but you do. You look at each other from the mirror; your chest continues to heave.

"Paez ilagon," Daemon enunciates, "say it for me, won't you?"

Your brows furrow in slight confusion. You release a breath, "pez ilegon."

"Paez," he corrects.

"Paez."

"Good," he nods, "ilagon."

"Il... Ilagon."

"Rōvēgrior," Daemon leans in and mumbles against your temple, "excellent. Now..." he kisses your temple, "once more: paez ilagon."

You take a breath, doing your best to mimic his accent, "pa...ez i- ... lagon."

"Arlī," again, he motions with his pointer, "speak confidently."

"Daemon."

"You can do it," he tilts his head at your reflection, "paez ilagon."

You sigh and nod your head, "paez ilagon."

His violet eyes twinkle, "rōvēgrior," excellent, he claps his hands, "spoken like a true Valyrian."

You turn to him, breath hitching at the sight of his smile, "wha-"

Daemon takes your face and makes you turn forward.

You look at his reflection and grip your skirt, fearing you'd upset him. But then he begins to style your hair and butterflies overcome your belly. You try to ignore the thump of your heart by clearing your throat, "what d-does it mean?"

"Paez ilagon is slow down."

"Ahhh," your jaw drops in slight embarrassment, "I see."

Daemon points, "hand me your pin."

You get the hair pin on the vanity and hand it over, "and the other one?"

"Hmm?"

"Ro... roz- rovevegregor."

Daemon tilts his head as he chuckles through his nostrils, a soft smile remaining on his face as he finishes securing your hair in a similar manner he does himself.

You witness all of this and your heart skips a beat.

"Rōvēgrior," he repeats, "try to roll your tongue."

"..."

"Go on."

"RRRRozeofoieve-"

He laughs and takes a hair tie from the table. He quickly does his own hair then takes you by the hand. He ushers you to the door as he continues to chuckle, "we should get you something to eat. You sound ill."

You are hypnotized by his melodic laugh. You don't dare interrupt it, so you whisper under your breath, mostly to yourself, "but what does it mean?"

"Excellent," he says, hearing your whisper. He opens the door for you, "it means excellent, gevie."

You do not notice Arryk as you exit your chambers, "but what about that?"

Daemon does not notice him either, "what?"

"Ge- gevie?"

"Gevie?" he repeats.

You nod.

Arryk bows and greets you, "princess."

You turn to him as he bows again, "my prince."

Daemon does not spare him a glance. Beautiful, it meant, but he instead tells you, "it is a secret."

You do not respond to Daemon, but he does not mind. He is fully content to stare at you. You smile at your ward, taking a second to guess who it is, "good morn, ser. Are you... Erryk?"

Arryk examines you, finally breathing a sigh of relief to know you are unharmed. He is also glad to see you are not dressed in attire that... exposes the good works of your husband. In the same second, he notices your said husband, and how keenly is gaze is set upon your beaming form. He clenches his jaw, "nay, your grace. Neither am I my brother, nor is it morning."

"Oh," you purse your lips, "my apologies, dear Arryk."

Daemon quickly pulled out of his haze, raising a brow at dear Arryk, "you may go."

Arryk turns to him.

"I will keep my wife company today," he says, wasting no more time in idle chatter, taking you by the hand.

You both walk off and you offer Arryk a smile and nod in regard.

Arryk clenches his jaw but forces himself to smile back at you. He is uneasy by the prospect, knowing how fickle and volatile Daemon can become regarding you. He stares at your joined hands as you walk away, deciding to trust the prince for your sake.

[riickgrimes]

"The key thing was of course, the fact that Rick has PTSD and that's very much what's driving a lot of his behavior and being in a place of that level of vulnerability, back with the love of his life in that way.

It's also the thing he fears, the loss of her. It manifests itself in a way that is visceral and leads to the lovemaking not just being about love, but the revealing of pain and trauma and fear. That informs Michonne, that she can't just blast him into making sense. There's something deeper going on here that he can't verbalize. She has to help him get through in a different way. So she gets to see him, as well, as he reveals what's really in there, the wound. That's going to happen most likely in that most vulnerable space." — Danai Gurira

"Yeah, I think it is about pain. As Danai just said, it's about him wanting her and then fearing what he's about to unlock again. He gets to sort of articulate it in the scene further in the episode, when he gets to say that, 'I can't do this again. I haven't got the capacity to do this again. I've worked out how to die and live again.' So it is an absolutely necessary scene that allows Michonne to realize that there's something really broken here, more broken than she's ever anticipated. [...]

So the scene was about a real intimacy, a sort of frightening intimacy. This is a part of his personality he has shut down. It's almost like he's trying to stop himself from feeling this love again. She sees that and she just says, 'Just trust. We're back. We're the same...' I find it very moving. I think it's a very, very moving scene, because it's about them connecting in a way that he's had to deny for seven years. He's denied that connection for the sake of living on in this half life for the CRM" — Andrew Lincoln

Andrew Lincoln and Danai Gurira Discuss Episode 4 of The Walking Dead: The Ones Who Live

[oddinary4bts]

Chasing Cars | ch 10.5 (jjk)

☆summary: when your brother goes to study on a semester abroad, your life collides with his best friend Jeon Jungkook, who's coincidentally your roommate. Will you survive the collision, or will you crumble into dust?

☆pairings: brother's best friend!Jungkook x younger sister!female reader

☆rating: 18+ (minors DNI, this chapter contains mature content)

☆genre: forbidden love?au, college!au, slice of life!au, smut, angst (as usual a lot of it), fluff

☆warnings: it's sad. curses?, jungkook is so far gone for her my dudes, explicit content: oral sex (female receiving), fingering, protected sex

☆word count: 1.7k

☆a/n: this one is sad and i'm sorry, jk is just so sad that he has to go and so afraid he'll lose her please :'( i hope you'll still enjoy <3

☆series masterpost

☆☆☆☆☆

If I lay here If I just lay here Would you lie with me and just forget the world?

Chasing Cars, Snow Patrol

☆☆☆☆☆

The light of the sun still hides under the horizon when Jungkook wakes up, your deep breathing tickling his neck. He’s on his back, and you’re cuddled up in his side, face hidden in the crook of his neck. He’s a little too warm, yet he doesn’t push you away.

He doesn’t want to. Ever. Not when he’s leaving in the evening, and all that’s left of you and him might just be a few hours. 

He turns to face you, pulling you into his chest, and then he presses a kiss on the top of your head, breathing in the familiar scent of your shampoo. It must have stirred you awake, because you hum, wrapping your arm around his middle.

“What time is it?” you mumble, your lips grazing his skin ever so slightly.

Jungkook glances behind himself towards where he left his phone on his night table. It’s face down right now, so he can’t see the time, and he reckons he doesn’t want to move to check.

It’s not like you have to wake up early anyway.

“Don’t know,” he says. “Sun isn’t even up yet.”

You nod, and you start drawing idle shapes on his back. Shivers travel up and down his spine, yet he remains still. When you shift, your thigh moves up, brushing him slightly through the fabric of the boxers he slept in.

He’s already hard. He’s been hard since he woke up, like he almost always is, and the feeling of you touching him heats up his blood.

“Someone woke up happy,” you grumble, still half-asleep and groggy with sleep.

Jungkook chuckles, his grip tightening around you. “How can I resist when I wake up with you in my bed?”

You move back enough to be able to catch his gaze, and Jungkook’s heart aches at the forlorn look in your eyes. Your hand moves up, tracing his jaw as your gaze drops to his lips. And then you’re leaning in, brushing your mouth on his once, almost tentatively.

His body’s reaction is visceral. Like it knows there might be the end to the two of you in just a few hours even though he doesn’t want it. There’s something in the way you were looking at him - Jungkook has a bad presentiment about the days that are to come.

He tries to tell himself that it’s because Taehyung will know, and it might cause a lot of arguing, but something in the pit of his stomach tells him that there will be more. 

He doesn’t think he’ll survive if that more ends up breaking the two of you apart.

You part your lips on a sigh as your hand moves to the back of his head, getting lost in his hair. Jungkook forces you to turn on your back, and he immediately climbs on top of you, draping his large body over your small one. He makes sure he’s not crushing you, and then he’s kissing you again, with all the passion and the fear in the future that his heart holds.

The kiss grows fiery, stealing the breath from Jungkook’s lungs, and he disconnects his mouth from you just long enough to find the spot below your ear that makes you moan softly each time. You pull at his hair when he sucks on it, and he grunts softly, instinctively grinding into you.

“I want you, Kook…” you whisper.

It’s all he needed to hear. Indeed, Jungkook travels down your body, throwing the blanket back so that he can look at you while he tastes you. He positions himself between your legs, spreading you apart to take a look at you. You’re not really wet yet - because you sleep naked - but he knows he’ll get you there in no time.

“Such a pretty pussy,” he murmurs, almost purrs, and you try to close your thighs but he holds them open. “Nu-uh,” he warns. “Don’t act like you’re shy, peach.”

And then he dives in, closing his lips around your clit to suck on it once. You let out a breathy sound that makes his dick twitch, and he goes lower, pushing his tongue inside of you.

He’s feral for you. Truly, entirely, feral. All he wants is to make you feel good, to show you just how much he cares for your pleasure. So when he feels your juices starting to coat his chin a few moments later, he doesn’t hesitate before slipping a finger inside of you, arching it in search of the soft spot he knows will make you come in no time.

He’s right - less than a minute later you’re coming around his finger, on his chin, your walls pulsing. You moan something that sounds like his name and he milks your orgasm out of you, up until you pull on his hair to force him to raise his head.

He wants to make a snarky comment, wants to say something to tease you about being quick, but you’re crashing your lips on his and he can’t think.

Not that he can usually think when he’s with you. He’s too far gone for you to be able to produce any coherent thought. Especially not as you force him on his back, rid him of his boxers and climb on top of him. He’s painfully hard, his dick even more swollen than it usually is.

“Condom,” Jungkook breathes, the last of his sanity slipping away with the word. 

You let out a noncommittal sound, yet you bend down towards the night table, fishing a condom out of the box in the bottom drawer.

“It’s the last one,” you say as you tear the tinfoil package open.

Jungkook tries to make a mental note to get more before he comes back from his trip, but the moment you start rolling the condom on his dick, the thought flies out the window, replaced by all his lust and desire for you.

Replaced by the love that makes his heart swell in his chest the second you’re sinking down on him. It’s a strong feeling, a scary one considering the uncertainty of you and him, yet he clings to it all the same. Clings to you, too, pulling you down so that he can start fucking you slowly.

You’re inebriating. Your pussy feels just right on him, like it was made for him, and damn him he wants to feel you without the condom. Wants to fill you up, too, no matter how reckless it might be. 

He wants to have everything with you, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t make it happen.

You straighten, rocking your hips forward. The angle feels good, and Jungkook lets you take the lead so that he can admire you instead. So that he can admire your breasts as they bounce from your motions, so that he can admire the red and black ink on your hip. 

Most of all, so that he can admire the look of pure ecstasy shining in your eyes, painted on your features, making you look even more beautiful than you are. You truly look like a goddess, like you’re someone he was meant to venerate and fuck, he loves it.

He’s addicted to you, through and through.

“Fuck, Kook,” you breathe as you continue rocking your hips.

“Feels good?” he lets out.

You nod, flashing a quick smile that hints at affection more than lust. “Always.”

Jungkook loves that, too. So much so that he forces you to bend down again, and he ravishes a languid kiss on your lips. You moan in his mouth as he thrusts up, and then Jungkook unleashes himself. He spins you around, kneels between your legs and then pushes in, pushes home, his eyes fluttering shut at the feeling of your walls fluttering around him.

“Love your pussy,” he grunts, and then he’s jackhammering into you, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the room, soon followed by the banging of his headboard into the wall. 

He doesn’t care. He’ll wake the whole neighbourhood if he can, if that means he doesn’t have to lose you in the end.

“Peach,” he moans, and he opens his eyes to look at you.

Your beauty isn’t diminished by the grey light of pre-dawn. In truth, he thinks you’re even more beautiful, shining like a star, like the goddess you are.

“Kook,” you reply, and it’s equally as desperate. 

He slows down the rhythm, focusing on the feeling of you around him, under him, of his balls tightening as he nears his high. Yet his climax eludes him.

“Kiss me,” you whisper.

Fuck.

Jungkook bends down, readjusting his angle, and you wrap your legs around his waist. It allows him to push in deeper, to feel all of you around all of him. He kisses you, drinks you in, and a few seconds later, when you scratch his back, Jungkook feels himself sprinting towards his high.

It hits when your walls clench around him, and Jungkook releases his load in the condom, cursing and grunting through the waves of the orgasm.

“Kook,” you moan as his dick is still twitching deep inside of you. “Fuck, Jungkook.”

“Peach,” he answers, though he barely can focus.

“Kiss me again.”

He obliges. He kisses you with every feeling in his heart, putting all his love in the act. He’d tell you he loves you, yet something refrains him from doing so. Later, he’ll regret it, but for now all he can do is kiss you, his heart swelling and soaring for you.

He hopes you can tell how much he cares for you.

Much later that day, when it is time for him to head to the airport, Jungkook hugs you tight by the door of your shared apartment. He kisses you softly, this time with an aching heart. And then he whispers a promise to you, words he means more than anything he’s ever said in his life.

“I promise I’ll come back to you and make it work.”

Read chapter ten here!

☆☆☆☆☆

my babies please i don't want them to hurt :'( let's pretend ch 11 isn't going to happen :')

All rights reserved to @/oddinary4bts, 2024. Do not copy, repost or translate.

[whenshewrites]

911 8x15 coda: Buck & Tommy, and someone needs to call Eddie.

CW: vomiting

Tommy couldn't take his eyes off the screen, even after the army squad went in to bring Buck out, then to bring Athena out, then to start cleaning up the site. He just stared, eyes occasionally blurring with tears. He wasn't sure where they brought Buck or Athena. Possibly back to decon?

It wasn't until they rolled out the gurney that he flinched, looked away. He left his silent vigil and wandered numbly through the tents, but he didn't see anyone from the 118. LAFD had already dispatched someone to retrieve the bird he'd commandeered after he ignored the fifth call for him to return, and he found himself in the parking lot, realizing he needed to figure out how to get home.

Behind him, there was a muffled, scratching sound. At first he thought it was just a small animal scrabbling around, but he heard it again and realized with a start that this was coming from a person.

He turned, squinted into the darkness. The wheezing sound wasn't far from him. He glanced down and found the source, someone hunched over on the curb.

"Evan?"

Buck raised his head from in between his hands. He opened his mouth, but all that came out was that strange croaking noise, and he buried his face in his hands again.

Tommy squatted in front of him, shook one of his knees as gently as he could. "Evan?"

******

From between his hands, Buck heard Tommy's voice, saying his name. He shook his head in between his fingers, neck too tired, head too heavy. He couldn't lift any part of himself up. Even though he was deemed clear of CCHF, Buck wondered if his organs might just be failing anyway. His insides felt like churning black goo, he thought his esophagus might be ripping itself to shreds. He didn't know eyeballs could be so burnt, so sore, that the body could produce so many tears. Whatever this was, it was so visceral, so painful, that he barely felt Tommy's hand against his knee. He didn't want to move his head again, for fear he might throw up all of this sticky black feeling inside. So he just sat, having screamed himself hoarse in blind rage and upset, unable to move.

Tommy's hand slipped away from his knee, it reappeared on his back. He tried to focus on that instead of the wobbly nausea coursing through him; he felt as Tommy firmly rubbed along his spine.

The nausea won out, and Buck didn't try to resist. He just opened his mouth and let some of the awful feeling spill out between his knees.

******

Tommy ran his hand through Buck's hair, pulling it back away from his forehead. He wasn't feverish, or sweaty. Vomiting actually seemed to free him of something, because at last he lifted his head up.

"Home," he stuttered.

They sat in an Uber with a sickly sweet air freshener; Tommy accidentally put in Buck's loft address when he first called it, but the driver just shrugged when Tommy updated it in the app after they climbed into the car. As soon as the car started moving, Buck leaned against Tommy, slipped his head and shoulders into Tommy's lap, twitching in a fitful sleep.

Tommy supposed that was as much an answer as any to whether or not Buck wanted him there. He stroked Buck's hair again, twisting back stray curls that occasionally bounced against his forehead, so they wouldn't tickle his eyebrows and wake him up.

******

Buck's throat was still raw when Tommy nudged him awake and they let themselves into his house. If it hadn't been so sore, he would have said: do you want to shower first? Take whatever you want from the closet, I can drive you to the station first thing in the morning to drop off your flight suit. And then, if that hadn't made it clear: please stay. Please. The bed is yours if you want it. You can have it to yourself if you need.

Tommy handed him a glass of water, watched him drink it. It helped a little. He rubbed his Adam's apple as he motioned down the hall.

"You can shower first," Tommy answered.

He gulped down another glass of water before getting in the shower. He gargled the warm shower water in between washing himself, tried to say a few words into the shower head. The jagged edges were getting slightly blunter.

Tommy was sitting on the couch, staring off into the distance, when Buck came out in his pajamas. Their eyes met and Buck took a deep breath, hoping that what he was about to say next wouldn't shatter the delicate truce between them. He hoped Tommy would understand why he was about to say what he was about to say:

"Eddie."

Tommy nodded. "I'll go shower. You'd better call him from your phone, though, I'm pretty sure he blocked my number."

Buck's face wrinkled in relief, and in the blur of another wave of tears, he felt Tommy squeeze him tightly before he slipped off.

******

Tommy stood under the hot water, reeling in the day's events. Today put a wall between who he was right now and who he was a few weeks ago. How many times he had promised himself tomorrow: he'd get around to that coffee place he's been wanting to try, tomorrow. He'd finally get started working on that fixer upper car, tomorrow. He'd call Evan and try to explain what he was feeling, tomorrow. He could no longer remember his fear, his jealousy, his hesitations of yesterday. He could only remember today, the fragility of life, the importance of being all in on the present moment.

******

By now it was the middle of the night in El Paso, and nearing early morning in LA. Buck didn't bother checking; it didn't matter.

Heart pounding, he tapped Eddie's name in his phone, heart pounding harder with each ring. It rolled over to voicemail and the throbbing heartbeats burst into light, anxious flutters. He sighed, hung up, dialed again. Ring, heart thump. Ring, heart thump. Ring - and the sound of a very groggy Eddie, "Buck?"

"Eddie, it's Bobby."

"What happened?" Eddie's voice wasn't urgent yet, wasn't dismayed. Like Buck, like the rest of the 118, his first instinct was: Bobby has survived too much. We've all survived too much. First Presbyterian, maybe a few months of rehab, he'll be back in the Captain's chair in no time.

Although his throat was no longer burning, Buck could feel his vocal chords starting to swell a little. "Complicated. Not okay."

"Buck. What happened?" Buck could hear a hint of panic now in Eddie's voice.

"Died. Bobby died. On a call. Bad one."

"What are you talking about?" Eddie shot back.

Buck broke into a coughing fit. He checked his hand, just to be safe: no blood.

"Evan?" Tommy was there, brows knitted together, in one of Buck's LAFD t-shirts. He, too, glanced at Buck's hand, relieved by the absence of blood. Buck offered the phone up to him.

******

"Diaz,"

"Kinard,"

"Listen," Tommy interrupted him. "I don't know how soon you can come back, but I'm sure everyone will want to see you. It was a fire in a lab researching novel viruses, and Bobby...Bobby got exposed. There was nothing anyone could do. We thought everyone would make it out okay...but..."

Tommy stopped. Buck's face had slipped, from a sort of concentrated determination into somber reflection, his eyes starting to shine again.

"And everyone else?" Eddie asked. The grogginess was gone from his voice, it sounded as though he were already pulling things out of drawers.

"Alive." Tommy said.

"I'll be there soon," Eddie promised, and ended the call.

Buck was on the sofa, his head back in his hands. Tommy sat, but before he could reach out, ask what he needed, Buck collapsed against him. For all his muscle, for all his height, he looked so small. The quivers running through him were subtle, subdued. Tommy pressed Buck's head to his chest as he let out another wail, ran his thumb along Buck's cheek as the tears fell again.

Tommy wished he knew what to say. He wished there was anything to say, actually, that could help. Dumbly, after Buck had let out the last yell his throat could manage, he whispered to him: "It's okay, it's okay, I'll be here. I'll be right here. I'm so sorry Evan, I'm so sorry."

He hoped that something in there might soothe even the tiniest edge of Buck's grief.

******

Buck was pretty sure he didn't have the energy to throw up again. Even though it felt like that black goo was coming back, he was also pretty sure there wasn't much else in there. He wasn't as numb as he'd been in the parking lot: now he could feel Tommy's hands on his cheek, holding him as his body was wracked with sobs. He heard Tommy's voice again, and a new powerful wave roiled within him, knocking back the stirring black goo. It washed a new emotion over him, and in the middle of this painful, complicated grief, he felt the deepest, purest love rising in his chest.

He lay, feeling the emotions churning in him, immediately guilty at his distraction from thinking about Bobby for even a minute. He's good for you, Bobby's voice echoing in his head. I love you, kid.

"Take a deep breath with me?" Tommy's timid voice mixed in with Bobby's, and Buck followed along with Tommy's soft one-two-three counts. The tumult faded away with each number.

He curled up into a seated position, hoping that would keep the nausea at bay for good.

"You should drink more water," Tommy said, standing to go get it. He returned with two large glasses, and Buck understood they were both for him. He accepted the first and drank quickly to stave off the headache he could already feel coming on. He pressed his palm into his head, trying to rub away the dull ache, then drank the second. Tommy set the glasses on the coffee table. "More?" he offered.

"N-no, I'm alright." Buck held either hand to his temple, trying to push off the stubborn sensation that remained there. Tommy considered him for a moment, then put his hands over Buck's, adding to the pressure. Buck sighed in relief.

******

Tommy couldn't help himself. He tilted Buck's head forward the slightest bit and kissed his forehead. They dropped their hands and looked at each other, the faintest of smiles flickering across Buck's face.

"Thanks," Buck still sounded hoarse.

"You should probably try and get some sleep. I mean - we both should. I can stay...here..." Tommy gestured at the couch.

Buck shook his head and stood to meet him. "Bed," he offered. "You and me." He paused, rubbing his throat. "It has - it has..." his voice cracked like he was fourteen and they both snickered. "This time," he started again, "It has a bed frame."

In bed, Buck wrapped himself against Tommy's body. He still seemed small, as though the shock of losing Bobby had shrunk him just a little. Tommy scratched his hair, Buck reached for Tommy's other hand to weave their fingers together.

Tommy was usually able to fall asleep quickly, no matter the circumstances. Tonight, though, he stayed alert, listening until Buck's breaths deepened and evened against his chest. Only then did Tommy let himself drift asleep, knowing he would wake himself up early enough to get breakfast ready in the morning.